Best Medicine, The

by Brogan, Tracy

  Fate was a persistent bitch. She seemed determined to toss us together. Various scenarios flashed through my mind. Some involved nudity. Actually they all involved nudity. Damn, maybe I should take him to bed just for the novelty of it. I hadn’t had a meaningless fling in eons, and he was big and beautiful and couldn’t be that bad a man if he was out walking all these cute little dogs. But he was twenty-seven and I was thirty-five. If I was going to get naked, it had to be with someone from my own bracket. And besides that, I was a surgeon and he was a . . . a dog walker. Of someone else’s dogs.

  The canine chaos continued to yip and yap and twine the various leashes around his legs.

  “I can’t have dinner with you, Mr. Connelly.”

  “Tyler.”

  “I can’t have dinner with you, Tyler.”

  “Why?” He was asking as if we’d never been through this conversation before. It was amusing. And flirtatious. And it made me want to change my mind.

  But I should end this, fast and sharp, like the first incision with a scalpel. I crossed my arms. “Why? Because I’m thirty-five years old.”

  His head tilted to the side. “And?”

  It wasn’t obvious? “And that means I’m too old for you.”

  He looked me over, slowly, from the laces of my shoes up to the stupidly tiny ponytails behind my ears. Then his gaze came back to mine. His eyes had a perceptible twinkle, and a rush of heat cascaded over me.

  “We could go at four o’clock,” he said coyly.

  I nearly stomped my foot. His persistence was both flattering and frustrating. “I didn’t say I was old. I said I was too old for you. And besides that, I watched you get arrested. Remember? Or maybe you don’t remember that part because you were drunk.”

  All the smirk left him, like a guillotine falling. He looked down at the dogs and started to earnestly untangle them. “You’re right. I made a great first impression, didn’t I?”

  Oh, well, shit. Now I felt mean. I hadn’t meant to embarrass him, but I had seen him get arrested! Common sense warned me to avoid him, even if all my other senses wanted to taste him, and smell him, and squeeze him like a horny anaconda.

  The dogs seemed to sense something tense was going on above their heads and quieted down. Tyler looked back at me, his expression void of any flirtation.

  “Community service,” he said.

  “What?”

  “My lawyer thinks it’ll look good to the judge if I’m doing some kind of volunteer work, so I’ve started walking dogs for the animal shelter. Community service.”

  My chest, which had been tight since the first moment I saw him, deflated.

  “So you did steal the Jet Ski?” The words were heavy on my tongue.

  “No. I didn’t. I was returning it for someone else. But I did knock out the dock by accident. I misjudged the angle. Might have been the whiskey.”

  Maybe I was gullible, but I believed him. If he was going to lie, he’d have come up with a better story. Something more clever than misjudging the angle. Because of whiskey.

  “Who were you returning it for?”

  Tyler shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. As far as the police are concerned, it was all me. No good deed goes unpunished, right?” His smile was tight. There was obviously more to say, more to the story. It was present right there under the surface of what he wasn’t saying, but Tyler’s demeanor had changed from swagger to sincerity. It made him seem younger than ever. And made me feel even worse for having been so sharp.

  “Anyway, I don’t want to keep you from your exercise, Dr. Rhoades.” He said my name with emphasis now, heightening the barrier between us. Which should make me glad. Only it didn’t.

  “Enjoy your walk,” he added. “It looks like we’re heading in different directions.” He gave me a fast nod and moved on down the path, the little dogs scampering alongside him.

  I watched him go and bit my lip. I wanted to stop him and tell him I believed him. Because I did. But what would be the point? He was right. We were heading in two very different directions.

  “The wedding plans are coming along nicely, Evelyn. Have you found a maid of honor dress yet?” My mother was calling between surgeries. I hadn’t spoken to her much since my birthday, which wasn’t unusual. Schedules being what they were, it was hard to find the time to chat. Or dress shop, for that matter.

