The Doc's Double Delivery & Down-Home Diva

by Jacqueline Diamond

  “How do you balance a checking account?” the girl asked. “Never mind, my parents won’t let me have one. By the way, we’re going to the French Fox. Grandma’s arranged with the management to charge it to her. She wouldn’t trust me with a credit card.”

  “The French Fox? I’m impressed.” The restaurant, tucked onto a sidestreet off Sunset Boulevard, was famous for its continental cuisine. It seemed fancy for a twelve-year-old. “Did your grandmother choose it?”

  “No, I did,” said Angela.

  “You like French food?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation before she replied, “A lot of ballet people eat there.”

  “Speaking of which, how’s the talent show going?”

  The girl launched into an animated description of the first rehearsal. She went into detail about one boy who performed a magic act.

  “Has he asked you out?” Chelsea inquired as they cruised along Sunset, approaching the dazzling brightness of the billboard-laden Sunset Strip.

  “Not yet, but I bet he will,” the girl said. “Mom probably won’t let me go out alone with him. Of course, he’s too young to drive, anyway. Marek would have to chauffeur us. That’s okay. Marek’s cool.”

  Angela had gone through a lot of mental arrangements for a date she hadn’t even made yet, Chelsea reflected. Much as the girl complained about her mother’s tendency to overmanage her life, she had some of the same organizational leanings.

  That could be an asset, depending on the circumstances, Chelsea supposed. She herself preferred to let life happen without a lot of planning.

  If she’d planned ahead, she might have had a high-stress career instead of a series of interesting, if underpaid, receptionist jobs. She’d also likely have chosen a roommate who paid her rent, but never loaned her any interesting clothes.

  “Are you dating anyone in particular?” Angela asked as Chelsea turned onto a side street.

  “No.” She couldn’t resist adding, “Got someone in mind?”

  “I might.”

  What kind of adult male would Angela encounter that she’d want to fix up with Chelsea? “Don’t tell me he’s a ballet dancer!”

  “Certainly not,” the girl said indignantly. “Some of them are cute, but they’re not your type.”

  “What is my type?”

  “Opposites attract,” said Angela.

  “Not in my case,” Chelsea assured her.

  “That depends on the guy,” said her passenger. “I mean, if he was really, really cute…”

  “Don’t go there,” she said, beginning to suspect who her young friend had in mind.

  “Okay,” said Angela. She didn’t sound at all convincing.

  6

  IN FRONT OF the restaurant, a valet collected the car. Chelsea liked the convenience of valets and never worried about her car being damaged. Maybe that was because she knew that if they wanted to go drag racing, they’d take somebody’s sports car, not her aging hatchback.

  She’d heard about a valet who’d smashed a $170,000 Ferrari into a tree while showing off for his friends. Too bad she hadn’t been there to see the expressions on everyone’s faces when it happened.

  Steps led up to the restaurant entrance. Inside, murals of vineyards festooned the walls. The lobby was small, carpeted and hushed, with several series of small rooms leading away from it.

  Angela peered around uncertainly. “You can’t see much in here, can you?”

  “I think that’s the idea,” Chelsea said. “It’s supposed to feel like a private club.”

  The girl tapped her foot. “You can’t people-watch very well, though.”

  “You mean in case any movie stars show up?”

  “Something like that.” The girl marched to the tuxedoed host at the front desk and spoke with him in low tones. They were speaking French, which Angela’s school taught beginning in kindergarten.

  The man bowed and, after tucking a couple of menus under his arm, led them through a series of rooms to a slightly larger chamber in the back. En route, Chelsea spotted an actress from one of her favorite sitcoms and a TV newscaster with his family.

  She wished she’d worn something dressier than her purple velvet tube top and red sheath skirt. Actually, she didn’t own anything dressier, but she could have borrowed an outfit from Starshine.

  There were five tables in their chamber, two of them already occupied. Although Chelsea caught a few questioning looks as she and Angela were seated, she held her head high. For all anyone knew, she might be a millionaire following the latest L.A. garbage-fashion trend.

