I listen to the second message. It’s from Chloe. “Frankie, call me. I just had the weirdest conversation with Harrison. He thinks you’re really cute, but a little nutty. I wonder why?” She giggles. “Anyway, when I asked what happened, he started laughing and told me to ask you. So I’m asking you—what happened?”
Great. Now Harrison thinks I’m nutty, which is worse than being considered a flake. I punch in Chloe’s cell phone number, but I get her voice mail again.
I woke up this morning with the beginning of a headache and now it’s major. Even the light bothers my eyes. I give Romeo water and his favorite chewy treat and once he’s cuddled on my bed, I take a quick shower.
I close the shades and change into my nightgown. Then I take ibuprofen for my headache and massage some tea tree oil on my temples. Romeo looks so cute on my bed, bundled in his blanket with his little pointy snout peeking out. His dark chocolate eyes beckon me to join him.
I sink down beside Romeo and pull the sheet over my face when I feel a sudden, electrifying stab in my right temple. I sit up, clutching that side of my head. What was that? I wait a few seconds and nothing happens. No sooner do I lie down again, telling myself it was a random pain nothing more, when the phone rings. I fumble in the dark to answer it, but the answering machine gets it first.
It’s my dear boss, Antoinette. “Francesca, we snagged an interview with Dr. Brian Gottlieb, the neurosurgeon. He’s being honored tonight at the Healthsouth Gala for a procedure he invented to remove hard-to-reach brain tumors. Your ticket will be at the front desk of the Ritz Carlton in Key Biscayne. The gala starts at eight. Don’t be late. Dr. Champlain at Channel Four is fuming that we got the first interview. Call me.”
A neurosurgeon? Is God sending me to him because something might be wrong with my head? Is the stab a sign of something serious? No, stop it now. Stop making yourself crazy with “what-ifs”. This is the chance of a lifetime—an interview with a renowned neurosurgeon. It’s more than social reporting—Dr. Gottlieb’s procedure will save lives!
I begin to feel better and my headache subsides a bit. All my life my addiction has been watching the news. I would have loved to be a jet-setting reporter, but I tend to avoid dangerous situations and I’m sure that has hampered my getting ahead as a serious journalist.
Now this has fallen in my lap. I’m thrilled to be the first to snag the interview with a life-saving brain surgeon.
I wonder if he’s single…
Romeo: Rowrrrr, I have a man crush. Harrison came to my rescue, not once, but twice. First in the middle of a stormy night…well it was actually clear, but stormy sounds more exciting. I am mortified that I almost drowned today. The side of the pool was too high for me to climb out of and I swallowed gallons of water. It sucks being short.
I feel better now. The room is dark, I have Francesca all to myself and we’re ready to snooze. Poor girl got a bad headache after her ordeal in the park, but hey, what about my humiliation? Dr. Hamme and his pushy dog, Trouble, better stay away from us or next time I will bite them.
On the other hand, Harrison’s dog, Scout, is alpha all the way. I could learn a few tricks from that top dog…
Chapter Five
So it turns out that Dr. Brian Gottlieb is single. He’s good-looking too—mid-thirties with wavy brown hair and brilliant hazel eyes. He’s tall, fit and looks great in a black tux. His hairline is receding a tiny bit, but it gives him an air of intelligence and his trimmed goatee balances his face. I’m glad he’s at the ball without a date—at least that’s what the elderly lady next to me whispered with a meaningful wink. She patted her coiffed silver hair and added, “He’s quite a catch.”
I’m seated at a table in the middle of the Ritz Carlton ballroom, listening to Dr. Gottlieb’s acceptance speech and I have to admit I’m star struck. He has recently been awarded the Neuroscience Institute’s Global Award for Excellence in Neurosurgery.
I mentally go over all the material I researched. The man is a genius. He’s only thirty-six and his trailblazing surgery on hard-to-reach brain tumors has created quite a stir in the medical community. After reading the description and seeing the gruesome pictures of his famous operation online, I wished I could have taken a chill pill. It was not a pretty sight.
