“And us?” I croak out. God, I’m almost afraid to hear the answer. “Are we going to be okay?”
Julio smiles.
“Yeah, we are.”
And I know he means it. And that’s all I need to know. I lean my head back on the pillows again and close my eyes, letting the IV drip carry me away. Knowing I have a lot to make up for and a lot more courage to swallow before he’ll truly know me. But knowing that Julio’s right. It is going to be okay.
Chapter Twenty-Four:
Mary, the Queen of Hearts
“He looked really pale, didn’t he?” Ella asks. She looks a little like she did when her gardener ran over her cocker spaniel last year.
Kit nods, sipping at her mocha latte, uncharacteristically quiet.
“You heard Julio. David will be fine,” I say, trying (but not altogether succeeding) to sound positive as I navigate around the whipped cream in my double brownie fudge frappuccino. We’re sitting around a small wooden table in Starbucks, downing caffeine and chocolate muffins, all three of us too shaken to go home.
After Ella called me in near hysterics this morning (and I use that term “morning” loosely, because the sun wasn’t even a bulge on the horizon yet) I’d been fearing the worst. All she said was David was in an accident, and she’d pick me up in ten minutes. She was actually there in eight, barely giving me time to stumble into a pair of boots and a coat before she arrived. During the whole agonizing ride to the hospital in Ella’s SUV I was picturing the worst, David stuck with tubes up his nose, a machine breathing for him, a doctor in a white coat coming out solemn faced to tell us there was nothing they could do. I’d worked myself up into a full blown panic by the time we met Kit outside the emergency room and booked it up two flights of stairs to David’s room.
You cannot imagine the relief at seeing him awake and breathing on his own. There was still some tubeage, an IV attached to his hand, and a heart monitor pulsing at steady intervals, but Julio assured us again and again that he’d be fine. I suspect Julio was trying to convince himself almost as much as he was the three of us, but by the time we left David to get some rest, I felt relatively confident he’d be up and about (and bitching about my wardrobe) in no time.
Though, Ella’s right, he did look pretty pale.
“I cannot believe some punk actually attacked David. I mean, this is Vegas, lighten up, huh?” Kit stirs another packet of sugar into her latte.
Ella and I nod in agreement. It’s much easier to get angry at his anonymous attackers than to think about how easily we could have lost him last night. A fraction of an inch to the right and that blow to the back of his head would have been far worse than a mild concussion. I try not to think about it as I sip at my whipped cream.
“Julio looked really tired,” I say instead.
“He did,” Ella says. “I’m going to relieve him in a couple hours. He said he wanted to make sure David was resting first.”
“I can take a shift with him tonight,” I offer. “I’m meeting my mom for brunch later so I’ll need an audience to whine to anyway.” And it never hurts to have a captive one.
“I’ll come sit with him this afternoon,” Kit says. “I can only stay until about five or so, though. I have… plans tonight.
I raise an eyebrow her way. “Plans? As in a date?”
She grins. And nods. “Vlad asked me to dinner at his penthouse.”
Ella starts to do that nose scrunchy thing where it looks like she’s smelling gym socks, but checks herself before it turns into a full blown pee-uw. “I thought you weren’t going to rush things with him.”
Kit holds up her right hand. “I, Kit, do solemnly swear I will not sleep with Vlad again until his divorce comes through.” She puts her hand down. “It’s just dinner. And I know you’re right, Ella, he’s still working through the whole closure thing with the Troll. So, I’m going to take it slow this time. A meal. That’s all. Besides, the divorce will be final soon enough.”
“Just remember to lay off the vodka,” I say. “You don’t want another DUI on your record.”
Kit and Ella both give me a blank look.
“Dating Under the Influence,” I explain.
They roll their eyes.
“Hey, it’s early, I’m allowed a bad joke or two.”
Their silence suggests they don’t agree with me.
“Whatever,” Kit finally says. “All I know is I’m going on a real date with Vlad tonight. And, please, don’t ask me what he was thinking when he said, ‘Do you want to have dinner,’ because I just about drove myself crazy with that reading between the lines bullshit. It’s futile. There is no interpreting men. Best I can figure, they have no emotions. Just hormones.”
