18. Pascal

"Ow! Shit! Mon Dieu!"

While Doc Morgan certainly looked the part of a wise and caring medical professional, the way he poked and prodded at my wrist made me question not only his credentials, but his eyesight too.

"Does that hurt?"

"Yes!"

"Does this hurt?"

"Ow!"

"What about this?"

"What do you think? Have you seen my hand? It's like a sock puppet that went through the spin cycle one too many times."

Bud put a hand on my right shoulder to try and calm me down and asked, "So tell us Doc, what's the verdict?"

"Well, it's broken alright. I'm going to have to put a cast on it."

"You can't! I have to bake. I have pastries to make. I can't do that one-handed."

Doc gave a casual shrug. "I can do nothing if that's what you really want. But the bones will try to reset themselves and fuse your nerves and tendons together, turning your hand into a flipper. If that's what you'd like, then by all means, go bake your cookies. I'm sure they'll taste delicious."

I gasped in horror. "I'm not sure what upsets me more—the idea of my hand turning into a flipper, or the notion that you think I bake cookies."

Bud squeezed my shoulder a little harder. "We'll take the cast."

"No, we won't!"

"Pascal, listen to me. You're a baker. It's who you are. It's what you love. If you don't get your hand fixed now, you're going to jeopardize everything you've worked so hard for your entire life."

"What about Giselle? She'll be here first thing in the morning, and we haven't even started baking yet."

"I'll help you. We'll do it together. You and me. Even if it takes all night. Hell, I didn't dislocate my shoulder just so some snobby food blogger can waltz into town and ruin your career… again."

Doc Morgan gave Bud a curious look. "You dislocated your shoulder? When?"

"A few hours ago, I guess."

"Off with your shirt, young man. Let me take a look."

"Doc, it's fine. Really, it barely hurts at all."

"Bud, I'm your doctor. I'm giving you an order. Take off your shirt."

Reluctantly Bud unbuttoned his shirt, then painfully slid the right sleeve off to reveal a bruise so big and black it looked like he'd been dipped in liquorice.

"Oh!" he and I both said together.

This time it was Bud's turn to be prodded and poked.

"Ow! Shit! Mon Dieu!" he said.

I couldn't help but chuckle at how cute it was to hear him copy my French.

Doc Morgan sat back. "Well, that arm of yours is going to have to go in a sling, I'm afraid. I'll tend to Pascal's wrist first, then bandage up your arm. If you two are going to help each other bake cookies, at least there's a bright side."

"What's that?" I asked, highly doubtful of any silver linings right now.

"Your right hand is still alright, and Bud still has use of his left hand. Put the two of you together and maybe you can make it work."