List Price: $15.95
6" x 9" (15.24 x 22.86 cm)
Black & White on Cream paper
226 pages
Black & White on Cream paper
226 pages
ISBN-13: 978-1438295176
ISBN-10: 1438295170
BISAC: Fiction / Lesbian
ISBN-10: 1438295170
BISAC: Fiction / Lesbian
Artemisian Artist is the first in a series. They are contemporary stories dedicated to the spiritual energy these Goddesses can bring to our lives. All the books deal with the characters introduced in Artemisian Artist, with each succeeding novel focusing on one of the four women-Liz, Melissa, Terri, and Gerry. Together they weave a tapestry of women's empowerment through self growth and strong relationships. All the stories deal with real life crises and conflicts that impact these four ordinary women. In the first book, we get to know all the women involved through the eyes of Liz Higgins, a young artist, who is beginning to achieve success in her career of choice. One fateful day, her path crosses those of two very different women. She is drawn to both of them, but has to make a choice between them. There is no way to avoid hurting someone in her decision to be true to her heart.
Chance Encounter
As I staggered down the hospital corridor, I questioned the wisdom of trekking through the parking lot at five o’clock in the morning. Darkness still cloaked the city, for even the Sunshine State of Florida is subject to the lengthening of night as the winter solstice approaches. Although it was mid-December, it had been a warm day, and the night was not much cooler. Dark, low-lying clouds had kept the warmth of the day from dissipating and at the same time hinted that a storm was approaching.
When I arrived the afternoon before, I had not concerned myself with finding a parking spot in a well-lighted area since I had planned to stay at the hospital throughout the night. Relieved at discovering that my father had finally fallen into a sound sleep, I seized the opportunity to escape the clutches of the hospital chair, which had been my roosting place for the past nine hours. All I could think about was going home to sleep in my own bed. My father had undergone surgery the day before, and I had volunteered to act as family nurse to help him through that first night. It seemed logical enough at the time. My oldest brother, James, lives in another state. Stanley, my other older brother, lives nearby, but has a traditional nine-to-five job that requires clarity of thought. My younger sister is still in high school and has to attend classes today.
As a freelance artist, I keep late hours as a normal course of my work. Inspiration usually ambushes me around nine at night and doesn’t ease its grip until three in the morning.
Consequently, I was the only realistic choice for the job of nocturnal babysitting. That’s how I came to be half-walking, half-stumbling through the hospital corridors in the last hours
before dawn.
Upon entering the elevator lobby, I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of a figure dressed in hospital blues. Since I was at the hospital, this was a phenomenon not worth thinking about twice, so I stepped into the elevator and turned around to punch the appropriate buttons. As I looked sleepily through the narrowing gap of the closing doors, the figure in blue surgical scrubs turned around, looked at me, and smiled.
Momentarily forgetting my fatigue, my mind alerted my eyes to get a good look while I had the chance. Meanwhile the figure had bent down over a red plastic bag, according me a pleasant view of a nicely rounded bottom. Without notifying the rest of my body of its intentions, my hand suddenly jerked up and pressed the “Door Open” button.
The doors abruptly reversed their course and reopened. As much surprised by this action as I was, the woman stood up and looked at me, color rushing to her cheeks.
“Um, did you want to get on this elevator?” I asked, realizing too late how incredibly stupid I must’ve looked.
“Oh, I, thank you, yes,” she said, scooping up her belongings and racing across the hall to the waiting elevator. “My lunch bag split apart, so I was just putting my food into a plastic bag until I take my lunch break.”
I glanced at the translucent red bag in her hand. “You put your food in a bag that has ‘biohazard’ written on it? I suppose that must be in compliance with food labeling laws. You must eat some serious junk food.”
Looking embarrassed and slightly offended, the woman in blue said, “I don’t eat junk food. Not much anyway. It’s just an apple, some potato chips, and an egg salad sandwich.”
“And a Snickers bar,” I added with a sly smile.
“Okay, yeah, and a Snickers bar. But it has peanuts in it,” she added hastily.
“And sugar and butter.”
My companion folded her arms across her chest and turned to look at me. “Who are you anyway, the nutrition police?”
“No,” I said tiredly, “I’m just an artist with a mean sense of humor.”
“Do you always use your humor to humiliate strangers in elevators?” She asked as the elevator churned its way to a stop at ground level.
I punched the “Door Open” button again and motioned for her to exit ahead of me. “Beauty before beastly.”
My companion in blue laughed, her eyes sparkling at me with just a hint of surprise in them. “Oh, you’re not that bad!”
I stepped out behind her and started down the hallway, oblivious to my whereabouts. “Sure I am. I just insulted a hard-working nurse at five in the morning. If that isn’t beastly enough, let it stand then for my appearance. After dozing all night scrunched up in a chair, I’ve got to look
beastly at any rate.”
“Good heavens! Why were you sleeping in a chair? And I’m a doctor, not a nurse.”
