Reunion in October (The Calendar Girls Book 2)

by Gina Ardito

  A snicker came from behind me, and I whirled. Helena held the patient chart clipboard to shield the lower half of her face from me, but amusement sparkled in her eyes.

  Joshua was either oblivious to Helena’s reaction, or he didn’t care. “So?” he prodded. “I’ll pick you up at your place around nine? What do you say?”

  On a deep inhale, I mentally pulled myself together. “I say I don’t see my patients socially, Mr. Candolero.”

  “Really? In a town like this, that must make you some kind of hermit.”

  That remark hit close to my bones. Too close. I didn’t exactly do a lot of socializing these days. My vacation last month in Costa Rica was my first time off in six years. Five years ago, when my fiancé and I called off our wedding, weeks before the big event, I lost all interest in romance and fun. I dug into my work, especially since my job—or the fact I wouldn’t abandon my job—was the reason Michael had practically ditched me at the altar. Even the vacation I’d finally taken had been a dual package: one half roughing it in the rain forest, the second half spa relaxation. No nightclubs, no long walks on the beach in the moonlight, no cocktails on the veranda overlooking the sea. Aside from the guides and employees of the resort, I spent most of my time alone. Happily, gloriously alone.

  “So, nine o’clock’s good for you then?”

  I shook my head. “I told you, I don’t date my patients.”

  “I’m not a patient.”

  Looking down on his current position—lying in a hospital bed while I tended to him—I couldn’t hold back my snort.

  “Not a real patient.” He spread his arms as wide as the bed rails would allow. “Okay, I admit, I’m in here a lot lately. But all my injuries are superficial. And I’m running out of body parts to wound just to spend some time with you.”

  “You mean…?” Words failed me. Had he been purposely injuring himself to see me here? No. That was ridiculous. Machiavellian, even. “How’d you know I’d even be here to treat you?”

  He shrugged. “I call the hospital, say I’m your brother, Frankie, and ask to speak with you. The receptionist always tells me your shift hours. I’m surprised she hasn’t asked me why I can’t reach you at home.”

  Helena could no longer contain her laughter. “If I were you, Dr. Florentino, I’d say yes to nine o’clock,” she said through raucous chuckles.

  A flush of heat rose from my throat to my cheeks. “How about we get him stitched up first?”

  He yanked the papery pillow from behind his head and covered his face. “Nope. Not ‘til you answer me.”

  Helena’s laughter grew louder. I, however, was not amused. “Don’t make me restrain you, Mr. Candolero.”

  “Don’t call me ‘Mr. Candolero,’” he replied through his makeshift shield. “That’s my dad. I’m Josh.”

  I exhaled a sigh of frustration. “Come on, Josh. I don’t have time for games.” I tugged on the pillow, but I might as well fight a bear over a salmon. “You’re going to be strapped to that bed, pal, if you don’t remove this thing.”

  Thwip! The pillow disappeared, and Josh came back into view, his eyes rounded in an exaggerated leer. “Is that a promise?” I had to smile at his antics, and he apparently took that as encouragement. “So that’s a yes, right? I’ll pick you up at your place at nine?”

  My mind swimming in a tidal wave of nerves, I glanced between Josh’s eagerness and Helena’s bemused expression.

  Helena leaned toward me. “Go for it, Doctor,” she murmured, then winked. “I would.”

  “Yeah?” Josh sat up again. “If Doc turns me down, you wanna hit Promises, Promises with me? We’ll slam some tequila and dance the night away.”

  The fact that Helena was fifty-eight, married, and a grandmother made a mockery of his invitation, but she giggled and blushed all the same. “Oh, you are a devil,” she said, slapping his forearm.

  “If you two have finished making your plans for the evening,” I said stiffly, “I’d like to seal that wound before he bleeds out.”

  Josh clucked his tongue and folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t know,” he told Helena. “She sounds jealous to me. What do you think?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I snapped. “Could we get on with this, please? I have other patients to see.”

  “There’s a simple solution,” he replied with a smirk. “Repeat after me.” He clasped his hands near one cheek and pitched his voice as high as his testosterone levels would allow. “‘Oh, Josh, what a wonderful idea! I’d love to go out with you. Of course you can pick me up at nine.’ Now, you try. Ready, set, go.”

