by Robin Kaye
Tom waved him away. The old guy was tired—not that he'd ever say so.
Mike went to the nurses' station and dialed the emergency contact number he'd found in Mr. Mullany's file. Tom wasn't the only one who could give advice. While he waited for an answer, he tossed an empty coffee cup in the garbage, collected the pens lying on the desk, and put them neatly into the pencil holder where they belonged.
"Hello, is Kathryn Evans available, please? This is Dr. Michael Flynn."
"This is Katy Evans."
"Ms. Evans, I treat your grandfather, Tom Mullany."
"Oh my God, what happened? Is he okay?"
Mike leaned against the counter and crossed his legs. "He's going to be fine. He's in the hospital—"
"Oh no. What hospital? Why hasn't someone called me? What's wrong—"
"Calm down. He's going to be fine. He's had a relapse of pneumonia—"
"A relapse? Grandpa never even told me he was sick!"
Mike chuckled. "Yeah, I figured as much. That's why I called. I've been sitting with him for a while now. He wasn't happy when I admitted him, but his blood oxygen levels were low, and he needs to be monitored. He's also lost a lot of weight, and I don't think he's eating right. I was hoping you could see to it that he starts eating better, and if he knew you were coming to visit, he'd have something to look forward to. He's been a little depressed since your grandmother passed away."
"I'm sorry, Doctor. He's canceled visits with me three times now. He never said he was ill. He usually just left messages on my voice mail. I think he's kept me playing phone tag on purpose. He hates when people fuss."
"Yeah, I got that message loud and clear."
"I'll be right over—"
"No rush. He's pretty tired. He should sleep for a couple of hours. Maybe you can come about lunchtime and see if you could force him to eat—or better yet, bring him some real food."
"I will. I'm sorry you had to take time out to call me. Once he gets better, I'm going to kill him for scaring the life out of me."
"Ah, I can see the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
She laughed. "So I've heard. Thank you so much for letting me know."
"It's my pleasure. I'm sure I'll see you around the hospital. Your grandfather's quite a character. I really enjoy seeing him."
Mike got off the phone and smiled. Poor Tom was going to get an ear full when Katy visited him later. If there's one thing Mike had learned treating geriatric patients it was that they recovered much more quickly when they were around people they loved, whether they wanted to be or not. After talking to Katy Evans, Mike had no doubt that the old man would have more company than he knew what to do with. Maybe he'd stop giving Mike advice on his love life—or lack thereof.
Mike had walked around the hospital all day with a dopey grin plastered on his face and Annabelle's keys in his pocket. He smiled, jangling them. She might be mad about him not returning her keys, but at least he'd have an excuse to see her again. He'd have to return them, apologize for the "mistake," and make it up to her. He couldn't wait to see her and hear her voice, but he didn't want to look as if he was too anxious.
Just about ready to head home, Mike hung his lab coat in his locker and picked up all the coffee cups lying around the doctors' lounge. He trashed the paper cups, washed out the sink, and wiped down the counters. Checking to make sure he was alone, he tackled the refrigerator.
Everyone teased him, but if he didn't go through it once a week and toss everything that looked like a lab experiment, no one else would. Heck, when he'd started working at the hospital, it took at least three boxes of baking soda to remove the smell of rotten broccoli. He definitely did not want to go through that ever again.
He had his head stuffed into the refrigerator, giving a carton of Chinese food of questionable age the sniff test when he heard humming.
He pulled his head from the refrigerator only to be accosted by three nurses who started singing the Mr. Clean jingle in three-part harmony.
"Very funny." He removed the box of rotten Chinese, made a two-pointer into the trash, and then did the only other thing he could think of—he pushed his shirt-sleeves up a little higher and flexed his biceps. At least the nurses were laughing with him, not at him. Gus giggled. Which, coming from a six-feet, two-hundred-fifty-pound black man who sounded like a cross between Mike Tyson and Joan Rivers, made Mike a little uncomfortable. But not nearly as much as the way Gus looked at him—as if Mike were a tub of Ben & Jerry's that Gus would like to eat with a spoon.
