Twice Upon a Train

  Twice Upon a Train

  By

  KA Moll

  Twice Upon a Train © 2019 KA Moll

  Triplicity Publishing, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without permission.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events of any kind, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition – 2019

  Cover Design: Triplicity Publishing, LLC

  Interior Design: Triplicity Publishing, LLC

  Editor: Megan Brady - Triplicity Publishing, LLC

  Acknowledgements

  I have so many to thank:

  My wife, Kay—for being the best wife ever. I couldn’t do this without you, sweetheart. In Perpetuum et unum diem (Forever and a Day).

  My Beta Reader Dream Team—Kay, Dana, Kathy, Paula, Shiela, Carol, and Laure. As always, your input helped me to shape this work into what it is today.

  My publisher, Alea Hamilton—for your publishing expertise, dedication, and endless patience with my perfectionistic tendencies.

  My editor, Megan Brady—for your attention to detail.

  Dedication

  For Dana—a dear friend who in the blink of an eye became family.

  Also by the Author:

  Coming to Terms

  Soul Mates

  Haunting Love

  Change of Heart

  For a Moment’s Indiscretion

  Blue ice Landing

  Whispers of the Heart

  PROLOGUE

  About Twenty-Six Years Ago

  “Come with me.”

  “To where?”

  “To the back of the train,” Keegs answered, her brown eyes sparkling gold. “I know this place where we can see everything and be by ourselves.” She was more confident than the girls in Mae’s class, had longer legs, and shorter hair. In the hour that they’d known one another, they’d talked about everything under the sun, told one another things that they’d never told anyone.

  “I don’t know if we should. What if we get caught?”

  “We’re not gonna get caught. I’ve been on this ride tons of times. I know for sure that it’s gonna last another hour. Did you see the shrimp boats before you got to the park?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, I live pretty close to where they’re docked. I come here all the time.”

  “I would too if I lived that close.”

  Keegs reached over, touching Mae’s thigh, flooding her with the strangest sensation of warmth. “Come on; let’s go.” She squeezed her hand, peering into her eyes. “I’ve never met anyone like you before. And I’m probably never gonna see you again. Come on Mae, I just want us to be alone for a little while.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Keegan caught sight of movement in her peripheral vision. Premeds—stepping closer to anesthesia, lifting onto their toes, peering wide-eyed over the drapes. Thank God NYC General’s policy prevented them from scrubbing in. “Alright, that’s it,” she barked. “All of you, move right now, move to that perfect position, the one you’ve obviously been searching for, and stay there until I say you can move again. This patient deserves better than to have her surgeon distracted by the constant shuffle of your feet.” It was a routine gallbladder operation, one that she should have been able to do in her sleep. But she’d lost her edge, lost what top surgeons took for granted, the ability to remain cool under pressure. Distractions—an unexpected movement, a loud noise, a negative thought—in recent days, maybe weeks, they’d gotten the best of her. “If my hand slips,” she continued, “even by one millimeter, I’ll pierce this patient’s bile duct. Is that what you want?”

  “No.”

  “No, Dr. Wade.”

  “No, Doctor.”

  Smooth move, Sherlock. Let everyone know you’re worried about making a beginner’s error, that’s the way to build confidence. She returned her attention to the hot gallbladder, thinking about the stress of her new position—Chief of Trauma Surgery. From there, her mind wandered back to her students. You were just like them, you know, eager to learn, determined to change the world, to make a difference. Like them, you wanted to help the less fortunate, to be better than the doctors who served as your teachers, to repair a broken system. She removed her skull cap, making her way to the family waiting room, trying to remember the precise moment when she’d lost her passion for medicine. “The surgery went well,” she said, sitting next to the husband. “She’ll be in recovery for a couple of hours.” She answered his questions, providing an appropriate amount of detail. As she stepped off, wanting nothing more than to slip back to her office unnoticed, an attractive brunette joined her.

  “Are you okay?” Naomi asked. “Because you seemed stressed in the OR, short with the students, not yourself.” This familiarity, this crossing of boundaries, it was why doctors should never sleep with their nurses, not even once.

  “I’ve been working around the clock for days,” Keegan responded. “I’m exhausted and dehydrated. Other than that, I’m good as gold.” If only that were all it was.

  “We’re through the worst of it,” Naomi said, referring to the Interstate pileup that had filled the ER with mangled limbs and head-traumas. “You should take some time off. You never take time off.” She brushed Keegan’s hand with her fingertips. “Come on; it’ll be good for you.” It had been a year since that night, the one where their ethical boundaries had blurred, and still, there were times she acted as if they were lovers.

  “Maybe so,” Keegan answered. “I’ll think about it.” It’d been five years since her last vacation; maybe a trip would be helpful. God knows she needed to do something.

  “So, do it then,” Naomi persisted, playfully bumping into her. “What’s stopping you? Surely, it can’t be the money. I mean, with all the surgeries you do; you must be rolling in dough. In the grand scheme of things, what’s a week or two off?”