  “Josh, please.”

  “Nuh-uh-uh.” He shook a finger at me. “Just like we rehearsed, Frannie. ‘Oh, Josh…’”

  Frannie? When had I gone from Doc to Frannie? I glared at him, and he rolled his hands to spur me on.

  I let out a tremendous sigh. “Okay, fine. Pick me up at nine. Happy now?”

  Flashing a thumbs-up at Helena, he settled against the wafer-thin mattress, completely still. “Deliriously happy. Now fix me up so we can both go back to work. I can’t believe how slow you guys are here. A person could bleed out in this emergency room.”

  I had to bite back my laughter as I applied the surgical glue to keep my hands from shaking. The last thing I needed was the town’s female population blaming me for permanently scarring Snug Harbor’s Adonis. The Adonis who’d just asked me out. And I’d agreed to accompany to a dance club tonight.

  Good grief. Before I went home today, maybe I should stop in radiology. Have my head examined.

  Chapter 2

  Emily

  Dr. Jayne Herrera looked more like a Victoria’s Secret model than a veterinarian. I wanted to hate her, not only because of her tall, curvy figure, and thick, espresso-colored hair with just the right amount of curl, but also for the cold, clinical way she surveyed me with her golden doe eyes. I wanted to hate her.

  She won me over when I scooped Freckles out of his carrier. Her eyes softened, and her expression turned from clinical to pudding. The dog curled on his side on the exam table, a brown and white comma, immobile. “Poor sweetie,” she cooed while her hands ran over him from snout to tail. “How long has he been like this?”

  “My son found him in the hall this morning. He wouldn’t get up or even wag his tail. I had to lift him into the carrier.”

  She nodded, propping up his face to look into his eyes with a penlight. “Did you notice any odd behavior or symptoms before this morning?”

  “Well…” I hesitated. I was about to reveal how truly negligent I was as a pet owner. “His appetite’s been off the charts for a week or two, and he seemed to be moving slower and slower each day. He also urinated on the kitchen floor twice in the last few days. I thought about cutting back on his water because he’s drinking a lot more, but I didn’t have the heart to keep him thirsty. I know I probably should have brought him here sooner…” What could I say? I didn’t have any vacation time left at work? It was the truth, but as excuses went, it sucked wind.

  “Actually, I don’t think your timing is that far off,” Dr. Herrera said and rolled him over slightly to palpate different areas of his belly while listening with her stethoscope. “I would imagine his other symptoms probably seemed like the onset of old age, except the excessive appetite. Is he shedding a lot?”

  I thought back to last night when I noticed the few bald patches near his back legs. “Yes.”

  “And Freckles is fifteen now, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  A vet tech, a blond girl in her early twenties wearing way too much green eye shadow, strolled into the examination room with a tray laden with hypodermic needles, tiny bottles of clear liquid, probes, and assorted other paraphernalia. Inside my purse, my checkbook died of heart failure. This was going to cost me big time. I just knew it.

  “I’m going to draw some blood and do a urine culture,” Dr. Herrera continued, “but I’m fairly cert
ain he has Cushing’s disease.”

  “Is that…” I swallowed hard. “…treatable?” And how much would it cost me?

  She sighed and looked at me with her big Bambi eyes. “I won’t honestly know until I run a battery of tests. There are varied types and degrees of Cushing’s disease. In Freckles’ case, I’m guessing the underlying cause is a tumor, but I won’t know where the tumor is located without an MRI or CT scan.”

  An invisible cash register rang wildly in my ears. For a human, an MRI usually cost a minimum of a thousand dollars. How much would it cost for a dog?

  My panic must have shown on my face because the vet sighed and took my hand. Her fingers were warm and her touch, gentle. “Mrs. Handler, I’ll be honest with you. I have every reason to believe I’ll find a pituitary tumor, which is inoperable. Freckles is fifteen. If I’m right, his prognosis is not good. I’m willing to do the tests to be sure, but I think you and I both know what the results will be. Cushing’s itself isn’t a death sentence. There are medications that might work for him, but they alleviate symptoms. They don’t cure the condition. And his advanced age is a detriment.”