Gus struck a pose and ran his hand over his shiny shaved head. "So, do you do houses on the side, Dr. Clean? 'Cause you can come over to my place anytime. I've seen what you can do in a supply closet." He fanned himself. "The two of us together could make magic with my place." Gus waggled his eyebrows and blew him a kiss.
Mike rolled his shirt-sleeves back down. "Sorry, Gus. Just because I organize the supply closet doesn't mean I'm in the closet."
"Ah, such a shame, all the good ones are straight. Still, a man can dream."
Tami, the little nurse who worked with Gus a lot, poured herself a coffee and looked at him over the rim of her cup. "I thought you had a thing for George Clooney."
Gus sighed and leaned on the counter. "Na, just doctors in general." He smiled at Mike. "Y'all look so cute in those white coats and scrubs." He clicked his tongue and winked.
Mike patted the big guy on the back. "Sorry to disappoint you bud, but I'm a one-woman man." Woman being the operative word. Mike donned his suit jacket, folded his tie, put it in his pocket, and went to say goodbye to Mr. Mullany.
Heading home, Mike's commute seemed to fly, maybe because he'd been thinking about Annabelle. He unlocked the door to his apartment, switched on the light, and kicked the door shut behind him. Since the Russians took over Coney Island, the area had gotten much safer, as long as you didn't piss them off. The cost for the relative safety was spending your life smelling of borscht and sauerkraut. Considering the hours he kept, Mike saw it as an even trade. Still, he could never bring Annabelle there. Just the thought of her climbing the steps to his fourth-floor walk-up and down the dingy, dimly lit hallway had him contemplating moving to a nicer place. Lord knew, anywhere would be an improvement. Not that it bothered him. Hell, the only things he did there were clean, sleep, and change clothes. He kept his place very clean—he was a bit of a neat freak, though he'd die before he admitted it to anyone. Ninety percent of the time he spent in the apartment he was asleep, so the institutional green paint job and olive green carpet circa 1970 didn't matter to him. It had everything he needed. A kitchenette on one wall, an ugly brown and tan plaid couch and a coffee table he'd picked up at the Salvation Army took up the wall opposite the windows where his dresser sat and served as a TV stand. The other wall held his bed, a small closet, and the door to the bathroom. In the middle of the room, he'd thrown another Salvation Army find—a Formica table and chairs that were probably older than he was. The place was depressing but temporary—for the last five years.
Mike couldn't stop thinking about Annabelle and the way she'd stared at him the first time they met. Immediately intrigued, the instant connection shocked him with its strength. She felt it too. Annabelle's shock had her pulse racing so fast she'd almost passed out. He'd felt attraction before, but this thing with Annabelle went far beyond sex—although he wanted that too—badly. Nevertheless, there was something else. Something that made him want to break down the walls he'd seen so clearly. He wanted to find out what was behind the air of mystery she wore like a cloak. He wanted to know what she hid and what caused the pain and mistrust that shadowed her eyes. She had an acerbic wit that came out of a deceivingly angelic mouth—a mouth that was anything but angelic when it was anywhere on his body.
For the first time in his life, Mike wanted to protect and care for someone other than his mother. Damn, talk about bad timing.
He thought of the hundreds of thousands of dollars he owed in student loans and tried to c
alculate how many decades it would take him to afford a real home, no less a girl like Annabelle. Once he finished working off his buy-in at the practice, and they took him on as an official partner—if they took him on—things might get better. The way things had gone in the last few weeks, Mike wondered if that was ever going to happen. He was even beginning to wonder if he wanted that to happen. But right now, he'd just assume everything would work out as planned. After a few quick mental calculations, it still seemed like forever.
He stripped as he walked through his place toward the bathroom. He couldn't very well show up in the suit she'd ripped off him the night before. Mike turned on the shower and waited for the hot water to work its way through the noisy pipes. What he needed was a plan. If things went the way he hoped they would with Annabelle, his five-year plan might change drastically. He just hoped hers would change too.