  “I said I’d think about it,” Keegan responded, entering the ICU. Twelve hours and three grueling surgeries later, she stepped outside, fatigued to the bone.

  “Looks good, doesn’t it?” a colleague greeted, crossing paths with her on the sidewalk that ran in front of the hospital.

  Keegan wrinkled her brow, looking up.

  “The new facade, it looks good.”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah it does,” Keegan answered, surveying the updates to the main building. “Nothing screams cutting-edge medicine like shiny glass, lush landscaping, and bluestone tiles.” Walking toward the parking garage, she experienced irrational jealousy—of the building, and of the young doctor who’d just gone inside. At forty, she felt old. Maybe Naomi was right; maybe she did need some time off. Driving home, she considered how she might carve out two weeks without causing hardship. If she rescheduled her elective surgeries, it was doable. But if she did go somewhere, where would she go? She parked in the lower deck, crossed the checkerboard floor, and rode the elevator to her building’s rooftop lounge.

  “Dr. Wade,” the bartender greeted. “Didn’t figure you were gonna make it in tonight.” He lifted his cloth from the bar, smiling broadly. “The usual?”

  “Yes,” Keegan answered, “but make it a double.” She slid onto a high-backed stool near the window—tall for some patrons, but not for her—peering down at the streets of Manhattan. To her left, were designer shops; to her right, were brownstones and high-rises. It had been a decade since she’d moved here, and still, the place didn’t feel like home. She doubted that it ever would. Home, where was ho
me? Was it Alabama, her birthplace; a place connected to the ebb and flow of the tides? No, not since she’d come to terms with who she was. Was it California, the place she’d attended medical school, a place of foods and traditions from all over the world? No, not anymore. Home, where was home? She felt disconnected, alone in a hectic world.

  “Here you go,” the bartender said, setting a glass of Pendleton Whiskey in front of her.

  “Thanks,” Keegan responded, answering the first of three calls from the hospital—all post-op complications—an infection, a case of anesthesia-induced delirium, and vomiting. “Hold on, I need to relocate,” she said, picking up her glass, and moving toward the elevator. She pressed the button, got off on the sixteenth floor, and traversed the carpeted hallway. Her condo was next to the one occupied by Mrs. Schmidt and her nippy Chihuahua. She had three bedrooms, eleven-foot ceilings, crown moldings, and a decorative fireplace. In her kitchen were a butler’s pantry and a full-size dining table. With a bag of pita chips in hand, she set her drink on a coaster and settled onto the sofa. “Go ahead, I’m listening,” she said, prompting the second of three nurses to continue. An hour later, she stepped in for a hot shower, an activity that at one time had relaxed her mind and muscles. She stepped out, fingering through her dampened hair—clipped, brown, and silvering at the temples—wondering if this was all there was. She dressed in tailored silk pajamas, propped onto an extra pillow, and read an article about the aorta in her preferred medical journal. When she slept, she slept soundly for all of two hours. Tossing and turning, she kicked off the covers. This must stop. If it doesn’t, you can’t continue to operate. She knew the statistics. If she didn’t do something to resolve her insomnia and the anxiety that accompanied it, it wouldn’t be long before she’d make a critical error in surgery. If she didn’t do something, she’d wake up one morning after two lousy hours of sleep and find herself embroiled in a malpractice lawsuit. If she didn’t do something, before long, she’d kill someone. It could happen. She’d watched the scenario play out, destroying a good friend and colleague. But she was at a loss. She’d tried everything she could think of. She’d self-prescribed medications for sleep and anxiety. She’d taken one hot shower after another. She’d relied, sometimes too heavily, on the bottle. She’d tried everything, everything except the one thing that she needed to try, seeking professional help. And that wasn’t and never would be an option. Not if she wanted to practice medicine at the level she practiced medicine. She reached for her nightstand, twisting the cap off of a fresh bottle of Pendleton. Tomorrow, or rather later today, she’d find time to visit a travel agency. A vacation, she thought, swallowing her first glass in one gulp, that’s what you need, you need a nice—long—vacation.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The orange Corvette rip-roared into the low-income neighborhood, stopping in front of the brick, three-story apartment building.

  “I’ll be right down,” Willow called out, lowering her bedroom window, an old sash with counterbalanced weights. She’d been watching traffic, waiting. Her brown tabby jumped to the floor from the dated gold laminate as she made her way through the kitchen. “Ripple, shame on you,” she scolded gently. “You know better than to be on the counter.” When she stroked him, he arched his back. She turned the deadbolt, jogged down three flights of stairs, and dropped into the passenger seat. “I hope this is okay,” she greeted, setting her purse by her feet, and pointing to her dress.

  “Of course, it’s okay,” the sophisticated redhead responded. “You look good in everything.” Nicole’s brow furrowed, taking a closer look. “Is it new?”

  “Oh, heavens no,” Willow answered, fastening her seatbelt. “I’ve had this dress for ages. I usually save it for good though.”

  “Guess I just haven’t seen it,” Nicole responded, putting on a pair of sunglasses that cost as much as Willow paid for a month’s rent. “You didn’t have to dress up,” she added, shifting gears, and navigating into traffic.

