COULD SHE CHANGE a bed? Sad to say, she hadn’t made very many beds in her life. Back home, she and her dad had a housekeeper who did that for them. Twice a week, fresh sheets on every bed in the house, whether or not the bed had been slept on. At her dad’s insistence. Oh, and brand-new linens ordered from the finest catalogs once every few months.
That was her life then, all of it courtesy of a very generous and doting father, and she’d found nothing extraordinary about it as it had been everything she’d grown used to. Her dad had always told her it was his duty to spoil her, and she’d believed that. Now, today, living in San José, and in keeping with what she was accustomed to, she and Cynthia rented a flat that came with limited maid service. It cost them more to secure that particular amenity in their living quarters, but having someone else do the everyday chores was well worth the extra money. So, at thirty-three, Juliette was a novice at this, and pretty much every other domestic skill most people her age had long since acquired. But how difficult could it be to change a silly bed? She was smart, and capable. And if she could cure illnesses, she could surely slap a sheet onto the bed.
Easier said than done, Juliette discovered after she’d stripped the first bed, then laid a clean sheet on top of it. Tuck in the edges, fold under the corners, make sure there were no wrinkles—
She struggled through her mental procedural list, thought she was doing a fairly good job of it, all things considered. That was, until she noticed the sizable wrinkle that sprang up in the middle of the bed and crept all the way to the right side. How had that gotten there? she wondered as she tugged at the sheet from the opposite side, trying to smooth it out and, in effect, making the darned thing even worse.
“That could be uncomfortable, if you’re the one who has to sleep on it,” Damien commented from the end of the bed, where he was standing, arms folded across his chest, watching her struggle. “Causes creases in the skin if you lay on it too long.”
“I intend to straighten it out. Maybe remake the bed.” Actually, that was a lie. Her real intent was still to pat it down as much as she could, then move on to the next bed and hope the future occupant of this particular bed didn’t have a problem with wrinkles.
“You know you’ve been working on this first bed for ten minutes now? Alegria would have had all five beds changed in that amount of time, and been halfway through giving a patient a bed bath. So what’s holding you up? Because I have other things for you to do if you ever get done here.”
“This is taking a little longer because I’m used to fitted sheets,” she said defensively. Her response didn’t make any sense, not to her, probably not to Damien, but it was the best she could come up with, other than the truth, which was that she just didn’t do beds. How lame would that sound? Top-notch doctor felled by a simple bedsheet.
“Fitted sheets—nope, no such luxuries around here. In fact, our sheets are all donations from some of the locals. Used bedsheets, Juliette. The very best we have to offer. Rough-texture, well-worn hand-me-downs. But I’ll bet you’re used to a nice silk, or even an Egyptian cotton, maybe a fifteen-hundred thread count? You know, the very best the market has to offer.”
Who would have guessed Damien knew sheets? But, apparently, he did. And, amazingly, what he’d described was exactly what she had on her bed back home. Nice, soft, dreadfully expensive sheets covering a huge Victorian, dark cherrywood, four-poster antique of a bed. Her bed and sheets—luxuries she’d thought she couldn’t live without until she’d come to Costa Rica, where such luxuries were scarce, and only for those who could afford to have them imported. Which her father would do for her, gladly, if she asked him. Although she’d never ask, as that would build up his hopes that she was already getting tired of her life in Costa Rica and wanted her old life back. Back home. Same as before. Returning to her old job. Taking the position as her father’s chief administrative officer. Yes, that was the way his mind would run through it, all because she wanted better bedsheets.
OK, so she was a bit spoiled. She’d admit it if anyone—Damien—cared to ask but, since he wasn’t asking, she wasn’t telling. Not a blessed thing! “The sheet you’re describing would have cost a hundred and twenty times more than all the sheets in this ward put together. And that would be just one sheet.”
“Ah! A lady with a passion for sheets.” Damien arched mocking eyebrows. “I hope that same passion extends to your medicine.”
“You mean a lady doctor who’s being interrupted while she’s trying to do her job.” She regarded him for a moment. Well-muscled body. Three or four days’ growth of stubble on his face. Over-the-collar hair, which he’d pulled back into a ponytail, not too unlike her own, only much, much shorter. Really nice dimples when he smiled. Sexy dimples. Kissable dimples... Juliette shook her head to clear the train wreck going on inside and went back to assessing her overall opinion of Damien Caldwell. He was stunningly handsome, which he probably knew, and probably used it to his advantage. Insufferably rude. Intelligent. Good doctor.
“Does it bother you that I’m watching?” he asked.
“What bothers me is that you think you know all about me through my bedsheets. You’re judging me, aren’t you? You know, poor little rich girl. Never changed a bedsheet in her life. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?” Judging her based on what she owned and not what she could do as a doctor.
“I wasn’t but, now that you brought it up, I could. Especially if you do own Egyptian cotton.”
“What I do or do not own has no bearing on the job here. And if you want to stand there speculating on something as unimportant as my sheets, be my guest. Speculate to your heart’s content. But keep it to yourself because I need to get these beds changed and I don’t need any distractions while I’m doing it.”
The ad she’d read about this job should have warned her that it came with a pompous boss because he was, indeed, pompous. Full of himself. Someone who probably took delight in the struggles of others. “And in the meantime I’m going to smooth this stupid wrinkle so I can get on to the next bed.”
“Well, if you ever get done here, I’ve got a patient coming into the clinic in a little while who has a possible case of gout in his left big toe. Could you take a look at him when he arrives?”
Gout. A painful inflammatory process, starting in the big toe in about half of all diagnosed cases. “I don’t suppose we can test for hyperuricemia, can we?” Hyperuricemia was a build-up of uric acid in the blood. With elevated levels, its presence could precipitate an onset of gout.
“Nope. Haven’t got the proper equipment to do much more than a simple CBC.” Complete blood count. “And we do those sparingly because they cost us money we don’t have.”
“Then how do we diagnose him, or anybody else, for that matter, if we don’t have the tests at our disposal?”
“The old-fashioned way. We apply common sense. In this particular case, you assess to see if it’s swollen or red. You ask him if it hurts, then find out how and when. Also, you take into account the fact that the patient’s a male, and we all know that men are more susceptible to gout than women. So that’s another indicator. And the pain exists only in his big toe. Add it all up and you’ve got...gout.” He took a big sweeping bow with his pronouncement, as if he was the lead character in a show on Broadway.
Juliette noticed his grand gesture, but chose to ignore it. “OK, it’s gout. I’ll probably agree with you once I’ve had a look at him. But, apart from that, what kind of drugs do you have on hand to treat him with? Nonsteroidal anti-inflammatories? Steroids? Colchicine? Maybe allopurinol?”
“Aspirin,” he stated flatly.
“Aspirin? That’s it?” Understaffed, understocked—what kind of place was this?
“We’re limited here to the basics and that’s pretty much how we have to conduct business every day. We start on the most simple level we can offer and hope that’s good enough.”