Chapter 1

If Steve Anderson had a complaint about the Treasure Coast of Florida, it would be the heat. The heat was overwhelming, and the sun was brutal. Being a transplant to Florida, Steve was told often enough, “it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity.” He was sure it was the heat, but he let the natives taunt him because taunting newcomers is their favorite sport. How do you tell a native-born Floridian? You don’t have to; they will eventually tell you.

This is a different world than anything Steve Anderson was used to; he was raised on a farm on the Upper Peninsula of Michigan where the snow and the cold reigned for half of the year. Now the snow-covered forests of his youth gave way to sun blessed swampland and beaches, or should I say beach. Florida truly has only one beach. It’s over one thousand three hundred miles long. It starts on the Atlantic coast of Georgia in the northeast and winds its way all around Florida. and doesn’t stop until it reaches the gulf coast of Alabama.

The coastline of Florida was beautiful and seductive, and its siren song drew Steve to its pure white sands. Steve tried chasing beach bunnies for a while, but quickly gave it up. He seemed to attract vapid, self-absorbed bikini models that were all about appearances and cared little about the world outside of their little circle. They were the type of person who would spend hours every day at the beach but didn’t know how to swim. Steve even learned to surf, and he liked every minute of the sport, but the search for the perfect wave took time and that interfered with work, and Steve truly loved his work.

There is something about physical therapy that has always been attractive to him. Helping injured people regain a normal life, helping to ease chronic pain, helping to fight back the ravages of time, it was all wonderful to him. Mostly because he is in chronic pain too, so he can identify with his patients.

Steve Anderson served his country as a field medic. He survived one tour in Iraq, and two tours in Afghanistan, and gained rank quickly. Before he knew it, he was a captain in a squad that lost almost all of their leadership and found that the men turned to their medic for direction. Somehow, he and his squad ended up being the only law and order in a small province, and the local warlords were grateful for Steve and his men’s protection. After he nearly died in an IED explosion, Steve said, “enough.” Master Sergeant Bruce McLaren, Steve’s “Top Shirt” who was also injured in the blast, convinced Steve to try Florida. Steve returned to school at the University of Florida in Gainesville, FL (GO GATORS!) and completed his education. Once the nightmares of licenses and certifications were straightened out, Steve found that there was plenty of work for him there in Florida, or what is also called “God’s Waiting Room.”

Bruce, Steve’s buddy from “the sandbox” convinced him to look for work in the Vero Beach area and Steve quickly found a job as a therapist’s assistant at Mercy Hospital where his reputation for physical therapy became so good that he was asked for by name. Advancements and promotions came as his reputation with his patients was recognized by his superiors. It was not long before he was a fully accredited physical therapist and the dream of being able to work at patients’ homes without direct supervision of a doctor eventually became a reality. Steve would develop a plan of therapy for a homebound patient, and when Doctor Clement approved his plan, Steve would visit the patients’ home and work with them there. It was like being in business for himself, without all the paperwork and financial headaches.

Then one day she called Mercy General and said that a friend told a friend who told her that Steve Anderson was a miracle worker, and could she get an appointment with him? It’s rumored that a large donation to the hospital had occurred. This woman wanted Steve, and she was making sure that he would be assigned to her case.

On the day they met, Steve was working in “The Dungeon,” the name that the patients gave to the Physical Therapy gymnasium because, as everybody knows, PT really stands for Pain and Torture. (The PT therapists and nurses lived for Halloween thanks to those titles.) The RN for his group found him in his tiny closet called a “work room” where the therapists did their research and reports between appointments. She handed him a tablet and said, “Here you go Steve, Mrs. D’Amato asked for you by name. She’s a sweetie, so be nice.”

Steve looked at her chart and slumped, spinal damage after being run over on a Manhattan sidewalk. A car jacker lost control of the car that he killed another woman to steal and hit Mr. and Mrs. D’Amato while they were visiting Manhattan. Giuseppe D’Amato didn’t make it, and neither did the carjacker. D’Amato died in the arms of the woman he loved, and the carjacker died doing something he loved most of all: heroin. A broken, shattered Annamaria Giacinta Bellini-D’Amato was left on that frigid Manhattan sidewalk to continue her life and raise her daughters alone.

But that’s just the beginning. The last dozen pages of her report were merely a rehash of her chief complaint: multiple sclerosis. The poor woman ignored the warning signs of MS as merely GERD and the ravages of losing the love of her life had on her mind and body. As Steve was reviewing the doctor’s recommendations for Mrs. D’Amato, a young volunteer tapped on his workroom door and said, “Mrs. D’Amato is here, I have her on bench number four.”

“Thanks Grace, I’ll be right there.” He pulled on a work-out jacket, grabbed the tablet and headed over to therapy bench number four. Still reading her records as he walked, he was surprised to find a smiling woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties, maybe fifty, making Steve doubt the hospital records that put her age at sixty-one. Maria D’Amato appeared to be in very good shape for her age, long flowing black hair done in waves and ringlets, a pretty face with big, warm, brown eyes and a million-dollar smile, and Steve was going to have to work very hard to avoid staring at those large breasts of hers. She unzipped her own workout jacket, revealing her tight t-shirt, and Steve realized she wasn’t going to make avoiding them easy. Then, looking further down, he saw those metal braces on each leg, and the wrist-cuff crutches, and he realized they had work to do.

“How ya doin’?” she asked in a barely disguised Brooklyn accent, extending a hand. They shook hands, and she had an incredibly powerful grip, which came from years of walking on crutches.

“I’m doing fine, the question is how are you doing, looking at this chart here it shows a startling recovery from what was thought as paralysis.”

Maria smiled a sweet, heartwarming smile and said, “If I was paralyzed you wouldn’t have seen me, so I put in a little effort so I could see the amazing Steve Anderson.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere Mrs. D’Amato, including a long hour of work, can I see what you got?” the young “Yooper” asked with a grin.

“And on first date too!” said Maria with raised eyebrows. “The young man moves fast!”

“I’m just trying to keep up with you ma’am. Now looking at your...”

“Maria.”

“Hmm?”

“Maria, my friends call me Maria.” There was an endless pause as their eyes met and Steve’s mouth went dry. Mrs. D’Amato’s eyes were deep brown and beautiful. They were expressive, and they were calling to him as she continued, “I would love it if you called me Maria.”