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St. Anne's Day

By Janice Lane Palko

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Chapter 1

“Come on. Move it.” Anne Lyons slapped the steering wheel, her green eyes darting to the Malibu’s digital clock. She was to be there by nine. If the traffic on the Fortieth Street Bridge didn’t soon move, she was going to be late on her first day.
Her shoulder muscles kinked as she berated herself for not allotting time for traffic. Anne hadn’t yet mastered estimating allowances for Pittsburgh’s gridlock. She sighed. The rush of air from her lips ruffled a rust-colored curl that had slipped from her headband.
The previous night’s thunderstorms had chased away the sultry July air. Beneath the bridge, the Allegheny River, a shimmering glass path, coursed toward downtown Pittsburgh, which gleamed like the crystal in Macy’s Bridal Registry Department.
Ahead, an orange-vested worker flipped his “Stop” sign to “Slow,” waving Anne’s car through. “Finally.” Her nose wrinkled at the odor of hot asphalt. There were only two seasons for Western Pennsylvania roads—snow removal and pothole patching.
The clot of cars flowed over the bridge. She turned left onto Butler Street, entering the heart of Lawrenceville. Anne had never been to this section of the city before. She was amazed at how much life had been packed into so little land. Bars, restaurants, doctor’s offices, banks, and repair shops were crammed together, and where they left off, row houses took over, running perpendicular from the main street, up the hill to the site of the new Children’s Hospital.
Anne slowed the Malibu, reading addresses. There it was on the corner—518 Butler Street. Bold brass letters above the entry spelled out MAC’S PLACE. “Oh, great,” Anne snarled, “they gave me the address of a bar. That can’t be right.” She’d have to call the agency to get the correct one. Anne felt the pocket of her scrubs and groaned when she realized that she had forgotten her phone at home.
A block down Butler Street, she found a parking space. She hoped no one was watching as she did hand-to-hand combat with the steering wheel, fighting to wedge her car between two others parked at the curb. Having grown up in nearby rural Westmoreland County, she’d not yet mastered on-street parking.
Anne’s jaws ached from clenching her teeth. She shut off the engine, quickly gathered her file and her medical bag, and stepped out of the car. The clock on the bank flashed 9:03. She felt as if the large digital numerals were timing her. Quickly, she fed a few coins into the parking meter and bustled up the sun-drenched street.
She scanned the old brick building for a side entry to a residence but saw none. Large plate glass windows, shrouded by tan and white striped awnings, wrapped around both sides of the corner. A forest green façade trimmed in brass framed the windows and the doorway. In comparison to some of the other storefronts, the bar looked as if it had been renovated. She’d heard other nurses in the office mention Mac’s Place as having good food. Anne hoped it was open this early. Perhaps someone inside could direct her to her patient.
She pulled on the brass handle of one of the double door, passing through a small vestibule and another set of doors, entering the dark, cool pub. A scent of pine, as if the floors had been freshly mopped, masked a trace of spilled liquor. In the dimness, she made out the shadowy figure of a man working behind the bar that ran the length of the far wall.
Anne crossed the scuffed plank floor, weaving between tables, the rubber soles of her tennis shoes not making a sound. She had to stand on the foot rail, leaning across the counter to find the man who had stooped below the counter.
She cleared her throat and rapped her knuckles on the top. “Excuse me . . .”
The man startled, jerking upright.
When he turned to face her, she heard her breath catch with a small squeak in her throat. Before her brain could register that he was handsome, her body reacted by sending a rush through her as potent as if she’d been given an injection of adrenaline. Thick, wavy black hair contrasted to his light eyes that were as blue as a gas flame. As she gazed into them, something ignited inside her. Something that surprised and alarmed her.
“I’m looking for a patient.” She was embarrassed at how breathless her voice sounded.
The man leaned across the bar with a wide grin. “You can take care of me anytime.”
Anne stepped off the rail, backing away, and laughed nervously. “No, I’m serious.”
“So am I.” Resting an elbow on the bar to prop up his head, he smiled wickedly.
Anne felt herself blushing. She was used to flattery. What she wasn’t used to was the feeling of wanting to fall for it.
Focus, Anne. You’re already late. She tucked the straying curl behind her ear and covered her uneasiness by studying the file in her arm. “Really. I’m looking for a Margaret McMaster,” she said, tilting her head, reading from the file header. “They have her listed at 5l8 Butler Street, but that is obviously wrong. Do you know where I can find her?”
Silence.
She straightened her spine, drawing herself up to her full four-feet, eleven and three-quarters inches and demanded, “Well, do you?”
“What’s the information worth to you?”
Everything. I can’t lose another job. “Please,” Anne said, “this is important.”
“What could be more important than you and me?”
What am I a jerk magnet? Anne felt the all-too-familiar anger building in her gut, the rage that waited like a coiled cobra for the opportunity to strike back at men who reminded her of Zach. What did that counselor say that she’d been forced to meet when she worked at the hospital? Take a calming breath. Anne inhaled deeply, trying to speak calmly. “Look, do you or don’t you know where my patient lives?”
He smirked. “Oh, I know.”
When he didn’t volunteer any more information, Anne looked at her watch, huffing. It was already nine twenty-one. “Is there a phone I can use?”
“There might be.”
“You don’t understand. I’m late. I don’t have time for games.” Anne spun on her heels, starting for the door.
“Wait! Why, it’s your lucky day,” he said, as he caught up to her at the doorway, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t touch me!” She jerked away.
He threw up his hands. “Whoa, sor-ry.”
Seething and embarrassed that he been able to provoke her temper, she turned and pushed on the door. It opened a foot then stuck. She shoved it again, putting all her one hundred and two pounds behind it. It didn’t move. She drove her shoulder against it, and as she did so, she looked up and discovered that he was holding the door in place. Out of breath, her face as red as her hair, she glowered up at him. “Let me out now!”
He smiled. “She’s here.”
“What?”
“I said she’s here.”
“Who’s here?” Anne glanced around the bar.
He leaned in closer, so close she thought he might kiss her. And half of her hoped he would. But he stopped, just inches from her lips. “Your patient. Mrs. McMaster. She lives upstairs.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was having too much fun.”
Anger erupted in Anne, a mushroom cloud of rage roiling throughout her. Grimacing, she curled her fingers into a fist and swung at him.
Before she could connect with his jaw, he caught her wrist
“Let me go.” She struggled to wrench herself from his powerful grasp until her fury subsided and logic took over. He was much bigger and stronger; she could not get away from him. Perhaps if I play on his sympathies. “Please let me go. I have a very sick patient who is waiting for me.”
Still clutching her wrist tightly, he pulled her closer until she was nearly smack against his chest. Anne could see each individual black whisker of his beard.
At that moment, she decided that whoever he was, no matter how handsome he was, she hated him.
He laughed, dropping her hand. “Aren’t you the little hothead.”
“Hothead? Who do you think you are?”
He tilted his head, smiling smugly. “Only the person who hired you.”

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