Bailey
I watch the sun gleam off the roof of my car through the window of the breakroom at the Sunshine Clinic, a little urgent care tucked on a busy corner on the outskirts of New Orleans. I check my watch. It’s nearly 6:00 P.M., which means my shift is almost over, thank God.
I roll my shoulders and slouch in the creaky, plastic chair, drumming my fingers on the vinyl table top.
Jazzie, a fellow nurse and the clinic manager when the doctors aren’t around, walks into the breakroom looking bored and withdrawn. She opens the fridge and pops open a can of diet soda with a heavy sigh. “It’s hotter than hell.”
“At least it’s slow today,” I say, glancing at my watch again. It’s now 5:57 P.M., just three more minutes….
“Just go, Bailey. None of the doctors are even here right now.”
I glance up at Jazzie as she leans against the counter near the fridge and presses the cold soda can to her temple. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a tight bun, and her hairline is peppered with sweat.
“Are you going to stay to wait for the HVAC guy?” I ask, standing and gathering my purse from the back of the chair.
She nods, shrugging. “I don’t mind the overtime.”
“Okay, cool. I’ll see you tomorrow then–”
Her grimace cuts me off.
“About that… you’re not on the schedule for the rest of the week.”
“Oh,” I murmur.
“I’m sorry. I know this is supposed to be a temporary gig, you know. I needed the hours, and we’ve been so slow lately–”
“Honestly,” I say, meeting her hazel eyes with a smile, “It’s not a big deal. Just, uh, give me a call if you need shifts covered.”
Jazzie nods, giving me a reluctantly smile in return as I make my leave, quickly.
I don’t bother gathering my salad dressing and the 12-pack of sports drinks out of the fridge. I’ve only been working here part-time for three months, and I didn’t let myself get comfortable. Jazzie was right about this being a temporary gig. I’ve been bouncing from urgent care to urgent care, or from assisted living back to urgent care, for almost a year now.
And I’m fucking tired of putting bandages on bruises and sticking IVs in the drunk tourists that hobble their way here from Bourbon Street.
Heat fans over my cheeks as I hurry to my car. Its door handle simmers as I curl my hand around it and yank the door open, wincing at the burn. My leather seats are just as hot, and I make quick work of blasting the AC as high as it can go and rolling down my window, letting the hot air roll out as I rip out of the parking lot and onto the thoroughfare.
I check out my reflection in the rearview mirror while waiting at a stoplight. My normally golden-brown skin is now a deep bronze from the sunny, hotter than expected spring we just had, and the humidity causes my black hair to coil into tight curls around my face. They bounce over my shoulders as I unfasten the claw-clip I use to keep my hair out of my face while I’m working.
The stop light stays red. The people in the cars on either side of me are gesturing, wondering what the hold up is. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel to the music, wondering the same.
It’s been a weird year, at least career wise. I could go work in a hospital, of course. I’m more than qualified as an RN.
But I’ve never liked the sterile, cold atmosphere. The hustle of the urgent care setting is nice, I guess. The days go by quickly, and I’m not tasked with saving anyone’s life on a regular basis.
I miss working one-on-one with clients, though. I’ve been trying to find a more permanent position as an in-home nurse, but it’s been slim pickings in Hahnville.
I just need to find a job for another two months, that’s it.
Because two months from now, Layla is coming back, and the two of us are going to LSU to get our Nurse Practitioner licenses.
I smile at the memory of Layla. She’s been living in Florida for a little under a year now with Dalton, who’s been busy with his art restoration business.
I miss Layla. One day, she promised, we’re going to start our own practice together. Our very own clinic in New Orleans.
The light finally turns green right at the second my phone rings in my purse.
I blindly fumble through my bag and answer it on the final ring.
“Hello?” I say in a sing-song voice, and I’m met by Helen Wilson’s soft chuckle.
“I just love how you answer the phone, honey. How are you?”
“Oh, Hi, Helen. I’m driving and didn’t look at the caller ID. I’m fine. Just lost another job.”
“Perfect timing.”
I snort with laughter. “Is Robert looking for a new checkout girl? I’m pretty good with a keyboard.”
She laughs again and says, “No, no. We actually need a nurse.”
“Oh?” I make a sharp turn, praying that there’s no cops watching me try to hold a phone to my ear while navigating rush hour traffic out of New Orleans proper. “What happened?”
“Robert broke his leg, if you can believe it.”
“How did he manage that?”
“He went fishing with a few friends from our church and stepped out of the boat with his leg tangled in a net. He went over the side, snapped his tibia clean in two. It was sticking out of the skin.”
“Good lord, Helen! Is he all right?”
“He’ll be fine. His ego is crushed, however. He’s in the hospital right now for surgery to stick the bone back in.”
I wince, turning onto the highway headed toward Hahnville.
“I could use your help. Paid, of course. I’ll be picking up his slack at the grocery store until he’s back up on his feet.”
“Of course! When will he get out of surgery?”
