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  He possessed a broad forehead and wore his hair close-cropped. His emerald green eyes caused queries about his forebears. When asked, he’d give the questioner a shrug, a raised eyebrow and answer, “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  His nose was straight with slightly flaring nostrils, and the narrow dark moustache he had cultivated over his full lips had always attracted many women, none of whom had attracted Austin Brimmer or deterred him from his goal of becoming recognized in the African-American art world.

  Armed with his degree from the Lancaster School of Art, he had first sought employment as a commercial artist, but the assignments preparing workups for news paper advertisements were not fulfilling, not the type of art he really wanted to pursue. He’d decided to make a change. His decision had led him to the Peace Corps, to Cameroon, a republic of Central Africa with coastline on the Bight of Biafra. As an instructor in art and English, he fell in love immediately with the vibrant colors of the country and its people.

  It was amazing to him to see how cheerful the people were, even though they lived in dire conditions. He found their music to be exciting with drums, brass cymbals, and woodwind-type instruments fashioned out of native woods. Even some crudely made stringed banjo instruments produced music that engendered excitement. All of the people responded, from the respected elders with gnarled fingers and stiff bones, to the youngest whose supple bodies reacted to the wildest rhythms with joy and vigor. Austin was entranced, felt strangely connected to all of it.

  Then there was the language. He embraced the French and English that he heard, but the polyglot of sixty or more tribal dialects intrigued him.

  His assignment was to teach English to freshman high school students. The village was approximately ten miles from a moderately sized city, Dualla, which Austin visited often, especially the marketplaces.

  He learned to love the people, especially the children. They were bright, eager to learn, and just as eager to teach him, particularly how to play soccer.

  Observing last night’s snowfall, he smiled at the memory of trying to explain to them the mystery of snow falling from the sky. They could scarcely believe him, although many had seen some movies with scenes of snow.

  “You mean it really falls from the sky?” one young lad of thirteen asked.

  “Indeed it does. Much like your monsoon rains, only it is white and very, very cold. Sometimes the winds blow it around like they blow sand here, but that only makes it colder, something that we call a ‘blizzard.’ ”

  “I don’t think I would like it,” his student had said, shaking his head.

  “You’d have to see it to believe it. But when the sun shines, it can be quite a beautiful sight.”

  He remembered the sadness he’d felt when his two-year stint was over. How he hated to leave the many friends he’d made. He had promised to return . . . one day. He had enjoyed teaching so much he began to wonder about his career choice. Although he relished teaching, his creative side was the part that nourished him, made him content.

  He was satisfied that he was making progress with his store. So far he was able to meet all the necessary requirements for the operation of The African Art Store. He did the buying and selling and created some of the artwork, such as his ceramic vases and urns, and made sure that his financial records were in order.

  Man, he thought, it will be a great day when I can hire some help. Then maybe I can start to live a little. So far he kept the store open five days a week, from one in the afternoon until eight at night.

  He went directly to the basement to check the fired pieces in the kiln. He could hardly wait to see how they had turned out. Mornings were exciting for him because seeing his creations come to fruition validated his belief in his ability.

  When the storeowner, Elyse Marshall, purchased one of his first vases, he thanked her.

  “I’m so happy that you decided to buy this,” he said to her as he wrapped several layers of tissue paper around it.

  “I really fell in love with it as soon as I saw it,” she told him. “It is so different, so unique. I plan to raffle it off at my bookstore and gift shop.”

  “Wonderful! And your bookstore . . .”

  “I’m located on Blue Hill Avenue, on the square,” Elyse said as she handed him her credit card.

  While Austin completed the transaction, Elyse took one of her business cards out of her purse. After she had signed the credit slip, she gave him her card.

  “The Kwanzaa Book and Gift Shop,” he read aloud. “I’ll have to pay you a visit.”

  “Please do. I’ll be happy to have you come by and see how we present your fabulous vase,” Elyse said, lifting her purchase into her arms.

  “Oh no,” Austin said. He took the bundle from her. “Let me take this to your car.”

  He had noticed her tentative smile, the aura of sadness around her. But she was lovely, tall, slender, with butter-soft rose-tan skin. He had also seen a slender gold band on the ring finger of her left hand. So, she was married. But what made such a lovely young woman so sad?

  Chapter 5

  Holly Francis shut her apartment door with a vigorous slam. As she clattered down the steel-coated stairs of the converted factory loft, she thought for the millionth time how much she hated her life . . . the crappy apartment, the lousy job as a nursing assistant at the Prime Care Nursing Home. She knew she was lucky to have the dingy place she called “home,” but that didn’t stop her from hating it.

  She thought of how little time she really spent in the apartment. Mainly it was a place to sleep. She rarely invited anyone to visit her because her life didn’t make that possible. In order to afford the one-bedroom apartment she had to work four twelve-hour days each week. The forty-eight-hour week was beginning to tell on her, but she had to support herself. There was no one else to help her. Her grandmother, Theodora, had died in the very nursing home where Holly was now employed.

  Of course there was Branch. He picked her up every morning and drove her back home whenever her shift ended. He wanted very much for Holly to become Mrs. Branch Adkins. She had told him many times that marriage was not for her.