“My apologies, Doctor. My father had surgery today. No, make that yesterday. I stayed with him all night to make sure he was okay.”
“There are cots available for overnight guests.”
“Oh, nobody told me that. Perhaps the nurses had heard rumors about my vicious wit and thought that I deserved to sleep sitting up.”
“Perhaps,” the doctor relented with a slight smile. “Hernia?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your father. Does he have a herniated disk?”
“Yes. How did you know that?”
“I’m assigned to the wing you were just in. I know why all those patients are there. Only one of the surgical patients could pass as your father. Higgins, right?”
“Right. Of course you wouldn’t have just guessed. I thought for a moment that you were psychic.”
“No, I’m definitely not psychic, which means you will have to tell me your name.”
“Elizabeth Higgins.”
“Not married then?” She asked with a barely discernible lift of her right eyebrow.
“No I’m not, though lots of married women retain their family names these days.”
“True enough. So where are you heading, Elizabeth Higgins?” she asked after we had walked quite a distance down a long hallway. “Home for some shut-eye?”
“Yeah I guess, though I don’t know if I’m heading in the right direction. I’m afraid I just started following you. Where is the visitor parking lot anyway?”
“Back the way we came, I’m afraid. But why don’t you let me buy you some coffee? You look as though you could use something to wake you up.”
Glad to prolong the conversation with this gorgeous woman, I readily agreed, even though I’m not overly fond of coffee. I knew she was right about needing to be more alert.
“Here’s the break room.” The doctor waved her hand in the direction of an open door. “Cream or sugar?”
“Cream,” I said, walking into the deserted lounge.
The doctor pulled a couple of crumpled dollar bills from her breast pocket. She carefully unfurled the bills and attempted to iron out the wrinkles on the edge of a table. Then she gestured towards one of the four tables in the sparsely furnished room. “Find yourself a seat while I whip up the world’s best vending machine coffee.”
I glanced around the room and winced at the heavy-handed use of cadmium yellow in the decor. It was way too bright for my tastes, especially at this hour of the morning. Although I had to admit that it made me feel more awake. I sat down and watched as my companion inserted the
paper money into the change machine. She scooped up the quarters from the change cup and slipped them into the coffee machine’s coin slot. As soon as she pressed a couple of buttons, the machine whirred into action. A few seconds later she lifted the clear plastic door and removed the steaming coffee cup from the machine’s mouth.
“Here you go.” She handed me the cup then turned back to the machine and inserted another round of coins. She stepped to one side of the machine, blocking my view of the buttons. This time she pushed three buttons instead of two. I smiled to myself as I deduced that she must have been adding sugar to her coffee.
“Are you working the night shift?” I asked, realizing too late what an asinine question it was.
“Actually I’m working a 36-hour shift. I’m new here, so I get to work all the truly crappy hours.”
“Do you get to sleep at all?”
“Sure. I can go to one of the back rooms and crash on a not very comfortable bed. They can page me if they need me.
I can usually grab a couple of hours of shuteye during the night without missing an emergency summons.”
“How on earth can you live like that? I keep late hours, but I still have to get at least six hours of sleep. Otherwise I turn into a real bitch.”
The doctor let out a mischievous laugh. “I see, and what kind of bitch are you when you do get your needed rest?”
Startled by her response, I burst out laughing. She did the same. It probably wouldn’t have been nearly as funny if it hadn’t been so far past my bedtime.
When she stopped laughing, my coffee companion looked me over and said, “I sure hope you don’t have to go to work today. You look rather wiped out.”
I smirked in her general direction. “Thanks for the compliment, but no I don’t have to go to work. I’m a freelance artist. I usually work late into the night then sleep until ten or eleven. I’m not usually awake when the sun rises. We have an agreement. The sun doesn’t look at me when I get up, and I don’t look at it when it gets up. I’m afraid I’m a night-owl by nature.”
“I’m not sure what I am by nature. Adaptable, I guess, which sure comes in handy in the medical profession. I can sleep in any position, at any time of the day or night. I simply adjust to my environment. Perhaps that makes me a chameleon.”
“Hmm, you don’t resemble a chameleon in the slightest. Most chameleons I’ve met don’t have such engaging dark eyes.” I glanced at her to see how she took this comment.
My doctor friend smiled. “Just how many chameleons have you been introduced to lately?”
Applying my best poker face I answered, “Oh, lots. But none who were doctors.”
Her only response was a low chuckle.
“So, Doctor, do you have a name, or does everyone just call you ‘Doctor?’"
“Hell yes, everyone calls me ‘Doctor!’ I worked hard for that title, and I have yet to tire of hearing it. But you can call me Dr. Terri.”
“Cute,” I said under my breath just before taking another sip of coffee.
“What did you say?” Dr. Terri inquired with that little lift of her eyebrow I was rapidly growing fond of.
“I said, ‘cute,’ meaning you or your remark actually. Though that’s not to say that you’re not cute. Oh never mind.” I could feel my face turning red. I made a mental note to kick myself later for that stupid response.
