Royal Pains : Sick Rich (9781101559536)

by Lyle, D. P.

  “Glad I was in there somewhere. What time is it?”

  I looked past her at the clock radio that sat on the bedside table. “If that thing’s right it’s seven fifteen.”

  “Tell me I don’t have to get up.”

  “You don’t have to get up.”

  “But I’m hungry.”

  “I’ll make you something.”

  “That’ll be hard to do with an empty fridge.”

  “I’ll go get bagels and coffee.”

  She yawned again. “No. I’ll get up.” She rolled out of bed. “Then you can take me for coffee and bagels.”

  That’s what I did.

  Before we left Jill’s I called Evan and Divya and they met us at Frankie’s Café. It was busy for a Fourth of July morning—I expected most people to either be heading out for the beaches or prepping for an afternoon barbecue—but Frankie’s was packed. Luckily we found a table near the back wall.

  “Hmm, I’m hungry all of a sudden,” I said.

  “Couldn’t imagine why,” Jill said with a mischievous grin.

  I had French toast, Jill a ham and cheese omelet. We shared. How cute.

  “What time tonight?” Divya asked after finishing her bagel. “For the party before the party?”

  Evan had decided to throw a small party at Shadow Pond so we could all get together before heading to Nathan’s party.

  “Six,” Evan said. “I’m going to pick up Danielle and Angela about five thirty so we’ll be back by then.”

  “Sure I can’t bring anything?”

  “Got it covered. It’ll be basic. Champagne, wine, and a couple of tapas.”

  “Tapas?” I asked. “That’s so colonial.”

  “The Spanish got here before the British,” Evan said. “Besides, tapas are cool.”

  “I thought tapas were spicy.”

  “They are. And cool. You’ll see.”

  After breakfast, Divya and I went to see a few follow-ups. Our first stop was to see Kevin Moxley. He was fine. In fact he was great. Still embarrassed by what he had done. “Stupid as a rock,” is how he put it. I couldn’t have agreed more.

  Next we drove up to Sag Harbor to see Felicia Hecht. She felt great. After she began the new medicine, her headaches had disappeared.

  “Now that they’re gone,” she said, “I realize how long they’d been going on. Maybe two years. But until they got bad I thought it was just fatigue or something like that. I feel better than I have in years.”

  I love it when things work out. When what you do makes a difference. It’s that more than anything else that brings people into the medical profession. It was definitely what attracted me. So much of life simply goes along. Regardless of what you do, things are as they are. But to actually do something that helps? That’s special.

  “That was a good pickup,” Divya said as we drove from Sag Harbor toward Hamptons Heritage. “Glossopharyngeal neuralgia. I’d never heard of it.”

  “Don’t feel bad. Most docs haven’t either, and even if they have they’ll go their entire careers without ever seeing a case. I had. In med school. So I recognized it.” I laughed. “Not initially, though. Like you, I thought she had an odd migraine syndrome.”

  At Hamptons Heritage, we found Patrick Knight in the ICU. Post-op. Apparently his spleen had begun leaking during the night and he had gone to surgery, returning to the ICU less one spleen.

  Patrick’s bed was cranked up to a half-sitting position. A broad bandage wrapped his abdomen. He looked up and gave us a groggy smile. He had that sleepy, euphoric look that comes only with post-op pain meds. His mother, Rochelle, sat in a chair next to him, thumbing through a magazine.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “He’s driving the nurses crazy,” Rochelle said. “He wants to eat and they won’t let him.”

  “Not for a day or two,” I said.

  “But I’m hungry.”

  “That’s a good sign,” Divya said. “But you can’t eat until your bowels wake up.”

  “They’re awake,” Patrick said. “I can hear them.”

  I laughed. “Good. Other than being hungry, how’s everything else?”

  “It hurts,” Patrick said.

  “It’ll get better.”

  “It ain’t much.”

  “Isn’t,” Rochelle said. “It isn’t much.”

  Patrick rolled his eyes. “We ain’t in school.”

  Rochelle scowled at him. “You’re in my school. And don’t be a smarty. They operated on your tummy, not your butt. I can still whack that.”

  “She didn’t sleep much last night,” Patrick said. “Makes her cranky.”

  “She’s right, though,” Divya said. “Good grammar lets people know how smart you are.”

  “People already know I’m smart,” Patrick said.

  “And modest,” I said.

  “That, too.”

  I looked through his chart. Vital signs normal, as were his morning labs. The op note showed he had lost very little blood during the surgery. I closed the chart and laid it on the edge of his bed. I then examined him. All was well and he even had bowel sounds. Those usually disappear after abdominal surgery for a day or two. In most people anyway. Patrick wasn’t most people, though.

  I had the feeling that he would sail through this with no problems. Except that of holding him down long enough for Mother Nature to do her healing. Somehow I didn’t see Patrick slowing down for anyone or anything. A major surgery? A small bump in the road for him.

  “Everything looks good,” I said.

  “When can I go home?”

  See what I mean?

  Rochelle shook her head. “You haven’t even been out of bed yet. How can you talk about going home?”

  “I got things to do. I can’t lie around here.”