  “If you don’t stop asking me, Branch, I’ll have to stop riding with you.”

  “Won’t ask you again until next week,” he joked. “Promise?”

  “I promise.” He smiled at her, happy that she was with him in his car, enthralled by her soft brown skin that reddened whenever she became emotional. Her short, dark, silky brown hair curled in a shimmering nimbus around her delicate face. But she was physically strong, that he knew full well. He had seen her manage patients in a firm manner, particularly the difficult stubborn ones.

  The two had met at Medical Technology Academy, known usually as MTA, one of the many educational schools that offered training in the medical field and promised an entry level job at the completion of the course.

  Branch had graduated as an operating room technician. A tall man with a football player’s strength and muscles, many of the surgeons he assisted were amazed by his deft handling of the various surgical instruments. Some were reluctant at first when Branch, gowned and gloved, appeared at their side in the operating room. It was often reported that Branch knew what instrument the surgeon needed even before he asked. Very often, if certain physicians had to perform surgeries at other facilities, they asked Branch Adkins if he could work with them. He was well-known and appreciated for his innate abilities.

  He waited for Holly to fasten her seatbelt before he placed the car into drive. He understood her anxiety about cars. He knew he’d feel the same way if someone in his family had been killed by a drunk driver, especially one’s mother.

  He also understood the depth of Holly’s grief over losing her mother five years ago. It changed her life drastically. Seventeen years old then, college was no longer a possibility, and a career choice from MTA was the best she could hope to achieve. Her mother’s small life insurance policy made that possible. Then her grandmother died. Branch thought
it sad that Holly never knew her father.

  He’d asked her about him once. At her brief, curt reply, “Never knew the man,” he’d raised his eyebrows and had sense enough not to pursue the subject. Still, he wished he could help ease the pain he knew she endured.

  She was so unhappy with her life and he so desperately wanted to bring love, peace and tranquility into her future. But Branch Adkins knew that patience and persistence would be his allies.

  “Looks like a brisk fall day,” Branch observed as he drove down Warren Street towards Dudley Square and the nursing home where Holly worked.

  She glanced out the car window at the blue sky and the cotton-white clouds that moved slowly, unhurriedly, across the blue dome.

  She sighed, “Just another day to me. Another depressing day.”

  “Oh, Holly, it won’t always be this way, I swear. Look on the bright side!”

  “Okay, Branch, I’ll try.”

  He pulled up behind another car that several other young women had just gotten out of. They were walking toward the building.

  “Haitians, Dominicans, Mexicans. I don’t understand a word they’re saying,” she said to Branch as they both listened to the mellifluous patois the women were speaking.

  “One thing I know for sure,” Holly said to Branch as she released her seatbelt. “This place would go out of business if these folks didn’t work here.”

  “They fill a need, eh?”

  “Sure do. No one wants to do this kind of work. Babysitting, feeding, diapering old people . . .”

  “But somebody’s got to do it. Right?” Branch said.

  “You’re right. We’re all going to get old someday. Have to pray that there’s someone around willing to give us a glass of water if we need it.”

  “Thank God, Holly, that you’re that kind of person.”

  “Do the best I can. Thanks for the ride. See you tonight about eight. And you have a good day, hear? See you.” She waved goodbye as she left the car.

  He watched her run up the stairs of the brownstone building, now converted from a residence to a nursing home facility. Shaking his head, Branch drove away from the curb. She is one independent, self-sufficient young woman, he thought. But her depression worries me.

  * * *

  Prime Care Nursing Home was one of many franchises owned by a corporation whose main offices were located in Tennessee. The franchise owner had been able to obtain funds to rehab two brownstone homes into one large building.

  From the outside it appeared to be a typical brownstone, but inside were wide corridors with handrails along the walls. It was well lit to accommodate patients with failing eyesight. Doorways were wide and swung easily to admit wheelchairs and stretchers.

  The lobby resembled one found in any moderately priced motel. Comfortable upholstered armchairs were clustered in groups. Several were placed near a gas burning fireplace; others formed an arrangement with a coffee table that invited residents to gather into conversational groups. Fresh flowers and attractive lamps resting on dark mahogany tables worked to create a homelike atmosphere.

  Besides the lobby, the first floor contained offices, a medical suite, dining room and a kitchen, as well as elevators leading to the two upper floors.

  The second floor contained fifteen rooms occupied by those patients needing total care around the clock. The third floor housed ambulatory individuals who could meet their own needs with minimal assistance from the staff.

  As Holly hurried into the building she flashed her badge at the security guard.

  “Mornin’.”

  “Mornin’, Miss Holly,” he responded from his high stool behind the lobby desk. “Make it a good one,” he added.

  “Goin’ try to,” Holly said over her shoulder as she moved toward the elevators. She punched the button for the lower level that would take her to the basement locker room. It had been set aside for the female employees. Even before she reached the door she could hear the hubbub of the employees who had arrived before she had.

  The room was crowded with mainly young girls stripping off their exotic blouses, jeans and colorful skirts to change into their work uniforms. Some wore the blue and white uniforms of dietetic assistants, the employees who passed food trays and assisted those patients unable to feed themselves.

