“I guess so.” Elise gives me a shaky smile. “You’re sweet to try to cheer me up with the pep talk. How’s the heart campaign coming along?”
“It’s going great, but I wasn’t able to get Dr. Perez to chair the Bowled Over event. She’s swamped with other commitments.”
“Oh, too bad,” Elise says, distracted when one of the babies pulls away from her breast and starts to fuss.
“Want me to call the nurse?” I ask.
“No, but can you take Jake for a minute?”
“Sure, hold on a sec.” I run to the door and hold my hands under the antibacterial pump on the wall beside it long enough to disinfect them. Poor little Jake is howling and bright red by the time I take him from Elise.
“Shh, shh,” I croon, carefully cradling him while Elise gently dislodges his twin from her breast.
“Here,” she says handing me a clean cloth. “Put this on your shoulder and burp him like I’m burping Josh.”
“Okay,” I say, even though I’m anxious about holding such a teeny newborn. With excruciating care, I position Jake’s precious body against my cloth-covered shoulder. I have never held anything so delicate in my life. He feels like a fragile bird beneath my hand as I pat his back. My eyes well up thinking about Elise all alone with her babies. The injustice is staggering. Where is the father, I wonder as I angrily blink back tears. It’s not fair that Elise has to be both parents for her babies.
Elise sees my tears and bursts out crying. Great, now we’re a crying orchestra, Elise, the twins and me.
I force a smile on my face so I can cheer her up. “Your sons are beautiful, Elise. You are so lucky.”
“Thank you,” she blubbers. “Don’t mind me, I’m majorly hormonal.”
“I’m feeling a little hormonal too.” I take a trembling breath and change the subject. “Back to the heart campaign…Dr. Perez had a great suggestion. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. I figured it would be impossible because he’s practically a celebrity.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Dr. Alex Escobar. You know, the cardiologist who writes the ‘Heart to Heart’ column.”
“Oh, him,” Elise replies, her tone like a deflated balloon. “He’s not a good choice.”
“Why not? He’s amazing. I read his column every Monday morning, even before I get to the headlines.”
“I don’t like him.”
“How come?” I ask, surprised. What is there not to like about a man who provides excellent insight and hope for heart patients?
Elise starts to say something, but is interrupted by her mom and dad as they return from lunch. They take over with the twins and Elise visibly relaxes. I say my good-byes and promise to call her tomorrow.
On the drive to the station, I’m still rattled by what I just witnessed. Elise sure has her hands full. I’ve never seen her so unhinged and so vulnerable. I haven’t wanted to pry about who the father is and I don’t know if she’s even told him about the twins. Come to think of it, I know close to nothing about Elise’s personal life because she’s very private. Thank God she has a close-knit family who will help her raise the twins. Even with a full-time nanny, she’ll need all the help she can get.
Vinny, the young Cuban intern, intercepts me as I breeze into the WBCG station. He looks excited, but for Vinny that’s normal.
“What’s up?” I ask, noticing the way his big brown eyes bug out.
“Guess who’s here?” he whispers conspiratorially, dying to dish as his dark eyes do the hula hoop.
“Who?” I ask, playing the game.
“Dr. Deviled Ham.”
I grin. That’s exactly what Devon is. “Where is he?” I glance over my shoulder.
“He and Antoinette are having a cozy tête-à-tête in her office,” he says, giving me a wink.
Vinny loves to say things like tête-à-tête and entrez-nous. He’s the only twenty-one-year-old guy I know who does, except maybe a Frenchman. But Vinny isn’t French—he’s a college student majoring in broadcast journalism, with a minor in French. He’s also a smart, good-looking kid with a penchant for mischief who constantly entertains me. You could say he’s the perfect sidekick at work.
“Oops, I just remembered I have a lunch meeting,” I say backtracking toward the entrance. “Please tell Antoinette I’ll be in around four today. Hopefully Dr. Hamme will be long gone by then.”
“Sure thing, cherie,” Vinny says, flashing a deep dimpled smile.
“Thanks.” I dash out of there before Dr. Hamme gets a whiff of my pheromones.
