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    Fever Pitch
    Fever Pitch
    Fever Pitch
    Ebook254 pages4 hours

    Fever Pitch

    By Elizabeth Neff Walker

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Emergency room physician Steve Winstead and neurologist Nan LeBaron of Fielding Medical Center are sued for malpractice when a patient dies. Tension mounts between them because Steve fears Nan won’t handle the crisis well, and Nan offers Steve the hard truth about his bedside manner--which could be improved. Then tension turns to fever--and it’s a different game. 3rd Fielding Center Quartet
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBelgrave House
    Release dateAug 1, 1995
    ISBN9781610841399
    Fever Pitch

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    Reviews for Fever Pitch

    3.5/5

    961 ratings29 reviews

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    • 4/5
      You wrote: As an Arsenal fan myself, I'm bound to be biased but Hornby writes with such an extraneous topic coverage that it becomes a book filled with stories and anecdotes that certainly any bloke would laugh with. Covering events such as the Hillsborough disaster with such compassion and delicacy which equal the joy and excitement of Anfield '89, every page is brought to life through his own storytelling. I loved it but the film was crap in comparison. Stick with this one and you won't regret it.
    • 4/5
      Hornby has a conversational and enthusiastic style that makes his writing come alive. That kept me hooked to Fever Pitch, an autobiography about his obsession with UK football (and Arsenal in particular) even though I'm a yank who knows little about the teams and structure of the league. If you've ever been on the edge of your seat during a sports game of any variety (the Phillies are my personal poison), you'll be sure to relate to the author.
    • 5/5
      Just the type of book I love. Nick Hornby is the master of coming of age psychological dramas, what does it mean to be a man in this day and age is answered in most of his books. I am thankful for his honest and insiteful journey he shares in his books.
    • 2/5
      I wanted to love this. I am a huge soccer/football fan and could relate to the narrator's story of fandom and obsession. However, after 100 pages I didn't really care to read further. There was no sense of stakes, story - and the central narrative was pleasant but also quite linear. Oh well. Can't win 'em all.
    • 4/5
      You wrote: As an Arsenal fan myself, I'm bound to be biased but Hornby writes with such an extraneous topic coverage that it becomes a book filled with stories and anecdotes that certainly any bloke would laugh with. Covering events such as the Hillsborough disaster with such compassion and delicacy which equal the joy and excitement of Anfield '89, every page is brought to life through his own storytelling. I loved it but the film was crap in comparison. Stick with this one and you won't regret it.
    • 4/5
      Great book even for the non Arsenal fan. I can totally associate with Hornby's frustrations and joys. One of the few football based books that all fans could read and enjoy. Great to re-live the 80's
    • 5/5
      I thought I would never finish a book about football (soccer to Americans), and this is really about football, not in any metaphorical, touchy-feely way, but real football. I loved it. Probably NH's least read yet best book, about footbal and real life and growing up.
    • 3/5
      With football (soccer) season just starting, I thought now was as good a time as any to finally crack open Nick Hornby's Fever Pitch. I've only read one football book before since I've only just gotten into the sport within the last year, but I was told this was a seminal text to read on the subject. I liked it enough, especially the parts that transcended football and applied to fandom in general. One particular discussion in which Hornby explains how he nearly panicked when he realized his wife expected him to stay home from some games to watch the kids while she went to the Arsenal games made me laugh quite a bit. Hornby clearly understands how a fan's mind works, in that you're never more than a few moments away from contemplating a player's scoring play or a heartbreaking defeat.

      But unfortunately, I'm not British, and I haven't spent much time at all in England to understand the British affect or culture. I found myself constantly consulting Wikipedia to find out what the heck Hornby was talking about (analogizing two clashing worlds by referencing two apparently very different British soap operas, for instance), and while I think it certainly taught me something about Britain as a result, I didn't really go into the book hoping for that. Further, I think I may have tried reading this too early in my budding football hobby, as I don't understand football tactics nearly enough to really get at Hornby's point from time to time.