Dr. Gottlieb bows to thunderous applause and exits the stage. I’m suddenly nervous. In my career, I’ve conducted dozens of interviews, but Dr. Gottlieb is intimidating. I mean, all that scientific knowledge. When I see he’s heading my way, I smooth my hair away from my face and adopt a confident expression as I rise from the table to greet him.
“Dr. Gottlieb, I am Francesca Lake, the medical correspondent at WBCG.” I extend my hand. “It’s an honor to meet you.”
“Thank you,” he says, shaking my hand. “Nice to meet you too.” His hand is cool and smooth, how I’d imagined a surgeon’s hand would be.
I’m giddy with excitement. I’ve heard these brainy types spend so much time in research and work that they don’t have much time to socialize. Tonight I get a chance to kill two birds with one stone—interview The Brain and maybe get him to ask me out on a date.
“Would you like to step out on the balcony so we can chat?” I ask.
“Why don’t we dance first?” he says, pleasantly surprising me.
“I’d love to.” I allow him to lead me to the dance floor. The band is playing a bossa nova and Dr. Gottlieb is quite the mover.
“Where did you learn to samba like that?” I ask, catching my breath after his last flourish. He was swiveling his lean hips like Ricky Martin.
“In Brazil. Traveling abroad is my passion, especially to Latin America.”
“Mine too. I’ve been to Rio and São Paulo. Have you been to Iguaçu Falls in Brazil? My father is a marine biologist and on one of his trips to the Galapagos Islands, he took us to Brazil afterwards. Iguaçu Falls is gorgeous.”
He beams at me. “Ah, yes, it’s one of the natural wonders of the South American continent.” Dr. Gottlieb’s voice sounds a lot like Dr. Frasier Crane’s on the late-night reruns of Frasier.
“I am excited about featuring your ground-breaking operation on the news next week,” I say, segueing into business.
“Why don’t we talk about that later?” he suggests with a charming smile. “Let’s dance.”
“Sure.” If he wants to party, who am I to stop him? I put away my mini-recorder and let him lead me onto the dance floor again. This time they’re playing vintage Rolling Stones. I’m disappointed when he lets go of my hand because I don’t enjoy dancing solo to rock music. It makes me a little self-conscious, especially next to Usher here. I imagine my basic moves will bore him, but he doesn’t seem to mind, he’s too busy rocking out.
When the band switches back to Latin music, I’m relieved we’re back to partner dancing. Several songs later, I don’t know much about Dr. Gottlieb, except that he likes to travel and he’s a demon on the dance floor. We’ve danced the samba, the tango and the paso doble. Mom would be proud of me—those two years of cotillion paid off.
The band switches to eighties music (requested by Dr. Gottlieb). My jaw drops when he takes off his jacket and starts break-dancing. He even does the moonwalk! The crowd is laughing and cheering him on. They can’t get enough of him—me neither. He is fun and funny, in a hip way.
When the band takes a break, Dr. Gottlieb leads me to the bar. He mops his face with an impeccable, monogrammed handkerchief.
“Wow, you are some dancer. I had no idea,” I say, chuckling as I accept a glass of chilled champagne from him.
“Thanks, you’re not bad yourself.” He takes a sip of his wine. “I love to dance, it relaxes me.”
How cool is that? Most guys would rather park themselves in front of a TV and watch sports.
“Do you like dogs?” I ask impulsively.
“Love them. I have two Golden Retrievers. You?”
“A miniature, long-haired dachshund.”
“Cute.”
“Yes,
Romeo is adorable, but I’m having a few problems with him. I think he’s been a little lonely since I moved down from New York. Unfortunately, I’ve been working long hours lately.”
“Why don’t you send him to doggy day camp? King David and Bathsheba love Canine Capers. A big yellow school bus picks them up every day.”
