The Black Dagger Brotherhood_ An Insider's Guide - J. R. Ward [36]
It was obvious that his scars didn’t affect his worth in her eyes. He was whole and beautiful to her in spite of the condition of his skin.
T.W thought of his own wife. Who was just like that.
“Out of ideas, Doc?” the husband asked.
“I am so sorry.” He shifted his eyes around, hating how helpless he felt. As a doctor he was trained to do something. As a human with a heart, he needed to do something. “I am so very sorry.”
The husband smiled that little smile of his again. “You treat a lot of people with burns, don’t you.”
“It’s my specialty. Kids, mostly. You know, because of . . .”
“Yeah, I know. Betcha you’re good to them.”
“How could I not be?”
The patient leaned forward and put his huge hand on T.W’s shoulder. “We’re going to take off now, Doc. But my shellan’s going to leave the payment on the desk over there.”
T.W glanced at the wife, who was bent over a checkbook, then shook his head. “Why don’t we just call it even. This really didn’t help you.”
“Nah, we took your time. We’ll pay.”
T.W cursed under his breath a couple of times. Then just spat out, “Damn it.”
“Doc? Look at me now?”
T.W glanced up at the guy. Man, that yellow stare was positively hypnotic. “Wow. You have incredible eyes.”
The patient smiled more widely, flashing teeth that were . . . not normal. “Thank you, Doc. Now listen up. You’re probably going to have dreams about this, and I want you to remember I left here tight, ’kay?”
T.W frowned. “Why would I dream—”
“Just remember, I’m okay with what happened. Knowing you, that’s what’s going to bother you most.”
“I still don’t understand why I would h—”
T.W blinked and looked around the examination room. He was sitting on the little rolling stool he used when he treated patients, and there was a chair pulled over next to the patient table, and he had his eye protection in his hand . . . except there was no one in the room but him.
Odd. He could have sworn he was just talking to the most amazing—
As a headache came on he rubbed his temples and became suddenly exhausted . . . exhausted and curiously depressed, as if he’d failed at something that had been important to him.
And worried. Worried about a m—
The headache got worse, and with a groan he stood up and went over to the desk. There was an envelope on it, a plain creamy envelope with flowing cursive script that read, In gratitude to T.W. Franklin, M.D. , to be applied at his direction in favor of his department’s good works.
He turned it over, ripped open the flap, and took out a check.
His jaw hit the floor.
One hundred thousand dollars. Made out to the Department of Dermatology, St. Francis Hospital.
The name of the person listed was Fritz Perlmutter, and there was no address at the upper left, just a discreet notation: Caldwell National Bank, Private Client Group.
One hundred thousand dollars.
An image of a scarred husband and a gorgeous wife flickered in his mind, then was buried by his headache.
T.W. took the check and slipped it inside his shirt pocket, then shut down the laser machine and the computer and made his way to the back clinic exit, turning lights off as he went.
On his way home he found himself thinking of his wife, of the way she’d been when she’d first seen him after the fire all those decades ago. She’d been eleven and had come to visit him with her parents. He’d been absolutely mortified when she’d walked through the door because he’d already had a crush on her at that point, and there he’d been, stuck in a hospital bed, one side of him covered with bandages.
She’d smiled at him and taken his good hand and told him no matter what his arm looked like, she still wanted to be his friend.
She’d meant it. And then, proved it over and over again.
Even liked him as more than a friend.
Sometimes, T.W. thought, the fact that the one you cared about didn