by Mae Wood
I downed a Starbucks on my drive, using it to wash down my protein bar breakfast, and nursed my second cup of coffee while screwing around on Facebook. My office. My rules. And if I wanted to catch up on the lives of my middle school acquaintances between patients, no one was going to stop me.
I was immersed in a musical montage of cute cat antics. Made me wish that I’d gotten a new cat after Gal died. Maybe I would. A knock on my door and Diana stepped in, her white coat draped across her shoulders.
“How was the cannoli?” she asked, drawing out the words and trying to make them sound wicked. They only made me hungry. My protein bar hadn’t been enough.
“Had the tiramisu,” I said, not looking up from the montage of cats spectacularly missing jumps.
“No, not like a literal cannoli, but like you know,” her hand cupped in an open fist that she moved up and down.
“I have a teenage boy in my house, I definitely know what you mean. And I’m telling you that I had the tiramisu.”
“That’s a bummer. I know you said your reputation was intact, but I was hoping it hadn’t been left that intact. He seemed really into you. You should have gone for it.”
“Maybe I will,” I said, polishing off my coffee.
“Are you going to see him again? That’s great! I knew he liked you when he kept coming here rather than seeing his own dentist. No one drives out here from downtown just to get their teeth checked. So, tell me about the date.” She settled down in one of the guest chairs and sipped her own coffee.
“Which date?”
“What do you mean which date? The date with the softball MVP,” she said impatiently.
“I know who you’re talking about,” I said, enjoying teasing her. “I’m asking which date with him. We’ve been out three times.”
“Back up,” she said, sticking out an arm to grab my office door by its edge and flinging it closed. “You’ve been out with him three times. And still no cannoli?”
“Correct. No cannoli,” I confirmed with a nod.
“But isn’t that the rule? Cannoli on the third date?”
“You’re asking the wrong girl. Plus, Grady kinda broke up the party on Saturday night.”
“Back up and start again.”
I told her about our Friday night dinner, our impromptu Saturday breakfast that hadn’t followed a sleepover, and Saturday night, even confessing how over the moon I’d been about his call after I’d thought I’d ruined things. I did leave out the bathtub bit. Regardless of how long I’d known her, I wasn’t volunteering that. That bit of naughty joy was for me only. And Thomas.
“Are you going out with him again?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Wednesday we’re having dinner. But it’s a work thing for him.”
“He’s taking you to a work thing?” She rolled her eyes. “Way to wine and dine you.”
“It’s a scheduling thing. Grady is less than happy about me dating, and it’s just easier if he doesn’t know or at least if it isn’t in his face. So weekends are out for me. And Thomas has a lot going on with work. So, I think it’s either this work thing with him on Wednesday or like a month from now when Grady goes camping.”
“You’re happy to go eat rubber chicken in a banquet room with this guy? To make small talk with strangers?”
“Yeah, I guess I am,” I said, locking my computer ahead of my next set of appointments.
“Then I get to make a toast at your wedding.”
“Whoa. Hold your horses. We’ve been out three times.” I counted out fingers to illustrate my point and waved them in between us. “Three.”
“Three times. In three days. And you haven’t had the cannoli yet, I know. But I’ll tell you this. I knew about Stephen after the first date. I know you’ve heard this and I know you’ve never believed me. But when it’s right, it’s right. And three dates in three days, him taking you to a work thing, and you agreeing to go to a work thing with him, I don’t care if you haven’t had dessert yet. He’s somebody to you.”
14
Thomas
Monday, I’d ignored the confusion in my head by focusing on the visiting committee, getting them oriented, introducing them to the folks who would get them any data or report they wanted to review, and assuring them they were completely welcome to walk the floors and conduct their direct observations of patient care.
First up, as I’d expected, was talk about infection rates. Ours were better than the benchmarks, so I was happy we’d start on a positive note. Failing this survey meant losing our accreditation and that meant losing our relationship with Medicare and Medicaid. It also meant I was out of a job with the rest of the C-suite. And I could kiss goodbye whatever position that headhunter had called about. In other words, failure was not an option.