      It was refreshing to read that there are people far worse off than I am when it comes to being a fan of a sport or team. While I have a lifelong passion for the Chicago Cubs, and I can certainly recall vividly some of their worst defeats (and I imagine I'd recall triumphs as well, if there were any to contemplate...sigh), I'm not nearly at the level where I can recollect the score of multiple games, let alone who drove in or scored the runs to begin with.

      All in all, a pretty good book, and quite funny at times. I only wish I understood the British and football better.
    • 5/5
      I like football (soccer), I like passion, I like humour and I like good writing. This ticks all the boxes.
    • 4/5
      A serious-but funny memoir of a soccer fan, Fever Pitch is writer Nick Hornby's first book -- a memoir that starts with his first Arsenal (an English soccer club) game.

      Hornby eventually became a hardcore Arsenal supporter and this book covers the impact his sporting obsession has on his life.

      As a Manchester United supporter since the mid 80s I understand (faintly) what he's experienced, though as a writer, I'm also interested in Hornby's references to his fledgling writing career (this was Hornby's first book, written before he became famous, so it mentions his struggles with confidence and depression).

      As a diehard Hornby fan, I found this a worthwhile read, though it's a very different work from his better known works of fiction.
    • 3/5
      If you don't know, Fever Pitch is about soccer and his obsession with it, specifically with Arsenal. (Not Jimmy Fallon and his obsession with baseball - did they use the Red Sox in the movie? I know nothing about baseball.) The book isn't a romantic comedy, either.I like Hornby's writing, mostly, including his nonfiction writing on music and books, which are two other things he loves. However, I felt like something was really missing here, and at least part of that is his sense of humor. Soccer seems to be something he doesn't have much of a sense of humor about - and while the point of the book is how it's serious business to him and how his relationship with the sport has undoubtedly been unhealthy at times, a little more humor wouldn't have been misplaced. Also, there's honestly not enough of Nick Hornby himself in the book. He talks about how as a child, going to soccer matches gave him a means to communicate with his dad after his parents' divorce. These sections are good. Later, as an adult, he mentions suffering from years-long depression and having failed relationships, but there's not much made of those things. It's hard to get a handle on what was really going on - and saying that his depression was magically cured by Arsenal's winning season is either flippant or disingenuous. We don't have any way to tell which, because while he makes relatively frequent mention of the depression, we don't really find out much beyond that.Overall, not a particularly strong Hornby book, but it was an early one (published in 1992), so I guess that's to be expected.A quote: "They offered me a drink and I declined, so they shook my hand and offered commiserations and I disappeared; to them, it really was only a game, and it probably did me good to spend time with people who behaved for all the world as if football were a diverting entertainment, like rugby or golf or cricket. It's not like that at all, of course, but just for an afternoon it was interesting and instructive to meet people who believed that it was."
    • 3/5
      I pretty much hate all forms of football. The fact that I read a book about football (to the British, that is: the rest of the world calls it soccer) from cover to cover, smirking, chuckling and at times laughing out loud, attests, once again, to the talent of Nick Hornby as a wordsmith. This book is witty and clever, incredibly insightful about obsession and definitely worth a read!
    • 3/5
      Although I love Nick's fiction I'm not really a fan of football, so I abandoned this book after a bit. I tried skipping through to find the biographical bits, and then I realised the book is a biography really.
    • 4/5
