Romance in Color

by Synithia Williams

  It went on to say that she would continue to provide emergency care for thirty days and recommended that he find another physician. Her signature, in bright blue ink, looked a little smudged. The small disorder on a pristine, impersonal letter was so Petra, and for some reason it hurt something inside him.

  He had really fucked up a lot of things that night she had visited Field. Maybe she had flirted with him a little bit. Maybe she had even found out more about his personal life than he wanted anyone to know. She had distanced herself even before that night. She stayed professional and tried her best to be a good doctor. He knew vaguely that there were rules against dating patients. Even in the butterscotch-induced haze, he sensed that she held herself back, as if she were telling herself that she should not respond. But he had spooked her enough to send him away even though she needed patients. She could not have gotten rid of him without struggling with her decision. He had been fired as a patient because his doctor had noticed that he had practically gotten a hard-on watching her eat dessert.

  And yet, five months later, he still thought of the brightness of her face, her slim shoulders and legs, and the laugh that seemed bigger than she was. He enjoyed his time with her, this despite the fact that he almost never left her without bleeding. He missed the pleasure of her hand sliding across his skin. He missed her breath on his shoulder. He sometimes thought about her fingers massaging cream into his arm.

  So he’d thrown himself into his work once again. He’d given himself even more to do. Now that Stream was open, he was afraid that he would have to go back to hating himself.

  The bar’s opening crowd pushed around him. He put on a lazy grin and shook hands. He declined wine and set about talking to his guests. Wait staff, bearing trays of tiny lamb chops and shrimp chips and hamachi, passed by. He grabbed a tray himself and pressed food and drink on people. He fielded compliments about the exposed copper pipes. Someone spilled a drink and he wiped it up unobtrusively. Despite the fact that he was on alert and too warm, he managed to feel proud about the floor. He may have talked a little bit too long and enthusiastically about the beauties of poured concrete.

  Gerry was off in a dark corner, talking to a petite brunette. He was no help at all. Lilah, at least, was moving around the room smiling, pressing kisses on cheeks, and directing the wait staff. He had chosen well, elevating her to manager of Stream. Plus, it got her out of Gerry’s orbit.

  By most standards, the night would have to be deemed a reasonable success. The team behind the bar seemed solid. No brawls had erupted. No one seemed plastered. The crab cakes had been a little dry; they probably would not make it onto the menu. Staff had been slow picking up dirty glasses, but everyone was drinking quickly tonight. By the time they really opened, they’d have a few things hammered out. He pecked out a stream of reminders on his iPhone.

  He was about to slip into the kitchen, when he cast one last glance around the room. Under the sconces near the door, he saw her. Her hair burned so bright under the lamplight that he could feel the warmth of it reach his chest.

  Petra.

  He heard a crash.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “I don’t believe in allergies,” the man who claimed to be the chef was saying. “Some things make me itch and sneeze, but I don’t believe in making them more important than they are by acknowledging them.”

  Petra took a big gulp of her wine. Good thing it was delicious.

  “People are always saying, I can’t have shellfish. I can’t have strawberries. Those noodles can’t touch the sauce, because I’m sensitive to gluten. Let me tell you, gluten is the shit. All that chewy, springy stuff in your mouth? It satisfies your stomach and it makes your soul happy.”

  It was a beautiful room, too, she thought, looking around, and the invitation had come at a perfect time. Sarah said something garbled about her multilingual economist and a party. That was enough for Petra to go home and throw on a dress. She didn’t know the reason for the celebration, she didn’t know anyone who’d be there, she didn’t know the name of the place—it was so new that there wasn’t even a sign over the door—and that was glorious. She quaked for a moment when she realized that it occupied the same stretch of buildings as Ian Zamora’s restaurant, Field. She had assiduously avoided the street for months. But tonight, she was determined to be different. What did it matter to her if he was a few doors down from her tonight? They wouldn’t be breathing the same air, or keeping the same company. Even if they were, she was over it. She hadn’t really and truly crossed any lines; it only felt like she’d done more because she wanted it to be more. If anything, he was the one who ought to be guilty. He had turned his piercing brown eyes on her despite the fact that he was almost engaged.