My jaw drops. “Really?” I would have never considered sending Romeo to doggy camp—not that I have that kind of money to spare.
He nods enthusiastically. “You should see the place. There’s a big park for running and they have games for them. They get to eat organic beef burgers and the place is clean too.”
“Sounds amazing. I’ll have to look into it.” I give him a huge smile. His enthusiasm for the doggy camp is contagious and too cute. Dr. Gottlieb is perfect for me, and he loves dogs.
“Do you mind answering a few questions about your work before you come in next week?” I ask.
Dr. Gottlieb beams at me. “Sure. Fire away.”
I’m glad I’ve done thorough research, it shows in my questions. Who knew I could be good at medical reporting? I marvel that Dr. Gottlieb hasn’t caught on that I’m not exactly an expert on medicine. I’m starting to feel a bit relieved that I might be able to handle this temporary assignment—until Dr. Gottlieb discusses the symptoms of a brain tumor and mentions headaches. I’ve had a recurrent headache all day. I listen to the behavioral changes that might signal a brain tumor and begin to feel uneasy.
“Is feeling a stab on the temple a sign of a brain tumor?” I ask cautiously.
“Not necessarily. Why?”
“I had a bad headache earlier today and all of a sudden I felt a sharp jab to my temple.”
His gaze zeroes in on me with medical scrutiny. “One stab? No more since then?”
“No more,” I confirm. “But it felt like I was being tasered.”
Dr. Gottlieb’s astute eyes study me for a weighted pause. “You look fine now. If you didn’t experience dizziness or numbness, it could have been a type of migraine.”
I expel a breath of relief, but there’s one more thing I must ask. “What about strange nightmares? Could that be a symptom of an aneurism?” It sounds totally ridiculous once I ask the question out loud, but I can’t help worrying a bit. “I’ve never been prone to them, but I’ve been having bizarre dreams the past few days.”
“Having recurrent nightmares is generally a psychological issue, not a physiological one,” he tells me. “Have you had a recent traumatic experience?”
I guess you could call my date with Dr. Hamme traumatic. During my nap this afternoon, I dreamt a wasp stung my neck at the park, but it turned out to be Devon the Vampire, poised to suck out the venom. I woke up when his sharp fangs sank into my flesh. I flinch at the disturbing memory.
“Well, kind of,” I say, when I realize he’s politely waiting for my answer. “But I’d rather not get into it.”
He smiles. “Then don’t.”
Dr. Gottlieb is so nice. I’m having a wonderful time…until he launches into a lurid description of his innovative operation. My stomach feels queasy and I wish I hadn’t had so many hors d’oeuvres, but honestly, who can resist Russian caviar on tiny blintzes and miniature lobster rolls? It’s all I can do to keep from putting my fingers in my ears and singing, “lalala,” to drown out the vivid details of his technique. I need to stop him in a gracious manner and end the interview right there or I’ll lose the contents of my stomach.
“That was fascinating.” I shut off the recorder with an inward shudder. “I think I have enough material to finish my research.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Wait a minute, I just thought of another question. Are you into extreme sports?”
“No, I don’t have the time for that. Why?”
“Uh, brain injuries,” I mumble, knowing it sounds lame. When he gives me a puzzled look, I say, “Never mind, it’s not important.”
I drop my mini-recorder in my purse and slyly give him a flirtatious smile. But for some reason, he doesn’t flirt back.
Dr. Gottlieb is responsive, but in a polite, frankly platonic, way. Maybe he is only being professional, but earlier he seemed thrilled with me on the dance floor. Come to think of it, he hasn’t shown much interest in my figure-hugging, black strapless dress. And during our conversation, he hasn’t once focused his attention on my eyes or my mouth, which would’ve been a sure sign that he is attracted. Instead, he’s been casting furtive glances across the room.