Back in my car, I realize I’m starving. I didn’t really have a lunch appointment. It’s already one o’clock and I can’t think on an empty stomach. I’m tempted to go to Cilantro Grill for their carnitas burrito, but if I’m going to approach Dr. Escobar, I should eat something sensible for lunch.
In last week’s column, Dr. Escobar talked about heart healthy nutrition and mentioned his favorite lunch place was Samantha’s Salads on Ponce de Leon Boulevard. I check the address on my iPhone and realize it’s a few blocks from Dr. Escobar’s office, so I head on over.
The first thing I notice about Samantha’s Salads is its cheery decor with sunflower yellow walls and Mediterranean blue-tiled tables. As I enter, people are lined up waiting to place their orders. I stand at the end of the line and content myself with checking out the food.
Displayed behind the three-tiered glistening glass counter is a colorful array of freshly prepared entrees and an amazing salad section with every conceivable veggie. My mouth waters when I see the tray of chipotle shrimp quesadillas waiting for me to bite into, or the marinated calamari or the Tuscan tuna salad. What do I do? I want them all!
I catch a yummy whiff of baked artisan breads coming out of the oven. To hell with moderation, I think, as I ponder which one I’ll taste and which I’ll take home with me. What would Dr. Escobar think of my gluttony, I wonder sheepishly.
“May I help you?” the slim, middle-aged woman behind the counter asks and I realize it’s my turn. Her long salt-and-pepper hair is pulled back into a ponytail at her nape and she doesn’t have a stitch of makeup, but her skin glows like a young girl’s. Must be the result of all the colorful anti-oxidants she eats.
“I can’t decide what to eat. Everything looks divine.” I gesture toward the row of goodies lined up in the glass counter. “Which is Dr. Escobar’s favorite salad?”
“Who?” She squints at me from beneath furrowed eyebrows.
“Dr. Alex Escobar. The famous cardiologist.”
“Never heard of him.”
“You haven’t?”
When she shakes her head, I surmise she must be a new employee. The owner would know what time Dr. Escobar usually has lunch.
“Is Samantha here today?” I ask, glancing behind the woman, only to find two young guys wearing bright green Samantha’s Salad T-shirts filling orders.
“I am Samantha,” she says, surprising me. If she is the owner, then how can she not know who Dr. Escobar is?
“Dr. Escobar mentioned this restaurant in his ‘Heart to Heart’ column last week.”
“No wonder we’ve had so much business,” Samantha says, beaming at me. “I should probably get a copy of his article and tack it up on the wall.”
“Yes, you should. His column is quite illuminating,” I say with a surge of loyalty, even though I’ve never met the man. I decide not to belabor things by mentioning he has a PhD in epidemiology. She’ll find out when she reads his column.
Samantha smiles and waits for my order.
I don’t get it. If this is Dr. Escobar’s favorite lunch spot, wouldn’t Samantha know him by now? And then I realize why. The man is humble—he probably wants to keep his identity private. Yes, that’s it. He deserves a little time to unwind and enjoy his lunch before rushing back to an office full of patients. A hard-working doctor who saves lives should be able to enjoy his lunch without interruptions by other diners, especially the ones who might ask fo
r medical advice.
“So what’ll you have?” Samantha’s question prods me from my musing and I notice there’s a long line of hungry people impatiently waiting to place their orders.
“Oh, sorry. I’ll have the Greek salad combo with a rosemary ciabatta roll and raspberry white tea.” I pause guiltily. “And can you add two chocolate chip cookies?”
“You got it,” Samantha says, handing me a ticket.
While I wait for my number to be called, I wonder if I’ll be lucky enough to find Dr. Escobar in the crowded eatery. After a quick inventory, no such luck, so I take a seat at the bar facing the window and enjoy a little people watching, Miami-style.
A saucy brunette in her mid-thirties with big, bouncy breasts, a tiny waist and a shapely, high butt struts by on tanned legs wearing high-heeled wedge sandals, teeny white shorts and a bright orange halter-top. Her walk screams boom cheeky boom loud and clear. Yet what draws my attention is not the oversexed look, but her happy-go-lucky attitude. When a guy catcalls, “Shake it don’t break it, Mama,” she rewards him with a sassy grin.
