They „ spent the next three days excitedly making plans.
"I'm dying to see London. Maybe we'll run into the queen."
"Paris is where I want to go. It's supposed to be the most romantic city in the world."
"I want to ride a gondola in the moonlight in Venice."
Maybe we'll go to Venice on our honeymoon, Paige, Alfred had said. Would you like that?
Oh, yes!
She wondered if Alfred had taken Karen to Venice on their honeymoon.
Saturday morning the three of them stopped in at the Corniche Travel Agency on Powell Street.
The woman behind the counter was polite. "What kind of trip are you interested in?"
"We'd like to go to Europe—London, Paris, Venice . . ."
"Lovely. We have some economical package tours that—"
"No, no, no." Paige looked at Honey and grinned. "First-class."
"Right. First-class air travel," Kat chimed in.
"First-class hotels," Honey added.
"Well, I can recommend the Ritz in London, the Crillon in Paris, the Cipriani in Venice, and—"
Paige said, "Why don't we just take some brochures with us? We can study them and make up our minds."
"That will be fine," the travel agent said.
Paige was looking at a brochure. "You arrange yacht charters, too?"
"Yes."
"Good. We may be chartering one."
"Excellent." The travel agent collected a handful of brochures and handed them to Paige. "Whenever you're ready, just let me know and I'll be happy to make your reservations."
"You'll hear from us," Honey promised.
When they got outside, Kat laughed and said, "Nothing like dreaming big, is there?"
"Don't worry," Paige assured her. "One day we'll be able to go to all those places."
Chapter Ten
Seymour Wilson, the chief of medicine at Embarcadero County Hospital, was a frustrated man with an impossible job. There were too many patients, too few doctors and nurses, and too few hours in a day. He felt like the captain of a sinking ship, running around vainly trying to plug up the holes.
At the moment, Dr. Wilson's immediate concern was Honey Taft. While some doctors seemed to like her a great deal, reliable residents and nurses kept reporting that Dr. Taft was incapable of doing her job.
Wilson finally went to see Ben Wallace. "I want to get rid of one of our doctors," he said. "The residents she makes rounds with tell me she's incompetent."
Wallace remembered Honey. She was the one who had the extraordinarily high grades and glowing recommendation. "I don't understand it," he said. "There must be some mistake." He was thoughtful for a moment. "I'll tell you what we'll do, Seymour. Who's the meanest son of a bitch on your staff?"
"Ted Allison."
"All right. Tomorrow morning, send Honey Taft out on rounds with Dr. Allison. Have him give you a report on her. If he says she's incompetent, I'll get rid of her."
"Fair enough," Dr. Wilson said. "Thanks, Ben."
At lunch, Honey told Paige that she had been assigned to make the rounds with Dr. Allison the following morning.
"I know him," Paige said. "He has a miserable reputation."
"That's what I hear," Honey said thoughtfully.
At that moment, in another part of the hospital, Seymour Wilson was talking to Ted Allison. Allison was a hard-bitten veteran of twenty-five years. He had served as a medical officer in the navy, and he still took pride in "kicking ass."
Seymour Wilson was saying, "I want you to keep a close eye on Dr. Taft. If she can't cut it, she's out. Understood?"
"Understood."
He was looking forward to this. Like Seymour Wilson, Ted Allison despised incompetent doctors. In addition, he had a strong conviction that if women wanted to be in the medical profession, they should be nurses. If it was good enough for Florence Nightingale, it was good enough for the rest of them.
At six o'clock the following morning, the residents gathered in the corridor to begin their rounds. The group consisted of Dr. Allison, Tom Benson, who was his chief assistant, and five residents, including Honey Taft.
Now, as Allison looked at Honey, he thought, Okay, sister, let's see what you've got. He turned to the group. "Let's go."
The first patient in Ward One was a teenage girl lying in bed, covered with heavy blankets. She was asleep when the group approached her.
"All right," Dr. Allison said. "I want you all to take a look at her chart."
The residents began to study the patient's chart. Dr. Allison turned to Honey. "This patient has fever, chills, general malaise, and anorexia. She has a temperature, a cough, and pneumonia. What's your diagnosis, Dr. Taft?"
Honey stood there, frowning, silent.
"Well?"
"Well," Honey said thoughtfully, "I would say she probably has psittacosis—parrot fever."
Dr. Allison was looking at her in surprise. "What . . . what makes you say that?"
"Her symptoms are typical of psittacosis, and I noticed that she works part-time as a clerk in a pet shop. Psittacosis is transmitted by infected parrots."
Allison nodded slowly. "That's . . . that's very good. Do you know what the treatment is?"
"Yes. Tetracycline for ten days, strict bed rest, and plenty of fluids."
Dr. Allison turned to the group, "Did you all hear that? Dr. Taft is absolutely right."
They moved on to the next patient.
Dr. Allison said, "If you'll examine his chart, you'll find that he has mesothelial tumors, bloody effusion, and fatigue. What's the diagnosis?"