“That’s not true,” Ella protests. “Men aren’t all that complicated. You just have to talk to them. They’re not that different than we are.”
Kit and I both stare at her like she just said suggested Manhattans and Shirley Temple’s are the same thing.
“Well, they’re not,” she says again.
“Okay, where did you hear that, Dr. Phil?” Kit asks.
“No.” Ella sets her jumbo latte mug down on the table, fidgeting with her platinum wedding band. “I talked with Brad last night,” she says. “Karen Richardson.”
“Who?” Kit asks.
“My neighbor. Who I owe an apology to, by the way.”
“So, what did he say,” I ask, remembering her mimosa meltdown.
“Well, he’s not having an affair.”
See, I knew he wasn’t. I mean, come on, what guy would cheat on Ella? She’s damn near perfect. But, I’m such a good friend I don’t even utter a teensy I-told-you-so.
“But we both realized our marriage obviously has some issues,” she continues.
“Like what?” I ask.
“Communication for one,” she says with a wry smile. “We haven’t been very good at that lately.”
“But you’re going to work on it, right? I mean, you’re not thinking about divorce are you?” Kit asks.
“No. We’re not. Not anymore, anyway. Actually Brad suggested we should try counseling. One of the other doctors in his office has been seeing this therapist with his wife, and they really like her. So, Brad said he’d set up an appointment for next week.”
“My mom and Dad Number Two went to therapy,” I say.
“And?” Ella asks.
“My mom ended up leaving him for the therapist.”
“Okay, so not helpful, Mary,” Kit says.
“Sorry. I’m sure that won’t happen to you guys.”
Ella smiles. “I know. And I know we have a lot of things to deal with, but Brad and I love each other, so we’re willing to work on it. Things aren’t going to be perfect overnight, but I think they’re going to start getting better.”
“Well good for you. Getting that Hollywood ending and all,” Kit says, downing her latte.
Ella grins. “Something like that.”
We all toast Ella with our jumbo mugs and I take a gooey gulp of whipped cream and fudge ribbons. Mmmm, yum. Whoever invented flavored coffee syrups should be given the Nobel prize. I’m telling you, these things could save the world.
I glance down at my watch, note the time, and take another big gulp. Only two hours left until I subject myself to Mom, who still thinks I’m showing with a doctor today. “I hate to say it, ladies, but I have to go if I’m going to look up to Mom standards by brunch.”
“So what is it this time?” Kit asks. “More frightening frills?” On the ride over I told them both about the nightmare at the bridal saloon. They both agreed, Helga should be deported for sticky pin abuse.
“Worse,” I say. “My mother thinks she’s meeting my boyfriend the doctor.”
“But you don’t have a boyfriend,” Ella says.
“And therein lies the problem. I lied, and she’s calling me on it.”
“So what are you going to do?” Ella asks.
“Eat lots of chocolate,” I say, stuffing
the last chunk of muffin into my mouth. “Wish me luck.”
* * *
After a quick shower and change (into jeans, a cute floral wrap around blouse which was 65% off just because of a little ink spot in the back, and a pair of nine dollar orange sandals with little fuchsia beads) I head for Bertolini’s at the Forum to meet Mom and Sam. I can feel the anxiety churning in my stomach along with that chocolate muffin as I approach the restaurant. The only thing I hate worse than lying to my mother is being caught in a lie by my mother.
Last night I was driven to the desperation of actually flipping through my address book for any halfway decent looking guy that I thought would play along with my doctor boyfriend charade for just one morning. Only as I flipped through page after page of my pathetic little black book (which basically consisted of two gay guys, a high school friend who moved to Argentina, and two newly married ex-boyfriends. So sad!) I realized what a futile effort it was. I don’t know any single halfway decent looking guys, And besides, even if I did, how long could we really keep up the charade? Through brunch? Then what about the wedding? What about after that? Surely my mother isn’t going to let the subject just drop. If she really thought I had a chance of marrying a doctor, she’d be all over me like sprinkles on a doughnut. Which I went and bought half a dozen of after realizing the whole substitute boyfriend thing wasn’t going to work.