  “Nope, no dress yet. I thought maybe I could pick something out when I visit you in Ann Arbor in a few weeks. There aren’t a lot of options here in Bell Harbor.” I was walking down the hospital corridor, on my way to surgery as well.

  “No, I suppose there wouldn’t be many places to shop. Have you found a date yet?” Her voice was light, but the implication was heavy. I thought about just hanging up and pretending to have lost my signal, but she’d only call back.

  “Nope, no date yet either.”

  There was a significant, meaningful pause. The nonverbal equivalent of I’m disappointed in you.

  “Well, your father was going to ask Uncle Marv to be his best man, but he could ask Dan Hooper. You remember him, don’t you? He’s single these days.”

  A knot the size and shape of an armadillo lodged in my chest. Now my mother was trying to fix me up? With a thrice-married partner of my dad’s? That was not only insulting, it was nauseating.

  “I’ll find my own date, Mother. I have someone in mind already.” That was a lie. I didn’t.

  “Really?” She sounded uncharacteristically optimistic, and I couldn’t stop the vision of me strolling into the Bloomfield Hills bed-and-breakfast with Tyler Connelly on my arm. That would go splendidly.

  My father would say, “You’re not a doctor? What do you do for a living, son?” and Tyler would say, “Well, in between incarcerations, I like to walk dogs.”

  Then my mother would say, “Oh, Evelyn, he’s going to leave you for a younger woman. He’s far better looking than you are. And he’s not even a doctor.”

  And then Tyler would say, “No, I’m not a doctor. Do they serve whiskey at this place?”

  Yeah, scratch that idea. Tyler was not going to be my date to my parents’ wedding.

  “Yes, I have some options,” I said. That was a lie too. I didn’t have any options. But that wedding was coming up fast, and I was going to have to figure something out equally fast. The only idea I had seemed far-fetched and risky. But I might just have to go for it.

  Chapter 7

  “GABBY, I NEED A FAVOR.”

  She was hunched over the keyboard at the front desk. Everyone else had gone home for the day, so it was just the two of us in the office.

  “Sure. What’s up?” she said, not looking away from her computer screen.

  I wound up for a grand slam. “I need a man.”

  Gabby straightened up so fast her chair nearly tipped over. She clawed the reading glasses from her face, then stuck an index finger into her ear and wiggled it in an obnoxiously exaggerated manner.

  “Wow, for a second there I thought you asked me to find you a man.”

  The onslaught of teasing was inevitable. I’d braced for it. I’d even prepared some canned responses.

  “Yep. Go ahead. Make fun, but you, and your sister, and my parents, and the rest of this crazy little town have finally won. I’m ready for a man. But I’m going to go about this scientifically. Methodically.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Scientifically? Like in a lab? Please don’t tell me you’re going to build a man using parts you’ve scraped off of other people.”

  I burst out laughing, and I was suddenly very glad I’d decided to ask for help. The truth was, I’d been thinking about this for days. And days. And days. Ever since seeing Tyler in the park. And in my office. And in the emergency department. My attraction to him was undeniable, but it was purely physical. He was not the man for me long-term. If I was going to find myself a significant
other, I needed one who was mature and settled. And preferably with a clean criminal record.

  “No, I’m not going to build one. I thought I’d try a dating service, though, to help me weed through all the inappropriate men and provide the most optimal choices.” I’d practiced my little speech in the bathroom before coming out here to ask her. My palms were damp with nerves, and I sounded like I was reading from a cue card. I pulled a sheet of notebook paper from my lab coat pocket and handed it over. “I’ve made a list of my husband requirements, weighted by priority, just like I did for my house. That’s how I always make big decisions.”

  She took the list gingerly between her fingers and unfolded it as if it were hardwired to explode. She put her glasses back on and scanned it quickly. “Evelyn’s husband requirements,” she read off the top, then glanced at me. “Are you kidding with this stuff? These are your requirements?”