      I have often wondered what makes people (well, mainly men) spend ever increasing sums following football teams, getting royally ripped off while the players get richer and further away from their fans in every possible way........This novel (though it's not really fiction) goes some way to explaining the mindset of the fanatical fan. Hornby brings a warming combination of laddishness and intellect to the subject, and even if you don't like football there are some good jokes here. I particularly liked the gloriously improbable proposition of picking a favourite dismissal to take to a desert island. Wonderfully eccentric, but I knew exactly what he meant.
    • 4/5
      Read it to get me in the mood for the new season, and it worked a charm - done without much fanfare and really effective, full of 'ah, yes, I know that' moments, in a good way. Strange now to read about Arsenal in their pre-Wenger days when everybody hated them (I certainly did).
    • 4/5
      An original memoir, written entirely around various football (soccer) games. Well-written, completely engaging, and only slightly too focused on football for a non-fan, Fever Pitch takes you down the road with Mr. Hornby from youth to adulthood. When I picked this book up to read it, I thought it was a novel. He held my attention so well, I devoured it in a matter of days, reading only in brief glimpses. Great for commuting or reading in snippets, as it's divvied up into brief chapters matching the games he's chosen to write about here. Well balanced, plotted, and easily read, with plenty of chances to recognize your own obsession as he describes his own.
    • 4/5
      Hornby writes a memoir of his life through the prism of his fandom of the Arsenal football club. Each entry starts with a particular football match but spins out from there to include details of Hornby's life, family, career, and how the fate of his team reflects the ebb and flow of his life. It's a great personal analysis of fandom, sports obsession, and group identity. If you've seen either of the films supposedly based on this book keep in mind that this is a memoir not a novel and there is no "love triangle" element in which a man is caught between the sport and a woman.Even though this book has been adapted into two different movies that make it out as a love triangle among man, woman, and the sport he's obsessed with, this book is not a novel. It's a memoir about soccer in the same way that Rocky is about boxing or Jaws is about a shark. Hornby uses memories of his beloved Gunners matches as a launching point to tell stories of his life, his obsession, and worldview. He also examines English culture and sporting life as it changes over the course of his life. A funny and insightful memoirs, this book is NOT just for sports' fans.
    • 3/5
      I recommend this book to those who wouldn't mind understanding a football fanatic's obsession/experience, since it might just give insight into one's own obsessions. [Be advised: the Barrymore/Fallon movie "based" on this book bears little to no resemblance to it. The only similarity is that there's a guy obsessed with a sport.]
    • 3/5
      another "commuter bus read"Hornby's always a good read, this one was dampened by my utter lack of knowledge of the English soccer realm. Entertaining none the less.
    • 4/5
      A must read for anyone with an obsession. Hornby's? Arsenal football. Reading about his life at (and thinking about) the pitch should resonate with anyone with an equal, though different, obsession (sports or otherwise).For those Tull fanatics, substitute albums, group members, concerts, pre- and post-concert gatherings and sightings for championships, players, matches, and pub discussions. In doing so, it may be a frightening self revelation. The extent to which obsessive behavior melds into daily life is eye opening. The mention of a memorable lyric to someone here. ("It's only the giving that makes you what you are.") The humming of a favorite tune there. (For a Thousand Mothers in my case.) The proud exclamation of history witnessed. ("I saw Tull perform A Passion Play in its entirety!") The demonstration of years of devotion. ("When I first saw them play, Clive and Glenn were still in the group.") The glory. ("I still have my copy of Rolling Stone that featured Ian on the cover.") The agony. ("I was devastated when Ian released Walk Into Light. Where was the acoustic guitar? What was with all that Vettese keyboard crap?") It all sounds a bit like Hornby and his mention of big wins, devastating losses, and total domination of his life by Arsenal football.Hornby writes with such wit, such self deprecating humor, and yet, with an insight that leaves an impact. Fever Pitch provided a quick and enjoyable read. Highly recommended.