Annabelle stretched out under her cool cotton sheet. Even with the blinds blocking out the worst of the afternoon sun and the air conditioner going double-time, she was still too hot. She'd slept, but her dreams kept her from resting. She awoke itchy, frustrated, and undeniably horny, which, after her escapades last night and early this morning, was nothing short of amazing.
Sex had never been her thing. She never saw what the fuss was all about. Really, what was so great about having a guy grab you, breathe on you, and rub his sweaty, hairy body all over you? And that's before the act itself—which was either utterly boring or uncomfortable.
What's with men thinking every woman turns into elastic girl when they hit the mattress, floor, kitchen table, or any surface when their panties are removed, or worse, nudged aside? She didn't have much experience, but she and Becca decided men had a penchant for twisting a girl into a pretzel and expecting her to enjoy her legs wrapped around her head.
Oh baby, do it to me. Yeah, right.
Then, to add insult to injury, literally, a man felt as if he had to bend a girl around like a Gumby doll and wouldn't leave her alone until he'd come and she'd faked three orgasms, giving him the ego stroke necessary to break his arm while he patted himself on the back for being the world's greatest lover.
Even with Chip, sex had been … not fun, although not nearly as disgusting as it had been with Johnny. Mike had, for the first time in her life, made the whole sex thing enjoyable—an understatement to the nth degree. Annabelle couldn't help wondering if it was Mike who made the difference, or if it was because she was completely blitzed and possibly temporarily insane.
Unfortunately, the only way to find out would be to have a repeat performance sans alcohol to see if lightning did indeed strike twice. The problem was, if it did, she could see herself becoming a total nymphomaniac—something that until today, she could never wrap her head around. And if it didn't, she'd live her life incredibly disappointed.
The phone rang, and she stretched across the bed. Taking a deep breath, she inhaled Mike's scent on her pillow.
"Hello?"
"Annabelle? Did I wake you? It's Mike Flynn."
She smiled, an unusual occurrence. "Hi, Mike, um … no. I'm in bed kind of lazing after a nap. How are you?"
"Good." He paused. "I forgot to return your keys this morning, and I was wondering—"
"Do you want to have dinner? I could probably find something to throw together. That is, if you're free."
"That sounds great. I can bring takeout, or if you want, we can go out for dinner so you don't have to cook."
Annabelle rolled over, picturing Mike as he stood naked with his back to her that morning. Did he know what a great ass he had? He already had a little bit of a tan, which was unusual considering it was only mid-May.
"I don't mind cooking if you don't mind eating Italian. Unfortunately, that's about the only kind of food I've learned to make."
"Italian's my favorite. How 'bout I pick up some wine?"
"Good, um, when can you be here? I mean, what time do you want to come over?" Oh God, she hoped she didn't sound too desperate.
"Maybe we can do an early dinner and catch a movie or something."
He sounded uncertain and really cute. "Sure, early dinner and then … whatever. Sounds good."
Annabelle hastily calculated how long it would take her to change and cook one of the three meals she could manage. Okay, so Suzie Homemaker she wasn't. She hoped that by the time she'd used up her three-meal repertoire, the guy wouldn't care that she wasn't a Betty Crocker clone.
"It'll only take me a couple of hours. I don't know about you, but I skipped lunch, and I'm going to be famished. What do you think of … let's say four?
"Great. See you then."
The table was set, Jamie Cullum was on the iPod, the curtains were drawn, and the lights were low. Annabelle had the antipasto she'd picked up at the deli arranged on a platter chilling in the refrigerator with the Caesar salad. She'd emptied the ingredients out of the bag, and this time, thank God, she remembered to fish out the crouton bag before squeezing the dressing from the packet. The last time she'd made the mistake of serving it with the croutons still in the bag. The garlic bread was heating in the oven—yes, she admitted she was a wine stain on the lace tablecloth of her heritage because she purchased premade frozen garlic bread. She crossed herself and apologized to her dead grandmother, whom Annabelle was sure was rolling over in her grave. continuously. By buying frozen garlic bread, and, in more than one instance, purchasing canned sauce, she'd broken the twelfth commandment. Thou shalt cook from scratch everything served at your table, be it dining, breakfast, or picnic. Let's face it. Annabelle had broken all of the commandments above number ten and several below it. She was doomed to spend a long time in purgatory. At least she'd be among friends.