  Other employees, mainly older, more matronly women, wore a gray and white uniform that identified them as housekeepers. The words Prime Care were embroidered on the left upper pocket of each uniform. In addition, each person wore an identification tag with their name and photograph.

  “Hey, hey, Leola, how’re you this mornin’?” Holly greeted a stocky brown-skinned twenty-something-yearold trying to confine heavy blonde-dyed dreadlocks into the required hairnets.

  “Be fine, soon’s I get this hair of mine in this damn net. Branch bring you in this mornin’?”

  “Yeah, he did. Good ole Branch.”

  “Hey girl, don’ knock the blessin’! Wish I had somebody like him.”

  Holly knew that, like most of the other female employees, Leola was a single mother supporting herself and two small children. Her two girls, Pearl and Diamond, Leola said, were her “precious jewels” and she had moved from Portsmouth, Virginia, and their worthless father to make a better life for them in Boston.

  Holly agreed with Leola. “Yeah, I know I’m lucky. Branch is a good guy.”

  “All’s I know is you’d better snatch him up ‘fore some no-good hussy grabs ‘im,” Leola said, zipping up her uniform, grabbing her set of keys from her locker. After turning the key she waved goodbye to Holly, who was moving towards her own locker at the far end of the room.

  “See you later, Lee. Have a good day,” she said. That was when Holly saw the envelope. Her heart skipped a beat. A large business-sized envelope had been taped to the front of her locker. Now what? she wondered.

  “Please report to my office at your earliest convenience,” the note inside read. It had been signed by Jane Dagleish, R.N.

  Holly’s face flushed as she read the brief message, realizing she had been holding her breath. She exhaled slowly, wondering why she was being summoned by the nursing supervisor. Was it her work, complaints from a patient’s family . . . what? She couldn’t think of anything she’d done. Or was she being let go? There had been some talk of downsizing. Oh, God, she needed this job, as bad as it was.

  She checked her appearance using the small mirror taped inside her locker. It would surely be a bad idea to look less than perfect for Ms. Dagleish, who was a stickler for the proper appearance of her nursing staff.

  Holly’s hair, a soft, silky brown, was about the only facet of her appearance that pleased her. Her mother’s hair had been similar, but she had worn it either long, about shoulder-length, or in twin braids. Holly, however, wore hers in a short pixie-like cut that accented her large, dark brown eyes. She never thought it was true, but others told her that she resembled Halle Berry. “Almost look-alike,” they would say.

  Satisfied that she looked as presentable as possible, she adjusted her name tag on her left breast pocket, placed her handbag in her locker, locked it and put the key in her pocket.

  She breathed a quick silent prayer, God, help me, as she approached the supervisor’s office on the main floor.

  “Good morning, Ms. Dagleish. You wish to see me?” Holly asked when the nurse told her to come in the office.

  “Yes, Holly, how are you?”

  “I’m fine, fine.”

  “Good. I have something I’d like to discuss with you.” She went right to the point. “Are you up to the challenge of a new assignment?”

  Jane Dagleish was a small woman, about forty years old. She was always dressed tastefully in elegant skirts and blouses, though she wore a white laboratory coat as a gesture to her medical career. The one thing Holly had noticed about the woman was her hands.

  Her skin was pearlescent, almost transparent. Her fingers were slender and delicately tapered and her nails were polished a rose tint. The gol
d Claddagh ring she wore on the ring finger of her right hand accented her fingers.

  Holly had decided that the woman’s clear, pale white skin and coal black hair worn in a pageboy, along with her startling blue eyes, could be considered a testament to her Scotch-Irish heritage.

  At this moment those eyes were focused on Holly as she sat in the chair in front of the supervisor’s desk.

  Her tone of voice was warm and friendly, which did little to ease the tension Holly felt. She smiled as she repeated her question. “So, are you willing, Holly, to try something new?”

  Not knowing what to say, Holly hesitated. “I . . . I . . . think so . . . if you think . . .”

  “Oh, my dear, I have no doubt that you can meet this challenge. I’ve been watching you and I believe that you have potential. A great deal of potential.”

  “But I’m used to where I’m working now. You know, used to the patients and the routine . . .”

  “And you are doing an excellent job on that unit. And that’s why I wanted to talk to you . . . to offer you the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  Holly’s eyes widened in wonder. What on earth was Ms. Dagleish talking about? ‘The opportunity of a lifetime’?

  “Well, you see, Holly,” the nurse began to explain, “the management of our facility has decided to go into a new direction by adding patients who need short-term rehabilitation services, especially those recovering from strokes, knee or hip replacements. This type of patient may not require as much hands-on care as most of our older residents, but instead need support, education and therapy to restore them to health. It’s estimated that their stay here could be from a few weeks to perhaps a month or two. I’d like to assign you to this new unit.”

  “Me?” Holly’s voice cracked in disbelief.

  “Yes, you. I feel you are just the person. I believe that you can work effectively with the ancillary staff, physical therapists, speech therapists and the various other disciplines that will be part of this special unit. How about it, Holly? Willing to try?”