by Tamara Leigh
Thank You for Dr. Neimer’s skill (his chair-side manner could use some work) and for continuing to heal my mole-less cheek. Thank You for Belle’s good health, and please let her upcoming ultrasound show that baby’s doing well.
Two weeks until I go in for spider vein removal, which should pretty much wrap up my major self-improvement issues (excluding the reduction). So one last dip into savings ($350 isn’t all that much, is it?).
Yours,
Kate
PS: Can’t believe I didn’t realize that my Bible was under my pillow (of course, had I time to make my bed, I would have discovered it sooner). Too bad You didn’t give us the ability to absorb Your Word simply by pressing it to our heads. Meaning it’s time to apply myself. Bible, here I come!
Friday, April 27
Oh. My. Gosh!
Ow! What was I thinking? That so-called doctor turned me into a pin cushion with his lousy saline injections. I sting all over—from my ankles to the tops of my thighs. And the cramping! And for what? True, he said it could take weeks, or even months, to see noticeable results, but surely I ought to see something now. Something besides reddening and bruising. And these support hose! Feels like I’m stuck in a vacuum. No wonder so many little old ladies are grumpy.
The only good is that it’s got me sitting—legs elevated. That means maybe I can catch up on my Bible time, which has once more gotten behind.
Ow! Maybe Clive Alexander was right. Why improve on something that works, especially something that 90 percent of the time is covered in jeans! Never again! I don’t care if my legs turn into a road map of the United States! I don’t care if Michael begs me to do it for him! I am NOT doing it again. No way! There ought to be a law. Hmm. Wonder what the Geneva convention would say about this form of torture. Regardless of the fact it’s voluntary, it’s inhumane! And Michael’s going to hear about it! (Why do I get this feeling You’re less than sympathetic?)
Thank You for everything, especially Belle and Beau’s baby.
Yours,
Kate
’m obsessed. Or is vain the better word?
I sigh, flash another “perfect” smile, and flip up the visor. Though it has been two weeks since the bonding that rid me of my gap and three weeks since the removal of my mole, I still can’t get over the new me. And yet sometimes I miss the old me, whose figure was less toned, hair out of control, makeup practically nonexistent, wardrobe comfortably plain, eyes on the dull side, smile a bit quirky, and mole—
No, I don’t miss the mole. Nor the spider veins that have started to fade. Pest control is definitely where it’s at (within reason—will not do sclerotherapy again!).
Fortunately, there’s only one thing left to do to perfect Kate, but Michael would disagree considering my collection of business cards and the chapters of The Makeup Bible he keeps referring me to. Three months after the burn unit is completed, I’m scheduled for breast reduction. I finally made the consult appointment (in a carefully disguised voice), kept it (slunk into the waiting room wearing dark sunglasses), and endured the humiliation of Dr. Corrigan’s exam. An exam that included intense scrutiny from all sides, which made me feel like a very ugly painting.
Then there were the man’s murmurings and asides to his nurse, who gave single-syllable responses. Thank goodness the next time I see Dr. Corrigan I’ll be heavily sedated and on my way into surgery. It’ll be worth it, though. And that brings me back to Clive, who I haven’t seen since our disagreement over God.
Hoping—praying—he won’t put in an appearance on my first day at the burn unit, I pull into the parking garage, accept the ticket spit out by the machine, and drive up. On the third floor, I groan at the sight of Clive’s car in the row reserved for physicians. Great. What are the chances I won’t run into him? According to Dorian and Gray, who I’ve made a point of visiting after hours, Clive has stopped by every other day or so.
Oh, well. If I do run into him, at least I’m looking my best—wearing new hip-hugging jeans rather than the old relaxed-fit (mere coincidence, of course).
Gripped by a need to be certain I’m in top form, I flip the visor down and smile at my reflection. Teeth are perfect.
Returning my attention to the parking garage as a car passes me in the opposite direction, I chance another glance in the mirror.
Hair? Not bad.
Back to the parking garage, where I spot a space ahead. Slowing, I turn into it and, as I ease to a stop, shift my gaze to the mirror for one last look—
Crunch!
I stomp the brake, slam the car into park, and scramble out from behind the steering wheel to confirm what I already know—my left front bumper is crunched.
I glare at the stunted cement pylon that appears none the worse for the hit. The sawed off little—
But not so sawed off that you couldn’t have seen it had you been watching where you were going.
I really don’t want to hear it.
Ten minutes later, I enter the domed room lugging two bags that contain the various tools of my trade: paints, brushes, thinner, drop cloths, etcetera.
“Thar she blows!” a voice calls, and I spy a man with short spiked hair balanced near the top of a ladder, an arm thrown out in welcome.
Pleased to discover that he and his brother haven’t left for the day, I determinedly push the crunched bumper to the back of my mind. “Ahoy, Gray!”
Though he and Dorian finished prepping a week ago, when they said they had nothing in the hopper for the next two weeks, I took it as a godsend. Handing over my drawings and specifications, I put them to work applying textured paint to the designated ocean areas. Time permitting, they’ll also lay down the paint for the land forms.
Dorian emerges from the men’s room. “Ahoy, new and improved mate!”
