Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Caroline

P aul gives me a look that would make anyone else shake in their proverbial boots. His bulbous nose is still red from the cold outside, his gaze iron-willed.

He must have woken up very early to be here. I'm grateful he showed up when he did, acting as a buffer between me and Rachel. He's the most lovable, determined, gangster-looking seventy-year-old on the Upper West Side.

"I'm going home," I say, not bothering to mask my defiance. I had enough of being poked and tested. I've had enough of Rachel and the lawsuit. I am desperate to leave, regroup, and figure things out. Namely, my future. "I don't want to stay anymore."

Paul sucks on his teeth, juts his jaw. "What does Dr. Sinclair have to say about that?"

"Seriously? You know who my doctor is?"

I think of Calvin who is bound to come by soon. He'll insist I stay for more tests.

"Of course. I've been keeping an eye on him. Since he showed up at the Dakota looking like a vagrant."

I almost laugh at the description but I'm not letting Paul off the hook so easily. I wonder how he knows about Calvin's visit. He has eyes everywhere. "So, you're my bodyguard now?"

Apparently, since Paul is no longer chauffeur, he's promoted himself to a better unpaid role.

"I took Bernard's request as a final wish."

I swallow hard with emotion. It is touching how loyal Paul is. Bernard is gone but Paul still heeds his dear friend's request to look after me. "Calvin is a friend. Actually, he was here to treat me when I came in yesterday." I omit the touch-and-go part.

"I'm going to continue looking out for your best interest, Mrs. Page."

"Do I have any say in this?" I ask, half-heartedly.

He shrugs and I laugh.

We both know this arrangement can't last forever. Nothing lasts forever. Just ask Bernard.

I don't bother asking Paul what he really thinks of Calvin. It may come off like my doctor and I are more than friends and that would be awkward. Still, Calvin has been on my mind since I opened my eyes, seeing his worried face. He's a special man.

"I need to call an Uber," I announce, pulling out my phone.

Paul frowns at the device. "Please don't insult me."

"I thought you don't approve of my leaving the hospital."

"I also don't expect you to heed my advice, I have no choice but to . . . aid and abet."

Once again, his pragmatism is showing.

"You brought my car?"

"Of course."

I can't argue. If Paul wants to drive me home, I will accept even if I can't pay him. Because he's more than my bodyguard. He's my guardian angel. My Fairy Godfather. Maybe that will be the title of the next Coppola film.

Paul leans into the hallway and checks both ways as if he's about to cross a busy highway on foot. "The coast is clear." His tone is conspiratorial.

Knowing he's now on my side gives me the guts to go through with the Great Escape.

"Ready?" he asks, taking hold of my purse and bag of clothes. I'm wearing a sweater over a hospital gown. No time for a wardrobe change.

I slip into my shoes and button up my coat, feeling my nerves spark with excitement. Paul is supporting my unauthorized discharge. Bet this isn't the first time he's pulled something like this.

"Ready," I say.

I follow my seventy-year-old ex-driver out of the hospital room and book it down the hallway, all the way to the elevator, down to the lobby, and out the building. I hope never to come back here.

Paul holds open the back door of the polished Mercedes and I get inside, relief washing over me. As he pulls into traffic, I spot Calvin, standing in the front of the hospital entrance, out of breath, hands on his hips. He looks so painfully handsome in his scrubs and unshaven jaw.

Our eyes meet. My heart melts a little.

I want to shout out a thanks, tell him I'll call soon. But all I can muster is a finger wave just as Paul buzzes up my window and drives me home.