  “Slow down,” I said. “It takes time to heal from something like this.”

  “How long?”

  “Completely? A few weeks.”

  “Man, that sucks.”

  “Patrick,” Rochelle said. “Don’t you talk like that.”

  “Well, it does.”

  I laughed. “When you can get up and walk to the front door you’ll be ready to go home.”

  “Well, let’s go.” He started to sit up but suddenly stopped and grabbed his belly. “Ouch.”

  “See?” I said. “Don’t push it. A tough guy like you will be back to normal before you know it.”

  He dropped back against the pillow. “I don’t have time for this.”

  Chapter 26

  Evan was in full colonial spy mode. He twirled around the living room and then made Danielle do the same. Angela sat on the sofa, glass of champagne in her hand, laughing and encouraging their silliness. Her silver hair was twisted into a bun, and she wore a cobalt blue colonial ball gown and a sapphire necklace that she said was a family heirloom passed from her grandmother to her mother and then on to her. She looked outstanding.

  Jill looked hot in her black and white Martha Washington dress and I was warming to my frontiersman outfit, fringe and all. Divya was gorgeous in her rose-colored colonial ball gown. The three of us watched Evan’s and Danielle’s antics from the safety of the kitchen. Best to stay away from the flying capes. Besides, the kitchen was where the food was and I was hungry, not having eaten since breakfast.

  Evan had made an assortment of tapas: olives and peppers in oil, carne mechada, pickled calamari rings with cilantro, chorizo in a wine sauce, and empanadas.

  “These are great,” Jill said as she took a bite of an empanada. “Where did you learn to make these?”

  “Evan R. Lawson, master chef.”

  Good grief.

  “It all works,” Jill said. “I don’t know which of thes
e I like best.”

  “There’s plenty,” Evan said. “And I can always make some more.”

  Jill took another bite. “You might have to. They’re addicting.”

  “Maybe you should have gone as a chef and not a spy,” Divya said.

  “But I am a spy. You said so yourself.”

  No, not the cell phone.

  Evan R. Lawson is a superspy.

  Too late.

  Divya eyed the olive she held and then nodded toward Evan’s cane. “You didn’t accidentally get any of your spy poison on these, did you?”

  “Only that one.”

  Divya raised an eyebrow. “What exactly do you have inside the secret compartment?”

  Evan unscrewed the pear-shaped brass handle and angled the cane. He shook it and a shiny black tube slid out. He held it up.

  “What’s that?” Jill asked.

  “My lipstick,” Danielle said. She slid onto one of the counter stools.

  Divya laughed. “What? A superspy with lipstick? No secreted poisons or weapons or battle plans?”

  Evan’s shoulders drooped. “I couldn’t think of anything to put in there.”

  “And I don’t have any pockets,” Danielle said.

  Divya had him right where she wanted him. I knew she was gearing up to fire for effect. She crossed her arms and arched one eyebrow. “Maybe you should have dressed as a makeup artist?”

  Evan glared at her but offered no response.

  “That would also be so Pimpernel.”

  “Are we back to that again?” Evan asked.

  “I wasn’t aware we’d ever left it,” Divya said.

  “Did they have makeup artists in colonial times?” I asked.

  “Someone had to powder the wigs,” Angela said.

  Everyone laughed.

  “Good one,” Divya said. “Wish I had thought of it.”

  Jill and Divya carried the food trays over to the coffee table. Everyone followed, settling in the chairs that surrounded it. Danielle sat next to Angela on the sofa.

  “Want something else, Grandma?” Danielle asked Angela.

  “I shouldn’t, but maybe some more of that marvelous calamari.”

  Danielle served up some on a small plate and handed it to her.

  “I shouldn’t. I’ve had too much already.” She took a bite. “Evan, you outdid yourself with these. They are so good.”

  “And simple to make,” Evan said.

  “That’s Evan,” Divya said. “Simple to the core.”

  “A life lesson for all you youngsters,” Angela said. “Never insult the chef.”

  I nodded. “Good advice.”

  Angela looked at Evan. “You know, with your cape and cane you could be a magician. Or maybe a sorcerer.”

  “I like that,” Evan said. “A colonial sorcerer.”

  “Like Merlin?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Evan said, getting into the idea now. “But I’d need one of those cool metal skullcaps like he wore in that movie.”

  “Maybe that would block the alien rays,” Divya said.

  “What alien rays?”

  “The ones that are damaging the wiring in your brain.”

  Evan jutted his chin at her. “Maybe you should be a . . . a uh . . . a uh . . .”

  “See what I mean?”

  “Don’t pick on Evan.” Angela said.

  “But you do have to admit that he is an attractive target,” Divya said.

  True.

  The conversation turned to the health fair and Angela asked if Divya and I had been busy at our booth.

  “Mainly people getting overheated and minor bumps and bruises,” I said.

  “And kids on drugs,” Divya said.

  “And don’t forget Patrick Knight,” Jill added.

  “I stopped by Hamptons Heritage and saw him this morning,” I said. “He’s doing great.”

  “Did you say they took out his spleen?” Evan asked.

  I nodded. I also noticed that Evan was rubbing his belly.