Tuesday was split between the Joint Commission survey team and reviewing projections from our CFO, paying close attention to reimbursement rates and contractual adjustments. But the next day loomed large in my mind. What had I been thinking by inviting Amy to dinner with Dr. Holloway and his wife? It’s a business dinner. It’s not a double date to the malt shop. I thought about cancelling. I thought about telling her that plans had changed and dinner was off, but I’d never lied to a woman before and I didn’t want to start. Instead, I called her, to give her an out if she had the same second thoughts I did.
“Hello,” she answered.
“Hey, Amy.”
“Oh, hey, Thomas. Still on for tomorrow?” No second thoughts on her end, I thought with a smile.
“Absolutely, if you’re still free,” I confirmed with a nod she couldn’t see.
“That I am.”
The conversation wasn’t flowing. I was apprehensive. What if it’s different? What if I’m misremembering? What if I made it all up? We ended the call on a pleasant but forced note, and I reclined into my high-backed desk chair, staring at the flat white ceiling for a beat before checking my watch and calling Nick. His secretary put me through.
“Thomas,” he greeted me warmly. Ten years older than me, he was nearing retirement and I was going to miss him once he went to a life of grandchildren and golf. Though we’d never worked together, our professional acquaintance had morphed into friendship over the past dozen years. And Laurie had set him up with his current wife, a college friend of hers. “How are things?”
“Good. Kids are good. Methodist is good. In the middle of a Joint Commission on-site, but no major surprises so far. Best it can get.”
“You run a tight ship. I know it’s a pain, but that shouldn’t be a worry. You’ll keep your accreditation.”
“Hope so. I like having a job. Speaking of, a headhunter called me and name-dropped you.”
“Did you send her your résumé? Because you should.”
“Absolutely. What’s the scoop?”
“Miss your alma mater?”
“Northwestern or Penn?” I asked, excited about the prospect of either. Hell, even being back in Chicago or Philly would be welcome, but landing a gig at either of those university hospitals would be a dream.
“Penn Med is looking for a new COO. I know you were out of the game for a few years, but you’re ready now.”
“Put me in coach,” I smiled to myself, tapping on my keyboard to pull up the website and see who I knew in the administration there.
“That’s the spirit. The current COO is on his way out, but doesn’t know it yet.”
“And how do you know all this?”
“Chester Lawrence is their CEO. We were at a conference last month and he was bitching about his COO, and I told him about you.”
“Good things, I hope.”
“All good things. Still waiting for you to say you want to move to Texas and work with me.”
“Memphis is hot enough,” I said, declining his long-standing invitation to move to Houston and work with him.
“Now for the questions that I have to ask if I want to be able to tell Emily I talked to you today.”
I didn’t hide my gr
oan. “I’m good. Truly. I’m good. Working out like a normal person and no more Scotch before bed. Only wine and beer in the house.”
“It comes from a good place,” he said softly. “She feels responsible for you.”
“I know she means well, and I’m not going to lie that it wasn’t rough, but I’ve been better for a few years now. And it wasn’t her fault. Laurie was driving. The truck crossed the median.”
“Em knows that, but she still doesn’t quite understand it, if that makes any sense.”
Through all of the years, that was exactly where I was. I knew Laurie was gone, but I’d never fully understand it. Like in the middle of the night when I’d wake up, reach for her, and have to make do with a pillow in my arms. A pillow that wasn’t the love of my life.
My call with Nick tapered to a close and though I enjoyed talking with him, every time we had a Laurie-Emily discussion, I came away drained and distracted. Because the truth of the matter was this—he would go home to his wife and I wouldn’t.
I trudged out of my office, my brain not processing much. Once in the parking deck and behind the wheel of my car, I thought about where I wanted to go for dinner. I ate out most nights. I got up early most mornings to row, worked my ass off all day, and cooking for one was a chore I preferred to avoid. And I was hungry for shrimp and grits. I pulled up to the valet stand, passed off my car, and pushed my way through the heavy oak front door of Pig and Barley.