“Soon, I think. He’s been in the operating room for an hour. They’re going to keep him here for two more days, though, but then he’ll be home, laid up. Grouchy as all get out and probably cursing up to the heavens. He’s going to be a handful.”
I grin then laugh, “Helen, are you hiring me as his nurse or as a babysitter so you get a break from your husband?”
“A bit of both.” She laughs, letting out a sigh. “I really appreciate your help, honey. We have an extra bedroom downstairs–”
“I still live in Hahnville,” I cut in, laughing. “You don’t have to put me up in your house unless you’re looking to pay me for night shifts as well.”
“Hmm… I feel like I knew this,” she says in a coy tone that tells me exactly where this conversation is headed. “Your mom must’ve said something during the church services you’ve been avoiding…”
“Because I’m living in sin with my boyfriend?” I laugh. “Mom loves Tanner. Don’t let her tell you otherwise. She’s also desperate for grandkids.”
“I’m just giving you a hard time, Bailey. You’ll need to bring that man over for dinner at our house sometime. We see him from afar while he’s out at the old Gregory place. He’s very handsome.”
My smile is soft and knowing. “Yeah, he really is handsome, isn’t he?”
Tanner’s image flashes through my mind. Soft, dark brown hair that he keeps kind of shaggy. That stubble on his jaw, and his suntanned skin. Big muscles.
Tanner is all man. Every inch of him.
I shift in my seat, my thighs rubbing together between the pale blue scrubs I wore to work today. “Call me when Robert is home, okay? I’ll come right over.”
“You got it, honey. Thank you so much!”
I hang up and toss my phone in the passenger seat just as I edge onto the exit into Hahnville.
The sleepy, small town southwest of New Orleans sits in a haze of sunny humidity, settled on the banks of the Mississippi River.
A few minutes later, I pull into Tanner’s driveway–well, our driveway. We’ve been living together full time for a few months now, but everything still feels fresh and new. When I notice his work truck is nowhere to be seen, I call him, pinching my phone between my shoulder and ear as I fumble with my key set.
“Babe,” he says, his voice low and rasping. I can hear a radio in the background punctuated by the swirling hum of power tools.
“Are you still at the old Gregory place?” I ask, pushing open the front door and sighing with relief as the AC chilled air wafts over my skin.
“Yeah… ran into a bit of an issue while framing today. We’re running behind. But I don’t have to be at the station tonight, so it’s just me and you when I get home.” Tanner runs his own construction company while also acting as the volunteer fire chief. I really hit the lottery when it comes to blue-collar men.
“So I don’t get to see you all dressed up in your uniform?” I tease.
A low, growling laugh wraps me in a warm embrace through the phone. “We’ll play later, Bailey. I’m taking my girl out tonight. Wherever you wanna go.”
“That seasonal joint by the river just opened back up for the summer,” I offer as I walk up the stairs to our bedroom. I hit the speaker button and toss my phone on the bed. “They have crawfish etouffee on the menu.”
“God, I love your accent,” he groans. “I’m about done here. Put on something tight.”
Before he hangs up, I hear a strained, scratching sound coming through the line. It’s a song, something familiar, something that sends tremors down my spine. I open my mouth to ask what radio station he’s playing in the background, but the call ends with nothing more than a few beeps.
I shrug away that creeping, uneasy sensation. Like I said, it’s been a weird year since the fire that changed the trajectory of my life. A year ago, I was standing on the porch at the old Gregory mansion welcoming Layla Bryant into the house where I worked as a day nurse for Miss Penny.
Something changed during those weeks that Layla worked at the house. Something dark bled from the walls and the floorboards, consuming the place, consuming Layla.
But she’s never talked to me about it in length. Dalton showed up out of nowhere, her secret artist boyfriend, and then the house simply… burned down.
It’s not that it ever felt like a normal house. I’ve lived in Louisiana my entire life. I’ve seen and felt things I can’t explain. But I never felt threatened by the Gregory property. In fact, I loved it there.
And since the day Tanner wrapped me in a blanket and propped me on the back of his truck to make sure I wasn’t dying of smoke inhalation–the very first time we met–I’ve been floundering.
At least I have Tanner. He’s everything good and everything constant in my life.
And I am definitely wearing something tight for him tonight.
I check out my reflection in the mirror, running my hands down the soft, pale cream sundress that hugs my breasts in a way I know will make Tanner drool. I pull my hair back off my slender neck and tie it in a bun with a ribbon.
I feel, for the first time in months, like I can breathe again.
Some say the marsh where all those old plantation homes dwell has spirits that still live there. There’s a pull to that place that’s hard to ignore.
And in two days, I’ll be going back.
Two days, and I’ll be a home nurse again.
I hear the garage door open, and Tanner’s truck pulls into the driveway. I meet him at the door, and his eyes reach mine before dropping to the ample cleavage I have on display.
I have a feeling we’re not leaving for dinner. Not yet.