“Yes, Sister.”
“And what kind of a nurse is woken out of a deep sleep in the middle of the night wearing lipstick?”
“One that wasn’t asleep, Sister,” Domenica answered quietly.
Sister Marie Bernard turned around to face the stranger. “Who are you?”
“I’m Captain John Lawrie McVicars of the Boidoin.” He saluted the nun. “These are my men. My crew.”
“I will need your manifest. We have to document the injured. Accurately,” she said to the captain. “Take care of the paperwork, Cabrelli. And take a look at the captain. I don’t like the look of his neck.”
“Yes, Sister.” Domenica leaned close to the nun. “Is this an act of war?”
“Who knows anything anymore?” Sister Marie Bernard moved to the ward to check the beds.
The captain followed Domenica down the corridor. “That nun is mean.”
“You’ll be glad she’s direct when she fights for your men.” Domenica opened the door to an empty examination room.
“Bernard is an odd name for a woman.”
“For the saint. Saint Bernard of Clairvaux. French. Founded the Abbey of Clairvaux and expanded the order of the Cistercians.”
“Oh yes, the famous Cistercians.”
“I need to take a look at you.”
“Why?”
“To make note of your injuries for Dr. Chalfant.” Domenica lifted the clipboard off the ring and grabbed a pencil. “Can you spell your name for me, Captain?”
McVicars spelled his name.
“How old are you?”
“How old are you?” he shot back.
“Younger than you, evidently.” She placed the clipboard on the table and leaned in to examine his neck. “How did this happen?”
“Sunterland had a grip on me.”
“Sunterland is the patient in Room 1?”
“Yeah. That’s him.”
McVicars had the face of a swashbuckler on the cover of one of those American dime-store novels that were passed around the dormitory by the girls like a fresh pack of cigarettes or a new box of chocolates. The captain had a Florentine profile. His strong nose and chin reminded her of her people, though he spoke English. Familiarity bred compassion in this situation. His hair was thick and brown. He appeared to tower over his men, but his build was not of the reedy type, but of the substantial-build-with-broad-shoulders variety. The captain’s teeth were straight with a glint of gold in the back of his mouth; his eyes were blue-green like the surface of Il Tirreno Mare in summer. How could a man so far from her home remind her of it? She felt the warm waves of the surf wash over her when she looked at him. She had no idea where these feelings came from, so she had no idea how to stop them. In her training, she had learned how to care for her patients while keeping an emotional distance. The man who came crashing through the front door carrying one of his crew had taken that wall down with him.
“Are you all right, miss?” McVicars wanted to know.
Domenica blushed. “I’m hungry, that’s all.”
Domenica reached into her apron pocket to make notes on the chart when she dropped the pencil. It rolled under the examining table. She knelt and reached under the table, trying to find it.
“Is that the last pencil in Marseille?”
“We’re always losing them around here. Sister gets annoyed when we do. With the war coming, there’s already a shortage of lead.”
“I am certain your pencil will move us one step closer to victory.”
“You never know, Captain.” Domenica tried not to smile. She reached into the cabinet and handed a set of gray pajamas to McVicars. “Go behind the screen and change into these. Leave your uniform and underclothes in the bin, and we will wash and press them for you.”
“I don’t need to change my clothes.”
“Hospital policy. You must. If you don’t, Sister will get you into these pajamas herself. Don’t test her. I’ve seen her do it.”
McVicars grunted and went behind the screen.
“Melanie. Is that what the nun called you?”
“Cabrelli. Sister calls us by our surnames.”
McVicars emerged in the pajamas and sat on the examining table. Domenica gently swabbed the wound on his neck. He was close enough to her face to count the sprinkle of freckles on the bridge of her nose. He pulled away. “I want to wait for the doctor. He may find something,” McVicars growled.
“I have an idea what he’ll find.” Domenica wrapped the wound in gauze.
“A laceration so deep it requires surgery?”
“No. A difficult patient.”
“Cabrelli. An Italian in Marseille, France. Why? Don’t tell me. It’s a sad story, isn’t it? No family. No friends. No home. The nuns took you in because you had no place to go. They taught you nursing in exchange for free labor, but you knew that the education they provided was worth so much more, so you decided to work off your debt to the good Sisters in this rundown hospital.”
“I’m from a fine family. The nuns didn’t take me in. I earned my nursing credits in Roma before I came here. This hospital isn’t rundown, it’s busy. And nobody pays, so the nuns have no money to fix the place. Keep that in mind when you’re on your way out. Throw something in the poor box in the lobby.”
Domenica excused herself. McVicars lay down on the examining table to wait for the doctor and promptly fell asleep.
* * *
Dr. Chalfant moved through the ward. He was around forty, with a slight build and a shock of red hair. From a distance, wearing his white lab coat, he looked like a lit match. He observed Nurse Cabrelli ease a patient into an ice bath.
“Docteur, I’ll take you to the examination rooms in a moment.”
“Cabrelli, I need to talk to you,” Sister Marie Bernard said.
“I’ve got him,” Josephine said, taking over for Domenica.
Domenica followed the nun outside into the corridor.