around on the bases.” She smiled. “That is a
real
medical miracle, no? Better than our little tricks.”
He smiled uncertainly. “I know. Unfortunately, he’s not playing.”
“No … I know he is hitting only .233, not so high.” She was staring down at her scorecard, matching the numbers listed on the board in centerfield with those in print. “Tonight instead they use this other man, Davis.”
Logan was overwhelmed. He couldn’t have dreamt up such a woman. He strained to think of something to say. “So … what are you eating?”—then instantly berated himself.
Why was it that every time this woman spoke to him forty points seemed to drop from his IQ?
She picked up the hamburger from her tray. “Not the best.”
“Well, at least it beats the food at the ACF.” He hesitated. “Is hospital food any better in Italy?”
“No, maybe even not so good. What could be worse than days-old pasta? But there the doctors may bring their own food to eat. Sometimes I do the same here—Italian pastries and chocolates.”
Reaching into her pocket, she withdrew a piece of candy wrapped in gold foil. The label read
Maracini
. “Would you like?”
He unwrapped it and popped it in his mouth. “It’s delicious.”
“They are not to be eaten so fast, Logan,” she said, smiling. “They are not Hershey’s Kisses.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“I give them sometimes to my patients in the hospital.”
“You do?” Fleetingly, Logan wondered if that might violate some regulation.
She shrugged. “I started this practice back home. In the hospital there we had many children.”
“A pediatric ward?”
She nodded. “But it is good with adults too. Such a small thing, but it helps create good relations with patients.”
“I find it pretty hard working with kids.”
“Pardon?” He’d said it so softly, she actually hadn’t heard.
“I don’t know, when I go into a children’s ward and see those little tables and chairs …” He hunched his shoulders slightly. “I have trouble even reading the literature about kids and cancer.”
Though her gaze didn’t waver, she studied Logan with new interest. “Well, you are very lucky then we do not treat children at the ACF.”
“No.” He hesitated, struck by the change in her manner. An explanation seemed in order, if not an apology. “I know it’s not very professional …”
She turned away to stare out at the field. “Ah, Mr. Ripken is coming to bat.”
He felt a rising sense of alarm. “So,” he picked up, “are you enjoying your work at the ACF?”
“Enjoying?” She turned back to him, seemingly baffled by the word. “It is like a medieval Italian city-state, I think. It makes me go back and read Machiavelli.”
Gratefully, Logan burst out laughing. “That’s true.”
“Some of the people there … just
horrible
!” She paused. “You are not friends with them, I hope.”
“No. It’s strictly professional.”
“Like this Larsen and Stillman. Among the greatest experts in ovarian cancer and breast cancer—no?—and they do not like women. Not at all. How could such a thing happen?”
On the field, the Orioles were rallying, and the crowdlet out a roar as a ball shot between a pair of infielders into left field. Logan shook his head. “I really don’t know.”
The crowd noise died down. “Even the work—it really is not so interesting as I expected.”
“I think a lot of us feel that way.”
“Back in Florence—this is where I did my training—I had a year of specialization in endocrinology. You see? But here”—she offered a helpless shrug to indicate the immensity of her frustration—“here what is the use of such a specialization?”
“I didn’t know you were an endocrinologist,”
“Yes, and very good too.” She laughed. “No good hiding it under a bush.”
Her laugh was a lovely sound. He leaned forward. “Listen, I’ve got something you might be interested in.…”
He withdrew the pages from his
real
medical miracle, no? Better than our little tricks.”
He smiled uncertainly. “I know. Unfortunately, he’s not playing.”
“No … I know he is hitting only .233, not so high.” She was staring down at her scorecard, matching the numbers listed on the board in centerfield with those in print. “Tonight instead they use this other man, Davis.”
Logan was overwhelmed. He couldn’t have dreamt up such a woman. He strained to think of something to say. “So … what are you eating?”—then instantly berated himself.
Why was it that every time this woman spoke to him forty points seemed to drop from his IQ?
She picked up the hamburger from her tray. “Not the best.”
“Well, at least it beats the food at the ACF.” He hesitated. “Is hospital food any better in Italy?”
“No, maybe even not so good. What could be worse than days-old pasta? But there the doctors may bring their own food to eat. Sometimes I do the same here—Italian pastries and chocolates.”
Reaching into her pocket, she withdrew a piece of candy wrapped in gold foil. The label read
Maracini
. “Would you like?”
He unwrapped it and popped it in his mouth. “It’s delicious.”
“They are not to be eaten so fast, Logan,” she said, smiling. “They are not Hershey’s Kisses.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“I give them sometimes to my patients in the hospital.”
“You do?” Fleetingly, Logan wondered if that might violate some regulation.
She shrugged. “I started this practice back home. In the hospital there we had many children.”
“A pediatric ward?”
She nodded. “But it is good with adults too. Such a small thing, but it helps create good relations with patients.”
“I find it pretty hard working with kids.”
“Pardon?” He’d said it so softly, she actually hadn’t heard.
“I don’t know, when I go into a children’s ward and see those little tables and chairs …” He hunched his shoulders slightly. “I have trouble even reading the literature about kids and cancer.”
Though her gaze didn’t waver, she studied Logan with new interest. “Well, you are very lucky then we do not treat children at the ACF.”
“No.” He hesitated, struck by the change in her manner. An explanation seemed in order, if not an apology. “I know it’s not very professional …”
She turned away to stare out at the field. “Ah, Mr. Ripken is coming to bat.”
He felt a rising sense of alarm. “So,” he picked up, “are you enjoying your work at the ACF?”
“Enjoying?” She turned back to him, seemingly baffled by the word. “It is like a medieval Italian city-state, I think. It makes me go back and read Machiavelli.”
Gratefully, Logan burst out laughing. “That’s true.”
“Some of the people there … just
horrible
!” She paused. “You are not friends with them, I hope.”
“No. It’s strictly professional.”
“Like this Larsen and Stillman. Among the greatest experts in ovarian cancer and breast cancer—no?—and they do not like women. Not at all. How could such a thing happen?”
On the field, the Orioles were rallying, and the crowdlet out a roar as a ball shot between a pair of infielders into left field. Logan shook his head. “I really don’t know.”
The crowd noise died down. “Even the work—it really is not so interesting as I expected.”
“I think a lot of us feel that way.”
“Back in Florence—this is where I did my training—I had a year of specialization in endocrinology. You see? But here”—she offered a helpless shrug to indicate the immensity of her frustration—“here what is the use of such a specialization?”
“I didn’t know you were an endocrinologist,”
“Yes, and very good too.” She laughed. “No good hiding it under a bush.”
Her laugh was a lovely sound. He leaned forward. “Listen, I’ve got something you might be interested in.…”
He withdrew the pages from his
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