Page 28 of Starlight & Dark Nights

He catches up to her with a puzzled look on his face. “I waved at you as you walked by—you didn’t see me?”

Jo shoots him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I was lost in thought there. That happens to me sometimes when I’m thinking of my next story.”

She starts walking again and he falls in place next to her, striding down the shiny linoleum floors towards the pediatric wing.

“That’s actually why I wanted to talk to you,” Dr. Chavez says, slipping his ballpoint pen into the pocket of his white lab coat. “I read your stories—all of them.”

Jo is stunned into speechlessness. She almost laughs, but catches herself. “You readallof them?” The idea of Dr. Chavez shopping at the grocery store for his meals and plucking aTrue Romancemagazine off the shelf to pay for at the register tickles her funny bone. “I’m flattered.”

“And amused,” he says with a wink. “Which is understandable. A lot of the stories in the magazine were a bit on the frilly side—at least for my taste.”

Jo puts her fingertips to her lips like she can hide her smile. “Frilly?” she repeats.

Dr. Chavez shrugs and it comes across as boyish, almost shy. “Definitely from the female perspective. But yours—yours were special. The way you set a scene is really deft.”

“Huh.” Jo puts her hands into the pockets of her gray skirt and leans one shoulder on the wall as they stop at the double doors to the next wing. “Deft.” It’s not really the kind of flattering term a writer dreams of, or at least Jo has never dreamed of being deft. Romantic? Yes. Talented? Of course. But deft? Deft sounds like a compliment for someone who fells a tree, or herds cattle.

Dr. Chavez’s cheeks dimple as he smiles. He dips his chin, and looks up at Jo almost bashfully. “Sorry, I’m not in the business of verbally critiquing talented authors. I meant to say that the world you built in your stories is a vivid one. I feel like I know the characters, and like I understand their motivations and emotions. I really feel for Maxine, you know?” He holds up a hand as he talks, which is charming to Jo. “I can see her trying her hardest to get Winston’s attention, and how disappointed she must feel when she sees him standing outside a bar with another woman.” He shakes his head. “It all feels so real.”

Nurse Edwina, the head nurse and Jo’s direct boss, swishes by on her soft-soled shoes, shooting Jo a knowing look as she does. Jo locks eyes with her for a second and then looks away.

“Thank you,” Jo says. “There is no higher compliment than to tell an author that her words and her characters feel real.”

“They do. You made an old bachelor feel like a giddy young girl in love.”

Jo throws back her head and laughs. “Like a giddy young girl in love?” She giggles even harder. “Dr. Chavez. I can’t even picture that. And you’re hardlyold.”

He shrugs. “Hey, I’m just telling it like it is.”

A page rings out on the intercom: “Dr. Chavez to pediatrics. Dr. Chavez to pediatrics.”

Jo is about to say something else when he points at the speaker with one finger. “They’re playing my song,” he says with a smile. He reaches over and touches her elbow lightly. “Keep writing, Jo. I think I accidentally signed up for a lifetime subscription toTrue Romance, so I want to make sure I’ll be seeing your byline in there every month.”

“I’ll try,” Jo says, the laughter dying down as she wipes the corners of her eyes. “I’ll do my best.”

Dr. Chavez lifts a hand in farewell as he punches the button that swings open the double doors to pediatrics, and Jo is left standing there, leaning against the wall with one shoulder.

She’s got to keep writing. If someone like Dr. Chavez—someone she holds in such high esteem—is encouraging her to keep going, then she has to. But Bill still hasn’t said anything about the stories, and she’s afraid to ask him whether he’s read them or not. In fact, she’s kind of hoping that he hasn’t. If Bill forgets about the stories, then she can just switch to a new plot. New characters. A whole new storyline. Sure, people love reading about Maxine and Winston and the space program, but she can wrap up the trajectory of their love story and find new inspiration somewhere else. Maybe a good doctor and nurse romance? People love those, too.

"Josephine," Nurse Edwina says as she comes squeaking down the hallway in her orthopedic shoes. "You gonna just lounge there all day looking dreamy, or are you going to deliver some cheer to the pregnant ladies in the maternity ward?"

Jo knows Edwina is teasing her--the older woman is all bark and no bite--so she smiles and pushes away from the wall.

"I'll make the rounds," Jo says. "That way I can hit all the rooms you've already been to and make up for your lack of cheer.”

“Oooh,” Edwina says, pushing open the double doors with her rear end and shaking her head at Jo. “She’s a sassy one, isn’t she?”

Jo’s never been called sassy. She kind of likes it.

* * *

By the time Bill gets home that evening, Jo has convinced herself that her writing is truly something special. She’s hummed her way around the kitchen, making a pot of spaghetti and tossing a salad for dinner, and as she worked, she heard Dr. Chavez’s words in her head over and over, telling her that her stories were strong enough to capture his attention.

Bill’s car door slams outside and Kate comes rushing out from her bedroom to greet him. It must happen in every family, but it’s been bittersweet for Jo to watch her kids grow up and lose some of their innocent, childlike tendencies. The children used to all rush out when Bill arrived home at the end of a long day, excited to see their father and eager to have someone other than Jo to chatter to, but over the years, it slowly became just Nancy and Kate, as Jimmy started to run off with friends to play catch or make little boy mischief, and then Nancy was suddenly too busy reading a book most days to come out of it and greet her father at the door. Now it’s just Kate, and sometimes Jo feels like her youngest only comes to the door to greet Bill because no one else does.

“Hi, Daddy,” Kate says, leaning into him for a quick hug. She’s got a doll in one hand, and she’s looking into the kitchen with interest. “I think Mommy is making spaghetti.”

Bill kisses the top of his youngest child’s head absently and then ruffles her hair. “I think she is,” he says. “You can go play for a bit. We’ll call you for dinner.”

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