  “And just how was I supposed to know that?” Willow asked, speaking loudly enough to be heard above the roar of the engine. “I mean, other than telling me the time you’d pick me up, you didn’t tell me anything.” She’d eaten a snack, figuring that whatever they’d be doing, they’d be skipping lunch.

  Nicole laughed. “It was a surprise; you weren’t supposed to know.” She swerved, opening the glove box, and handing Willow a card. “Here, you want to know where we’re going; open it.”

  Willow’s eyes narrowed.

  “For your graduation, silly,” Nicole reminded. It was an event that Willow had neglected to mention, thinking that it would go by unnoticed. “Go on, open it.”

  Willow thanked her, slipping her finger under the seal. “Oh, Nicki, I can’t let you do this.”

  “The deposit’s prepaid. You can’t stop me.”

  “Nicki…”

  Nicole reached over, squeezing her hand. “Look, I won’t take no for an answer, so stop arguing. Come on, Willow, it’ll be fun. How long has it been since we’ve gone somewhere really cool together?”

  “High School graduation,” Willow answered. Nicole’s parents had sent them to Hawaii.

  “I rest my case,” Nicole responded. “Come on, Willow, let me take us on a trip to celebrate before you begin work.”

  “Before I begin work,” Willow muttered, her good nature disappearing for a fraction of a moment. “At this point, I’m just hoping that someone eventually does hire me.” Repayment of her student loans hadn’t been nearly as worrisome when she’d signed the paperwork as it was now.

  “Trust me, they will,” Nicole assured. “In next to no time, some agency’s going to snap you up. I mean, what HR Director wouldn’t want to hire a caring, competent made-to-order, bleeding-heart social worker?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, maybe one who notices that she didn’t finish her bachelors until she was thirty-seven and her masters until she was thirty-nine.”

  “That makes you worth more as an employee,” Nicole countered, sailing up the ramp, “not less. Shows what you’re made of.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Trust me, I know.”

  “Two weeks is a long time to be away,” Willow said, “don’t you have court hearings or something?”

  “Are you kidding?” Nicole answered. “My court schedule’s clear after tomorrow. This event has been on my calendar for months.” She winked, stepping off. “So, the travel agency’s just down from my office, how about we grab lunch, your pick, and then head on over?”

  “Thai?”

  “Sounds good, I’ve been hungry for vegetarian curry.” They walked at a fast clip, waited for their table, and thought their food would never be served. “So, where do you want to go?” Nicole asked, spooning entrée onto her plate. “Don’t hold back. Anywhere is okay.”

  “I’m not sure,” Willow answered, a piece of sautéed chicken suspended between her chopsticks. “I’m still thinking.”

  “No rush,” Nicole responded, “just making conversation.” They talked in generalities about Nicole’s pending court cases, all medical malpractice, and about Willow’s resume. “So, I assume we’ll fly,” Nicole said, returning them to their original topic, “but we wouldn’t have to. We could go by boat or limo or even train. I want you to pick whatever trip strikes your fancy.”

  “I still can’t believe you’re doing this.”

  “It’s not that much.”

  “It is to me.”

  “Hey, I have an idea,” Nicole said, her eyes brightening, “we could go to a man destination, like a singles cruise or something.” Her smile broadened. “Now, that would be a nice vacation.”

  “Maybe for you,” Willow responded, a man being the last thing on Earth that she needed. Nine years since her divorce, and she hadn’t missed having one, not one day. In that way, she and Nicole were completely different. Nicole needed a man, sometimes more than one, like a child needs toys to play with. As one made his exit, an event that occurred with a fair
amount of regularity, another made his entrance. “But, you’re paying,” she reconsidered, “so if you want to go to a man destination, we should go to a man destination. I’m gonna have fun wherever you take me.”

  “No, absolutely not, this is your pick,” Nicole responded. “No way I’m picking when picking is part of your graduation present.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh shit, we’re gonna be late. Waiter,” she called out, “check please.”

  *

  Keegan powered through her morning, leaving Naomi in her dust as she moved from the OR to the locker room to the shower. She’d started her day with a traumatic hemipelvectomy, a catastrophic injury with a high mortality rate. Called in before daybreak, she’d operated on a thirty-year-old woman, crushed from behind by a car while cycling. Her patient may or may not feel lucky to have survived the accident. As was often the case with this type of surgery, she’d come out of the OR soaked with blood—her booties, her athletic shoes, even her socks. She lathered and rinsed, thinking about her one o’clock appointment, deciding to keep an open mind regarding the mode of travel and destination. She’d provide the travel agent with a date range and take time to consider her options. She wrapped a towel around her body before stepping onto the non-slip surface.

  “Impressive save, Doctor,” Naomi greeted, smiling. “I love watching you work miracles.” Wanting more than Keegan would ever have to give her, her scrub nurse turned up everywhere that she was.

  “Thanks, but it was the flight crew that worked a miracle,” Keegan responded. “Had they missed a single step; our patient would never have made it to my OR.”