Halfway through my third chocolate glazed old fashioned I had the brilliant idea that I could just say we broke up. Of course, then I’d get the third degree over why I broke up with a perfectly nice doctor, and am I out of my mind, and Sam didn’t let her groom get away. Or, worse yet, she’d happily believe the doctor dumped me because I gained another three pounds. Then monitor my carb intake like a hawk.
So, with a sinking feeling in my stomach that had nothing (or at least very little) to do with the half dozen doughnuts, I realized I only had one option. To come clean. To hold my head up high and tell my mother I will be showing up to Sam’s wedding alone.
I really hate this option.
I’m still trying to come up with a new one as I approach my mother’s favorite table beside the oh-so-flattering Fountain of the Gods lighting. The way I see it, I should just blurt out the truth, just get it over with. And then while she’s still in shock order the biggest plate of blueberry pancakes they have.
Only my salivating over comfort food stops short when I get close enough to see that the person sitting next to my mother isn’t Sam. My feet stop moving, and I stand there, staring like an idiot at the form seated beside the Black Widow as if I’m seeing a ghost. The ghost of fiancés past.
Brandon.
What the hell is he doing here? Mom is waving her diet iced tea in the air and chatting with him as if he didn’t callously shatter her baby’s heart into a million pieces. After staring, blinking, staring some more, and scouting every available direction for a quick getaway, curiosity finally gets the better of me, and my feet start moving forward. One step at a time, until I’m standing in front of the table, staring down into Brandon’s perfect green eyes, tossled brown hair, and sexy cleft chin.
“Mary, you’re late,” my mother informs me. She’s dressed today in a tasteful blue Burberry suit, her cherry red lips bulging with fresh collagen. But I barely even notice her, my whole being focused on Brandon. What is he doing here?
“Hi Mary,” Brandon says, a tentative smile on his lips. He’s wearing chinos, a pressed white shirt, and topsiders. He looks like he stepped out of a Banana Republic ad, but God help me, he looks good.
“Hi.” I lift up a limp hand in greeting.
“Where’s Jacob?” my mother asks.
“Who?”
“The doctor?” She raises one eyebrow.
“He, uh, he couldn’t make it,” I reply. Yes, I know, not exactly coming clean. But somehow faced with the ex-fiancé who got away I’m suddenly not in the mood to admit I’m so pathetic as to make up a boyfriend.
Especially when said ex-fiancé looks this good. Even better than I remembered him. Somehow in my mind he’d sprouted little horns and a spiked tail, but in reality, he looks fantastic.
And I wonder what he’s doing here.
“Couldn’t make it?” Mother asks.
“He was held up.”
“Where?”
“At the hospital.”
“Which hospital?”
“Lake Mead.”
“Doing what?”
“Seeing patients.”
“What kind of patients?”
“Sick ones.”
“Sick with what?”
“Oh for God’s sakes, mother, give it a rest.”
My mother allows herself an unladylike scowl. But I only halfway care. My attention completely engrossed with Brandon, sitting silently watching this exchange. “Brandon, what are you doing here?” I ask.
“I invited him, Mary,” my mother says.
My gaze whips over to her. “You what?”
“Well, on the off chance your doctor didn’t show up, I though it would be nice to have some male company. Besides, Sam couldn’t make it today. You know how busy she is with bridal duties. Well, I guess you wouldn’t know, but trust me, she is.”
“So you invited my ex-fiancé to join us for brunch?” I ask, my voice rising.
“Oh, Mary, don’t be so dramatic. Sit down. Have a drink.”
For some reason, I comply, falling into an empty chair. Certainly not because I’m in the mood to sip Bloody Marys with the Black Widow, but more I’m wondering what Brandon has to say for himself after striking down my dreams of a white wedding with one fell swoop of his wandering pecker.