  She studied her menu. The entrees cost about thirty dollars, and that didn’t include salad or side dishes. Thank goodness Grace was paying.

  “Let’s pig out,” Angela said.

  “I don’t want to take advantage of your grandmother.” Chelsea frowned, trying to figure out the French descriptions. What was all this stuff anyway?

  “She said it’s good for me to learn how to eat in a nice restaurant,” the girl said. “Let’s start with appetizers. Then soup. I hear the lobster bisque is out of this world.”

  “You order,” Chelsea said. “I like to live dangerously.”

  They had just been served one order of baked Brie and another of shrimp salad—Angela had decreed that they should try different dishes and share—when the host brought new arrivals to an empty table.

  Directly behind him came a tall, striking woman, her long hair highlighted with strands of chestnut, brown and copper. A slinky silver evening gown draped her bony figure. She had high, patrician cheekbones, bee-stung lips and a dissatisfied expression.

  As she spotted Chelsea and Angela, her nostrils flared in distaste. It seemed like an overreaction to their less-than-elegant clothing. Chelsea wished she’d worn a bone through her nose just to see what kind of reaction that might have provoked.

  Then she spotted the man taking a seat opposite Miss Priss. It was Barry, elegant if a bit ill at ease in a dark silk suit.

  “Did you know he was going to be here?” Chelsea demanded.

  Angela ducked her head. “I heard my mom talking to Philippa on the phone. I can’t understand why my parents fixed them up. Philippa’s a pain in the neck. I figured he might need rescuing.”

  So this was why Angela had invited her here tonight. The girl must have some peculiar idea about matchmaking.

  By comparison, Starshine’s oddball Easter egg hunt wouldn’t have been such a bad way to spend the evening, after all.

  BARRY’S SOCIAL EFFORTS in Los Angeles seemed doomed to be not just failures but catastrophes. There had been that night with Chelsea a week ago, which he didn’t dare think about, and now there was, well, Philippa von Harrigan.

  Cindi had given him the impressive resumé by phone. Her friend was a wealthy divorcée eager to have children, she’d assured him. The woman owned a small cosmetics firm and a home in a prestigious area.

  He hadn’t minded when his date informed him, by e-mail, that he was taking her to an expensive French restaurant. Although it would strain his budget, at least it should give them a chance to get acquainted without disruption.

  The evening had not started well, however. Philippa had kept Barry waiting for half an hour in her hotel-size living room while she talked business on the phone. When she finally rang off, she’d gazed with displeasure upon his new suit. He gathered that she had expected him to arrive in a tuxedo.

  Outside, faced with his sports car, she’d balked. At first he’d believed she simply disliked the prospect of folding herself into such a low-riding vehicle.

  However, she’d disabused him of that notion. “I couldn’t possibly be seen in such a middle-class make of car. You’re a doctor. You should be driving a BMW, at least.”

  Cindi must not realize how obnoxious Philippa was, he’d thought. Surely she wouldn’t have knowingly recommended a woman who instructed her dates on how to transform themselves to suit her taste.

  Out of respect for Andrew and Cindi, however
, he held his peace and rode with Philippa in her Mercedes coupe. She yakked on her cell phone the whole time she was driving, which was not only rude but dangerous as she wove through traffic with one hand on the wheel.

  She must have some redeeming qualities, Barry told himself. Surely they would reveal themselves soon.

  At the restaurant, the maître d’ fawned over her, since apparently she came here often. A distinguished-looking older couple, who were departing, greeted her warmly, and Philippa switched on the charm. Barry noticed that she emphasized the title “doctor” when she introduced him.

  All week, he’d been puzzled by the lavish attention paid to him because of his profession. What if he had some other occupation? Would he be any less interesting or intelligent?

  The only woman he was certain had liked him for himself was Chelsea. And she was the one person he absolutely had to put out of his mind.

