When Honey first met him on her rounds, she had looked at his chart and said, "I see you're here for a cholecystectomy.''
"I thought they were going to remove my gallbladder."
Honey smiled. "Same thing."
Sean fixed his black eyes on her. "They can cut out anything they want except my heart. That belongs to you."
Honey laughed. "Flattery will get you everywhere."
"I hope so, darlin'."
When Honey had a few minutes to spare, she would drop by and chat with Sean. He was charming and amusing.
"It's worth bein' operated on just to have you around, little darlin'."
"You aren't nervous about the operation, are you?" she asked.
"Not if you're going to operate, love."
"I'm not a surgeon. I'm an internist."
"Are internists allowed to have dinner with their patients?"
"No. There's a rule against it."
"Do internists ever break rules?"
"Never." Honey was smiling.
"I think you're beautiful," Sean said.
No one had ever told Honey that before. She found herself blushing. "Thank you."
"You're like the fresh mornin' dew in the fields of Killarney."
"Have you ever been to Ireland?" Honey asked.
He laughed. "No, but I promise you we'll go there together one day. You'll see."
It was ridiculous Irish blarney, and yet ...
That afternoon when Honey went in to see Sean, she said, "How are you feeling?"
"The better for seeing you. Have you thought about our dinner date?"
"No," Honey said. She was lying.
"I was hoping after my operation, I could take you out. You're not engaged, or married, or anything silly like that, are you?"
Honey smiled. "Nothing silly like that."
"Good! Neither am I. Who would have me?"
A lot of women, Honey thought.
"If you like home cooking, I happen to be a great cook."
"We'll see."
When Honey went to Sean's room the following morning, he said, "I have a little present for you." He handed her a sheet of drawing paper. On it was a softened, idealized sketch of Honey.
"I love it!" Honey said. "You're a wonderful artist!" And she suddenly remembered the psychic's words: You're going to fall in love. He's an artist. She was looking at Sean strangely.
"Is anything wrong?"
"No," Honey said slowly. "No."
Five minutes later, Honey walked into Frances Gordon's room.
"Here comes the Virgo!"
Honey said, "Do you remember telling me that I was going to fall in love with someone—an artist?"
"Yes."
"Well, I ... I think I've met him."
Frances Gordon smiled. "See? The stars never lie."
"Could . . . could you tell me a little about him? About us?"
"There are some tarot cards in that drawer over there. Could you give them to me, please?"
As Honey handed her the cards, she thought, This is ridiculous! I don't believe in this!
Frances Gordon was laying out the cards. She kept nodding to herself, and nodding and smiling, and suddenly she stopped. Her face went pale. "Oh, my God!" She looked up at Honey.
"What . . . what's the matter?" Honey asked.
"This artist. You say you've already met him?"
"I think so. Yes."
Frances Gordon's voice was filled with sadness. "The poor man." She looked up at Honey. "I'm sorry . . . I'm so sorry."
Sean Reilly was scheduled to have his operation the following morning.
8:15 A.M. Dr. William Radnor was in OR Two, preparing for the operation.
8:25 A.M. A truck containing a week's supply of bags of blood pulled up at the emergency entrance to Embarcadero County Hospital. The driver carried the bags to the blood bank in the basement. Eric Foster, the resident on duty, was sharing coffee and a danish with a pretty young nurse, Andrea.
"Where do you want these?" the driver asked.
"Just set them down there." Foster pointed to a corner.
"Right." The driver put the bags down and pulled out a form. "I need your John Hancock."
"Okay." Foster signed the form. "Thanks."
"No sweat." The driver left.
Foster turned to Andrea. "Where were we?"
"You were telling me how adorable I am."
"Right. If you weren't married, I'd really go after you," the resident said. "Do you ever fool around?"
"No. My husband is a boxer."
"Oh. Do you have a sister?"
"As a matter of fact, I do."
"Is she as pretty as you are?"
"Prettier."
"What's her name?"
"Marilyn."
"Why don't we double-date one night?"
As they chatted, the fax machine began to click. Foster ignored it.
8:45 A.M. Dr. Radnor began the operation on Sean Reilly. The beginning went smoothly. The operating room functioned like a well-oiled machine, run by capable people doing their jobs.
9:05 A.M. Dr. Radnor reached the cystic duct. A textbook operation up until then. As he started to excise the gallbladder, his hand slipped and the scalpel nicked an artery. Blood began to pour out.
"Jesus!" He tried to stop the flow.
The anesthesiologist called out, "His blood pressure just dropped to ninety-five. He's going into shock!"
Radnor turned to the circulating nurse. "Get some more blood up here, stat!"
"Right away, doctor."
9:06 A.M. The telephone rang in the blood bank. "Don't go away," Foster told Andrea. He walked past the fax machine, which had stopped clicking, and picked up the telephone. "Blood supply."