Page 79 of The Woodcarver's Model
As soon as the loading ramp began to lower, Frances covered herself from head to toe with a blanket and went limp in the front passenger seat of Mitch’s truck, obviously exhibiting the symptoms of her problem. She looked like a large sack of potatoes.
“As soon as you get the go-ahead, drive. Don’t let anybody get a good look at me,” Frances whispered from beneath the blanket.
Mitch followed her instructions. As they approached the end of the pier, she told him, “Jus’ drive around the corner o’ that building an’ let me out.”
“You not coming with me?”
“No. That’s a journey you have to take on your own. I have t’ get back an’ make Francis’ supper.”
Frances bailed out of the truck when they got out of sight of the terminal crew, then casually walked back. Francis kept Mike talking with his back to the pier as Frances reboarded theFrances 2without Mike seeing her.
“Mike, is that you?” she said joyfully. Mike spun around, surprised to see her standing there.
“Frances? Good lord, you haven’t changed a bit. Still putting up with this old scow pilot?”
“Well, someone’s gotta do it. He’d be lost on his own.” The three had a good laugh.
“So what was the emergency all about?” Mike asked.
“Not a clue,” Francis replied. “I ain’t a doctor.”
“An’ thank God for that,” Mike offered back.
They all had another good laugh.
“Well, Mike. We should give you your pier back,” Francis said.
“Yup. An’ we gotta get home for supper,” Frances added.
“So good to see you two again. Let’s not leave it so long before we do it again.”
With Mike’s assistance, the ferryFrances 2made its way out of the Duke Point control zone and back to Marsh Island with Francis and Frances holding hands in the wheelhouse.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It was a twenty-minute drive from the Duke Point Ferry Terminal to the Nanaimo Regional General Hospital. Mitch made it in ten.
He parked in the western parking lot and ran to the main patient information desk. A young man sat at the desk. He looked about eighteen, obviously a volunteer, and probably there to earn a community service credit. He was dressed in a blue and white striped shirt. His streaked, blond hair was neatly coiffed. His name badge identified him as Tylor—with an O.
Tylor heard the sound of someone running, so he looked up from his reading assignment, Jane Austin’sPride and Prejudice, which he found a fascinating read, though not very relevant to the life of a teenager in Nanaimo. He was startled by the fast-approaching figure. The man, unkempt and uncombed, appeared to be in distress.
Tylor’s training had taught him that the best way to face a tense situation at the desk was with a wide friendly smile and a cheery welcome. Most people came into the hospital in a stressful state and just wanted to know that someone cared.
“Good morning, sir. How can I help you on this lovely day?”
“Rob Hanson…where can I find him?”
“Well, let’s just see. You said his name was—or should I sayis, if we’re doing our job right.” Tylor laughed at his own joke. Humour was also a way to deal with a stressful situation.
“Robert Hanson!” the man yelled, in a tone that implied he was about to tear Tylor a new asshole.
Tylor did not appreciate being yelled at. He wasn’t even being paid to be here. His smile faded and he crossed his arms. That would show this man that his tone of voice was unacceptable. He didn’t have to take this, even from someone who did have jet-black hair which set off his beautiful piercing blue eyes…so steamy.
“And how do you spell that?” Tylor asked curtly.
“Robert. R—O—B—”
At this point a woman who was seated in a nearby chair stood and approached.