  Besides, he was probably busy at Field. She was safe.

  So, now she was standing in a room with a lot of beautiful, hip people. Men in slim pants with artistically arranged beards stood beside women wearing jeans and silky tops, or slinky, off-the-shoulder cocktail frocks. She was glad she had put on a dress she’d bought on eBay. It gave her boobs, and because it gave her boobs, she had never worn it. Tonight, by God, she was ready to own her cleavage. She felt a sense of triumph that was only diluted by the incessant buzzing of Insult Chef, allergy-skeptic.

  Insult Chef swirled his wine. “Every day, there’s always some clown who’s asking, Oh, can I have the salmon, except salmon makes my tongue itchy, so could I have chicken instead? And I can’t have the herb gremolata because garlic gives me hives, so could I have a tomato sauce instead? And can I have potatoes instead of carrots just because I’m an asshole? And then, I’m just like, hey, why don’t you save your money and go to KFC and get yourself a bucket of chicken?”

  “What’s a gremolata?” Petra asked. She liked the word. It was almost worth sticking around for the explanation.

  “It’s herbs, chopped so fine that they’re almost a sauce. Usually we use a bit of lemon zest and parsley—”

  “And garlic.”

  “You were listening. That’s rare in a doctor.”

  “How am I going to inject you with snake oil if I don’t keep my ears open?”

  “Good point.”

  Insult Chef’s eyes searched her face and he moved in a little closer.

  Petra took a large step back. She bumped into the wall. “Maybe you do believe in allergies, but you just hate people who lie about them.”

  “No. Everybody lies about allergies. Even the allergies that don’t affect me. Can’t pat a bunny? What a jerk. Can’t sniff the flowers? What a weakling. Can’t be around dust? Well, either break out the vacuum or break up with me.”

  “You’re a prize.”

  “What? I love bunnies and flowers and people who clean for me.”

  Petra put a hand on her hip. “Does this work for you?”

  Insult Chef waggled his eyebrows and edged even closer. “Let’s just say, I’m still testing the recipe.”

  He wasn’t a bad-looking guy. Some women probably found his swaggering irresistible. But Petra laughed at him. “Aren’t there any twenty-year-olds you can try this on? I mean, come on. Trying to egg me on so that I argue with you? That would imply that I care what you think of me, when all of my really profound feelings are reserved for this excellent wine that you’re serving. So, if you really are the chef here, make yourself useful and get me another glass.”

  “I do admire you, you know,” said the chef. “You’re capitalizing on people’s weaknesses. Can’t fault you on that. It’s like the whole thing I do with food trends. I can’t stand that weird foam shit. I think it’s stupid. But people see the words, and they buy it up. So we put it on the menu.” Petra raised her eyebrows. Insult Chef took the hint. “Was that the Pinot Gris you were drinking?”

  As soon as he lost himself in the crowd, Sarah swooped in. “Were you just laughing with that guy?”

  “At him, Sarah. I was laughing at him. He told me I was a charlatan. I told him to bring me more wine.”

  “Loo
k at you, Miss Sparky. I remember a time when you would have caved. Or gotten really depressed at the kind of losers who would try to pick you up, as if it reflected on you.”

  “That time has passed. I’m a new me. I’ve left all my mistakes behind. This was a great idea, Sarah. I need to go out and talk to people. This is a great room,” Petra said enthusiastically.

  It was a great room. Its honey-colored wood panels would look as beautiful in sunlight as they did now, under lamps and candles. It reminded her of Field in some ways, she thought reluctantly, because apparently Field was her ideal. It had the same cozy nooks and sexy corner booths. But there was something clean and spare about it, even when filled with people. It was not what one expected from a bar. She turned slowly, admiring the place, and her gaze focused suddenly on a dark head in the crowd.