And I’m wondering where Candi with an “i” is.
“It’s really good to see you, Mary,” Brandon says. “I was really glad your mother called.”
“You were?” I ask.
“Yes. I, uh, I got the ring.”
Right. The ring. I’d almost forgotten about that, but suddenly my left finger feels inexplicably naked.
“I guess when I got the package, it just hit me how much I missed you,” he continues. And I can’t believe I’m hearing this. He’s got to be joking right? Six months of drowning my sorrows in a bag of Oreos and now he says he misses me? Am I on candid camera or something?
“You missed me?” I asked, the disbelief plain in my voice. “What about Candi with an ‘i’?”
Brandon, looks down, fiddling with the edge of his napkin. “She left me.”
Awe. Poor baby… Not! “What happened?”
“She hooked up with the bass player of some band left on tour with them. With my gold Rolex.”
I try to conceal my snort of laughter, but I don’t think it works. (Okay, I admit, I didn’t try all that hard.)
“Anyway,” he continues, “I realized after she left, that instead of missing her, I was really missing you. You were the one I wanted to be with. I mean, Candi was fun, don’t get me wrong. Really fun, I mean, she did things you would never do. Like this one time she got her hair caught in the zipper of my pants while she was-”
“Got it. She was fun.”
“Right. Sorry. She was fun, but she wasn’t you. You’re the one I want, Mary.” Brandon leans across the table and takes my hand in his. “I know I screwed up. Big time. But if there’s any way you can forgive me, I’d like to try to make it up to you.”
The waiter walks by our table and drops a glass of water in front of me. I take a long grateful sip. Stalling. Because I’m honestly too floored to come up with anything coherent to say. He misses me? He wants me back? I feel like pinching myself to make sure I’m not in one of the heartsick fantasies I’ve been indulging in for the past six months. I mean, is this for real?
“Please, Mary,” Brandon says, his green eyes pleading in a way that makes those little gold flecks in them shimmer like stars.
And then he does the unthinkable. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the little blue, velvet covered box I spent six months getting up the co
urage to send back to him. My breath catches in my throat as he opens it, and before I can stop him, he’s slipped the shimmery two and a half carats of hope back on my naked finger.
Wow. I’d forgotten how big that diamond was.
“I want you to keep this, Mary,” he says, his voice low and soft like he’s choked up with emotion. “It belongs to you. There’s no one else’s hand I want this on but yours. Please say ‘yes?’”
I blink, staring at the diamond winking up at me from my own hand, still held in Brandon’s. Mother looks pleased as punch, like she’d just orchestrated a million dollar deal. Which, if I say “yes,” I guess she has.
Luckily, I’m saved from answering by the sound of my cell phone trilling in my purse. Mother rolls her eyes. I ignore her, with my free hand prying my phone out. But even as I flip it open I can’t seem to take my gaze off that diamond.
“Yes?” I answer.
“Hi, Mary, it’s me. Jacob. You know, Chewbacca. Anyway, I think we got cut off the other day, so I thought I’d try you again and see if you’re interested in meeting me for dinner sometime, or if you want, there’s this great old movie playing at the-”
“Not now,” I say and promptly flip the phone shut.
“Who was that?” Mother asks.
“The wookiee.”
Mother does that one eyebrow raise again, but leaves it alone. I think she’s too eager to get back to the matter at hand. Or more precisely, on my hand.
I look from the ring, to Brandon, smiling that third generation sexy grin of his, to my all-too-pleased-with-herself mother, images of being elevated to the Daughter Who Married Well dancing in her eyes.
“I… I need to think about this,” I finally say.
Mother’s smile falters.
“This is kind of sudden. I just need some time,” I say again.
“Sure.” It seems unreal, but Brandon actually looks disappointed. His eyes take on that sad the-market-is-down look, but he manages a half smile anyway. “I understand. Take all the time you need, Mary.”
I pull my hand away from his, the ring weighing my finger down as I notice the scalpel perfect smile on my mother’s face slipping faster than her last brow lift.
What Happens in Vegas Page 21