Whatever the reason for this hopeful development, if he showed up for the meeting tomorrow night, she wasn’t going to let him get away until she had a commitment from him to serve on the think tank. Working on a project like this could offer him a new perspective . . . which in turn might help bolster his marriage.
She tapped her fingers on her desk and watched two seagulls circle over Rachel as she crossed the street toward her car.
All these weeks, her efforts to offer her assistant a sympathetic ear had met with zero success. But now—thanks to an endangered lighthouse—the tide might be turning for both her and her husband.
Could this be the opportunity to help that Charley had suggested might come her way—albeit in a form she’d never expected?
It was possible.
All she knew was that she was going to run with it—for the sake of Pelican Point light, for Ned’s dream, and for a young couple who were in desperate need of a fresh start.
“Dr. Garrison? I’ll show you back to Dr. Allen’s office now.”
Ben closed his email, stowed his cell, and rose from his chair in the Coos Bay orthopedic surgeon’s tastefully decorated waiting room that was as warm and inviting as a space like this could be.
At least the man hadn’t left him to cool his heels for an hour.
One mark in his plus column.
But he was more interested in the physician’s skill than his punctuality.
Ben followed the scrubs-clad woman down the corridor in the office Allen shared with another orthopedic surgeon. The place appeared to be white-glove clean, and the equipment he glimpsed through a couple of doors was state of the art. The office staff also came across as professional and buttoned up.
All of which fit with the research he’d done online—as well as the brief chats he’d had with two patients in the waiting room.
Unless everything he’d discovered was off base, Jonathan Allen hadn’t made any missteps with Skip’s treatment.
But he needed to be certain about that.
“He’ll join you as soon as he finishes with his current patient, Doctor.” The woman stopped at an office doorway. “Make yourself comfortable. Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thanks.” He crossed the room, claimed a cushioned chair in front of the desk, and gave the room a methodical survey.
The diplomas on the walls matched his research, including one from Johns Hopkins School of Medicine, which boasted a top-ranked orthopedic program. There were also a number of Best Doc certificates from national magazines and organizations. And the framed letters thanking Allen for his service on the board of the American Academy of Orthopedic Surgeons and the editorial board of the American Journal of Orthopedics were impressive.
Allen had some prestigious professional credentials.
The personal items in the office were also instructive.
A photo featuring a couple in their forties surrounded by three smiling children ranging in age from about eight to mid-teens hinted at a happy family life.
Two bookshelves displaying numerous medical titles along with volumes on sailing suggested he had a serious hobby.
And front and center on his desk, a small, lopsided box made of popsicle sticks—perhaps crafted by his youngest daughter?—and filled with Tootsie Rolls indicated the man had a sweet tooth.
That sweet tooth, however, wasn’t apparent when the doctor entered the office a few moments later and extended his hand. He was fit and trim, the brush of silver at his temples and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes the only indications he was on the cusp of middle age.
“Please.” He waved Ben back into his chair as he started to rise. After snagging a file off his desk, the man took the seat beside him rather than across the expanse of mahogany—a gesture that leveled the playing field by positioning them as colleagues.
Courteous touch.
“Thanks for meeting with me.” Ben settled back into his chair. “As I explained to your office manager on the phone, I’m an orthopedic surgeon too. Fresh out of the army. Since my grandfather didn’t tell me about his knee problems, I’d like to get a sense of what was going on.”
Empathy filled the man’s eyes. “Of course. I’d want to do the same in your place. And please accept my condolences on your loss. Ned was an exceptional person.”
“Thank you. He’ll be missed.” Ben indicated the folder in the man’s hands. “I’m sure you’re busy, and I don’t want to encroach too much on your day. If you could give me a quick briefing on his treatment and the issues that came up, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll be happy to.” Allen flipped open the folder and essentially repeated the story Eric Nash had relayed in his law office, embellished with more detail—including MRI scans and various other test results.
By the time he finished explaining the case and answering questions, Ben was satisfied. The protocols the man had followed, his thoroughness, and the reasons for his treatment decisions were beyond reproach. Infections did happen with knee replacements, and Allen had addressed the complications exactly as he would have done.
“I tried to avoid the intramedullary arthrodesis, because your grandfather was a vigorous man and I knew fusing the femur and tibia would restrict his activities.” The doctor’s brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “But we couldn’t get the infection under control—and that choice was better than the alternative.”
Yes, it had been. Skip would have hated the notion of amputation.
Kind of like his neighbor did.
“I agree with every treatment choice you made. I just wanted to review the case for my own peace of mind.”
“Understood.” Allen closed the file folder and laid it back on his desk. “If you’d like a copy of any of the records, we’ll be happy to provide them.”
“Not necessary.”
The man leaned back, as if he was in no hurry to end their conversation. “Are you in town to wrap up your grandfather’s affairs, or are you settling here?”
“The former. I’ll be joining a friend’s practice