  “Can you catch it?” Evan asked. “This sickle cell thing?”

  “No. It’s inherited.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “But what if you’re wrong?”

  “He’s not,” Divya said.

  “But my spleen hurts.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” I said.

  “You don’t know what my spleen feels like.”

  “You don’t either.”

  “Sure I do. It hurts.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Where what?”

  “Where is your spleen?”

  “Same place yours is.”

  “And where exactly is that?”

  Evan didn’t have an answer for that one.

  Chapter 27

  “Wow,” Evan said. “Is this impressive or what?”

  Evan’s splenic troubles had apparently resolved and been replaced with overt awe at the transformation of Nathan Zimmer’s mansion. He took it all in, eyes wide, jaw slack. Danielle and Angela, equally slack-jawed and wide-eyed, stood next to him.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Angela said. “It’s breathtaking.”

  Jill’s fingers dug into my arm. “Can you believe this?”

  I couldn’t.

  When we had seen it a few days ago, the day Jimmy Sutter decided to dissect his aorta, it was in transition. Now, the metamorphosis of Nathan’s great room was complete, and as he had hoped, it did indeed look like an early American inauguration. Billowy red, white, and blue striped drapes covered three of the thirty-foot walls; the fourth, a bank of windows that opened onto the gardens and the ocean, was uncovered, allowing the soft twilight to bathe the room. The drapes were crowned with similar fabric, swagged between two-foot-high oval ceramic presidential portraits. Washington, Jefferson, Adams, and Madison faced us from across the room.

  Two massive crystal chandeliers had been hung from the central beam. Adding more atmosphere than light, they looked like clusters of diamonds, or maybe stars and galaxies, against the dark ceiling.

  A string quartet played music in one corner, but it was muted by the buzz of conversation. Waiters in frilly white shirts, gold-trimmed navy blue waistcoats, and powdered wigs, and waitresses in black and white Pilgrim costumes moved through the crowd with trays of food and champagne.

  Nathan had spared no expense. Not that I’d thought he would.

  Neither had the Hamptons crowd. The costumes were expensive and perfect. As if this was a Hollywood set and not a private party.

  I saw ball gowns of every color, military uniforms, judges in black robes and powdered wigs, a couple of Ben Franklins, and red, white, and blue Betsy Ross costumes, white bonnets, tricorn and stovepipe hats, and three Pocahontas outfits.

  A pair of waitresses approached us with silver trays filled with crystal champagne flutes. We each took a glass. A waiter appeared with a tray of shrimp and lobster bites. Everyone took a couple of pieces, Evan tucking his cane beneath one arm so he could load a plate.

  “So much for spies being quick and nimble,” Divya said.

  “You ate at the house. I didn’t. I’m starving.”

  “You made all that stuff and then didn’t eat any?” Danielle asked.

  “I was too excited.”

  “About Danielle?” Angela asked. She raised an eyebrow.

  “No. The party.”

  Angela shook her head. “I was trying to help you out, Evan.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” He looked at Danielle. “I’m excited about being here with you, too.”

  “Too late,” she said.

  “Come on,” Evan said. “You k
now what I mean.”

  Danielle punched his arm. “I’m kidding you.”

  “Lobster?” Evan extended his plate toward her.

  “At least you know how to bribe me.” She snatched a lobster piece and popped it in her mouth. “I never turn down food.”

  “You two do make a cute couple,” Divya said. “Particularly as spies.”

  “And you are a gorgeous colonial lady,” Evan said.

  My brother the charmer.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Lawson.” Divya gave a curtsy.

  “My pleasure, Ms. Katdare.” Evan bowed slightly.

  “As much as we’re enjoying this little mutual admiration society,” I said, “we’re going to go mingle.”

  “Count me in,” Divya said.

  Jill, Divya, and I moved into the crowd, where we ran into the Shanahans. We chatted for a few minutes and then made our way out to the rear patio. The sun was giving the western horizon her final brushstrokes and a soft, warm breeze came off the calm ocean.

  “I could live here,” Jill said.

  “Who couldn’t?” I slid my arm around her. “Want me to buy it for you?”

  Divya laughed.

  Jill said, “You wish.”

  “Who knows? Maybe someday.”

  Now Jill laughed. “Dream on. HankMed might be successful, but it will never be this successful.”

  “You’re hurting my feelings. I might cry.”

  She looked at me. “This I want to see.”

  “Maybe not cry, but my feelings are still hurt.”

  “A dose of reality does that to you sometimes,” Divya said.

  “You wouldn’t be happy here anyway,” Jill said.

  “I wouldn’t?”

  “It’s way too un-Hank.”

  “Un-Hank?”

  “Too ostentatious.”

  She had a point. I had no idea what this place cost, but I’m sure it was staggering. Like many other properties in the area. The value of some equaled the GDP of more than a few countries. Not that I didn’t enjoy living at Shadow Pond, a mansion that was probably worth two or three Nathan Zimmer estates, but I’m not sure I’d want to own it.

  Then again, who was I kidding?

  “Hank, how are you?”

  I turned. It was Nathan. We shook hands.