Clive Alexander isn’t the only one who’s given me grief over my attempts at self-improvement, but at least the Oscar Wilde brothers are positive about the changes—changes that have me gawking at my reflection instead of keeping my eyes where they belong!
“Hey, Dorian.”
He winks. “What’s new?”
Besides a crunched bumper? “Nothing.” I lower my bags. “I’m in a holding pattern.” No need to let him in on the sclerotherapy.
He halts before me and scans my face and jean-clad figure. “Darn.” He shakes his head, causing his long bangs to fall into his eyes. “Gray and I laid bets on your next undertaking.”
He makes it sound as if I’m a poster child for plastic surgery—and I haven’t even had plastic surgery! Yet.
I shrug a shoulder. “Oh, yeah?”
“He thought nose; I thought lips.”
Trying to ignore the implications, I say, “I see.”
He laughs, pats me on the back, then strides toward his brother. “Party time, Gray! Let’s wrap it up.”
I should let it go. After all, he’s only teasing. Or is he? Forgetting the little incident in the parking garage, I mentally shuffle through the business cards and pause on the one belonging to a surgeon who specializes in nose jobs.
Hmm. I run a finger down my nose. It’s not that big, is it? At least, it never struck me as being out of proportion. In fact, I consider it one of my better features.…
I slide my finger lower and run it across my lips. The last time Michael and I kissed, he did say I should consider “plumping.”
I eye the brothers, who are gathering up their tools and, before I can reconsider, cross to them. “Gray?”
The brother with the spiked hair turns to me. “Hmm?”
I touch my nose. “Do you really think it’s too big?”
No sooner do I speak than I’m certain he’s going to laugh. But instead he straightens and leans near. “Well …” He leans a little left, a little right. “It’s …” His lips twitch. “Perfect.” With that, he pops a kiss on my nose.
As I lurch back, Dorian chuckles. “Yeah, but you gotta admit, her lips could be fuller.”
I return my gaze to Gray, just as he draw
s near again and focuses on my mouth, with greater intensity than when I landed a kiss on my nose.
I slap a hand to his chest. “Oh, no, you don’t.”
He groans. “Come on, Kate. When you gonna let me take you out?”
Another admirer. Amazing what a bit of self-improvement can do for one’s love life (and self-esteem). Prior to my makeover, Gray wasn’t the least bit interested in me. Now every time I see him, he asks me out. But I have Michael, who despite our decreasing time together, recently swore off dating other women.
“It’s all you, Kate,” he’d said. Of course, the moment Maia walked in, it was all her.
As it seems I’ve done a hundred times, I push aside my misgivings. “Sorry, Gray, but I’m spoken for.”
He sweeps up my hand and cocks his head. “Little lady,” he affects a voice that aspires to the timbre of John Wayne, “that’s a mighty small ring you got there.” He squints. “Can hardly see it. Nope. Can’t see it at all.”
I tug my hand free. “Not spoken for in that way.”
“Ah.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Then say yes.”
“No.”
He sighs. “All right, I know when I’m not wanted.”
“Leave poor Kate alone,” Dorian chides.
I look to where he’s on his hands and knees folding a drop cloth. He winks.
Gray turns away and glances over his shoulder. “Nice jeans, Kate.”
And I blush. “Er … thanks.” Now let’s just hope I don’t regret forgoing my relaxed-fit jeans. As much as I like the fit, feel, and look of my hip-huggers, it’s asking a lot to expect them to come away from the job unscathed. Whatever possessed me?
Vanity. You know, that which crunched your bumper. That which has you questioning your nose and lips. The possibility that Clive Alexander might drop by—
With a grunt, I cross to my bags and begin unpacking.
Shortly, the brothers head across the domed room toward the winding hallway.
“Hey!” I call from alongside the scaffold. “Great job, guys.”
“Thanks,” they say in unison, and I’m relieved when Gray grins. No hard feelings, then.
Dorian waves. “Maybe see you tomorrow.”
“Hope so.” I start to walk away only to yield to the question pecking at the fore of my mind. “Uh, guys?”
They look around.
“Has he come and gone?”
“You mean him?” Gray nods to where Clive has appeared at the mouth of the winding hallway.
I force a smile. “Yeah.” Ha ha. “Him.”
Gray faces forward again. “Hiya, Doc.”
Clive inclines his head. “Gray … Dorian.”
A few moments later, I’m alone with the very person I wished to avoid.
“Avoiding me, huh?” he says as he crosses the domed room.
Why dance around our disagreement? “Can you blame me?”
“No, though I was beginning to wonder if you planned on subcontracting the entire job.”
I prop a hand on a hip. “You knew I couldn’t begin work immediately.”
“I did.” His eyes stray to my hip-huggers.
And I’m so glad I’m not wearing relaxed-fit, full-seated—
Not that I care what he thinks. I just … well …
I clear my throat. “Considering the time constraints, I determined the only way to bring the job in on time without stressing myself into an early grave was to hire out the prep work.”
A frown speed bumps across his brow as he halts before me. “Understandable.”
Then why is he frowning so hard? “G-good.” Confusion is to blame for the speech blip, not his proximity. I avert my gaze. “As for the ocean Dorian and Gray are painting—”
“So you went through with it.”
