Skin Like Dawn (When You Come to Me)

by Alyse, Jade

  Enthralled by his nearness and his ability to understand her, she breathed, “I know you want to give me the world. But please allow me to live in it, too.”

  And he gazed into her, blue eyes lucid, damning. The stare was far-reaching, impassioned, real. Then, he formed his lips into a gentle pucker and pushed them into her forehead.

  She knew she’d gotten her answer.

  ANY HOSPITAL EMPLOYEE WHO WASN’T AUTHORIZED to go into Banquet Room Three wasn’t even allowed near it. Any personnel caught peering into or tiptoeing nearby could face severe consequences.

  This was all told through the lips of Head Nurse Wendy, who was on coffee cup number four and on her first day of a new twelve-hour rotation. One of the newest patients, a six-year-old named Renee, had given her and the other nurses considerable issues overnight. Not because she was actually quite ill - she and her parents were simply a “huge, fucking, low-grade pain in my ass”.

  “Dr. Pierre Lambert is a highly respected, highly intelligent, incredibly wealthy surgeon who owns a third of this hospital. In attendance will be a number of the same. I don’t want any trouble out of any of you. Do you understand?”

  The nurses and some of the nursing students from the local school exuded a collective sound of compliance, and shortly after everyone rose from their seats to began their rounds.

  “Greene! Come here a second.”

  The mere thought that Head Nurse Wendy might have to refer to Natalie by her God-given name had been beneath her since the day she’d signed her employee agreement.

  Sauntering toward her supervisor slowly, Natalie shoved her hands in her pockets, preparing to be reprimanded for her conduct with Zuly in the back of the break room. Yes, while mildly immature, she couldn’t help herself. She was having a great morning.

  Still, without thought or any of her innate Southern decorum, she blurted out, “I’m sorry”, though it was very clear in her face that she didn’t mean it.

  “Sorry for what?” Head Nurse Wendy, who had been glancing over a clipboard, now glanced up. “I’m relieving you of duty today, Greene.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Dr. Meyer wants you to work with her again today. She’s attending Dr. Lambert’s charity function in Banquet Room Three. She wants you to attend with her.”

  Natalie paused, pursing her lips pensively. “Beg your pardon?”

  “I didn’t stutter, Greene. It’s last minute, sure, but did you bring a change of clothes?”

  “You mean...these green scrubs I’m wearing aren’t suitable for a charity luncheon?”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Greene. The luncheon starts in three hours. You have an hour to get home and get changed, understood?”

  “Uh, yea. I’ll be right back.”

  SHE PHONED BRANDON ON THE DRIVE BACK HOME.

  He’d started a new project that morning - something involving a children’s cereal or medicine. She wasn’t sure.

  “Are you serious?” And he sounded busy, as though she’d disturbed him. But she couldn’t stop talking; it all came out at once, and the exuberance rattled her voice.

  Once she’d finished, she realized that he was talking to someone else in his office. “Yea...that’ll work...sure...sure thing...okay, I’ll get to it...what were you saying, baby?”

  She held her breath. “I see that you’re busy. I’m sorry.”

  “No, no. Baby, I’m sorry. I’m happy for you. We’re just trying to finalize these plans for the New York trip.”

  “New York trip...?”

  “Yea. Our team is flying to the client’s office in New York to pitch our idea next month. We’re scrambling over these storyboards. Didn’t I tell you?”

  “No.”

  “Shit. I’m all over the place. I’m sorry. Can I call you back in a few?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you at home.”

  She disconnected the line before he could respond.

  Shuffling the brush-off she felt from the call with her husband, she rummaged through the clothes in their closet for something suitable to wear. She’d been meaning to take a moment to complain to Brandon about the amount of shit he’d accumulated since they’d moved to Portland, that neither looked like him nor fit in their closet anymore. His side of the closet now appeared as though it belonged to some hipster with thick, black-framed glasses, who drank Starbucks, idolized his MacBook and barely showered in protest of some rant for green technology.