  I nodded. If I were honest with myself, I’d admit I kinda suspected he was dying a week ago. I just chose to bury my fear for the dog the same way I buried a lot of other fears in my life. Like an ostrich, I was really good at pushing my head into the sand. “What should I do?”

  “For starters, I think you should talk it over with your husband. Discuss what’s feasible for you.”

  Talk with Roy. Because we excelled at communication these days. He didn’t even know about today’s vet appointment. Besides, I knew what he’d say. We couldn’t afford regular medication for a dog who’d already outlasted his life expectancy. Roy wasn’t cruel; he was a realist. Without the health insurance we got from his job at the hospital, we wouldn’t be able to afford the occasional prescription for the kids. Unfortunately, our insurance carrier didn’t consider Freckles a covered dependent, even if we thought of him as a close member of the family. Tears clogged my throat, and I nodded at Dr. Herrera’s questioning look. “I understand. What happens now?”

  “I’ll keep Freckles here overnight to run the tests, and I’ll do a CT scan for confirmation. I can call you with the results, if you like, or you can call me tomorrow after ten. And of course, in the meantime, if either you or your husband has any questions or wants clarification on anything, you can call me. I’ll give you my private number.”

  Her private number. In all the years I’d come to Snug Harbor Veterinary, Dr. Bautista had never given me his private number. Of course, in all fairness, Freckles had never been this sick before, either.

  Dr. Herrera’s fingers clasped mine again, squeezed gently. “I’ve read his entire file, Mrs. Handler. Freckles had a wonderful life with you and your family. Fifteen years is an extraordinary life span. Sometimes, our furry friends know it’s time to go and prefer to leave this world with dignity.”

  Gratitude overwhelmed me. This woman, this stranger, seemed to understand my fears and knew exactly what to say to comfort me. Which made what I’d heard about her background ridiculous. “Are you really from Brooklyn?” I blurted.

  She pulled away from me, face pale. “Of course I am.”

  Great. I’d insulted her. How could I apologize and explain without shoving my foot farther into my mouth? Somehow I doubted the excuse that she seemed “too nice” to come from Brooklyn would win me friendship points. Roy always warned me my words often jumped too fast for my brain. I finally settled for, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  Dr. Herrera relaxed and offered a smile, icy at the corners. “It’s okay. I get it.” Lifting Freckles, she passed him off to the vet tech. “Put him in cage three,” she said, then turned to me. “Do you want to say goodbye?”

  I flinched. “For good?”

  “No,” she said hastily. “Just for tonight.”

  I stepped closer to the young lady cradling Freckles and rubbed his head. His soulful gaze connected with me, and I understood what Dr. Herrera had hinted. I sensed my dog’s pain, his exhaustion, his need for me to let him go. “I’m gonna do what’s right, boy,” I murmured, “I promise.”

  The tech headed for the doorway and paused to wave a fat brown paw. “Bye-bye, Mommy.” She mimicked a child’s tone.

  My breath caught, and my heartbeat hitched.

  “That’ll do, Miranda,” the vet admonished.

  The young girl blushed a deep red and ducked her head. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  Great. My callousness was contagious. I waved off her apology. What else could I do?

  Apparently, Dr. Herrera wasn’t satisfied. As soon as the tech left the exam room with Freckles, the vet closed the door and turned back to me, arms folded over her chest. “I really am sorry. I doubt she intended to be unkind. She’s young and inexperienced, but not mean. Believe me, I know mean. That’s not it.”

  Numb from the morning’s events, I didn’t pursue that statement. “I know,” I said instead. “It’s okay. Really.” That familiar ache bloomed in my chest. Heartburn. Too much coffee, not enough healthy stuff. I glanced at the clock above the window. “I have to go to work. You said I could call you after ten tomorrow?”

  “Yes, unless you’d prefer I call you.”

  “No,” I answered in half a breath. “The kids. I mean…”

  Smiling, she held up a hand. “Trust me. I understand.”

