Adored (LOVE LETTERS #1) - Kristen Blakely Page 0,1
prodding a lazy mule. “Go, go, go!”
Father and daughter disappeared down the driveway, and with them went just about every shred of delight and laughter in Vera’s life.
Teresa looked at Vera. Her doe-eyed gaze offered understanding and sympathy. “I go too, Miss Vera.”
Vera nodded. “Have a good weekend, Teresa. I’ll see you on Monday.”
The front door closed behind Teresa. Only then did Vera sigh. Her forty-eight-hour countdown to 6 p.m. on Sunday had begun.
Vera raided the fridge for leftovers and washed down the unsatisfactory dinner with a glass of sangria. After her meal, she lingered at the kitchen table. The lights were dim, and the quiet of the house hung over her like a shroud, dampening her senses and darkening her mood. Her fingers tapped an uneven rhythm on the polished wood.
It occurred to her that she was tired of her own company.
She glanced at her watch.
Two minutes.
She would give herself two more minutes to sulk, and then at seven, she would get up and do something useful, like reorganize Allison’s closet and sort through the clothes her daughter had outgrown. Tomorrow, she supposed, she could cook several large meals and freeze them in small portions for quick dinners the rest of the week. She did not need to worry about Sunday; fortunately, her volunteer work at the Family Health Center would keep her occupied for most of the day.
Vera stared at the digital numbers on her watch as they marched forward through time. All right, almost out of “woe is me” time—
Her cell phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID before accepting the call. “Hey, Iris. What’s up?”
“Jordan’s sick,” Iris Whitley said. She was another volunteer doctor at the Family Health Center. Jordan, her son, was a quick-witted ten-year-old. “I think I need to stay in with him tomorrow. Can I swap my Saturday shift for your Sunday one?”
“I can handle both shifts if he’s still sick on Sunday,” Vera offered.
“Are you sure? You’d be working twelve days straight if you don’t take any time off during the weekend.”
“And how would that be any different from a residency?”
Iris chuckled. “Well, you got paid then.”
Vera laughed. “Yeah, that’s right. Moving down in the world.” She glanced at her watch again. Oops, my time is up. “Like I said, I can cover both days. It wouldn’t be a problem. Allison’s with her father, and it’s not like I have anything else to do with my weekend.”
“Don’t sound too enthusiastic now.”
Vera could hear the sympathy through Iris’s sarcasm. “Trying hard not to.”
“You need something else in your life.”
She chuckled. “Right, as always. I’ll let you know when I find it. You never know who might come through the clinic—” Other than the usual suspects, of course—the prostitutes, unemployed illegal aliens, or homeless veterans. The Family Health Center was the county’s last safety net for people in Fort Lauderdale who could not afford health care. “Maybe a sexy Brazilian soccer player will stop by tomorrow, and you’ll be sorry you weren’t there to review his chart.”
“Among other things. Trust me. His chart wouldn’t be my priority.” Iris laughed. “Okay, I’ve got to go. Thank you for taking my shift tomorrow.”
“Not a problem. Tell Jordan I said hi and to get better soon.”
“Not if he can help it. You know him. He’s going to milk this for all it’s worth. I’ll catch up with you next week.”
Vera hung up and sagged into her seat. Absently, she tugged the rubber band from her hair, spilling her long brown locks free for a moment before she gathered her hair up again into a practical knot. Thanks to Iris, she now had weekend plans. Sexy Brazilian soccer player, here I come.
Not…
Chapter 2
Most of Saturday, including Vera’s fifteen-minute lunch break, passed in a blur of activity at the Family Health Center on Hollywood Boulevard. Her fluent Spanish helped her communicate with many patients who walked into her office; her broken Portuguese helped her reach several others. When all else failed, she tried English. Over the course of the day, she treated food poisoning, diabetes, hypertension, viral and bacterial infections, and stomach flu. She taped sprained joints and set broken bones.
The people’s needs were, for the most part, routine, though her current patient, a Hispanic woman in her mid-thirties, worried her. Vera set down the woman’s file, leaned over her desk, and tapped on the phone intercom. “Maria, can you come in here for a minute?”
Moments later, the door opened, and Maria, the receptionist, stepped in. “What do