    • 3/5
      This retrospective journal of an ardent soccer fan was a big hit in the UK when it was first published in 1992. The appeal of the book is by its nature limited. Few outside the UK would grasp many local references. Indeed, a long-standing interest in English League football is almost a prerequisite to understanding. Still, Fever Pitch remains one of the most thoughtful books written about any sport. The phenomenon of obsessive, lifelong adherence to an English football club (in Hornby’s case, Arsenal) is vastly different to the US experience of following a football or baseball team. In the US, people go to sports events for pleasure, to have a good time, often with their families. In Britain, attendance at soccer matches is a predominantly male thing, a matter of serious, intense identification with the team, not pleasure in the game. Hornby explores this intensity with real knowledge borne of personal experience. It is wholly irrational, but…. as he dryly observes, young men develop obsessions while young women develop personalities. He also argues, interestingly, that the boredom, disappointment and anticlimax accompanying regular football watching are a focus, an outlet for the depressive feelings that are part and parcel of dull, southern English suburban life. It’s not only extrovert feelings that need expression!One wonders how Hornby will update some aspects of his story. For most of it, Arsenal are a team with more potential than achievement, and even their real success in the early 90s looks like being short-lived. Hornby still sees Arsenal as the team everyone loves to hate. So what does he say now that Arsenal have risen to the level, in several successive years, of glamorous European superstars? The team everyone loves to hate? Arsenal?Love them!
    • 5/5
      Simply the best sports book ever written, because it doesn't really discuss what happens on the field. No, it asks a deeper question: Why do so many people care so much about a team of rich men who play a boys' game? Why do we put such value on sports teams? It's a gripping tale of obsession — and the need to belong. Fantastic. Oh, and it's about Arsenal, too. That makes it even better.
    • 4/5
      Having been forced into being an Arsenal fan from an early age (I blame my older brother), I have to admit the deep shame of not having read this book until now. The book is really a sort of memoir - Hornby can mark all the major events of his life by what was happening with the Gunners at the time. I found his musings hilarious, and I love Hornby's upfront and honest style. This is not just a book for Arsenal supporters or football fans, it is a book for anyone who has ever had an obsession that has dominated most of their lives. he also has some pertinent remarks to make about the less savoury aspects of football, and the state of the beautiful game today. Very enjoyable - one you can dip in and out of easily too.
    • 4/5
      This book is the reason I am an Arsenal fan. This is a semi-autobiographical survey of football and football culture through the modern ages. At times hilarious, informative, and just plain awesome this book is a must for any fan of football.I do have to say though that despite its awesomeness the book does drag in small portions. I own that this is completely because of my lack of knowledge on football as a whole so I can't knock off too many points for that, but as it wasn't as enjoyable for me as it could have been I've rated it a 4.
    • 5/5
      Made obsession acceptable
    • 5/5
      Lots of laughs, lots of soul searching and a great deal of irrational fanaticism. An insight into what makes some people tick.
    • 5/5
      i love this book (even if i'm not really an arsenal fan). well-written by a clearly obsessive fan, its apologies for being so in the text were not needed, really. it's hilarious, well-knowing and overall a good, fun read.
    • 5/5
      Loved the book; the Red Sox-themed movie adaptation was good enough if one pretends it's not at all related to this book.
    • 4/5
      I don't like sport and I don't understand soccer, but I still really enjoyed this book!