I return my attention to Clive and realize he’s staring at my open mouth.
Ah. Noticed my latest adventures in self-improvement, both of which he advised against. I snap my teeth closed. “What?”
“The gap between your teeth—and the mole.” He reaches up and lightly touches the flesh where a mole once held court. “Gone.”
I pull back from his touch. “I decided I could do without both.”
“Hmm. So what does Mr. Palmier have planned for you next? Derriere implants? Rhinoplasty?”
Another reference to the size of my nose!
“Botox? Liposuction?” He shakes his head. “You know what you need, Kate? A man who likes you just the way you are.”
“Is that so? And are you applying for the position, Dr. Alexander?”
Oh … my … goodness. Did I say that?
His gaze dampens. “You wouldn’t like me.”
“I imagine not.” However, in the next instant I acknowledge my words for the lie they are. I do like him. Against my will and despite our run-in over God, I like Clive Alexander.
Desperate to change the conversation, I say, “Though it’s true that Michael has offered suggestions on improving my appearance, whatever I’ve done I wanted to do.” I have, haven’t I? I’m certainly pleased with the results.
Too pleased. Remember the bumper?
I press my shoulders back. “And anything else I have done will be my decision alone.”
“Surely you’re not planning to—”
“Dr. Alexander, please don’t preach at me—you who have nothing that needs improving upon.”
He opens his mouth only to close it. Silence stretches until an “almost” smile grooves his mouth. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
It was a compliment, wasn’t it?
A long moment passes. “I’m sorry, Kate. I didn’t mean to turn this into another confrontation. In fact, I came to apologize for the last one.”
He did?
“I …” He shrugs. “The exchange with your boyfriend … then the call from Dr. MacPhail …”
Clive Alexander at a loss for words?
“Not that it excuses my behavior.” He sighs. “I handled our difference of opinion poorly. I apologize.”
Then he’s changed his mind about allowing me to incorporate God into my work? I start to smile.
“However, I still maintain there are to be no religious symbols.”
Heathen. Infidel. Pagan.
In an effort to hold back retaliatory words, I tell myself to accept his olive branch—in all its thorny glory. “Apology accepted.” Deep breath. “Now I really must get started.”
His hand closes over my arm. “Kate.”
No sooner do I settle my gaze on his long fingers than he releases me and both hands take a running leap into the pockets of his physician’s coat.
He clears his throat. “I don’t expect you to understand. All I ask is that you let the matter lie.”
“Excuse me?” I shake my head. “You’re the one who broached the subject of our disagreement.”
So he might apologize. And it was you, Katherine Mae Meadows, who assumed his apology meant he’d relented.
As regret washes over me, I once more witness the jaw action that evidences his struggle. In the end, he gives an abrupt nod and turns away. “I’ll let you get to work.”
I stare after him, struck by a longing to offer an apology but unable to form anything coherent. And pride is the stumbling block. I know it as surely as I know I’ve messed up Clive’s attempt at reconciliation.
Before the entrance to the hallway, he looks over his shoulder. “Though I can’t say I approve of the manner of your latest attempts at self-improvement, you do look very nice, Kate.”
I do? Then he likes my face better without the mole? My smile better without the gap? My hip-huggers—
Aargh!
I put my chin up. “And just who asked for your approval?” Of course, no sooner are the words out than I’m clenching my hands to keep from clapping them over my mouth. That was another olive branch, wasn’t it?
“Touché.” With a wry smile, he strides from sight.
A moment later, I’m dealt another dose of Fren
ch, as in déjà vu, as this is pretty much how our last disagreement ended—censure of my religious convictions and disapproval of my attempts to better myself.
I sigh. Though I like Clive despite our head butting, and for some reason he seems to like me, it’s a good thing neither of us is romantically interested in the other. A very good thing—or so I tell myself. Over. And over.
Monday, April 30
Dear Lord,
Thank You for pest control (spider veins continuing to fade). Thank You for an ungapped smile. Thank You for Dorian and Gray. Thank you for Clive’s compliments, grudging though they were (tells me not to improve on what works, yet sees my improvements as positive!). Help me be content with me (wish Michael would find another use for all those business cards and stop referring me to The Makeup Bible). Help me not to succumb to vanity and any more crunched bumpers. Help me finish off this run at self-improvement with the reduction. Help me stop obsessing over my nose and lips (that Dorian and Gray!). As always, help me guard my tongue and not fall prey to name-calling, even in my thoughts (sorry about the heathen/infidel/pagan thoughts against Clive). Please continue to nourish and protect Belle and Beau’s baby. They are so excited about this incredible blessing!
Yours,
Kate
PS: Sorry I missed church yesterday, but I am catching up on my Bible time! Sort of … And sorry I haven’t been a better steward of my money. Still can’t think what possessed me to wear my hip-huggers when I KNEW they would end up splattered. Oh well, at least now I have some “look good” painter’s pants.
PPS: Having a bit of trouble with migraines again—nothing full-blown, but on the edge. Please help me overcome so my HRT won’t have to be tweaked again.
eel it?”