Forever Sheltered

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: Tina

  Chapter 2: Darion

  Chapter 3: Tina

  Chapter 4: Tina

  Chapter 5: Tina

  Chapter 6: Darion

  Chapter 7: Tina

  Chapter 8: Darion

  Chapter 9: Tina

  Chapter 10: Darion

  Chapter 11: Tina

  Chapter 12: Darion

  Chapter 13: Tina

  Chapter 14: Darion

  Chapter 15: Tina

  Chapter 16: Darion

  Chapter 17: Tina

  Chapter 18: Darion

  Chapter 19: Tina

  Chapter 20: Darion

  Chapter 21: Tina

  Chapter 22: Darion

  Chapter 23: Tina

  Chapter 24: Darion

  Chapter 25: Tina

  Chapter 26: Darion

  Chapter 27: Tina

  Chapter 28: Darion

  Chapter 29: Tina

  Chapter 30: Darion

  Chapter 31: Tina

  Chapter 32: Darion

  Chapter 33: Tina

  Chapter 34: Darion

  Chapter 35: Tina

  Chapter 36: Darion

  Chapter 37: Tina

  Chapter 38: Darion

  Chapter 39: Tina

  Chapter 40: Darion

  Chapter 41: Tina

  Chapter 42: Darion

  Chapter 43: Tina

  Chapter 44: Darion

  Chapter 45: Tina

  Chapter 46: Darion

  Chapter 47: Tina

  Chapter 48: Tina

  Epilogue

  Also by Deanna Roy

  About Deanna Roy

  Acknowledgements

  Dedications to Families Affected by Cancer

  Forever Sheltered

  A Novel from the Forever Series

  By Deanna Roy

  www.deannaroy.com

  Join her mailing list for new releases and freebies at

  Deanna’s List

  Summary:

  A doctor with a secret falls for the unorthodox art therapist at the hospital where he works, sparking a love affair that could destroy both their careers.

  Copyright © 2014 by Deanna Roy. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Casey Shay Press

  PO Box 160116

  Austin, TX 78716

  www.caseyshaypress.com

  E-ISBN: 9781938150272

  Also available in paperback: ISBN: 9781938150265

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014911601

  v2.1

  For Janice Roy

  My mom

  Over ten years cancer free

  Jan Korfmacher

  My mother-in-law

  Decades cancer free

  Stan Korfmacher

  My father-in-law

  Lost to prostate cancer in 2010

  Mary Ballard Roy Wright

  My grandmother

  Survived breast cancer and lived another 20 years

  And for all those lost to cancer

  and those who have survived it,

  including the hundreds listed

  in the final pages of this book

  by fans and readers

  (Go see!)

  •*´`*•♥•*´`*•

  Chapter 1: Tina

  Oh, that idiot jerk doctor just walked in here and demanded a favor.

  A favor.

  Demanded.

  He strode into my art therapy room like he owned the place, with his high-dollar shoes and custom-tailored khakis, and said, “You have to do something for me.”

  Right. I have to.

  I whirled away from him to pick up a box of tempera paints and clutched it tightly with both hands.

  It was either that or punch him in the face.

  This was my room at the hospital. Where doctors weren’t the big shots. Where patients came to escape.

  My cheeks were hot. “I didn’t expect to see you again,” I said, pointedly refusing to ask what the something he wanted me to do entailed. “You didn’t show up the last time you asked to meet with me.”

  This same doctor blew me off two weeks ago. Set up a meeting and didn’t show.

  Like his time was valuable, and mine was not.

  I kept my back to him. A long moment passed. He stayed quiet, so I began to wonder if he’d snuck out.

  Not a bad idea. Nobody likes me when I’m pissed off.

  I checked the paints, chucking any colors that had dried out. I had less than ten minutes until my next therapy group arrived, a set of children from the cancer ward. It often took all my emotional strength to get through that hour. I wouldn’t give the doctor another thought.

  Those kids had it so hard. They lost their hair. Threw up spontaneously. Dealt daily with the idea of death. Many were far from home, sent here to the specialty wing for cancer patients after their own hospitals had exhausted all options.

  My days felt like battles, miniature war zones.

  And yet here was this Dr. Darion Marks, asking me to do something for him.

  I was so sure he was gone that I jumped when he spoke again.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t let you know I couldn’t make our meeting two weeks ago,” he said.

  Still no explanation. I turned a little so I could see the doctor, tall and stalwart in his white coat. He reminded me of a statue, perfect, chiseled, and cold as granite. I dropped the box of paints on the low table with a satisfying clunk.

  “Hey.” His voice carried an impatient tone that sparked my anger into rage.

  I glared at him. I was ready to give him a real piece of my mind when he switched tactics.

  “Maybe we can start over,” he said with a smile I’m sure he thought was charming. “Hello, Ms. Schwartz. Could I ask you to help me with one of my patients?”

  I hated him with a fury I usually reserved for people who kicked dogs. And my parents.

  I grasped the back of a chair and leaned over it. Menacingly, I hoped.