I was here for dinner at the bar, no different than the many other times I’d done the same. Sure. That’s what I was there for. Dinner and a glass of wine with a heaping side of some spycraft to distract me from my call with Nick and thoughts of Laurie. Amy’s Gabriel Allon would be proud. He also drowned himself in work and spycraft when he lost his wife Leah.
Eight o’clock on a Tuesday in Memphis was well-past prime dinner time, so I had my choice of seats at the bar. I took one and settled in, reviewing the day’s menu even though I knew I was ordering shrimp and grits. Dirty Bombay martini with extra olives to start and a glass of white wine with my dish.
A cocktail napkin landed on the polished reclaimed wood bar in front of me. “What can I get you?”
I looked up from the menu to find a man and not the woman who usually worked behind the bar when I came in for dinner. I ordered my martini and then asked after one of my favorite bartenders in the city. “Is Fischer still working here?”
The man reached for the blue bottle of Bombay. “She’s in New York this week.”
“I like my martinis dirty and she doesn’t hold back. She’s a good bartender.”
“My sister is a lot of things.”
“Fischer is your sister?”
“Yeah, she is. I’m Bert,” he said, pausing his work to shake my hand over the bar. Bert? This is Amy’s ex? Dark almost black hair, swept back from his face and a straight nose over a movie star level of scruff that I couldn’t replicate if I tried. I could see the resemblance to Fischer now that I knew to look for it.
“Thomas,” I replied, releasing my grasp and settling back on my stool. Yeah, so I wanted to see him. Wanted to know about the guy who’d let Amy go, but I never thought I’d talk with him. And I never thought he’d be the tall tattooed guy I’d seen around the restaurant before. “I wouldn’t call myself a regular, but I come in a couple of times a month for a late dinner. Your sister usually takes care of me.”
“Well, I’ll do my best subbing in for her. I’m guessing you’re a weeknight after work guy?”
“That I am.”
“I usually work later in the week.” He placed the drink on the napkin. “Three olives. Shout when you’re ready to order or if you want more olives.” A knock of his knuckles on the bar and he stepped away to polish glasses.
I scrolled around on my phone, telling myself I was catching up on the day’s news, but instead I was on the restaurant’s website. Sure enough, childhood best friends and native Memphians returned home and opened Pig and Barley. A picture of Bert standing in a kitchen with his arms folded across his apron-covered chest. The ink that covered one of his arms. That’s what surprised me most about her ex. The ink.
I flicked my browser back to the news and looked at Bert who was pouring a draft beer. Amy didn’t seem like that. She was squeaky clean and wholesome like a Midwestern farmer’s daughter, even though I knew she was from Connecticut. Her ex read to me like a millennial hipster, not a forty-ish-year-old divorced dad.
I thought about trotting out tricks from spy novels for intelligence gathering. How I could engage him in casual conversation that would allow me to learn about him. To interrogate him. To find out if he’d treated Amy right, as she’d insisted, or if my urge to punch him was justified.
Then I looked at the martini glass and realized that I wasn’t a spy, even if James Bond had started my martini habit. I was a middle-aged hospital administrator who wore reading glasses.
I caught Bert’s eye and ordered my dinner and a glass of sav blanc. I tried to keep my eyes off of him while I ate, but I was a terrible sleuth and kept glancing at him, my head swimming with questions.
I was curious about his relationship with Amy. Wondering what Amy saw in me and how I compared to him in her mind. His dark hair to my gray. He was built in a way that said athlete, while my body said desk jockey who takes the stairs instead of the elevator. Whether he was a good dad to Grady. Whether he was remarried. The lack of a ring on his finger said no, but I was so far from knowing what was cool these days, that I couldn’t be sure.
About his tattoos. Whether they’d always been there. Whether any were about Amy. And I didn’t like that thought. The idea of her permanently inked on him. That his body declared a claim to her. Because no matter what she said, he’d hurt her and he’d let her go.