This only happens in Miami. If a curvy girl wore a skimpy outfit like that in mid-town Manhattan, she’d cause an instant traffic jam.
I glance down at my aqua wrap-style dress, noting with dismay there’s nothing boom cheeky boom about it. Still, it’s a big change from my mostly black New York wardrobe. Teeny shorts and a revealing halter top are not my style, but the brunette’s cheeky confidence awakens strange hankerings inside me.
I wish I had her mojo. I love the word mojo—in Spanish it means someone who has magic power. Where is my mojo anyway? I gotta find it before I approach Dr. Escobar. If I put my mind to it, I can be as gutsy as the cheeky brunette.
With that new challenge egging me on, I wolf down my lunch, pay the tab and rush out the door, determined to track down Dr. Escobar.
Romeo: Well, ain’t life grand? Francesca is still at work, but Fizzy just brought up my week’s ration of Doggy Gourmet. Ever since Francesca heard that Oprah’s dogs eat mostly protein, she contacted Doggy Gourmet and now I get amazing meals. Yums! Meat, meat, and more meat!
But I need to rest for all the exercise Francesca’s planning for us. I think I’ll take another snooze until she comes home.
Zzzzzzzzzzzz.
Chapter Eight
I begin to feel anxious the minute I enter Dr. Escobar’s imposing medical building. Sleek in style with huge windows, the place is state-of-the-art modern. By the time the elevator reaches the ninth floor, I’m fidgeting. It’s not the height that’s causing my vertigo—it’s the doctors’ offices and the sterile smell that get to me.
Relax, I tell myself as I stand outside the doctor’s office. I am not here as a patient, I’m here as a medical reporter and to snare Dr. Escobar for the charity event. I take a deep breath and open the door.
Everything looks cool and inviting as I enter the renowned doctor’s domain. This place is more like a European spa than a cardiologist’s office, I’m thinking, as I take in the dove gray walls and the plush, white leather sofas. Nice…but still a medical office.
I ring the bell beside the closed window of the granite reception counter. Seconds later the glass window slides open and I’m greeted by a young, pretty brunette. Looking at her perfect makeup and perfect French manicure, I can tell her job is more decorative than labored.
“Hi, I’m Francesca Lake, WBCG’s medical correspondent,” I say in my TV reporter voice.
She eyes me in a haughty way. “Do you have an appointment with Dr. Escobar?”
I give her a confident smile. “Not yet.”
“Are you a new patient?” Her eyes narrow as she looks me up and down.
I straighten my posture. “Well, not exactly a patient. I was in the area and thought I’d pop in to make an appointment to speak with him.”
From the look on her face I can tell I’ve committed a grave offense. She’s probably thinking no appointment? This is not a walk-in beauty shop.
“I’ll see what he has available,” the receptionist says, but from the look on her face it won’t be until next year. While she checks her computer screen for an opening, I overhear one of the nurses say, “Dr. E just called. His car stalled out and he’s waiting for the tow truck.”
“So much for his workout,” another nurse says. “Where is he?”
“Right off Bird Road and Ponce, near the Equinox Gym at Merrick Park,” the other one answers.
That’s all I need to hear. I check my iPhone and then smile at the receptionist, who is not smiling back. “Never mind. I’ll call for the appointment. I just got an emergency text. Gotta go!” I dash out of there before she answers me.
I get back in my car and head down Ponce de Leon Boulevard. Through the windshield, I notice purple clouds closing in on the sun. Looks like we’re in for a downpour. I cruise down Ponce, past depressing Miracle Mile—depressing because it’s the hub of bridal stores. I near Bird Road and see a tall man beside a car on the swale. As I get closer, my heartbeat accelerates when I realize the man is none other than Dr. Escobar standing beside his stalled black Lamborghini convertible.
Dressed in green scrubs, he’s standing with one hip cocked to the side, scowling behind dark green Ray Ban sunglasses as he scans the approaching cars. He looks so intimidating, I’m tempted to pass him by, but he is a doctor in distress and it’s my civic duty to help him. Ha, who am I kidding? This is just the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.
I pull my Jetta in right behind his car and my heart starts thudding against my chest. Calm down, so what if he looks annoyed? It’s warm and muggy today and he’s probably like most men—obsessed with his wheels.