    Book preview

    Fever Pitch - Elizabeth Neff Walker

    Walker

    CHAPTER ONE

    What the hell took you so long?

    Nan LeBaron glanced up at the clock on the stark white wall of the emergency room. It showed 8:55. She raised an amused brow at the emergency physician. I said I’d be here by 9.

    Well, we’ve been waiting for you, replied the impatient Dr. Winstead. He scribbled rapidly in a chart and signed his name with an illegible flourish. Without looking up at her, he grabbed another chart where he entered the time and added a note to his previous scratchings. Then he shoved the charts aside, straightened his lanky body and frowned at her. That second year neurology resident is going to have to be a little more outspoken if he’s going to get anywhere.

    I’ll tell him to use you as a role model. Though her voice was tart, Nan smiled kindly at him, her hazel eyes rich with humor. Nan had only finished as chief resident in the summer, and the one year fellowship she was serving had strengthened her resolve to take very little of this kind of professional advice from other doctors as seriously as most of her contemporaries would have done.

    Dr. Winstead’s frown deepened. The patient’s in a coma, Dr. LeBaron, and your resident dithered around about whether to get another scan or not.

    Hey, I’m not chief resident anymore, but I’ll speak with him. And I’m sure I’ll find a good reason why he didn’t, Nan thought. She knew the second year resident to be a perfectly capable doctor. Shall we have a look at the patient?

    Whenever you’re ready, he said with exaggerated politeness.

    Must have been a long night, Nan thought. But then Steven Winstead did not have a reputation for suffering fools gladly, or even tolerating them. She had had her own difficulties with him, but found for the most part that his virtues far outweighed his vices. He was a brilliant diagnostician, an efficient organizer, and a man with seemingly boundless energy. She had yet to see him look tired at the end of a twelve hour, or even a double, shift. Emergency physicians got an adrenalin rush from their work, and it seemed to serve Dr. Winstead well. So he was short-tempered occasionally. Nan had seen worse.

    The second year resident had been called to evaluate another patient and Nan found herself alone with Winstead, a nurse she didn’t know, and the patient--a male in his thirties lying on the examining table with no obvious injuries to explain the cause of his unconsciousness. She read quickly through the notes in his chart. Found in this condition, with no identification on him and no one to offer any explanation. She grimaced. That always made things more difficult. Setting aside the notes she approached the patient to begin the physical examination: level of consciousness, size and reactivity of pupils, ocular position and movement, motor response, pattern of respiration. It was all familiar ground.

    The ambulance crew gave D50 and Narcan, without response. His labs are normal. CBC is okay. Blood alcohol level is 0. Tox screen is negative. Winstead shrugged his shoulders. Seemed likely it was a central nervous system problem. That’s why I wanted the scan.

    What did it show?

    Nothing. Even with contrast. It’s on the board.

    Nan turned to examine the CT scan results. Though it was true there were no obvious anomalies, her brow wrinkled in studying it. Tell me, Dr. Winstead, do we have any idea why he didn’t have identification on him?

    He was in a jogging outfit. People don’t expect to need their wallets.

    She nodded and turned from the films on the lightboard. Fresh blood can look like fresh brain tissue. It’s been long enough now for it to become old blood and maybe with another scan we can pick up a subdural hematoma.

    Winstead nodded. Exactly what I suggested to your neurology resident.

    And he didn’t agree?

    He dithered. Dr. Winstead for the first time cracked a smile. It seems to me second year residents shouldn’t be intimidated by me.

    Who could help but be intimidated by you?

    There was a moment when their eyes met and they both remembered the day a year ago when Nan had disagreed with Dr. Winstead about a stroke victim. Had it been intimidation that had kept her from insisting on her viewpoint carrying the day then? Or simply her own knowledge that his experience was greater than hers, that it was a toss of the coin about which of them was right? If the patient hadn’t died, it wouldn’t have mattered.

    You’ve never been intimidated by me, he said, and nodded his head toward the nurse. Carol hasn’t either, have you, Carol?

    Carol gave him a cheeky grin and said, No, doctor. But you do have a tendency to snap at people.

    Only at idiots, he insisted as he reached for the doorknob. You going to take him for the scan, Dr. LeBaron?

    Yes. I’d like to see it cleared up.

    Right. And he was gone with a flapping of his lab coat.

    Carol, a short, dark-haired dynamo, helped Nan strap the John Doe to a gurney, chatting as she worked. I hear he’s rich, you know? Dr. Winstead. Comes from a wealthy old San Francisco family. Now why would someone like that go into emergency medicine?

    Beats me. Nan wasn’t paying a great deal of attention because she was adding her own notes to the patient’s chart. I guess he wanted to do something useful.

    Yeah, but he could have been a cardiologist, or a neurosurgeon. Something kind of elite. Here there’s trauma, and often the dregs of the earth. All those addicts and nut cases. You kind of picture him in a quiet office, you know? Looking dignified behind a big oak desk. He’d toss back that hunk of blond hair, and blink those blue eyes, and his women patients would swoon over him.

    Nan laughed and tucked the folder under her arm. You have quite an imagination. Write fiction on the side, do you?