  She only sighed, fixating on a mint green sheath dress, which delicately curved around every inch of her slim figure. Sliding it over her head, she gazed into the full-length mirror. Gracing the tips of her fingers over her abdomen, she wondered how long she could get away with not looking pregnant. She thought of her sister, Sidney, who’d gained thirty or forty pounds over the course of nine months, and could barely stand five minutes without her ankles or back giving out on her.

  The only thing that reassured her of her baby’s progress was her visits to the doctor. The ultrasounds and the murmured tempo of her baby’s heartbeat were just enough to prove everything real. Still, she’d only gained two or three pounds and appeared as though she’d had a heavy meal or one too many beers.

  And she didn’t feel like a mother yet. When exactly did that happen?

  Giving the baby an identity would make it a little easier, she figured. But Brandon wanted no parts of knowing the sex of the baby prior to, and she had to respect it.

  Still...would her attitude change for a boy or a girl? And what the hell would they name it?

  It. How primal? Something that she and her husband had created, had been reduced to the ill-fitting moniker of “it”.

  Brandon needn’t know about Harper. She didn’t want him to take it away from her.

  She fastened nude pumps to her feet and pulled her hair back away from her face. Her sisters were always encouraging her to try a little makeup here and there, but she could never warm up to it. And Brandon never really seemed to notice or care.

  Hmm.

  Still, for this occasion, she dusted her high cheeks with a touch of blush and applied a dab of gloss to her lips.

  Now, she looked alive.

  DR. CARRIE WAS WAITING FOR HER, just outside the doors of Banquet Room Three. There was a lot of chatter on the other side, and for the first time, Natalie felt her heart thump.

  “Natalie.” Dr. Carrie’s hair was down and in winding coils around her face. It nearly reached the lower part of her back. Dorsum. Dorsal. Lumbar. Lumbar area. Shit.

  Her cream-colored dress was a little longer and more conservative. But her make up gave her a puerile freshness. “You look incredible.”

  “Same to you, Dr. Carrie.”

  “Shall we enter? Dr. Lambert mentioned that our seat assignments were closer to the podium.”

  “Dr. Lambert had something to do with this?”

  Dr. Carrie nodded. “Yes. Apparently you made quite the impression at his home the other evening. And you saved a child’s life, of course. That’s worth mentioning again.”

  “But I...”

  Her voice trailed off anyway. She tried to recall what made the evening so important - aside from the obvious, of course. Dr. Lambert’s son sure did know how to make an everlasting first impression.

  She trailed behind Dr. Carrie, sliding past throngs of people to the left and right of her. They were all of the well-dressed, well-scented sort, quite similar to the lot who had been invited to Lambert’s mansion on the hill that evening.

  Dr. Carrie halted their progress, leaning into her. “I hate going to these things.”

  “Oh?”

  “All a bunch of pretentious, arrogant, silver spoon-fed doctors and their wives. You know the type...they don’t understand why female doctors exist. We’re a waste of space to them. Still, we get invited to these bullshit functions to drain us of every single one of our hard-earned dollars for some poorly planned charity we’ve never even heard of. I haven’t even paid off all of my loans for Chris
t’s sake.”

  Natalie giggled. She was very close to remarking on how grateful she had been to Duke University’s offer to pay all of her tuition the first year.

  It paid to be smart, right?

  But she quickly reminded herself, and tightened her lips. They don’t know. Nobody knows here. It’s better this way.

  Seated at a round clothed table just to the right of the podium, Natalie and Dr. Carrie found themselves in the company of Dr. Gill Sharma, a plastic surgeon from La Jolla and Dr. David Siegel, a dermatologist from Austin, and his wife, Evie, proud housewife and mother of three. And seated right next to Dr. Carrie, was Dr. Celia Ross, who looked otherworldly in a navy blue number.

  It didn’t take Natalie long to realize that this was Dr. Pierre Lambert’s inner circle of well-bred, extraordinarily highbrow, cerebral physicians.

  Dr. Ross leaned into the table. Her svelte physique marveled any woman half her age. “It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Greene.”

  “You as well, Dr. Ross.”