Okay, deep breath, big smile. Time to work my mojo.
I step out of my car and saunter over, putting a little hip-swaying oomph in my walk. Up close Dr. Escobar is an imposing presence—exotic and sleek like his Lamborghini. His powerful build towers over my five foot four height and he is muy caliente. (I didn’t expect any less). I swallow hard against the shakiness in my throat and try not to stare at the tuft of dark hair peeking above the V of his scrub shirt.
“Can I help you?” I ask in an abnormally high voice. “Do you need a ride?”
When Dr. Escobar takes off his sunglasses to peer at me, I’m nearly blindsided by the intensity of his Cuban espresso-colored eyes. His tanned, chiseled face has a stubborn jaw and an equally stubborn cleft in the middle of his chin. He has coarse black hair, close-cropped to tame the wave in it. Whoa, his picture in the newspaper column doesn’t do this Latin hunk justice.
I take a quick glance at his left hand. Dr. Escobar is not only a hunk…he’s single!
His deep-set eyes give my aqua wrap dress a quick once-over and then he turns his attention to my flushed face. “Did the towing company send you?”
No, but I’m here to rescue you just the same, Dr. Dessert.
I clear my throat and pray my voice doesn’t come out squeaky again. “Dr. Escobar, my name is Francesca Lake. I’m the medical reporter for WBCG News.”
He shakes my hand and I am thrilled to have it engulfed in his firm grasp. “What happened to Elise Richards?” His deep voice has a hint of a Cuban accent.
“Elise gave birth to twins.”
“She did? When?” He eyes me with curiosity.
“Uh, recently,” I say, stalling. No sense in divulging more when I’m the one replacing her. “I’m covering for her temporarily,” I explain, hoping that doesn’t lessen his interest in giving me an interview.
He still looks put out at being stranded. “So why are you here?”
Why am I here? Because I’m single and you’re perfect.
Stop thinking nonsense and get on the ball, Frankie, your job requires it. But who can think of work now? The man is simply divine.
I give him an appreciative glance. “I am a huge fan of your column,” I say, feeling like a teenage groupie. “Your work in epidemiology is amazing.” Dr. Escobar’s medical pedigree is awesom
e. He’s a cardiologist and an epidemiologist, which gives him advanced knowledge about the cause and prevention of human disease. It’s quite a boon for his patients with coronary disease.
“Oh? You’ve read my articles?” He is not smiling—yet—but I detect a certain softening in his demeanor and definite interest.
“Your articles and your book, Trans Fat—The Heart’s Enemy. Fascinating,” I say reverently. And so are you, Dr. Dreamboat.
“Thank you.” Dr. Escobar’s expression brightens and the hard contours of his mouth relax a bit. “Why does epidemiology interest you so much?”
In a rush, I tell him about my mother’s recent heart attack, how I am spearheading the WBCG Heart Miami campaign, and that it would be an extreme honor to interview him on our news show.
When I finish my breathless ranting, I notice he’s staring at me. “When would I be on TV?”
Wow, he gets right to the point. “As soon as you like,” I say right away. “I have control over this campaign. It’s my baby.”
He shifts his stance and takes out a white linen handkerchief to mop the sweat from his face. “Damn, it’s hot out here.”
You’re hot. “We can wait for the tow truck in my car, if you like,” I offer.
“Good idea.” He nods and I’m happy to see the stiffness is gone from his shoulders as he takes a step forward.
I’m so eager when he agrees that I drop my keys, and when we both lean forward to pick them up, we bump heads hard.
“Sorry.” I sheepishly rub my head. “You okay?” Great, now he knows I am a klutz who spazzes out when I’m nervous.
“I’ll survive,” he says wryly, handing me the keys.
Get a grip now or you’re going to blow your chances with Dr. Escobar. Clutching my keys, I click the car lock open. When we’re inside, I turn on the ignition and hike up the air conditioning fan to the highest level.
“Now that’s more like it.” His stern mouth relaxes into a stunning, white-toothed smile. I can’t believe my luck. I am sitting in my car with none other than Dr. Alex Escobar.
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