    No, ma’am. The nurse grinned at her. But I read it and Dr. Winstead just doesn’t fit right where he is. Emergency medicine is fly by the seat of your pants stuff. Heady rush when everything is happening at the same time. It’s the semi-wild guys who like it, and the women who especially like taking charge. Don’t you think?

    I hadn’t given a lot of thought to it. Is that why you do it?

    Well, I’m a nurse, but, sure, I like the excitement. I like having people expect me to react quickly and expertly. I’ve always been able to stay calm in an emergency. It’s the one thing I’m really good at.

    Nan regarded her thoughtfully as they pushed the gurney out of the emergency examining room. Maybe that’s why Dr. Winstead does it, too. Because he’s good at it.

    Carol hunched her shoulders carelessly. Maybe. But he’d make bigger bucks at something else.

    If his family’s wealthy, he probably doesn’t need them.

    Yeah, I suppose. Wealthy families set up trust funds and stuff for their kids, don’t they?

    Nan smiled. You should ask Dr. Winstead.

    I wouldn’t dare. But the young woman’s eyes sparkled. It would be great to have all the money you wanted, wouldn’t it?

    I don’t suppose anyone ever thinks they have enough. Nan pushed the gurney through the door Carol held open for her, and out into the hall. Thanks, Carol. I can get it from here.

    When Nan had the gurney about a hundred feet down the hall she heard the door open behind her and Carol call, Oh, Dr. LeBaron?

    Nan turned back to look questioningly at the young woman.

    Dr. Winstead said to tell you he needs to talk with you later about the malpractice suit.

    * * * *

    Nan had learned to live with uncertainty in her chosen profession. It was delightful to be able to pin a diagnosis on a patient quickly and skillfully, but a number of the diseases neurologists worked with were more a process of elimination than a simple matter of reading elevated lab values or seeing distortions on X-rays. More than that, a lot of a neurologist’s patients had diseases for which there was very little treatment. Which made it very important that Nan could be supportive to those patients. She had learned to discuss their diseases with them in a clear and helpful way that said a patient was more than just his or her disease. She was level-headed and, as the nurse Carol would have said, good at what she did.

    One of the first things she’d learned to do was leave the hospital behind her. Not that the hospital didn’t follow her home, with constant calls and pagings, but she had managed to reach a place where she could separate herself from the doctor part of her. Which was why she didn’t understand Peter’s insistence that she let medicine take over her life.

    It seemed to her as she trundled the gurney down the hall that Peter was looking for an excuse to withdraw from her life, not that medicine was crowding him out. He had, after all, known from the start that she was expected to put in long hours. Hadn’t he insisted that he didn’t want any woman sitting in his pocket? Well, she certainly wasn’t.

    The scan room was expecting her patient, since Carol had efficiently called ahead. Nan moved into the control room while a nurse and technician moved her patient onto the bed of the machine. Dr. Woo nodded pleasantly to her as he readied the equipment for a new scan. Comatose patients had to be handled differently than ones who could obey instructions. On the other hand, their unconsciousness rendered it unnecessary to make all the explanations that got repeated over and over in the course of a day. Nan enjoyed watching the video screens show the computerized images of a patient’s brain, but she would never have  wished to train as a radiologist. Her rewards in medicine came directly from patient contact, something radiology as a specialty couldn’t provide.

    Slice after slice of brain image appeared on the screen. Eventually Dr. Woo said, There. Do you see the hypodense region? Interesting that it’s so clear now. The hematoma must have been really recent when he was brought in earlier. Better get the neurosurgeons in, Dr. LeBaron. This guy needs help.

    Thanks, Dr. Woo. I’ll put in a page.

    She glanced once more at the John Doe, silently wished him luck, and left to make her call.

    * * * *

    Ever since Angel Crawford had gotten married, Nan had had the flat to herself. The three unit building was a Victorian with a three-color paint job that emphasized in burgundy and navy the detail around the doors and windows and under the eaves, against a dark gray wood background. The flat itself had high ceilings, hardwood floors and dark stained wainscoting in the entry and dining room. Nan’s bedroom, the larger of two, was spacious but with windows that looked out only on two light wells.

