Touch of Tenderness (Nurses of New York Book 3) by Amelia C. Adams

Author:Amelia C. Adams [Amelia C. Adams]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2016-06-13T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Lewis was aware of some sort of commotion out in the hallway of Dr. Russell’s house. He rose from the edge of the bed where he’d been sitting and felt his way over to the door, where he stood and listened, hoping he could figure out what was going on without interrupting anyone. He couldn’t tell for sure, but it sounded as though Libby had come down with something and was being taken upstairs.

Finally, Mrs. Everett bustled along. “And what can we do for you? It’s about four o’clock—would you like some tea or something to eat?”

“I’m all right, thank you. I’m more concerned about Miss Green.”

“Oh, she’ll be fine. Just a little overworked. Dr. Russell said she’s had a trying day, so she’s now tucked up in bed.”

“Are you sure that’s all it is? She’s not becoming ill, is she? With all the sicknesses she treats at the hospital . . .”

Mrs. Everett patted his arm. “You’re a sweet boy. No, she’s just exhausted, and I’ll take you up to see her later, if you like. For now, we’ll let her rest.”

“Thank you. I’d like that very much.”

“Now, I’m sure you’re wondering what you’ll do between now and suppertime. I have just the thing.”

Lewis heard tentative footsteps approaching. “Hello, Mr. Franklin. It’s me, Millie Forsythe. We met before, remember?”

“I do remember. It’s a pleasure to see you again. Or hear from you, rather.”

She gave a little cough. Apparently, she didn’t see the humor in his statement. “I’d like to read to you for a bit, if you don’t mind.”

“Mind? That would be very nice.”

“Let’s go into the parlor, where the comfortable chairs are.”

She led him down the short hallway and helped him find a place to sit. “Would you like me to read the newspaper or a novel?”

“The newspaper, please. It would be good to catch up on the world.”

“Very well.”

He heard some papers rustling, and then she began to read. Her voice, although pleasant and mild, didn’t show any kind of excitement for what she was doing, and after a moment, he stopped her.

“Pardon me, Miss Forsythe, but I wonder something.”

“Yes?”

“Do you enjoy reading to patients?”

She sighed and put the newspaper down with a crinkle. “Am I that transparent?”

“Just a little inflection in your voice. You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to—I’m all right, really.”

“I appreciate your candor, Mr. Franklin. It’s been . . . well, it’s been a difficult week. No, a difficult month, if I’m being honest. How do you know that you’re doing what you’re really meant to do?”

Lewis knew this was a rhetorical question, but he answered it anyway. “Does it make you happy?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I believe that the things that give us purpose will also give us a sense of satisfaction and yes, happiness. If what you’re doing does neither of those things, then why do it?”

She was quiet for so long, he wondered if she’d somehow slipped off without him hearing her go. Then she spoke. “You’re right.

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