The words hung in the cold air between us.
This made no sense.
I’d never heard the name Wellington before tonight.
I was absolutely certain I’d never met anyone who owned diamonds for their dog or had chauffeers who spoke like they’d stepped out of a British novel.
“I think there’s been some mistake,” I said. “I’ve never met any Mr. Wellington.”
Maxwell’s face softened slightly.
“Ma’am, with all due respect, I think you have, though it was a long time ago, and he went by a different name then.”
A different name.
My mind started racing, trying to think of anyone I might have known who could have become wealthy enough to own cars like this and employ people like Maxwell.
But I came up blank.
“Mrs. Henderson,” Maxwell said gently. “Mr. Wellington was a patient of yours at Harrison General Hospital about 15 years ago.”
The words hit me like a physical blow.
Harrison General.
I’d worked there for 12 years before budget cuts forced them to eliminate my position.
I’d cared for hundreds of patients during that time, maybe thousands.
“I cared for a lot of patients,” I said weekly.
“Yes, ma’am. But Mr. Wellington remembers you very clearly. He’s never forgotten your kindness during what was a very difficult time in his life.”
I tried to think, to remember anyone who might have been named Wellington, but the truth was after so many years and so many patients, faces and names tended to blur together unless something extraordinary had happened.
“He remembers me?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, ma’am. He’s spoken of you often over the years. He’s tried to find you multiple times, but you’d moved and your old phone number was disconnected.”
This was becoming surreal.
Someone had been looking for me.
Someone I’d cared for had actually remembered me enough to try to find me years later.
“Ma’am,” Maxwell said, glancing at his watch. “It’s Christmas Eve, and it’s quite cold. Mr. Wellington is waiting, and I know he’d be honored if you’d allow me to drive you to meet him, even if it’s just for a few minutes.”
I looked around the empty park, thought about my silent apartment and the can of soup waiting for me.
Then I thought about Trent and Miranda and the perfect family dinner I’d never be invited to.
What did I have to lose?
“All right,” I heard myself saying. “I’ll meet him.”
Maxwell’s face broke into the first genuine smile I’d seen from him.
“Wonderful, ma’am, if you’ll allow me.”
He moved to open the rear door of the Mercedes, and I got my first look at the interior.
Leather seats the color of cream, wood trim that gleamed even in the dim light, and an interior that was warmer and more luxurious than my entire apartment.
Charlie jumped in first, settling himself on the seat like he’d done it a thousand times before.
I slid in after him, sinking into leather so soft it felt like sitting on a cloud.
Maxwell closed the door gently and returned to the driver’s seat.
The car started so quietly I barely heard the engine.
“Where are we going?” I asked as we pulled out of the park.
“Not far, ma’am,” Maxwell said, glancing at me in the rear view mirror. “About 20 minutes to Lakeshore Drive.”
Lakeshore Drive.
I knew the area.
It was where the really wealthy people lived. Houses that sold for millions of dollars with private docks and gates and security systems.
Not the kind of place where people like me were usually welcome.
As we drove through the increasingly upscale neighborhoods, Maxwell made polite conversation about the weather and Charlie’s habits.
But I could sense something beneath his professional demeanor. An excitement maybe, or anticipation.
“Maxwell,” I said finally, “can you tell me what Mr. Wellington’s first name is? It might help me remember him.”
In the rearview mirror, I saw Maxwell’s smile.
“Of course, ma’am, his name is Dean. Dean Wellington.”
Dean.
The name hit me like lightning.
And suddenly, I was back in room 412 at Harrison General 15 years ago.
A man in his late 30s, paralyzed from a car accident, angry and bitter and convinced his life was over.
His family had visited the first few weeks, but as it became clear he might never walk again, the visits had become less frequent, then stopped altogether.
Dean Morrison, that had been his name then, Morrison, not Wellington.
I remembered him now.
How could I have forgotten?
He’d been one of my most challenging patients, not because of his medical needs, but because of his rage.
He’d yelled at nurses, thrown things, refused treatment.
Everyone dreaded being assigned to his room.
Everyone except me.
I’d seen something in his eyes that the others missed.
Not anger, but terror.
The terror of a man who’d lost everything he thought made him who he was.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. “Dean.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Maxwell said softly. “He’s been looking for you for a very long time.”
My heart started beating faster as more memories came flooding back.
The weeks I’d spent talking to him, listening to him rage against his fate.
The day he’d finally let me read to him.
The afternoon he’d cried in my arms like a child.
And the day I’d been told he was being transferred to a long-term care facility because his insurance had run out, I’d never seen him again.
“How is he?” I asked, my voice barely audible.