    Because it had been a busy day at the hospital, and because she couldn’t quite believe she’d agreed to it, she had entirely forgotten that Roger was moving in. When she arrived at the flat, only two blocks from the hospital, she had been alarmed to see the downstairs door standing open. Only for a moment, of course. There was a car parked in the driveway with its doors open and a pile of clothing on hangers in the back seat. Men’s clothes. How could she have forgotten he’d said he would be moving in today? And why had she agreed that he could?

    Roger came loping down the stairs and out onto the vestibule where he noticed Nan standing by his car. He seemed to take in her skeptical expression and his face fell. You’ve changed your mind, haven’t you?

    Of course not! I was just wondering if I had the energy to help you get these upstairs. Nan forced a welcoming smile. It’ll be great to hear someone else moving around the flat.

    I probably make more noise than Angel did, he confessed, coming slowly down the stairs to stand a few feet from her. He began tugging at his belt. It would be all right, if you’d rather I didn’t move in, Nan. I don’t know what made Jerry come up with the idea.

    "I’m glad you’re moving in, she insisted, stooping down to grab a handful of hangers. It’ll help with the rent and it’ll provide companionship. When I’m here. I spend a fair amount of time with my boyfriend Peter."

    Roger lugged a cardboard box full of shoes, belts and ties out of the car. It looked like he’d just tossed them in at will. I didn’t bring any cooking stuff.

    I have everything we’ll need.

    Nan followed him up the stairs with an inward sigh. She remembered how she’d once told Angel that he was a nice enough guy, but that his nervous mannerisms would drive her crazy. Would they? Not if she kept in mind that the poor fellow had just lost his wife. He’d married Kerri knowing that she was dying, of course, but he was taking it very hard, Jerry said. Couldn’t seem to sleep in his own house right now. Nan would be doing a good deed in letting him share her flat. Well, who wouldn’t take a poor, suffering, depressed, fidgety anesthesiologist into her home like a lost puppy? Certainly Nan had found it too difficult to say no.

    Trooping up the three flights of stairs, Nan realized she’d begun counting on the exercise just the walk home and climb to the flat gave her, especially on days when she didn’t get a run in. It would be handy for Roger, too. He was thin but rather pale. Probably hadn’t been outside exercising in the sun enough. As she followed him into his room, Nan thought chances were that he wouldn’t want to stay long. Just until the worst of his depression retreated and his insomnia got better. Pretty soon he’d want to be back in his own house, his own bed. He’d lived there for years before his marriage, and he’d be able to live there again soon, she felt sure.

    Doesn’t anyone use the back yard? he asked, staring down into the wasteland of weeds. Would they mind if I sort of cleaned it up?

    Nan deposited the loaded hangers on the stripped bed that had come with the flat. I’m sure we’d all be delighted. But it’s almost December. Is there anything worth planting at this time of year?

    He shrugged. I’ll find out. It just looks so depressing out there.

    Well, yes. Nan came to stand beside him at the bow windows. I guess no one’s tackled it because it’s a lot of work.

    I don’t mind. Anything to keep me busy.

    She would have liked to ask him if there wasn’t something at home, something he’d benefit from eventually. But of course she knew better. Maybe you could paint this room.

    I hate painting, he admitted. He tugged at his ear lobe and sighed. I appreciate you letting me stay here. I’ll try not to be a pest.

    You’re not going to be a pest, Roger. I’m glad to have you. And suddenly she was. I miss my brothers sometimes. And my friend Peter isn’t at all like anyone in my family. You’d probably fit in with them, though if you ever meet them you probably won’t think that’s a compliment.

    Why not?

    Oh, they’re rowdy, and a little bit redneck, and unsophisticated.

    Sounds just like me, he said ruefully.

