Snowfall in Venice

New York

I was pissed off.

After a day of working on what I considered to be a medical assembly line, I wearily removed my mask and gown and retreated to the staff room for a welcome coffee and a chat with Gayle Wellington. Gayle was my operating room nurse, general assistant, confidante, best friend, and lover. She was also going to be my bride in five more days.

"Gayle, I'm sick and tired of doing the same old stuff, day after day. I've done more butt lifts, tummy tucks, nose jobs, and lip enlargements than I can count. Why the hell can't I just concentrate on what I'm good at?"

Gayle moved over to my side and began to give me a badly needed shoulder massage.

"Sorry, Mark, you know that's never going to happen as long as we remain employees of the Kingston Center for Cosmetic Surgery."

I was unhappy, but I knew her evaluation was true. The Kingston Center was the medical equivalent of an old-fashioned sweatshop. Nothing mattered to the owner but increasing the flow of profits.

With some modesty, I can say that some people considered me to be a genius at reconstructive surgery, particularly for kids with severe deformities. I tended to favor children from the less fortunate financial community when I could. I had pioneered some radical new approaches to cleft pallet reconstruction with a great success rate. Some people in New York medical circles considered me a genius. The jealous ones spread the rumor that Doctor Marcus Gunderson was grandstanding by using unorthodox surgical approaches.

Although we had helped numerous low-income families with the new procedure, the truth was Gayle and I were gradually going broke. The owner of the private clinic would only permit us to do charity operations if we reimbursed the Kingston Center the going rate for operating room time out of our own pockets.

I vividly recalled my last heated conversation with Donald Kingston, the sole owner of the Center. Kingston was adamant.

"Damn it, Mark, how many times do I have to tell you? This clinic is not a charity operation. I'm only interested in turning a profit. If you want to keep taking on all these poverty cases, be my guest, but only if you keep paying the going rate. If you don't like it, you can get the hell out and start your own business."

At this point, I stalked out of the meeting. No use arguing with a turd with a heart of stone, I mumbled to himself.

"Gayle, Kingston refuses to budge, even though he knows we have a backlog of desperate cases. Unfortunately, I'm just about tapped out, so those poor kids will have to wait a little longer. To be frank, at this point, we barely have enough cash on hand to finance our honeymoon trip. Thank God, your old man gave us the first-class airfare as a wedding present."

Gayle nodded, "That's okay, honey. Both of us are badly in need of a break. Let's get the wedding out of the way and do some skiing. We can take another crack at that cheap S.O.B. Kingston when we get back."

We were both passionate about skiing. We met while waiting for the lifts at the resort town of Whistler, British Columbia, and it was love at first sight. After working together at the surgical center for several months, we decided to get married. I wanted to return to Whistler for our honeymoon, but Gayle had her heart set on spectacular Cortina, Italy. We planned to enjoy two fabulous weeks skiing over Christmas and New Year in Cortina, before returning to the grind in New York.

My aunt told us later that we made a lovely sight when we walked hand in hand into the church. Supposedly I inherited my coloring and physique from some distant Viking ancestor. I'm well over six feet in height, with a muscular build and a slight reddish tinge to my fair hair. Gayle only reached as high as my shoulder, but she is a rare beauty. Her raven dark hair frames a very expressive face, set off by luminescent eyes. It was her spectacular eyes that had first attracted my attention.