  Ian.

  “I have to go.”

  “What?” Sarah said.

  There was no time for an explanation. Petra put her head down and steamrolled her way toward the door. She grabbed her coat.

  Then she heard a crash. Someone began yelling for a doctor.

  Sarah reached her first, but Petra took in the woman’s swelling lips, her labored breathing, and the EpiPen clutched in her fist. She had probably been trying to make it to the bathroom when the reaction overtook her. While Sarah checked for other injuries, Petra bundled her coat and Sarah’s together and elevated the patient’s feet.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that Ian and the hostess were calming the crowd and gently pushing them away from Sarah and Petra. He was so good with people, she thought with a degree of envy, before turning back to the patient.

  With Sarah holding the woman steady, Petra raised her arm and plunged the adrenaline into the woman’s thigh. Someone screamed.

  • • •

  Much later, after they watched the ambulance drive away, Sarah pulled Petra aside.

  “Want to tell me what that was about?” Sarah asked.

  “We helped a woman who was having anaphylaxis?”

  “Not that, you dope. The way you planned to bolt before that woman collapsed? The looks that Hottie McManager gave you when we were waiting for the ambulance? The way you refused to glance at him? I’ve never seen someone work so hard to avoid meeting someone’s eyes. If I didn’t know you better, I’d swear that you developed a sudden fascination with my boobs.”

  Petra’s dress was wrinkled, and her palms and knees felt sticky. She didn’t even want to think about how her camel coat looked after it had spent time on the floor. She hated that hard, concrete floor. And she certainly did not want to discuss Ian Zamora with Sarah or her date, the multilingual economist. But Sarah was following her home. And Aarno smiled benignly, as usual. All the languages of Europe lay at the tip of his tongue, and all he ever did was grin.

  As if reading her mind, Sarah turned to Aarno and murmured in his ear. He frowned and shook his head. She pushed him away. “We’ll be fine. Petra’s apartment is right here. Näkemiin, Aarno.”

  He kissed Sarah, and she and Petra watched Aarno lumber silently into the night.

  “How’s that going? Are you sure he’s an economist, because it looks like he could be a member of the Finnish mafia.”

  “Let’s not change the subject,” Sarah said crisply.

  She grabbed Petra’s arm and held on tight until the whole sordid story spilled out in dribs and drabs.

  “I just didn’t want you to think I was a terrible doctor,” Petra said, finally.

  They were at her apartment. She was drinking a glass of water, and she had changed into sweats. Sarah wore one of Petra’s old nightgowns, which was too short for her, and she had wrapped an afghan around her legs.

  “Having a crush on a patient is definitely a no-no, but I guess you didn’t cross any real ethical lines with him,” Sarah said. “Yet.”

  “He’s a former patient,” Petra argued faintly. “Former patients are a gray area for the American Medical Association.”

  Sarah ignored her. “Well, he clearly seemed to be very focused on you.”

  “You really think? No, you know, never mind. Let’s not even talk about whether he was attracted to me, because it doesn’t matter. I am never seeing him again. Even though his businesses are in my neighborhood. And he lives close by and my vow is completely unrealistic.”

  “Well, he was a dish, I mean, if you like the smoldering brown eyes and lean, athletic type.”

  “And his smile, his smile could kill you. And his arms, you didn’t get to see them close up. Or touch them.”

  Sarah held up her hand. “Ho-kay, slippery slope, Petra.”

  “It was more than that, though, Sarah. I got emotionally involved. We talked a lot, maybe more than we should have. And even when we didn’t talk, there was an undercurrent. Or maybe I just wanted there to be something. It’s easy for us to imagine we really know things about patients.”

  “That’s because we do. We know where they hurt most. And that’s why it’s unethical to date them, even when they’re no longer your patients,” Sarah said.