    Nan laughed. Hardly. But I think you’d like them. They’re salt of the earth people.

    I hope I get to meet them sometime.

    You probably will. They’re coming for Christmas.

    * * * *

    Christmas was still several weeks away, but Steve Winstead had already bought himself a Christmas present, of sorts. For years he had lived in the five unit building in Pacific Heights that he’d inherited as his share of his grandmother’s estate. It was an elegant building with spectacular views of the bay. It was also next door to his parents’ mansion. They might refer to it as their house, but it was a mansion. Steve had grown up in a kind of luxury that tended to spoil one for the simpler things of life.

    By the time he reached college age he was sated with a social life that included cotillions and week-ends at Lake Tahoe. His parents had expected him to go to college, of course, and even have a career, something refined like the law or architecture. They had even accepted with good grace his decision to go into pre-med. But they were not so sanguine about the direction his career had taken since then. Though they would never have said so to any but their closest friends, emergency medicine struck them as rather crass and unrefined. His mother, Bitty Winstead, had recently remarked to him when they were seated on the deck off their summer home that she supposed he frequently got blood on his clothes.

    God almighty! Blood on his clothes! Steve revved the engine of his British racing green MG as he waited to pull out of the parking garage at Fielding Medical Center. He’d done two twelve- hour shifts back to back, finally getting out of the emergency room just after seven. Daylight had long since vanished, but it was reasonably warm and he felt no need to put the top up on his car. He was not unaware of the picture he made in his MG, his fine blond hair blown wild by the wind, his eyes narrowed against the whipping strands.

    But it was Steve’s impression that people liked seeing someone enjoy the good life. Oh, they might be envious, momentarily, of the money it took to support a luxurious lifestyle, but mainly they got a vicarious pleasure from seeing someone race along in a sports car, or glide across the waves of the bay in a stunning sailboat. If this was a slightly I view, Steve was so accustomed to his wealth and the world he had grown up in that he was unaware of it.

    Fielding Medical Center was only a short drive from the Golden Gate Bridge. For years Steve had driven across the city to Pacific Heights, not a particularly inspiring drive most days. Now, with the key to his new home attached to his key ring, he aimed across the bridge to the north. At night in an open car the Golden Gate Bridge was a particularly fascinating sight. In stopped traffic Steve could look up at the lighted towers and see stars beyond. He found it particularly energizing to be leaving the city, leaving behind the hospital, and Pacific Heights, and his family. No one he knew lived in Belvedere.

    Highway 101 wound quickly north and Steve took the turn-off to the Tiburon peninsula. Tiburon, an exclusive community, was still a little newer and more developed than Belvedere, its sister community comprised of one hill around which narrow roads wove their way to the top and back. In nooks and crannies of the hill extravagant homes boasted astonishing views of the bay and San Francisco. Not all of the homes were large or extravagant, but all of them felt special—hidden away, like some cherished secret. His new house was like that, a surprise you came on at the bend in the road, shingled, wrapped around by ivy and jasmine.

    True, it was a fixer-upper, but Steve intended to enjoy himself making it into the perfect place for him. Hell, the flat in Pacific Heights still mainly had his grandparents’ furnishings, so old and heavy and worthy. The management company would find decent tenants for it, probably someone of his parents’ generation who wanted something smaller than the house they’d lived in for years. Steve’s new house—which was all of sixty years old—needed a new roof, and the interior painted, and a kitchen and bath remodeling, and the floors sanded. Everything, really. It had been neglected as an elderly man grew more and more incapacitated, until he finally was forced to leave for a nursing home. To Steve it seemed like the perfect opportunity to get his hands on something that he could make into his own. And be out of the social pull of San Francisco at the same time.

    Turning onto Belvedere Avenue he noticed for the first time how the lights from houses scattered round the hill shone like bulbs on a Christmas tree. A fanciful thought, for one of his skeptical disposition. But he smiled slightly, nonetheless. Certainly the whole endeavor—buying the house, planning its restoration—felt like a

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