  “Yes. Those are very logical criteria. And they’re prioritized. Remember, this is a guy for me, not you.”

  “Oh, you’ve got that right. Advanced degree in science, mathematics, or engineering? That’s your number one demand?” Gabby leaned back in her chair and slid the glasses to the tip of her nose.

  “I need someone I can have an intelligent conversation with.” I crossed my arms.

  She nodded. “Uh-huh. Have you talked to many engineers or mathematicians?”

  “Not really. Why?”

  She paused, then shook her head. “Never mind. I’ll let you sail that voyage of self-discovery solo. But what’s this second one here about economic equality?”

  That point was easy to defend. “I think it’s best to be with some who earns about the same amount as I do. That way I won’t have to worry he’s just after my money, and he won’t think I’m after his. It keeps the balance of power equal.”

  “Right. So you’ll trust him in your bed, just not in your bank account?”

  She was being kind of argumentative in the face of my sound judgment. “That’s not at all what that means. My mother taught me to take care of my own financial security. There is nothing wrong with that.”

  “No, there isn’t. I’m just not sure choosing a man based on his income is going to score you the best dates. Rich guys can be big dicks. And they usually don’t have them.” She giggled at her own joke.

  I tapped my foot. “So you’re suggesting I should choose a man based on the size of his penis instead of his wallet?”

  Her smile indicated that’s precisely what she was suggesting. “Not exactly. A great big penis can be kind of uncomfortable too. I’m suggesting in all things, moderation. You know, not too big, not too small, not too soft, not too . . . well, forget that last one. The point is, I think you’re missing some of the more important details. Like how about good old-fashioned chemistry?”

  I should have guessed she’d have opinions about this. But her opinions wouldn’t sway me.

  “Sure, chemistry is a factor, but physical attraction shouldn’t be the primary reason for being with someone. My parents got divorced because every time my father became infatuated with some other woman, he thought he was in love. And obviously he wasn’t, because none of those marriages lasted either. Now he’s back with my mother because he finally understands what’s important in a relationship.”

  “Which is?”

  “Intellectual equality. Common interests. Similar goals. Stuff that still matters once the honeymoon is over.”

  Gabby’s eyelids drooped. “Oh my God. You’re going to take all the fun out of this for me, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, that’s my hidden agenda,” I said drily. “Will you help me or not?”

  She folded up the list and put it in her pocket. “Of course I will. I’ll come over tonight and we can check out some dating sites. I’ll bring Chinese takeout. Do you have wine?”

  “I’m not going to set up my profile while drinking. That’s a recipe for disaster.” Actually wine sounded pretty good. And this plan had disaster written all over it anyway.

  “Fine. I’ll get drunk by myself. What else is new?” Gabby rolled the chair up to the desk and gave me a sincere smile. “Honestly, I love that you are doing this, Evie. And I’m honored to help you. What did Hilary have to say?”

  I felt a little pang of unease. “I haven’t told her yet. I tried to the other day, but she had her own stuff going on and I never got a chance. Tonight she’s busy with family time. But I can tell you that she’d fully support my criteria. So don’t lose that!” I pointed at the pocket containing my list.

  Gabby patted it. “Oh, I’ll take good care of this. Trust me.”

  I didn’t trust her. Not as far as I could chuck a Volkswagen. But Hilary was unavailable and Gabby was all I had. Of course, I could have done this alone too, but since always being alone was what had gotten me into this position, I felt like I needed a buddy for this adventure.

  Gabby sat on the floor of my apartment an hour later, polishing off her plate of moo goo gai pan and her second glass of wine. I’d caved to her peer pressure and was finishing my first merlot. My laptop was perched on the coffee table like some magic portal into my future. But I hadn’t had the nerve to turn it on.

  “All right. The night’s half over, Evie. Time to boot this puppy up.” Gabby reached over, her fingers flickering over the keyboard, and the screen brightened instantly. “Bell Harbor Singles, you said, right?” She continued typing.

