Cherry Ames Boxed Set 17-20 Read online

  “Martha Logan doesn’t leave until a week from tomorrow,” Gwen said. “You’re in luck.”

  Then Cherry wailed, “Oh, I left my nursing kit home!”

  “Lend you mine,” said four friendly voices.

  “And what will my family say?”

  Everyone smiled, knowing Cherry’s lively family. If Cherry announced she were going to the moon, her parents and her twin brother Charlie would give her a grand send-off and hide any misgivings. At least this was Gwen’s impression of the Ames family, she said.

  “Cherry’s going to England!” Josie babbled. “Just like that! Oh, my goodness, it’s eleven o’clock! Good night!”

  They all moved to adjourn. Cherry and Gwen shared one of the small bedrooms, as they used to when all eight—Marie, Ann, Vivian, Mai Lee, Bertha, Josie, Gwen, and Cherry—were visiting nurses in New York. For a long time Cherry lay awake, listening to a neighbor’s hi-fi set. She felt excited about the chance to travel abroad, yet half wanted to stay and visit here for a while, then maybe fly up to Quebec for a few days, and then to Washington, D.C., which she loved. She might persuade the Spencer Club to join her for weekends. England seemed far away, and Gwen’s recommendation more of a nice try than a real chance to go. Well, tomorrow would decide!

  CHAPTER II

  Nurse’s Vacation

  DR. MERRIAM, A SMALL, PREMATURELY GRAY-HAIRED MAN, looked at Cherry with watchful eyes.

  “Your nursing record is very good, Miss Ames,” he said, when Cherry finished describing her training and experience. “I like the fact that you’ve tackled so many kinds of nursing jobs and dealt with a variety of people. That should make you a resourceful person for Mrs. Logan to travel with—though I wish she wouldn’t travel until she’s rested, and recovered from the shock of the fall and fracture. However, she insists on going now, so—if you don’t mind, Miss Ames—I’d like to telephone your nursing superintendent at Hilton Hospital for a recommendation.”

  Cherry said, “Certainly, Doctor,” and supplied him with the name and telephone number. He wrote them down.

  “On the whole I think you would be a good nurse for this job,” he said. “Of course it’s up to Mrs. Logan to decide whether you’ll be a congenial companion. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you nurse her for the next few days? It will give both of you a chance to find out how well you get along. Traveling together could be miserable,” Dr. Merriam said with a grin, “if you don’t like each other.”

  Cherry smiled back. “I’d like to try your plan. Is there anything special I need to know about this patient, Doctor?”

  “Well, I gather you know she’s an author, and Mrs. Clark says a hard-working one. She’s a widow with two young children to support—they attend boarding schools. At the moment, I understand, they’re with their grandparents until school starts.

  “Now, about nursing care,” Dr. Merriam continued. “Her hand extending from the cast will have to be watched for swelling. I’ll give you a prescription for her, to relieve the pain. See that she rests. Her legs are sore where she bruised them, especially the shins, but there’s nothing you can do except change the bandages and wait for the skin to heal. I want her to eat a well-balanced diet. It’s necessary after this shock to build up her general health again, if the bone is to heal.”

  The telephone on the doctor’s desk rang. At the same time his white-clad office nurse quietly came in, patients’ files in her hand.

  “That’s all for now, Miss Ames,” said Dr. Merriam. “I’ll see you at the Clarks’ apartment about four this afternoon.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Merriam,” Cherry said, and with a nod at the office nurse, she left.

  The Clarks’ apartment was only a few blocks away, across Central Park. Cherry walked, enjoying the freshness of the morning and the children playing in the grass and on the swings.

  In a big apartment building Cherry took an elevator to the tenth floor and rang the Clarks’ doorbell. She was admitted by a maid who doubtfully eyed Cherry’s trim red dress, spanking white gloves, and oversize black leather handbag.

  “You the nurse?”

  “Yes, Dr. Merriam sent me. I have my uniform with me,” Cherry explained. It was one Gwen had lent her.

  A plump woman bustled to the door and said, “Hello, Miss Ames. I’m Alison Clark. We’re expecting you,” and led Cherry down a hall. Just outside a door that stood open, Mrs. Clark whispered, “Take good care of her. She never takes enough care of herself. It’s all I can do to make her stay in bed, even in her condition.”