Dr. Terri smiled again. As she took a sip of her coffee, she closed her eyes, and mumbled, “Mmm. Max sure knows how to make good coffee. I can feel the caffeine seeping into my bloodstream.”
“Who’s Max?”
“The coffee machine, of course. That’s what we call it.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Oh, I suppose there was a reason at some time or another, but I have no idea what it was. I’m a fairly recent acquisition to this hospital. I just picked up the name from the other hospital staff. Most of us go out of our way to use this particular machine. For some reason, known only to the
vending machine deities, it makes the best cup of coffee in the whole place. Go figure.”
“I see. I thought for a moment when you closed your eyes and started mumbling about Max making good coffee that you were talking about a lover of yours.”
Dr. Terri leaned back in her chair, stretching out her long, slender legs. She looked at me from beneath her dark brown bangs, studying me for a moment. “No, I would definitely not be recalling a lover named Max.” As she started to take another sip, she said, very quietly, something that sounded like, “Maxine, maybe.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” She took another sip of her coffee and looked out from under her bangs again. “So were you worried that I had stolen your boyfriend?”
I shook my head slightly. “No, I definitely wouldn’t have a boyfriend named Max.”
“Don’t care for men named Max?”
“Something like that.”
By this point in the conversation, I was definitely getting the feeling that we were both sending out tentative feelers. Surely the woman who sat next to me was lesbian. Or at least I sure hoped she was. When she closed her eyes and savored a quiet moment, I took a good long look at her.
She was about 5’8” to my 5’6”. A little on the lean side, but definitely not emaciated. She had just enough padding in all the right spots. Her dark brown hair was cut in a style reminiscent of a pageboy, making her look like a throwback to an earlier decade. She opened her eyes and returned my scrutinizing looks from behind the cover of her bangs. Her eyes were a rich van dyke brown.
I tried to pull my thoughts together. I wanted to believe that her flirtatious manner indicated that she was as interested in me as I was in her and that the spark I was experiencing was real chemistry between us and not just my overactive imagination. However, I was acutely aware of the fact that I wasn’t operating on all circuits. It had been a long day. I was feeling really tired. It could be that my wishful thinking was misconstruing her words and expressions, and the spark was merely the result of faulty wiring in my mental breaker box.
The silence that fell on our conversation was almost oppressive after the light badinage. When I could stand it no longer, I ventured hesitantly, “I suppose I had better find the way to my car so you can get back to work.”
Rising slowly from her seat, Dr. Terri smiled at me. “Yeah, I do need to get back to my wing pretty soon. I hope the coffee perked you up enough to get you home. How far do you have to drive?”
I got the distinct impression that Dr. Terri wasn’t quite ready to end our conversation, so I walked slowly back to the elevators. “Only about ten miles or so. I live on the south side of town.”
Dr. Terri’s face lit up. “Really? So do I, if you could call it living. I really live here. I just check in occasionally at Sandy Lake Villas.”
“I’m in San Juan, right around the corner from you,” I interjected quickly.
“What do you know? We’re practically neighbors. At least, we would be if I were ever home. I really don’t know anyone around there, since I’m gone so much.”
“Well, if you ever need someone to talk to when you are home, I’m in apartment 107-A. I’m usually awake until at least three, so it doesn’t matter if it’s late.”
“Thanks. I might take you up on it. It isn’t easy to find anyone who is awake at all hours.”
Not knowing how to end our conversation, I said, “Sorry again for my rudeness. Hey, you never ate your lunch.”
Dr. Terri’s face reddened. “Actually, I wasn’t on my way to eat lunch. I was just coming down for coffee. My money was in what used to be my lunch bag, which got torn open on the corner of a cleaning cart. That’s why I had to put it in this plastic bag.” She lifted up her bag of questionable food.
“Surely you could have found a less conspicuous bag?” “I don’t usually run into anyone in the middle of the night. I didn’t think anyone was going to see my biohazardous lunch.”
We laughed again, a little nervously this time. After a short pause Dr. Terri extended her right hand towards me. “It was nice to meet you, Elizabeth Higgins. I’ll have to tell your father I ran into you. Are you coming back here later?”
When I gave her hand a quick squeeze, I felt a small jolt of electricity run up my arm. I pretended not to notice. “As a matter of fact, I will be back as soon as I get some sleep. I’m taking the day off from my work. Will you be here?”
“Yes, but I might not be very visible. I’m scheduled to assist in surgery, and I don’t know when I’ll get out. Maybe I’ll see you in your father’s room later.”
“I hope so,” I said, turning to leave.
She accompanied me as far as the elevators then waved as I continued on. “Apartment 107-A?” She asked as the elevator doors were closing.
“Yes,” I said quickly. “Come over or call any time. My number is in the phone book.”
I walked the length of the corridor to the exit. As I pushed my way through the glass doors, I wondered what would come of this encounter. Lost in thought, I headed off in the direction where my car was parked.
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