  “Call me, Celia, please.”

  The purr in her voice and her general disposition immediately reminded Natalie of Anne Bancroft as Mrs. Robinson. The resemblance from then on, was quite uncanny. In a previous life, she could’ve been a dancer or a painter’s muse. Yes, Natalie mused, something exotic, sensual, ethereal, even.

  “My apologies,” Natalie smiled. “Celia. Pleasure, as always.”

  “Natalie was quite the stunner at Pierre’s home the other evening. Her and that gorgeous husband of hers.”

  Natalie chuckled. “Yes, he gets that a lot.”

  “Are you a close friend of the Lambert family?” Dr. Sharma proffered this question, thwarting Celia’s efforts to elaborate on her observations of Brandon.

  Thank God.

  Natalie rattled her head from side to side in disagreement. “Not particularly. I’m more of a...”

  The overhead lights faded and everyone scrambled to their seats. Natalie felt saved once again.

  “She’s more of my father’s pet.”

  She quickly looked into the eyes of Bellamy Lambert, who returned a snarky, sinister gaze in return, highlighted perfectly by a cheeky, inscrutable grin.

  “Oh.” Dr. Sharma diverted his attention quickly to avoid the sight of impending bloodshed.

  Bellamy Lambert adjusted the gray blazer around his shoulders. “Mrs. Greene. Nice to see you again.”

  She pursed her lips. “It’s nice to see you as well. Sober, I hope?”

  “Not sure. Nearly hit a street lamp on the drive over. I’ll let you know when this is over.” He then turned his attention to the others seated at the table. “Dr. Sharma, Dr. Siegel, Evelyn, Dr. Carrie...it’s a pleasure. And Dr. Celia Ross...still fucking my father, I see...?”

  “Maybe you’re just bat-shit crazy.” Natalie muttered this as softened music cued, drowning out her audible observations.

  Bellamy leaned into her. He smelled of fabric softener and spearmint. She inhaled. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it.”

  THE FRUIT

  IT HAD BEEN THE SECOND TIME. THE SECOND TIME! Did he not see a pattern developing? Was he not aware?

  Of course he wasn’t; because she was doing everything in her power to keep her mouth closed. And it was growing increasingly difficult.

  How could he not tell her about this trip? He seemed relatively excited about it. He was packing feverishly one night as she sat on the bed, watching him keenly.

  How could he not have fucking told her?

  It’s okay. You went an entire month or so without telling him about your job. Payback’s a bitch, right?

  Brandon held up two different button-down shirts, glanced down at each one of them, before looking up at her again. “Well...?”

  “Neither. They’re both wrinkled.”

  “Natalie.”

  She relented, exhaling heavily. “The blue one.”

  “I appreciate your cooperation.”

  Sliding off the bed, she approaches him defensively, arms crossed at her chest. “So...how long are you going to be gone?”

  Brandon, who had been folding his boxer briefs, stalled, erected his back and pursed his lips together. “Hmm, about a week?”

  “Your supervisor just sends a brand new art director clear across the country, leaving his pregnant wife behind in this empty house? How can he afford it?”

  Brandon bounced his shoulders and smiled. “He’s a very rich man. You know, like that Dr. Lambert guy who’s been jumping up your ass the past few weeks. Shall we discuss that?”

  “Nope.”

  “I thought so.”

  She was reeling anyway; the past few weeks had been something she’d probably never experience again, and she didn’t even know where to begin processing it. Dr. Pierre Lambert was perhaps the smartest man she’d ever encountered, and most certainly the warmest. Floating beside him along a charity circuit of backyard affairs, cocktail hours and weekend ribbon-cutting ceremonies, Natalie was exhausted, and Lamb was exuberant in her presence. Suddenly, everyone wanted to know who Natalie Chandler Greene was, and why the hell she was so special to a renowned French surgeon -- her husband included.