  She was, he acknowledged, an efficient and cheerful receptionist. She was also unconventional and outspoken. Barry had overheard her tell one mother, who’d been harping about having to wait, that it had only been five minutes and she should park her rear end and wait her turn.

  Another time, he’d heard Chelsea apologize when the wait ran long due to an emergency. Then she’d gone downstairs and returned with ice-cream cones for all the children, at her own expense.

  Since she was on his mind, perhaps it was understandable that, as he followed Philippa into a small chamber, Barry imagined for a moment that a woman across the room resembled Chelsea. His seat faced away from her, however, and he put the woman out of his mind. Being polite to his date was going to take all his resources.

  When the waiter arrived, she ordered caviar and a scotch. Barry sighed. He’d have to stick to peanut butter sandwiches for the rest of the month after he paid for this meal.

  There was no point in worrying about it. Since he was unlikely to patronize this restaurant again for some time to come, he might as well enjoy himself. He ordered the smoked salmon appetizer.

  “I simply don’t believe they allowed those two tramps to come in dressed like that.” Philippa sniffed.

  “Which tramps?” Barry realized she was staring past him at the woman who reminded him of Chelsea and at her companion. He decided against turning around to take a better look. “Just ignore them.”

  “I try to avoid that sort,” Philippa said. “Seeing them in here makes it hard for me to enjoy myself.”

  “Would you like to switch places with me?” Barry asked.

  “I’d still feel their presence. It’s like knowing there’s a fly buzzing around the room even when you can’t hear it.”

  He gritted his teeth and struggled to control his temper. He was trying to get to know this woman, when apparently the only thing she cared about was whether their fellow diners met her standards.

  Maybe it would help if he imagined her to be a member of a bizarre native cult. The rituals and beliefs might be incomprehensible to him, but on Prego Prego Barry had tried hard not to be judgmental. Surely he could extend the same courtesy to Philippa.

  “How did you meet Cindi?” he asked, seeking a safe subject.

  “We both used to be on the board of FOB.” She obviously assumed he knew what the initials stood for. Something to do with the opera and ballet, Barry recalled his aunt saying. “At first I thought she was rather dull, but then I discovered she has a law degree. Did you know that?”

  His cousin’s wife had practiced until her second child was born, when she’d decided she disliked spending so much time away from her family. “Yes, I admire her for…”

  “She had a position with a very important law firm, I understand,” Philippa continued. “I can’t imagine why she gave it up.”

  Although he’d intended to say that he admired the sacrifice Cindi had made, bringing it up now would only create conflict. Still, Barry was curious to know more about his date’s desire to start a family. “I understand you want children.”

  “Of course I do.” Philippa barely glanced at the waiter as he set their appetizers on the table, along with her drink. “One simply must have children. A girl and boy, like Cindi and Andrew have, don’t you think?”

  “I didn’t realize it was a choice,” Barry said.

  “I’m sure one can arrange such things these days.” Philippa toyed with her caviar. He wondered if she’d ordered the most expensive hors d’oeuvre on the menu simply on principle.

  “Kids take a lot of time and attention,” he said. “As a pediatrician, I believe children need strong parental involvement.”

  “Yes, well, they can get that from their nanny,” said Philippa. “I simply don’t believe those two women! They’re sharing their appetizers. How tacky!”

  “Maybe they’d like to try some of your caviar,” Barry couldn’t resist saying.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I was joking.”

  “I should hope so!” She fiddled with her drink, then reached into her purse. “I’ve got to have a smoke.”

  “I didn’t think that was allowed.” Smoking was banned at all indoor restaurants in California.

  “In a place like this, who’s going to notice?” She took out a cigarette. He wondered if he was expected to play the gentleman and light it, and if so whether that would make him equally culpable. Before he could decide what to do, she lit it herself.

  A couple of other diners shot irritated glances in their direction. With luck, Barry thought, they’d summon the maître d’ and demand that he and Philippa leave. If he had his way, they’d finish their meal at a Burger King drive-thru.

