Page 11 of Mountain Freedom
The stab of betrayal hit again, making me feel very tired. I carried the suitcases upstairs and robotically unpacked the basics. Then I washed my face, put on a pair of pajamas, and fell deep into a dreamless sleep.
My alarm wentoff way too early the next morning. I was tempted to hit the snooze button, but I couldn’t. It was my first day at the clinic, and I needed to go in early to be prepared.
I dressed in the outfit I had selected in order to make the right impression—gray slacks with sensible flats, a soft-blue shell, and my lab coat—put on a touch of makeup, pinned my hair into a bun, and headed out the door, planning a stop at the new coffee shop I had noticed on the drive in.
Half an hour later, with a latte in hand, I felt prepared and even a little excited to start my new job. After all, this was the dream. My own private practice.
Sort of, anyway.
I didn’t own it, and the salary was a bit lower than what I would have hoped. But it was a start. I would be an independent provider, not a resident. I could practice medicine the way Iwanted, answering only to myself. I could take time to get to know my patients and really help them make positive life changes. At a small clinic, I wouldn’t have to herd them though like cattle, trying to reach some big quota. It was going to be a good change. I could feel it.
Until I walked in the clinic door and felt tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.
“Good morning,” I called out cheerfully, flashing a friendly smile at the receptionist, who stared at me across the room.
As I made my way toward her, she reluctantly slid open the glass separating us, rolling her eyes as she did. The woman was quite curvy and very pretty, with auburn hair cut in a cute bob, big brown eyes, and expertly applied makeup. She looked vaguely familiar and was close to my age, but I couldn’t place her.
“Can I help you?” she asked in a deeply Southern voice that suggested she would greatly prefer I not need any help at all.
My smile faltered, but I took a deep breath and tried again. “I’m Dr. Bell. I’ll be the new physician on site. Dr. Stone told me she would meet me here to get me set up.”
The receptionist gave me a cool smile. “Dr. Stone is in the office waiting for you.” She glanced at the clock. “Five minutes late. Not a great start, is it?” She shook her head and gave me a look of false sympathy. “Bless your heart.” Her voice dripped with sugar and sarcasm.
Surprised, I took a step back, recognizing the “blessing” for the Southern insult it was. “Actually, I’m twenty-five minutes early. She asked me to be here at nine.”
“Oh,” the receptionist said, her eyebrows shooting to the sky. “I see. The rest of us have to be here at eight thirty, but I suppose that’s too much of a hardship for you, isn’t it? The office is straight through the doors, last doorway on the right. I trust youcan find your way there on your own? Or do I need to hold your little hand and walk you down there myself?”
“I can find it,” I replied, too stunned to say anything else. I blinked a few times, then turned and walked through the doors, shocked beyond belief by her unprofessionalism. This did not bode well for the clinic.
Or for me.
“Ah, you must be Dr. Bell,”a sharply dressed lady said from behind the desk as I walked through the doors into the office.
“Yes,” I said, grateful to see a friendly smile. “You must be Dr. Stone.”
“I am. Welcome,” she said, sliding out from behind the desk to shake my hand. “That’s your seat now,” she said, pointing to the seat she had just vacated.
“Thank you.” I took her place behind the desk and put my bag on it, wishing I could have a moment alone to simply take it all in. This was the first office that was all mine. It was a moment begging to be marked in time instead of passed over so quickly.
“Your trip was alright?” she asked, gracefully taking the chair opposite mine.
“It was uneventful,” I said, forcing myself to focus on her instead of running my fingers along the edge of the gorgeous maple desk. It was clear whoever had furnished the office had exceptional taste, and I was dying to explore my new space. “The house is lovely, by the way. Thank you for arranging it.”
“Of course. We’re glad to have you here.” Dr. Stone smiled warmly.
I hesitated, then went ahead with it—no sense in wasting time. “I get the impression the receptionist isn’t. She was actually quite rude.”
“Ah,” Dr. Stone said, shooting me a sympathetic look. “Beverly is exceptional at what she does, but if you’re on her bad side, she’s got quite the attitude.”
“Beverly?” I asked as the name dawned on me. “Beverly Kirkwood?”
“That’s right,” Dr. Stone confirmed. “Do you know her?”
“We went to school together,” I said, letting out a breath. “We didn’t get along well.”
That was the understatement of the year. Beverly had been quite competitive, furious any time I was chosen for anything over her. The final nail in the coffin was when I got my first boyfriend at twelve—a silly, innocent little school relationship—only to find out later he had been her boyfriend first and had dumped her when I agreed to go out with him.
She had been so angry she had literally slapped me in the hallway. I later found a nasty poem about me scribbled on the walls in the school bathroom, which I assumed was her work. We never made up, and frankly she was one part of Rosemary Mountain I had been glad to leave behind.