  “You’re not having an affair with an older man are you?” Brandon was kidding, surely. While Pierre Lambert’s olive skin and graying chocolate brown hair might’ve been something appealing in his heyday, Natalie gravitated toward his warmth, reminiscent of sunlight, or basking in the afterglow of an orgasm or a good cry. His general attitude toward life, was nothing short of extraordinary -- of course, the ridiculous wealth and high-profile occupation may have aided a bit.

  But it wasn’t the good doctor who gave her pause - it was his son, who in the past few weeks, had made his presence at the hospital far more revealing.

  She was filing patient paperwork in the latter part of the evening one week. Brandon was running late, so she didn’t feel the need to rush. Besides, she liked the quiet of the pediatric wing in between shifts, when she heard nothing more than the gentle whistle of the air conditioning above her head. She found it difficult to concentrate in the middle of the day, with all of the nurses, doctors and families running around.

  While ruminating over eleven-year-old Devon Harris’ paperwork, her eyes got lost in the doctor’s observations, prognoses and such, and failed to notice the person drumming their fingers almost impatiently on the flat surface near her face. Rolling her eyes upward slowly, she unguardedly allowed Bellamy Lambert’s eyes to seize hers.

  Blinking slowly as if to express the point of her immediate exasperation, she stared upward toward his face, hidden behind very expensive looking black vintage frames. His green eyes regarded her shrewdly, and she stared back proudly, as though to prove that she refused to breathe first.

  Smirking arrogantly, he leaned onto the flat surface with his elbows. He wore a charcoal blazer well, and his casually undulant russet hair and glasses made him appear as though he gave a damn.

  About something. “Do you have a piece of gum?”

  The question was odd, and her reciprocating express reflected such. But, hell, she answered anyway. “Excuse me?”

  “Gum. Ever heard of it?”

  “No. Is it like a cell phone?”

  He chuckled. “Funny.”

  For some reason, she couldn’t imagine him ever having difficulty with a sour taste in his mouth. Then again, they were all human. Some more than others.

  “Lamb has an entire bowl of breath mints on the shelf in his office. Right beside a picture of you...as a child.”

  “Lamb.” He was surprisingly soft-spoken; like the crisp, whispering touch of a waft on a lazy afternoon in the middle of October.

  Clearing her throat, she felt she’d overstepped some unseen boundary. “Yes. Dr. Lambert.”

  The amalgam of his hum and the chortle that rolled through it, made her part her lips. But she didn’t know why. “The point is, I don’t have any gum. Your father has something quite suitable in his office. And I’d a
ppreciate it if you’d leave me alone, so I can finish this and go home.”

  “Your accent. Where do you come from?”

  Sharp, snarky thoughts entered her brain, but she hushed them quickly. “Georgia.”

  “How is it there?”

  She huffed. “Hot.”

  “Just hot?”

  “Beautiful. Inviting. Inspirational. Cultural. What other adjective can I provide for you, Mr. Lambert?” She was glaring at him. He didn’t stop staring at her.

  “Why aren’t you there?”

  “What?”

  “Georgia. Why aren’t you in Georgia if it’s so beautiful?”

  “What’s with all of the invasive questions?”

  “Invasive? You have an accent, and I inquired about your origins. My father has an accent...I’m sure you bestowed the same courtesy on him.”

  “My husband.”

  “Husband.” He tried out the word a couple of times, as though he didn’t like the way it sounded.

  “Yes. I’m married.”

  “My apologies.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “For what?”

  “Your marriage.”

  “Not a fan of marriage, are we?”

  “Didn’t say that.”

  “Well...you implied.”

  “No implications here. You assumed.”

  Straightening Devon Harris’ files on the desk, she sighed, pausing momentarily to collect her thoughts. “Like I said, I don’t have any gum and I’d like to get home soon...”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Who?”

  “Your husband.”

  “Romulus.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m not. Remus.”

  “Indulge me, and I’ll go about my merry way shortly.”

  “Brandon.”

  “Now, that sounds about right.”

  “Isn’t there some party you’d like to crash shit-faced?”

  His smirk grew larger. “First impressions matter to you, I see.”

  She got to her feet, reaching for her purse. “Not just me. Most people.”