  The waiter, arriving to take their orders for entrées, regarded the cigarette in dismay. “Madame, I’m afraid you’ll have to put that out.”

  “No one minds,” Philippa said. “There doesn’t need to be a scene unless you make one.”

  Barry’s sympathies lay entirely with the waiter. The man didn’t want to antagonize a patron, yet he was required to enforce the law.

  Seeing that he wasn’t backing off, Philippa gave an exaggerated sigh and snuffed out the cigarette on her plate. “There. Are you satisfied?”

  “Thank you, Madame. Now, may I recommend tonight’s specials?”

  Barry chose a chicken dish. Philippa picked the lobster. After the waiter left, she said, “Don’t give him a tip. What an insufferable man!”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Mentally, Barry made a note to increase the tip. The man had earned it.

  Smoke lingered in the air. A woman nearby began coughing, and she and her husband departed, leaving their desserts unfinished.

  After witnessing such inconsideration, Barry knew there was no future for him and Philippa. Because she was a friend of Cindi’s, though, he wanted to let her down easy.

  “I have to be honest with you,” he said. “Although I’m a doctor, I’m not in your league financially.”

  “You could be,” Philippa said. “All you have to do is learn to perform liposuctions and breast implants.”

  “I’m a pediatrician,” Barry said.

  “Lots of teenage girls are having plastic surgery,” she said.

  This was getting them nowhere. “I’m not making myself clear,” he said. “I don’t think you and I…”

  “I don’t believe it!” His date stared past him. “That odious girl is coming over here! Don’t look, you’ll only encourage her.”

  “What girl?” He’d had the impression there were two women behind them.

  “The one who was sharing her food.” Philippa stared at the ceiling, pointedly ignoring the young woman who marched past Barry.

  He caught only a flash of short brown hair and fluttery pink dress before the girl collapsed to her knees, clutched her chest and announced in dramatic tones, “I can’t breathe!”

  Uttering a series of coughs worthy of Mimi in La Boheme, she feigned a swoon onto the carpet, then popped one eye open and demanded, “Is there a doctor in the house?”

  It was Angela, he registered wi
th mingled amusement and annoyance. Apparently he’d been right when he thought he spotted Chelsea earlier. What were the two of them doing here?

  While Barry was debating whether to applaud her performance or yank her to her feet, Philippa let out a hiss. “For pity’s sake! The riffraff they’re letting in these days!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Angela, loud enough for everyone in the small room to hear. “I didn’t mean to break the rules or inconvenience anyone. On the other hand, if someone hadn’t smoked a cigarette, I wouldn’t be suffocating.” She uttered a couple more coughs for good measure.

  Two diners chuckled. Philippa’s face flushed with anger. “I’ll have you arrested!”

  “For what?” Angela demanded.

  “I’ll do worse than that,” Barry said. “I’ll tell your parents.”

  “Her parents? Do you know them?”

  “Philippa, this is Cindi’s daughter, Angela,” he said.

  His date’s furious expression lapsed into confusion. “She’s changed so much I didn’t recognize her. I don’t understand why she’s acting like this.”

  “Neither do I,” Barry said.

  Angela stared at them awkwardly. Now that her dramatic moment had passed, she was at a loss for words.

  “Excuse me.” Chelsea’s voice from behind sent warm tingles across Barry’s skin. “I have to apologize. I had no idea you’d be here, Dr. Cantrell. Angela! Let’s go finish our meal.”

  He didn’t like being called Dr. Cantrell away from the office, Barry discovered. Maybe that was because he wished rather urgently that it was Chelsea sitting across from him instead of Philippa.

  When she moved into full view, reaching for Angela’s hand, he saw that her tube top and tight skirt were indeed out of place in these surroundings. They were also incredibly alluring.

  In contrast to Philippa, Chelsea was bright and spunky and down-to-earth. He doubted she would care who saw her in his midpriced sports car or what kind of suit he wore. Except, Barry reminded himself, he wasn’t going to be taking Chelsea on any dates.