Snapshot by Linda Barnes Page A

Muir said firmly. “Decision by Wednesday. Now, young lady, please sit down.” Muir nodded me into a plush blue chair. “I do hope Barbara hasn’t made your life difficult. She’s extremely protective of my time.”
    I sat.
    â€œI’m sorry if we seem to have behaved rudely,” he continued, “but we were under the impression that you were a reporter. We have strict procedures—”
    He’d shifted to the royal we , but it didn’t seem ludicrous. Didn’t even seem inappropriate.
    â€œI’m not here on a story.” I withdrew the envelope from my handbag, unfolded my precious sheet of paper. “May I read?”
    â€œPlease.” Muir carefully stifled a yawn so that only the edges of his nostrils fluttered. I wished I’d spent more time gazing at the painting in the lobby. He must have been incredibly handsome.
    My speech was brief, but I spluttered a little and made several mistakes, to make it seem as if I hadn’t just written it in the waiting room, as if I were nervous at being in the presence of JHHI’s Chief of Staff and CEO.
    To my surprise, I was nervous. If I’d known Muir was going to be like this, I thought, I’d have taken more time composing my speech.
    â€œWhereas the ladies of the North Shore Chapter of the Silver Crescent,” I intoned, “select each year a person of good character and great achievement, and whereas Dr. Jerome Muir has been duly nominated and considered for this honor, we, the undersigned, hereby name him Silver Crescent Man of the Year with all the honors and benefits traditionally accorded thereunto.”
    And Mumbo Jumbo, Alakazam, I silently added.
    â€œCharitable donations, bequests, and volunteerism,” Muir said after a long pause, “are the life-blood of the community hospital. On behalf of this institution, and myself, I thank you.” Another benediction conferred.
    â€œThe presentation copy got delayed at the printers,” I offered apologetically. “But we were afraid to wait any longer. The membership has asked me to formally congratulate you on your impressive contributions to the medical well-being of New England, and to request that you honor them by appearing as this year’s Silver Crescent Lecturer at our November twenty-fifth banquet. We feel that Thanksgiving is the true start of the giving season, and if you’d like us to direct our fund-raising toward a specific hospital project, we could certainly accommodate any request.”
    Renzel said, “This is great, Jerome. God knows we’ve got projects to fund.”
    The phone buzzed. Muir picked up on the first bleep. His hands hadn’t aged as well as the rest of him; they were gnarled, the knuckles scarred and red. “Yes, Barbara, I know. I know. I’m on my way.”
    â€œDo you accept?” I asked eagerly. “Can you do it?”
    â€œI’m extremely honored,” he said solemnly. “And I’d be delighted. I’ll need to check my calendar, make sure I’m available. Hank, do we have any conferences near Thanksgiving?”
    â€œNot that I remember,” Renzel said. “Unless that Hoffman—La Roche thing—no. That’s December in Hawaii.”
    Muir smiled warmly. “Mrs. Everett, please extend my gratitude to your membership, and do leave your phone number with Barbara. I’ll have her get back to you within the week.”
    â€œThat would be wonderful. Thank you so much.” I took a deep breath and plunged on. “We were worried you’d be all booked up, and after Emily Woodrow recommended you in such glowing terms—well, we did hope you’d accept.”
    Muir grew very still. “Emily Woodrow?”
    â€œHer daughter was treated for leukemia here.”
    He examined my face searchingly. “Are you certain it was Mrs. Woodrow who recommended me?”
    â€œYes, I am.”
    He smoothed back his carefully