  “We know physical things about them, but what do we know about the kind of people they are? Different patients have different styles when they get their shots. Some of them sort of huff and puff their way through. Some of them squeeze their eyes shut. Some of them just can’t take their eyes away from the sight of it going into their arm. Or they can’t hold still for more than two seconds. They flinch.

  “Ian would look at me—not my hands, not the syringe. He’d hold still and watch my face. It’s like you said, he was very focused on me. And then when I was done and I wiped the blood off, he’d glance away and nod and thank me as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t been studying me.”

  He’d watched her with something akin to desire, she thought. Sometimes, she could hear him swallow. She could feel his breath.

  She crossed her legs and cleared her throat. “Plus, he talked to me, he really talked to me a few times. Anyway, it made me feel—I don’t know—powerful. Fascinating.”

  “Of course he makes you feel powerful,” Sarah said. “You were injecting him with substances. You were healing him.”

  “Yeah,” Petra said, deflated. “That’s probably it, isn’t it?” She turned away from Sarah. “I did the wrong thing, didn’t I?”

  Sarah slid even further down the couch. “What do you want me to say, Petey? Do you want permission to go after him? Because you know how I feel about the tricky ethics of doctor-patient relationships. I’m not saying a medical board would come down on you, but you don’t want that kind of attention, especially so early in your career. And worse, you just don’t want to go down that road ethically—bending rules here, and nipping there. Better to just keep it clean and well defined. I know you think you liked him, but there are other people in this world with fewer complications who can make you feel just as good.” She touched Petra’s hand. “You should probably forget about him. Maybe go online to find a date.”

  Petra shook her head. But she agreed. “Well, how about you, Sarah? Why are you bothering with Aarno if all you want is man candy? Why do you date the professors and multilingual economists if you’re in it just for the screwing?”

  “I like smart men. But I’m smart about it.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Well, that wasn’t the worst opening in history,” Gerry said, sitting at the bar.

  Ian slouched deep in a red banquette. His shirt was unbuttoned and sloppy. He felt like his body would never move again. He felt ossified. “How so?” he asked, his voice barely emerging from his chest.

  “We didn’t have any trouble with drunks. Nothing like a medical emergency to sober everyone up. Plus, Sally Kerns didn’t die. How lucky were we that there were two doctors in the house, one of whom happened to be your former allergist?” Gerry paused.

  Ian stayed very still.

  “What I don’t understand,” Gerry added, gathering steam, “is a food blogger who goes through life not bein
g able to eat certain foods. I don’t believe in allergies, as I was telling your attractive little allergist. My working theory is that the little doctor might actually be a mesmerist. You know, she has those exotic eyes that can go all crazy, and she hypnotized Sally into thinking that her throat and face would swell up. And then they did. You, of course, would have been the next victim, judging from the way you stared at her.”

  Ian clenched his fists but didn’t make a sound.

  “Also on the plus side, we can strike the prawn chips fried in peanut oil from the menu. Not local and they seem like a bad luck item.”

  Still no response.

  Gerry sighed. “You don’t even care, do you?”

  Ian shook his head.

  “You want to tell me what this is about?” Gerry toyed with his drink. He had switched from wine to Diet Coke after everyone left. It was Gerry’s secret shame. “Of all the locavore gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she has to walk into mine.”

  “Maybe I stopped listening to you because you stopped making sense.”

  “I’m narrating your thoughts. Am I halfway right?”

  No response.

  “Clearly, you have a thing for the pixie doctor. You weren’t exactly staring subtly at her. Is that the lady you were seeing when you dumped that lawyer? Were you scratching the allergist’s itch? Was she making house calls? Giving you thorough checkups?”

  Ian stood up slowly and deliberately.

  “So you are actually listening. Because I was thinking that what I needed tonight was a punch in the jaw.” Gerry kept his voice steady, although he had gone very still. “It would be like the cherry in my drink.”