  “Dr. —” I pretended I couldn’t remember his name and peered at his badge, even though this doctor was pretty unforgettable. A classic face complete with dimples and a jaw of steel. Broad shoulders and a lean body. Well dressed. Most of the doctors here wore scrubs and took a laid-back approach. This Darion dude was clearly on the path to administration, even though he barely looked over thirty.

  “Dr. Marks,” I said, “I treat all the patients who come into my room the same. Each one gets equal attention.”

  “But this one lost her mother,” he said. He adjusted his tie, as if suddenly it was too tight. “Let me show her to you.”

  I tried to avoid noticing how his pale blue dress shirt stretched over his chest as he reached around for his back pocket. He must use the workout room available to staff.

  Use it a lot, actually.

  I felt that familiar pounding that connected my heart to other interested body parts, but that was fine. I could ignore it. Or I could do a one-and-done with the doctor. That was no skin off my back, unless carpet burns were involved. I’d taken in men more powerful than this guy and showed them the door right after.

  That sort of challenge was what made life interesting.

  The doctor opened a hand-tooled brown leather wallet. One glance t
old me it cost as much as my entire outfit. Probably more, actually, since I got everything at resale shops.

  Dr. Marks flipped the wallet open to a picture of a girl. Even with the mop of blond curls in this image, I recognized Cynthia. Her little head was smooth and bald from chemotherapy now. She used to come to art every day. Sometimes twice, if she could sneak in. I always let her.

  Cynthia had been missing from my class for a couple weeks. She was the first of my patients to leave without warning, and I had been afraid to ask anyone why.

  “I know her,” I said. “She’s very sweet.” I stuck my hands on my hips, purposely showing him some attitude. “Why do you have a picture of your patient in your wallet?”

  This got him. He snapped it shut. “She gave it to me. Couldn’t exactly throw it away.”

  I watched him with suspicion. Keeping it and putting it in his wallet were two very different things. Now that I looked closer, I could see something haunted in those gray eyes. Something that told me he had a past. Maybe not as bad as mine. I was hard to beat. But something had happened to him. Maybe this girl brought it back.

  I felt my disdain soften a little.

  A nurse I knew, Marlena, pushed an empty wheelchair through the door. “Just tucking this in here,” she said.

  I smiled at her, ignoring the doctor. “Who’s it for?”

  “Jake is going to come in on crutches today,” she said, smoothing back her perfect curtain of black braids. “PT went well. But I suspect he’ll be plumb worn out by the end. We’ll have this for him just in case.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  “Thanks, love,” Marlena said. She cast a furtive glance over at the doctor, raised her eyebrows at me, then left again.

  When I turned back, the doctor’s face had grown angry. “So, you’ll watch Jake but not Cynthia?” he asked.

  I heaved a long, annoyed sigh, one designed to make a point. I summoned my best whiny, put-out voice. “I already make sure they seem okay, don’t get too upset, that their IVs aren’t tangled or their tubes pinched or their color doesn’t alter or their breathing isn’t labored and a million other things on top of my actual job, which is to help them feel better about being in the hospital.”

  Dr. Marks shoved his wallet back in his pocket. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and I had the craziest urge to press my hand to it, to calm him. I shook it off. I was supposed to be getting him out of here, not mooning over his dimples. I was hoping the whiny voice would make him leave.

  He seemed disgusted by what he had to say next. “Cynthia likes you, Tina. She talks about you all the time.” Dr. Marks shoved both his hands in his lab coat pockets. The stethoscope around his neck was cocked sideways, one side longer than the other. If he didn’t adjust it, it was going to hit the floor. I resisted the urge to fix it.

  I was watching him way too closely.

  I relented. “I know,” I said in a more normal tone. “She wraps her arms around my leg and begs the nurse not to make her leave.” The image of the little girl, Cynthia, doing this softened my feelings yet another notch. Maybe this doctor had a similar experience with the child. The nurses doted on her.

  “You’re important to her. Just — just don’t forget that. That’s all I ask.” Dr. Marks wouldn’t meet my eye now and stared down at his polished black shoes. “Your approval or disapproval of her drastically affects her day. How she does with her treatment. How much she eats. You’re important.”

  I had no idea.

  “I understand,” I said. “I’ll be careful.”

  “That’s all I ask,” he said.

  We both sounded different now. Like real people.

  I plucked at my sleeves. “She’s been missing art class. Is she all right?”

  Technically, I wasn’t allowed to be informed about a patient’s medical condition. I wasn’t a nurse, and I had zero medical credentials. I was just an artist with a college degree who had been hired as an emergency measure to fill a vacant slot no one else would take. The pay was crap. My job was temporary and had no benefits. But it was mine. I liked it. I helped patients color, paint, and sculpt to escape the awfulness of their treatments.

  What I did here mattered. Maybe for the first time in my life.

