Wash

The printer continued printing out page after page after page. That was a good sign. More meant a lot of options and possibilities. “Has Malc—Dr. Parker or any other doctor worked on athletes as well? Anyone from the Braves, or Hawks or the Falcons?”

“I’m sure there are quite a few.”

“Does every doctor have a seat on the board?”

Amanda shook her head. “I don’t believe so.”

Her father was a stickler for every person having their say. He was adamant about all doctors meeting at least twice a year to discuss hospital issues. His hospital would be a success and never be in need of someone like her. It made her very proud of him.

“We’ll need to set up a meeting with everyone.” She ignored the slightly annoyed look on Amanda’s face. Charity had two years to turn this place into a success story and she needed everyone willing to work with her. She knew what needed to be done and it was never easy at first, but that would change. “How about you send me everyone’s email address?”

“You can’t get everyone to meet at the same time. The hospital would have to close for the day.”

Charity smiled. She knew better than to argue. “You’re right. I’ll have to come up with something that works for everyone.” She stood and checked her watch. “I’ve got errands to run for my office that I want to do tomorrow, and my stuff is supposed to be delivered to my apartment sometime after five today. Gotta jet.”

Amanda scooted her chair back and grabbed the massive stack of printed paper. “Do you want me to bind these for you?”

“That would be awesome. I’ll start going through them tomorrow then.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. I think I’m going to need it.”

“And Charity?” Amanda set her glasses on the top of her head.

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you here.”

Amanda was full of surprises. Charity grinned. “Me, too.”

Chapter 3

Trying to balance her groceries and case of water in one hand, Charity slipped the key into her apartment door with the other. She had met the moving company earlier. It hadn’t taken long to unpack, and all that was left were five clothing suitcases in her bedroom. She then ran out to grab food for dinner and breakfast in the morning.

She kicked the door shut with her foot and glanced around. It was a studio apartment with a double sized living room, which opened to a modern kitchen. Light grey stained wood covered the floors and the two rooms were painted a soft white.

Very bright. And very empty.

That had been done on purpose. A leather antique psychologist couch was set against the far wall, mirrors covered another wall, and a high tech stereo system took up most of the space on the last wall. The only remaining wall had windows and a door to a simple balcony.

Charity slipped off her shoes and padded on bare feet to the kitchen. She set the case of water down on the breakfast bar and quickly put away the groceries. Before putting the water under the table, she grabbed the remote beside the case and turned the stereo on. The tall speakers came to life and Charity reached for a bottle from the case. As she strolled to her bedroom, her fingers tapped the music’s beat against the plastic water container. By the time she reached her room, she was full-out dancing.

She changed into tights and a sport top, then headed back to the living room. She had been dancing since she was six. Her mom had encouraged her to try every form of dance and she loved them all. Somehow, all the different types of dancing had rolled into her own artistic interpretation and she was phenomenal at it, but very few people knew. It came in handy during the galas and dinners if someone asked her to dance and she could surprise guests.

Dancing was her workout, her stress reducer, her fun time and her down time.

An hour and a shower later, she started cooking dinner. Munching on a carrot, the little red light flashing on the phone caught her attention. She flipped her screen on and saw several emails from Amanda with attachments, an email confirming the paint and furniture for her office would be delivered in the morning, and her father had called about ten minutes prior.

He hadn’t left a message so she pressed the button to call him, putting him on speaker so she could continue cutting vegetables.

“Dr. Thompson.”

“Dad, it’s me.” Charity tried not to roll her eyes. He had caller ID so he knew it was her.

“Charity. How can I help you?”

She shook her head. “You phoned me earlier and tried again a bit ago. I was in the shower and just saw the missed call. I assume you wanted to talk to me.” No ‘how are you doing?’ or ‘how’s Atlanta?’.