Page 87 of Holiday Star
A little crazy is the understatement of the year. By the next week there are at least eighty people waiting outside my door, a mixture of press and fans. All screaming Caleb’s name. Even more oddly, some of them scream my name too.
The week after that, the group swells to well over a hundred people. The police are out front, keeping the crowd off the street and directing traffic when the cars slow down to gawk.
Before, right after Christmas, the reporters had left a respectful bubble around me. Never actually making contact with my body as they walked along beside me.
Now, with Caleb here, that barrier has been broken down. People jostle against each other and against us, slowing our progress until it takes almost twenty minutes to walk the three blocks to work. Caleb wraps a protective arm around my shoulders, holding me close and steadying me. Flashes pop as photos are taken of us, the bright light making me squint.
Caleb stops before the last block. He leans over, placing his mouth to my ear, and shouts, “Dean’s going to take you the rest of the way. I’ll lead the reporters in the opposite direction.” He gestures to Dean, his personal bodyguard, and the man that I told to get the hell out of my face months ago. The brooding guard hulks a few steps away, glaring threateningly at anyone who comes too close.
I nod, sadly grateful he’s come up with this plan. As much as I like him taking me to work, I can’t bring this circus to the front door of my hospital. I’m already scared that I’ll get called into Dr. Benson’s office again.
Caleb had warned me that loving him could make me lose everything I had worked for. As the number of reporters who follow us grows, I’m beginning to truly understand what he meant. It’s terrifying to think of all my years of medical training going down the drain.
I’m halfway down the next block when I stop and turn to look back at Caleb. He stands facing away from me. He raises his arms to the sky, and the group before him hushes. Outlined by the sun, he’s like an Olympic god about to make some great proclamation. There’s such power in his stance, it radiates out of him in waves, spreading over the crowd, over the entire street.
I see it then, the charisma he wields. How he can turn it on and off like a light switch. It’s indescribable, the nebulous quality that makes one person more famous than another. Whatever that trait is, Caleb has it in spades. It’s in the fans’ adoration. In the rapt way the reporters drop their notepads to stare at him open-mouthed. I’ve never truly appreciated it before, how dim his spark was back before Christmas, but now he lets it shine. The full force of Caleb’s talent, his charm, is absolutely blinding.
In a loud voice he roars, “Who wants to go to Central Park and sign autographs?” The crowd goes wild, cheering, hooting, clapping. His fans light up like it’s Christmas and he’s Santa bringing them presents. Off he saunters down the street as everyone follows.
Only I notice, because I know him so well, the weariness in his arms as they drop back to his sides. The tilt of his head, as if it’s just a little too heavy. I see the cost of his gifts, the pieces of himself he signs away. The worst part is that he’s doing it for me. Leading them far from my hospital. Trying to protect me.
Oh, Caleb.
I have a sudden urge to run after him. Drag him into my apartment where they can’t touch him. Hide him forever. But we did that before, back in my mom’s house in California, and it wasn’t sustainable.
If I want to keep him, which I’m becoming more and more convinced that I do, we have to find a way to make this work. Find a way to merge his public life with our private one. I need to help him find that balance.
For him, and for me, too.
58
Dr. Patel.” I catch up to her outside the hospital cafeteria, breathing heavily from my dash down the hallway.
Brown eyes framed by arched black brows regard me with curiosity. She’s still wearing her blue paper cap and matching scrubs from the operating room. A gaggle of surgery residents surround her, but she nods them on.
Once they’ve moved into the cafeteria, she glances at my name badge. “How can I help you, Dr. Wright?” She has a soft voice, which is in direct contrast to her hard-eyed gaze.
I’ve never spoken to her before, although I have talked to her residents countless times. Dr. Patel is the highest-ranking surgeon in the hospital. She’s an orthopedic surgeon, and her department brings in more money than many others combined. More importantly to me, she’s the vice-chair of the executive committee, second only to Dr. Benson.
“Sorry to interrupt you,” I start off, a bit nervous because she has a reputation for being a hardass. I can’t blame her for that, though. I don’t see how you can rise to her position in such a male-dominated specialty without having balls, or ovaries, of steel.
She purses her lips and blinks, waiting for me to speak. I have a flashback to Dr. Benson checking the clock on the wall as if I was wasting his time.
Hurry up, Gwen.
“I have an idea I want to bounce off you. It’s about bringing an art therapy program to the hospital. I believe it would help many of our patients,” I blurt out.
Her slim shoulders lift. “Sounds interesting. Why don’t you submit it to the executive committee for consideration?” She turns away, dismissing me.
“Wait!” I call out. Her back stiffens, and she slowly spins around as I explain. “I already did that. I had a meeting with Dr. Benson and everything, but he didn’t think there was money in the budget for the three therapists we need.”
She tugs the surgical cap off her head, and a tumble of wavy black hair flows over her shoulders. I had assumed she was older, but with her hair down, I’d place her in her mid- to late-forties.
“That’s odd,” she says sharply. “We haven’t finalized the third-quarter budget yet.” My knees quake when she narrows her eyes at me, her jaw tight with anger. I’m not sure if that ire is directed at me or Dr. Benson.
“Let me guess,” she drawls. “Benson said something demeaning when you talked to him. Something designed to make you feel small.”
My mouth drops open as I sputter, “He said my idea wascute.”