  I nodded. “That’s the one Des McKnight’s kooky aunt-in-law suggested. I guess if it’s good enough for her, it’s good enough for me. Although she is seventy. And quite possibly suffering from dementia.”

  On second thought, maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. As soon as I put my information out there . . . well, then my information would be out there. Where literally every Tom, Dick, and Harry could see it. And every Bill and Brad and Brian, and scores of countless others. It’s not as if I had any privacy in this town anyway, but this was taking things to a whole new level of transparency. Maybe I wasn’t ready for this.

  But before I could stop her, the site popped up and nearly blinded me. It was a cotton-candy pink with a photo of two hands clasped in front of a setting sun. Gabby read the text out loud.

  “Bell Harbor—where the sand is warm and the romance scene is hot, hot, hot. Whether you’re looking for just a little fun in the afternoon sun or a stroll down the aisle, your ideal match is waiting for you. Log on now. Your happily ever after is just one click away.”

  She smiled over at me. “Just a click away, Ev. Are you ready?”

  I felt a little woozy all of a sudden. I hadn’t been on a date in ages. In fact, I’d looked at my calendar just before Gabby arrived and realized I hadn’t had sex in nearly two years. With my fellowship training and traveling for interviews, it just hadn’t happened. So no wonder I was ogling a young stud like Tyler Connelly. I was suffering from a severe case of vaginal cobwebs. It must be like an old, abandoned subway tunnel down there.

  Gabby moved the mouse around and clicked on a little bell that said “Create your profile.”

  “Don’t forget my list,” I said.

  “I’ve already forgotten your list,” she answered. “There’s a questionnaire. Let’s just go through that, and we’ll get to all your requirements that way. Even the stupid ones.”

  “But I’ve listed them in order of importance.”

  Gabby shook her head. “I had no idea you were so compulsive. I’ll be sure to mention that charming little personality gemstone in your profile.”

  “I’m not compulsive. I’m decisive. I don’t want to waste time with someone who doesn’t meet even my most basic of requirements.”

  Like Tyler Connelly.

  Gabby clicked away on the keys, ignoring me.

  “OK, speaking of basics, let’s start with those. What’s your preferred height range?” she asked. “It goes from three to eight f
eet.”

  “Seriously?” I tried to imagine either extreme. Then I tried to block those images away.

  “That’s pretty broad,” Gabby agreed and took a chug of wine. “How tall are you?”

  “Five two.”

  “OK, so no offense to the guys under five feet, but I think we can find you somebody taller without much effort. Let’s say five five to six two. I dated a Goliath once who was six eight, and the sexual mechanics were a hassle. Plus he didn’t fit in my car. Don’t go that tall.”

  “Would that be the guy with the overly large penis?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Duly noted.”

  The idea of working out sexual mechanics with anyone suddenly felt very overwhelming. Yes, I wanted to be scientific in my pursuit of a suitable mate, but certain things, sex in particular, shouldn’t be dealt with in such a clinical fashion. It was very Masters and Johnson-y.

  “How about fitness level?” Gabby asked. “Looks like the range here is from couch potato to the guys who can’t get change from their own pockets because their biceps are too big.”

  I took a sip of wine and blocked more mental images. “Is there a spot that just says physically active? Like enjoys jogging or something?”

  Gabby’s fingers did more clicking. “Yep, I put your preferences right in the middle here.”

  We continued through the profile questionnaire, eliminating men who smoked, lived with their mothers, had an excessively high number of ex-wives, or had done hard time for murder or extortion.

  “OK, here are some questions about you,” Gabby said, her hands poised over the keyboard. “What do you do for fun?”

  “Fun? Fun is on there?” I set my glass down and scratched my chin. “Um, well, I work, which is fun for me. I read a lot. I like to jog in the park when I have a chance.”

  Gabby made a snoring noise and let her head fall back against the sofa cushion. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? You don’t need a man for that kind of crap, Evie. You need a basset hound.”