  The doctor cleared his throat. “She went to Houston seeking eligibility for a clinical trial of a new chemotherapy drug. She’s back. We’re hoping her leukemia will go into remission.” His jaw twitched again, and I could tell this time it was from upset, not anger. “It’s basically our only hope.”

  I gave up on my bad attitude altogether. I didn’t know much about leukemia, but I did know Cynthia was fighting very hard. For some reason, this doctor had taken her case to his heart. He couldn’t be all bad.

  I shifted a stack of paper to avoid having to look at him. “I’ll keep an eye on her,” I said.

  He got quiet, so I glanced back up. His eyebrows drew together. This was hard for him. I hadn’t seen him around much, although I knew he was an oncologist, one of the hotshots working on a new specialty. I was never sure I could handle such constant contact with so much loss, in children so young. Although, who knows, maybe I was perfect for it. Anything longer than the three short hours my own baby had lived felt like forever.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Time to just play it straight. “You’re welcome, Dr. Marks.”

  “Darion, please.” He flashed a small smile, this one without the forced charm. I remembered our last meeting, when he asked me out for coffee. My friend Corabelle had encouraged it. But Corabelle didn’t know I had a rule I never violated. One date. One night. And that’s it.

  But to do any of that — either the night OR the brush-off — with a coworker seemed like a bad idea. Especially with a devastatingly handsome doctor who was pretending to be a jerk but was really utterly vulnerable.

  “Darion, then,” I said.

  Damn, I might as well climb into his bed. I was done for. The gears of my interest had already gotten engaged. No telling what direction they would grind.

  But there would definitely be grinding.

  One of the volunteers led in two children by the hand. My next group was about to start.

  “Looks like it’s time for me to go,” Darion said. He passed the two kids, patting one on the shoulder, and left the room.

  Marlena returned, this time with Jake. He seemed pleased to be on the crutches, hobbling along. Half of his head was still shaved from his surgery, the suture angry and red but no longer hidden under bandages. He was recovering. It was such a relief when some of them did.

  When the three kids were settled, Marlena said over their heads, “What was Marks doing here?”

  I shrugged. “Just asking about a patient of his.”

  “That boy is as cold as ice,” she said. “He’s been here a couple of months and hasn’t made a peep to anyone other than ‘Where are so-and-so’s test results?’” Marlena shook her head, sending her braids bouncing. “Nobody knows a thing about him.”

  I set a piece of construction paper in front of each of the children. I could see how people would find him cold. He had walked in that way. But later, not so much. He’d been sort of emotional, actually. And he had that picture in his wallet.

  The man was definitely a mystery.

  A very intriguing mystery.

  Chapter 2: Darion

  The art teacher was definitely on my mind as I made my rounds through the oncology ward. Such a funny girl, with her striped stockings and bohemian style. I’d never known anyone with a college degree who wore their hair in pigtails.

  Still, something about her was refreshing and easy. Not her attitude, certainly. Borderline insolent. But she let you know where you stood, good or bad. I could talk to her.

  Showing her the picture in my wallet was probably a mistake. And I couldn’t afford many.

  But it had worked. Cynthia would be looked after. For some reason, the two of them had a bond. I couldn’t question anything that helped her with
this struggle. Cynthia needed as many people as possible in her corner.

  I made sure I nodded cordially at the nurses who passed. Despite my best efforts since arriving two months ago, I had already gained a reputation for being a stoic.

  I wasn’t sure how anyone could be emotionally involved in this specialty. More and more, it seemed the cases that were assigned to this floor were palliative and not curative. I spent more time establishing a comfortable, lingering decline than trying to make anyone healthy and well.

  But St. Anthony’s was a subspecialty clinic within the bigger hospital. The people who came here were at the end of their cancer battle, seeking experimental treatments and any last shred of hope.

  I recognized Harriet Parker trundling down the hall. Her husband rolled an IV alongside her. She must be coming from the chemo room. She’d asked to be able to take it with the outpatients. Anything to be among other people. I understood that.

  I carefully memorized each patient’s name using alliteration, a trick I learned from a middle school teacher I dated briefly in med school. Harriet was always in a hurry, so I nicknamed her Harried Harriet.

  “Hello, Harriet,” I said. “You haven’t slowed down a bit.”

  She straightened her orange flowered head cap. “Oh, I’m not as spry as I was when I went through this as a kid.” She banged the metal stand of her IV. “Sloppy seconds are no fun.”

  I tried to laugh, but I knew it wasn’t convincing. Harriet had beat childhood leukemia only to get secondary cancer as an adult. Nothing about any of this was really funny, although I could appreciate Harriet’s willingness to find humor in her situation.

  “I’ll be down to see you in a bit,” I said.

  She waved her hand. “No rush, Dr. Marks. I got nowhere else to be.”

  I turned the corner of the hallway, this one bustling with nurses and aides. All the outpatient chemotherapy rooms were stationed along this corridor. Bedraggled family members sprawled on chairs in the waiting lounge, knitting or reading or staring up at television screens. Treatments could take hours, depending on the drug and the protocol. And the aftermath was often worse.