  “I’ll try my best, Mrs. Clark,” Cherry whispered back.

  Mrs. Clark led her into a bedroom where a rather tall, slim, short-haired woman lay propped up in bed, a cast on her right forearm. Her clear-cut face was drawn with pain, but even so she had a lively look, and smiled when Mrs. Clark introduced “your new nurse.”

  “How do you do, Miss Ames?” said Martha Logan. “You are now meeting the most awkward woman of the year, and the world’s worst houseguest.”

  “Martha, do stop being annoyed with yourself,” said her friend and hostess. “You aren’t used to those steep subway stairs, that’s all.”

  Cherry said very politely, “We could always say someone pushed you.”

  Mrs. Logan’s face lighted up in a grin of pure pleasure. “I can see you’re a first-rate nurse.”

  Cherry said, seriously this time, “How do you feel, Mrs. Logan?”

  “I hurt,” her patient announced. “And I’m astonished at how tired and shaky I feel. Shock, I suppose. I must leave for England a week from today, but right now I wonder how I’ll ever stand on my poor, battered legs.”

  “In a week you’ll be ever so much better,” Cherry said, “providing you cooperate fully with Dr. Merriam and with me,” she added assertively.

  “I’ll cooperate like mad,” said Martha Logan. “Miss Ames, can you type? Do you know how to work a tape recorder?”

  Mrs. Clark said warningly, “Now, Martha, if this is how you cooperate—”

  “But I have to meet a deadline—that book contract I signed day before yesterday—”

  Cherry saw how worried Mrs. Logan was about her work, and said, “Yes, I can type, and I know how a tape recorder works. But you’d do better to rest now—really relax all this week. Otherwise, Dr. Merriam may have to tell you not to make your trip. You wouldn’t risk going in spite of the doctor’s advice, would you?”

  Martha Logan’s large, grayish-blue eyes turned to two framed photographs on the dresser. One was of a boy of about thirteen, one of a girl aged eleven or twelve. Both children had the same eager, intelligent face as Mrs. Logan, their mother.

  She said, “No, I won’t do anything foolish.”

  “Hah!” Mrs. Clark said triumphantly. “Martha, you have met your match in Miss Cherry Ames.”

  “Where did you get that lovely first name?” Martha Logan asked.

  “My parents gave it to me,” Cherry said with a straight face, and her patient whooped with laughter. Then Cherry explained she was “sort of named after her grandmother Charity, Cherry for short.”

  Mrs. Clark said to Martha Logan, “This girl is good for you. I’m relieved to hear you laugh again.”

  However, so much conversation was tiring the patient, Cherry observed. She caught Mrs. Clark’s eye, and they both moved out into the hall, where they discussed meals for Mrs. Logan. Dr. Merriam had ordered a nourishing diet, Mrs. Clark said, but Martha Logan had no appetite.

  “We might coax her to eat with smaller portions and more frequent meals,” Cherry suggested. “Could she have a cup of hot, rich broth at midmorning, and a glass of milk or ice cream in the afternoon?” Calcium in the milk was needed to help mend the fractured bone. Besides, Cherry thought, Mrs. Logan looked a little spare and underweight.

  “We’ll do that,” Mrs. Clark agreed. “I have a small steak for her at lunch, and broiled chicken for the evening dinner.”

  “That’s fine,” Cherry said. She remembered to tell Mrs.
Clark that the doctor would come at about four that afternoon. Then Cherry returned to her patient, who was half asleep.

  Cherry let her doze while she changed into the crisp white uniform, ventilated the room, opened the borrowed nursing kit, and set up a daily chart for the patient. The doctor would want to see it, and apparently Gwen had not had a chance to do it in yesterday’s emergency.

  A sleepy voice said, “Oh, I see you’ve changed into uniform. Hmm, I must really be sick if I have a nurse,” Martha Logan said. “You know, in New England where I was born and grew up and went to college, it’s considered almost a disgrace to get sick.”

  Cherry grinned. “In the Middle West where I come from, we have our principles, too, but not as strict as that.”

  For the first time Cherry saw the woman’s basic seriousness. She had already noticed in a corner the books, portable typewriter, tape recorder, notebooks, and box of pencils.

  “Well, let’s start,” Cherry said, “by taking your temperature, pulse, and respiration.”