I knew marriages were complicated. Mine was and it hadn’t ended in divorce. But at the end of the day, he’d let her go. And I didn’t understand that.
Besides the standard “I’m good,” and “thank you,” and “hope to see you again,” Bert and I didn’t speak more and I was fine with it. When the valet brought my car around, I said goodbye to Pig and Barley. I’m sure someplace else in this city served shrimp and grits. But I also knew I’d be back.
15
Amy
At six thirty, I heard his car pull up into my driveway and I grabbed my purse. I looked down at my dress and the tall stilettos that Diana had pressured me to buy. We’d gone shopping for this date that wasn’t really a date. She and I spent Sunday afternoon crawling stores in search of the perfect outfit. Three hours later, I had a black and white striped A-line sundress and shoes that I’d described as “stripper,” but that Diana assured me were much too frumpy for any stripper.
The Frumpy Stripper. I said it was a great name for a bar. She said it was going to be the name of her new Tumblr blog.
But I wasn’t laughing now. I was nervous. I did feel like a frumpy stripper. Middle aged mom, packing an extra fifteen pounds, with her boobs on display and a skirt that barely went past her fingertips. A big exhale and I opened the front door. Nothing ventured . . .
I stepped out to the view of a firm ass, bent over, dark gray suit pants pulled snug against the muscle. He was fit, and the shame of my softness flooded over me, robbing me of the confidence I had mustered up a moment before. The roll under my belly button that never quite disappeared after my pregnancy. The one that since I hit my thirties only seemed to expand every year despite doing Pilates three times a week and living on sad desk salads for lunch. The one I’d finally confessed to Diana that I was nervous about because every outfit I tried on just screamed for Spanx. I was terrified of having a real-life Bridget Jones granny panty moment, but Diana worked her magic and I ended up with some very cheeky high-rise lace panties that kept my baby belly, if I could even remotely call it a baby belly after seventeen years, in check.
“Well, hello there,” I called. He straightened up and turned toward me, a keychain in one hand and a clump of weeds in th
e other. Dark suit, blue shirt that was slightly rumpled after a day’s work and a slightly askew green tie. But those eyes. Those light blue eyes. I’d missed those.
And now they swept over me, taking in my curves and long legs before finally pinging between my face and my cleavage. And I didn’t feel ashamed anymore. I felt desired.
“Hope you don’t mind. Looks like your service missed this crabgrass. I don’t want it invading your nice zoysia,” he said.
“As long as the yard is green, I’m not picky,” I replied. Zoysia. Who knew my lawn was zoysia? Not me. “Let me take those from you,” I said, moving down the few steps of my porch as quickly as a frumpy stripper could with one hand clutching the thin wrought iron rail while reaching out for the weed like it was a bouquet of flowers, a stupid grin on my face telling the world I was happy to see Thomas.
“No, I’ve got it. Believe it or not,” he said, reaching into his car and pulling out a thin plastic shopping bag, “picking up weeds is kind of a compulsion, so I’ve got a little set up in my car to dispose of small yard waste.”
“So instead of practicing random acts of kindness, you practice random acts of gardening?”
“The same thing, isn’t it?” he volleyed back.
I agreed and stepped toward the open passenger door as he tied up the bag of weeds and the wet wipe he’d used to clean his hands.
“You are beautiful,” he said. “May I?”
May I? He was asking? For what? To kiss me? To fuck me right here in the driveway? It didn’t matter. Because the answer to any question was a hell yeah. I didn’t even fully nod in response before his hand cupped my chin, turning it up to his face, and his lips crashed down on mine. Soft and generous and oh-so-warm. The evening sun streamed through the trees, bathing us in its summer beams, but even on this June day, not even coming close to touching the heat that was building between us. His hand slid from my chin and into my hair, his fingers dancing in my curls. I wrapped my arms around his neck, bringing him closer to me, tugging him down so I could give him more.