LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER ONE

      SCARLET MILLER, head nurse of the NICU—Neonatal Intensive Care Unit—at Angel Mendez Children’s Hospital, lovingly referred to as Angel’s by the staff, walked onto the brand new, now fully functioning unit she’d played a key role in designing and creating, feeling more at home than she did anywhere else. Feeling proud of all she and her wonderful colleagues had accomplished, during her four years as a manager—national recognition for providing the highest level of care available for sick and premature newborns with one of the lowest mortality rates in the U.S. A high tech yet caring, state of the art yet warm and welcoming sixty-two bed unit that the residents of New York City and its surrounding areas kept at or near full capacity on a regular basis.

      “Looks like someone finally had herself a hot weekend,” Linda, one of her older nurses said, walking up beside her. At least she wasn’t complaining about the switch from the open floor plan of their old setup to the mostly private rooms of their new wing.

      “If by someone you’re referring to me.” Scarlet stopped at the nurses’ station, took the pink message slips held up by one of the unit secretaries and gave the young woman a smile of thanks before turning back to Linda. “And if by hot you’re referring to my oppressive, sweat-drenched, Saturday night of misery, the hottest eleventh day of May ever recorded in Weehawken, New Jersey, during which I spent more than sixteen hours without power ergo without air conditioning, then yes. I did indeed have a hot weekend.”

      “Uh oh.” Linda glanced toward a huge vase filled with at least two dozen long-stemmed red roses and accenting ferns perched on the counter to their left.

      “Uh oh what?” Scarlet asked.

      “I told you we shouldn’t do it,” Ashley, the young secretary said, shaking her head.

      Scarlet looked at her. “Do what?”

      Cindy, one of her newest nurses, who’d been observing patient monitors and video feeds as part of her orientation, looked up over the counter and pointed to a rectangular golden box of chocolates, the cover askew.

      “Would someone please tell me what’s going on?” Scarlet didn’t have time to play around, she needed to get back to work after a morning of meetings and greet the family of their newest micro-preemie, baby girl Gupta, born at twenty-six weeks, one pound, thirteen ounces, thirteen inches long, who’d arrived during her absence.

      “We thought they were yours,” Cindy said.

      “What—?”

      “The flowers. And the chocolates,” she clarified.

      “Why...” would they think someone had sent her red roses, the floral symbol of love and passion, typically given by men to their wives, girlfriends, and lovers, when she practically lived at the hospital, and hadn’t had a man in her life since... Hmmm. Since...

      She gave up rather than belabor the pitiful fact it’d been so long she’d require a quick browse of her calendar, from last year, or Lord help her, maybe the year before, to spark her memory. Not that she’d humiliate herself by actually looking. But in her defense, no woman could have achieved the level of success she’d managed—which benefited the hospital, its tiniest patients and their families as much as it did her—without putting in long hours on the job.

      “Because the card that accompanied them is made out to you.” Linda pointed to the mini mint green envelope sticking out of the beautiful, fragrant, partially opened blooms which did in fact have her name on it. Spelled with one t unlike the famous Scarlett she’d been named after—only her mother hadn’t taken the time to get the spelling right.

      Scarlet plucked the card from its plastic holder and opened it.