  These were about normal, but the pulse was a little slow, and breathing a bit shallow. Cherry recorded the figures on the chart.

  The maid brought a cup of beef broth. Cherry held the cup for Mrs. Logan while she reluctantly sipped half of it. Cherry let her rest again, then washed her face and hands, brought her a toothbrush, glass of water and a basin, and after that, combed her hair. Mrs. Clark had tried to tidy her up earlier that morning but, Martha Logan admitted, was not too expert at it. “I feel much fresher now,” she said. “Almost human again.” Cherry did not suggest a bed bath nor even changing into a fresh nightgown, since her patient felt quite weak. Cherry did ask her to move her arm into a different position on the pillows, and to move her fingers.

  Cherry let her rest again before gently removing the dressings on her bruised, scraped legs and left arm, and applying clean gauze dressings. Mrs. Logan bit her lip, but all she said was, “The only ache I haven’t got is a toothache.” By this time Mrs. Clark came in to ask if she might serve lunch. Cherry coaxed her patient to eat a few bites of steak and vegetables, but Martha Logan murmured, “I only want to sleep.” Cherry let her alone, and slipped into another room to have the sandwich that Mrs. Clark thoughtfully provided for her.

  “How do you think she is, Miss Cherry?”

  “Weaker and more shaken up than she realizes, I’m afraid, Mrs. Clark.”

  “Yes, Martha never ‘pampers’ herself, as she calls it. She has tremendous spirit,” her friend said.

  Cherry had a glimpse of that spirit later that afternoon when Martha Logan talked about her children. She had awakened refreshed, and Cherry, after checking her TPR, was giving her a back rub.

  “Ruthie is almost twelve,” Mrs. Logan said, “good at sports and all her school activities. I suspect she finds my books dry, although she loyally reads each one as it comes out. So does her brother. Bob is thirteen, and he has a scientific turn of mind, a real talent as his father did—”

  She hesitated, and Cherry filled in the pause. “From their photographs, they look like fine children.”

  “They’re good, self-reliant people, young as they are. They were just babies when their father died.”

  In a direct but reserved way Mrs. Logan said Kenneth Logan had died suddenly after a short illness. He had been a research scientist for one of the big utilities companies. Cherry thought they could not have been married very long, for Martha Logan was still a youthful woman. She was attractive, too—not exactly pretty, but very feminine and pleasant. Mrs. Logan abruptly changed the subject.

  “Do you read much, Cherry?”

  “As much as I have time for, Mrs. Logan, after keeping abreast of new medical discoveries. I love to read. I’m embarrassed to admit I haven’t yet read your books, but I shall. My friend Mai Lee is reading your latest book.”

  “You’re an honest girl,” Martha Logan remarked. “Ouch! My arm! My aching, poor old writing arm!”

  “I’ll give you a delicious tablet,” said Cherry, uncapping the bottle. “Try to rest. No more talking, now. No, ma’am, no reading, not just yet. You’ll feel better if you rest.” She darkened the room.

  At four o’clock Dr. Merriam arrived, somewhat out of breath. He checked over his patient and conferred briefly with Cherry. He was satisfied with Mrs. Logan’s progress, and had no new instructions for the nurse. But Martha had an announcement for both of them.

  “When I fly to England next week, Dr. Merriam, I’d like to take this young nurse with me. I realize I’m in no condition to travel alone, and I understood from you she’s on vacation for a month, anyway.”

  “Now just a minute!” Dr. Merriam said. “First it’s a question of whether you’ll be able to go—”

  “I have an appointment to see the Carewe collection, which is harder to get, I hear, than being received at court,” Martha Logan said rather desperately. “It took me months and much effort to get a letter of admission. If I don’t keep the appointment, I may never get into the museum at all! For my next book I must see that collection!”

  The doctor threw up his hands. Mrs. Logan turned her head on the pillows to look at Cherry. “I know this is sudden, but I generally come to a quick decision. Would you like to go? Frankly, I can’t afford to pay for both your travel expenses and a salary for your nursing services on the trip. The most I can pay for is your transportation, hotel, and meals—and that’s only because my publisher has been kind enough to advance me some extra funds. We’ll keep our travel expenses on a modest budget. No glittering luxuries, but it will be very nice. And very interesting.”