  I stood for a long minute, shuffling from one foot to the other, awkward as a teenager in front of her first crush. “Umm…thank you,” I murmured and backed toward the exit.

  “My pleasure,” she replied and walked me out, a manila folder in her hand. Once we stood in the narrow waiting area, she plopped the folder on the receptionist’s desk.

  Becky, Dr. Bautista’s administrative assistant, flipped it open and began punching in numbers on a calculator. “That’ll be one hundred twenty eight dollars,” she said brightly.

  I dropped the pet carrier I’d used to bring in Freckles and pulled out my checkbook with trembling hands. I glanced at my balance, and the indigestion in my belly burned hotter. I had exactly $63.72 in my account until I got paid two days from now. “Can I give you fifty today, and I’ll pay the rest later?”

  Becky lowered her jewel-rimmed glasses on her nose and shared a questioning glance with Dr. Herrera, who—thank God—nodded.

  After writing out the check and handing it to Becky, I looked up at the new vet again. “Thanks again. Nice meeting you.”

  “Same here.” She nodded and returned to the exam room.

  Meanwhile, Becky took my check, stamped the back of it, and called out, “Bootsie Garcia? Dr. Herrera will see you now.”

  An elderly lady rose and tugged on a leash, jerking a Great Dane to its massive paws. “Come on, Bootsie,” she sing-songed at the gigantosaur. “That’s us.”

  Bootsie. Good grief. I slipped out of the office into the crisp autumn air, and after a deep breath for courage to face the rest of my day, strode to my minivan for the trip to work. A day full of keys locked in cars, fender benders, and the occasional vandalism call waited for my placid intervention.

  Later, I’d have to intervene with Roy and the kids.

  ****

  Francesca

  After work, I sped home, my mind focused on the contents of my closet. What exactly should I wear to Promises, Promises? With Josh Candolero. My wardrobe consisted of work scrubs, a few dress slacks, and a silk dress or two—grown-up clothes that didn’t fit my date or my destination with him. I’d never considered myself vain, but I was human. I didn’t want anyone to mistake me for Josh’s mom, for God’s sake. I only had one option and I dreaded it. Swallowing my pride, I called my younger sister, Claudia, aged twenty-five and close enough to my size to make a clothing swap possible.

  By eight forty-five, I looked like nobody’s mother. Claudia had rushed over with a dozen different alternatives. I’d finall
y settled on a pair of black jeans, a beaded silk top in shimmering forest green that scalloped around my waist, and my own shoes—a strappy pair of black spiky heels I’d nicknamed my gladiator sandals.

  “Perfect,” she confirmed as I stepped into the living room.

  “Thanks,” I replied and did a little hip wiggle.

  Claudia, curled up on my sofa, tucked one bare foot under the opposite thigh. Her sneakers cluttered my carpet. Clearly, she had no intention of leaving just yet. I glanced at my watch. Josh would be here any minute.

  “So you and Josh Candolero, huh?” she said with a smirk. “I gotta admit I didn’t see that one coming.”

  I stiffened in my sassy heels. “Why not?”

  “Well, for starters, I thought you would have married what’s-his-face by now.”

  What’s-his-face? Nice. I’d dated the man for ten years before we became engaged, and she couldn’t even say his name. Annoyance heated to outrage. “Michael. His name is Michael.”

  “Well, of course I know that.” She shrugged. “You haven’t said his name since the day he left. Mom told us all to tread carefully, that you were still hung up on him.”

  “Mom is the one who’s hung up on him. She keeps holding out hope he’ll come back and things will return to what they were. For God’s sake, she’s got my wedding dress hanging in her closet, waiting for the day he and I finally say, ‘I do.’ He won’t come back, I’m not going to marry him, and I’m not going to fall apart if you mention his name.”

  “Okay, then. I’m glad we got that settled.”

  “Yeah, me, too.” When she stretched her legs across the cushions, I added, “Thanks for your help. You can go home now, Claudia.”

  “Nuh-uh.” She fluffed up the throw pillow at her neck and propped her elbows behind her head. “I wanna see him.”

  My bones sagged in defeat. “You what?”