dyin’ like a man?”
“I won’t debate that with you. It’s not the issue.”
“You coward! ’Course it’s the issue! But you’re too much of a liar to admit it.”
Sebastien looked at her grimly. How her husband lived was not his concern, only that he
did
live. “First things first,” he repeated. “Until he can breathe unassisted, he will remain on the ventilator.”
She was still crying, but she snorted in contempt. “He’s not even a man to you. To you he’s just something to fix, like an old truck. Even if it’s only got a few miserable miles left, you want to run it into the ground.”
She flung herself away and headed down the hall to a waiting room. Sebastien grimaced. He disliked dealing with patients’ families. Their mindless sentiment complicated the logic of medicine, the rational, impersonal study of disease and injury. He had more important concerns than their grief. Grief was a useless emotion.
But he was not unaffected by the grocer’s death. It tore at him like a personal insult. The man’s lungs simply refused to work on their own. Without dramatics, without a fight, he slipped away until the ventilator had more life than he.
Sebastien left the hospital without bothering to change his surgical garb. He kicked off the thick-soled jogging shoes he wore when he worked, seeking freedom in every way that he could, and drove to a garage where he stored his vintage Cord. Then he headed north out of the city, along the interstate. He drove at a speed that would have infuriated lovers of classic cars and would have cost him at least a speeding ticket, more likely a suspended license, if a highway patrolman had spotted him.
He had little control over only one part of his emotions. He had one weakness that he had kept hidden throughouthis medical training. The death of a patient enraged him; the helplessness he felt went beyond a rational reaction and gripped him like a phobia. He wanted to keep his patients alive for his own sake more than theirs. He battled that selfishness privately, knowing it was the one weakness that could ruin him as a surgeon and therefore as a person.
He had been in that black, bleak mood when the girl came to him. It astonished him that her fumbling attempt to help him had made his anger vanish. He didn’t understand the phenomenon until he realized with disturbing clarity that she was the first person who had ever tried to rescue him from himself.
A few days later Sebastien came back to the winery to sign the paperwork authorizing purchase of more acreage on the estate’s southern border. He disliked dabbling in his father’s businesses and tried to minimize his involvement. On this trip he drove his black Ferrari, and chided himself when he realized that he had chosen it hoping to impress his rescuer. The vineyard workers were not in the fields when he arrived; he checked the heavy gold Rolex on his wrist and saw that he’d picked lunchtime by mistake. He smiled ruefully at his disappointment. He had never considered himself a preening peacock where women were concerned.
He parked beside the vinting building next to the chateau, grimacing as he passed the fake turrets and stonework. It was a monument to the tourist trade that would come here someday, and its resemblance to a real château was laughable.
Inside the winery offices Beaucaire’s secretary, a matron with an easy smile, looked up from her typing. “Hi. Mr. Beaucaire said to tell you he’d be a few minutes late. He’s talkin’ to the temps. Here are the papers.”
As he signed, Sebastien asked, “Do you know any of the temporary people?”
“Sure. I’ve lived around here all my life.”
“There is a very shy young woman among them who has an unusual voice. She is slender, fair-skinned, and she hasa perpetually puzzled expression on her face, as if she were trying to understand some very confusing issue.”
“Oh. You’re talkin’ about Amy Miracle.”
“Miracle?”
“Weird, I
“I won’t debate that with you. It’s not the issue.”
“You coward! ’Course it’s the issue! But you’re too much of a liar to admit it.”
Sebastien looked at her grimly. How her husband lived was not his concern, only that he
did
live. “First things first,” he repeated. “Until he can breathe unassisted, he will remain on the ventilator.”
She was still crying, but she snorted in contempt. “He’s not even a man to you. To you he’s just something to fix, like an old truck. Even if it’s only got a few miserable miles left, you want to run it into the ground.”
She flung herself away and headed down the hall to a waiting room. Sebastien grimaced. He disliked dealing with patients’ families. Their mindless sentiment complicated the logic of medicine, the rational, impersonal study of disease and injury. He had more important concerns than their grief. Grief was a useless emotion.
But he was not unaffected by the grocer’s death. It tore at him like a personal insult. The man’s lungs simply refused to work on their own. Without dramatics, without a fight, he slipped away until the ventilator had more life than he.
Sebastien left the hospital without bothering to change his surgical garb. He kicked off the thick-soled jogging shoes he wore when he worked, seeking freedom in every way that he could, and drove to a garage where he stored his vintage Cord. Then he headed north out of the city, along the interstate. He drove at a speed that would have infuriated lovers of classic cars and would have cost him at least a speeding ticket, more likely a suspended license, if a highway patrolman had spotted him.
He had little control over only one part of his emotions. He had one weakness that he had kept hidden throughouthis medical training. The death of a patient enraged him; the helplessness he felt went beyond a rational reaction and gripped him like a phobia. He wanted to keep his patients alive for his own sake more than theirs. He battled that selfishness privately, knowing it was the one weakness that could ruin him as a surgeon and therefore as a person.
He had been in that black, bleak mood when the girl came to him. It astonished him that her fumbling attempt to help him had made his anger vanish. He didn’t understand the phenomenon until he realized with disturbing clarity that she was the first person who had ever tried to rescue him from himself.
A few days later Sebastien came back to the winery to sign the paperwork authorizing purchase of more acreage on the estate’s southern border. He disliked dabbling in his father’s businesses and tried to minimize his involvement. On this trip he drove his black Ferrari, and chided himself when he realized that he had chosen it hoping to impress his rescuer. The vineyard workers were not in the fields when he arrived; he checked the heavy gold Rolex on his wrist and saw that he’d picked lunchtime by mistake. He smiled ruefully at his disappointment. He had never considered himself a preening peacock where women were concerned.
He parked beside the vinting building next to the chateau, grimacing as he passed the fake turrets and stonework. It was a monument to the tourist trade that would come here someday, and its resemblance to a real château was laughable.
Inside the winery offices Beaucaire’s secretary, a matron with an easy smile, looked up from her typing. “Hi. Mr. Beaucaire said to tell you he’d be a few minutes late. He’s talkin’ to the temps. Here are the papers.”
As he signed, Sebastien asked, “Do you know any of the temporary people?”
“Sure. I’ve lived around here all my life.”
“There is a very shy young woman among them who has an unusual voice. She is slender, fair-skinned, and she hasa perpetually puzzled expression on her face, as if she were trying to understand some very confusing issue.”
“Oh. You’re talkin’ about Amy Miracle.”
“Miracle?”
“Weird, I
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