  Cherry took a deep breath. “Wouldn’t you rather wait a few days to think this over, Mrs. Logan?”

  “No, I’m sure now about you,” Martha Logan said. “But I want you to take a day or two to think it over.”

  Cherry grinned. “I’m sure, too. I’d be perfectly delighted to go!”

  Dr. Merriam started to laugh. “I see that you two understand each other! And I see there’s no holding you back, Mrs. Logan. I reluctantly give permission. Well, Miss Ames, you’d better get busy arranging for your trip. A week—six days, rather—isn’t much time to prepare to go abroad.”

  Martha Logan said she would ask the Clarks to telephone her travel agent to make reservations for Cherry. It would not be easy, at such short notice, to get a seat for Cherry on the same plane, especially an adjoining seat. Cancellations did occur, though, and a travel agent often could make better arrangements than a private individual.

  “Have you a passport?” Martha Logan asked Cherry, who shook her head. “You’d better hurry and get one. You’ll need your birth certificate.”

  “I have a photostat of it with me,” Cherry said, “because I thought I might be going to Quebec.” Americans are not required to have a passport to enter Canada, but must show some proof of American citizenship in order to re-enter the United States.

  “You’ll need vaccination against smallpox, and an international certificate of vaccination,” Dr. Merriam said to Cherry. “Call my office for an appointment. Now I must go, Mrs. Logan. Try to relax, and I’ll come in again soon.”

  After the doctor left, Cherry and Mrs. Logan looked at each other in satisfaction. They laughed out of sheer exuberance.

  “We’ll have a wonderful trip!” Martha Logan said. “Young lady, for the next few days you’d better nurse me with one hand—and apply yourself to getting ready for takeoff with the other.”

  “Everything will get done,” Cherry said calmly, hiding her excitement, “and I’ll nurse you with both hands.”

  However, for the next few days Cherry had to move at top speed. She telephoned her family long distance that evening to tell them her news, and see what they thought of it. “Why, of course, go!” her father said, and her mother said, “Honey, I’m so happy for you!” Charlie was working in Indianapolis. Cherry tried to telephone him there. Unfortunately he was away on business, but she knew her twin would be all for her trip. Her Spencer Club friends
certainly were for it. They practically danced in excitement and glee for her, and they offered to lend her uniforms, nursing kits, clothes, cameras, anything they had.

  “Thanks ever so much,” Cherry said, “but Mother will mail me my nursing things and some clothes—via special handling, so they’ll come fast.”

  Early Friday morning Cherry went to the Passport Office in Rockefeller Center. A clerk gave her the necessary application to fill out, and instructions, and promised to rush her passport through. Then Cherry went downstairs and sat while passport photographs were taken, to be called for after they were developed. She hurried uptown and took care of Mrs. Logan, who seemed a little better today.

  Mrs. Clark reported that the travel agent was attempting to make a flight reservation for Cherry, and thought they had a good chance. The forthcoming weekend was Labor Day weekend, and after that big holiday, the summer travel rush abated.

  Cherry was giving Mrs. Logan morning care when her patient suddenly remembered something.

  “We’ve got to send a cable to the Carewe Museum about you, Cherry,” Martha said. “Otherwise, they may not let you come in with me. Can you give me the names and addresses of two or three persons, preferably of some official or professional standing, who can swear that you’re a solid citizen?”

  Cherry could, but she had never heard of a private museum so fussy that visitors had to furnish character references. Martha Logan explained, “This is Mr. Carewe’s private mansion, his collection is priceless, and anyway, I hear he’s rather peculiar—”

  Cherry was intrigued. She sent the cable while her patient had an afternoon nap. Then two friends, Mr. and Mrs. Le Sueuer, came to visit Mrs. Logan. They were curious about the Carewe Museum—as curious as Cherry herself.

  “I’ve heard it’s a fabulous place,” Mrs. Le Sueuer said. “But why? And why is it so hard to be admitted?”

  So Martha Logan explained. This celebrated collection of paintings included famous personages of several centuries, portrayed by great artists. The collection was priceless—any art museum, certainly any art dealer or private collector, would be overjoyed to own one or two of its treasures. John Carewe had inherited some of the paintings, long in his mother’s family. Being many times a millionaire and a shrewd businessman, he had augmented the collection by acquisitions—by purchases or “horse trading”—during his long lifetime.