Annabelle held the phone between her chin and shoulder as she tried to get the tissue paperlike peels off the smelly garlic cloves. Of course, the leaking juice made the peels stick as much to her hands as they did to the garlic.
Becca never answered her phone without checking the caller ID, and no one could blame her. Becca avoided her mother at all cost, especially since Bitsy Larsen had found her new mission in life. Annabelle's mother was bad, but compared to Becca's, she was a regular Carol Brady with a Roman nose and a Brooklyn accent.
Bitsy, a true high-society matron, had terminal lockjaw. Her name and lineage were emblazoned on the pages of the Social Register knighting her as a founding member of the United Sisterhood of Main Line Society's Sphincter Police. She belonged to the Junior League, the Philadelphia Garden Club, and was a member-since-birth of the Merion Cricket Club. With all the time spent dishing with other society matrons of her ilk, planning fundraisers, and going to lunches at the club—not to mention her escapades with the tennis pro—it's a wonder she had a spare minute to bother Becca. But since Chip's death, finding Becca a suitable "match" and passing on the family torch had become an obsession. As altruistic as Bitsy Larsen tried to make that sound, it was anything but. Too bad for Bitsy, Becca stopped trying to please Mommy Dearest after she forced Becca to have a debutante ball.
"Hi Annabelle. You sure took your sweet time getting back to me. I've been waiting all day. Now tell me all about the wedding. Was it perfect?"
"All except for the bride, which wasn't me. Though, the groom was a definite improvement over the one in the originally scheduled program. If Nick Romeo wasn't married … ah well, you know."
"You'd look, but not touch. Annabelle, you've never picked a man up in your life. Heck, if Chip hadn't crashed at our place, you'd still be a virgin, or worse, you'd have lost it to Icky Johnny. Face it, except for Chip, you've only dated losers. As for improving on Johnny the mortician, that's not exactly hard to do. The Unabomber would be an improvement, and I hear he's single."
"Thanks for the 4-1-1, but I'm not interested." Annabelle drained the liquid from a can of artichoke hearts and threw them in the food processor along with the garlic. She planned to pulse the food processor whenever Becca got on her nerves. Maybe Becca would get a clue.
"
Tell me about this guy you met."
Annabelle took the parsley, basil, a lemon, and Parmesan cheese out of the grocery bag and wadded it up. "His name is Mike Flynn, and he's a doctor. He bought me breakfast, but then he was called to the hospital before we ate. He seems nice, and he's really good-looking—"
"I know. He looks like Chip but with bigger feet, whatever the hell that means. Oh my God! Annabelle, you don't mean … you do. You didn't sleep with him, did you? You did! You slept with him."
"I … well … I had too much to drink. And I caught the bouquet, and he caught the garter, and we danced—"
"Sounds to me like you did a hell of a lot more than that, if you know his shoe size."
"When I woke up this morning, he was in bed with me." She grated lemon peel, trying to avoid the white stuff just below it. The last time she'd fixed this meal she'd forgotten that the white stuff was bitter—big mistake. She held the grater over the food processor bowl and slid her finger down the back to remove the lemon peel.
"Go on."
Annabelle turned on the heat under a sauté pan and tossed a handful of pine nuts in to toast. "Go on? What do you want from me?" She shook the pan, careful not to burn the nuts like she did the last time.
"Specifics."
"What ever happened to privacy?" Annabelle chopped the lemon in half, squeezed it over the artichokes, and then fished out the seeds. The last time she'd made this she'd forgotten to remove the seeds and choked on one. The choking incident and the smell of burnt pine nuts made for a less-than-impressive dinner.
"Oh come on. There's nothing I don't know about you, and I still love you. If you can't tell me, who can you tell?"
"Fine, we had sex—" Annabelle waved a hand over the toasting nuts and caught their scent. She switched off the heat before she burnt them and dumped them into the food processor with a hunk of cheese and a handful of parsley and basil. "A lot of sex. And from what I remember, he's quite talented."