I follow his gaze and see a good-looking blond guy who looks like David Beckham at the entrance. The man gives a subtle wink and raises his hand in greeting. When I turn to see if Dr. Gottlieb has noticed, I’m shocked to find a rosy blush beneath his goatee.
“Oh, there’s my boyfriend,” Dr. Gottlieb says, waving back to Beckham lookalike. “He’s on call and couldn’t make it earlier. I’m so glad he’s here.”
Dr. Gottlieb is gay? I am flummoxed. Usually, my gaydar is right on, but not in this case. I should have guessed when he started wiggling his tight booty to the bossa nova. Gosh, what a letdown—he’s brilliant, attractive, kind, and a great dancer. And he would have loved my cute little Romeo. Oh well, c’est la vie. Even if Dr. Gottlieb were straight, I couldn’t bear having to hear about brain dissections over dinner if I were his wife.
“I’m sure you’d like to join your boyfriend. I appreciate you taking the time from socializing to grant me this interview,” I say with genuine gratitude. Antoinette is going to be impressed with the segment I’ve planned.
Dr. Gottlieb smiles. “My pleasure.”
“I’ll call your secretary to arrange a time for you to come in for a taped interview.”
“I look forward to it. Good night, Miss Lake,” he says, shaking my hand before rushing across the room to his beaming boyfriend.
Romeo: Francesca is on the phone with Fizzy, lamenting that the brilliant doctor she met turned out to be gay. She just told her that she’s happy she got to dance with him all night, because he’s an amazing dancer.
Hello, Francesca, I thought I was your favorite dance partner. At least that’s what you’ve always told me. Grrrr.
Chapter Six
A few days later, Fizzy and I are chillin’ on my balcony. We just got back from her five-year-old niece’s birthday party. It’s late Sunday afternoon and I’m feeling mellow after the potent mango margarita Fizzy surprised me with.
This bay-front apartment on Brickell was a great investment. I was lucky my move coincided with a soft real estate market in Miami. I could never afford a two-bedroom apartment like this in New York, especially in my favorite area, the Upper West Side.
Romeo shifts positions on my lap and curls into a little ball as I pet him. He is in a great mood, surrounded by his favorite girls. I wish Chloe were here.
“I forgot to tell you what Chloe said about Harrison when I finally got a hold of her.”
“What did she say?”
I hesitate. “It’s a little embarrassing…”
“So? Dish, already,” Fizzy says.
I make a face. “He thinks I’m nutty.”
“I’m sure it’s nutty in a good way,” Fizzy reassures me, but I see a smile lurking.
“Uh, I’m not so sure. Chloe thinks I should have coffee with him and let him see my normal side.”
“Do you have a normal side?” Fizzy asks, giggles erupting.
“Ha, ha, very funny. So what do you think? Should I have coffee with him?”
Fizzy shrugs. “Why not? He seems like a decent guy. Do you like him?”
“Only as a friend,” I say. “Harrison’s good looking and he’s cool, but I already told you my goal. I’m looking for a people doctor. Although after last night, I realized he can’t be a surgeon. I get too queasy hearing about surgery.” I shudder and hug myself.
“I hear you. Besides, everyone knows surgeons have a God complex,” Fizzy says, rolling her eyes. “How’s the heart campaign coming along?”
�
��Great. We’re doing the bowling for charity event at Lucky Strikes and it’s almost sold out, thanks to the public service announcements we ran last weekend. People were ‘Bowled Over’ by the idea.”
“That’s the name of the event, right?”
I nod as I take another sip.
Fizzy nods in approval. “I like it.”
I down the rest of the margarita with relish and set the empty glass on the small table beside me. “Thanks. Now I have to track down a certain cardiologist who hasn’t gotten back to me. She’s crucial for my campaign. I’m hoping she’ll agree to chair the event.”
“Who is she?”
“Dr. Rosa Perez. Elise wasn’t able to get in touch with her before she had the twins.”
Fizzy pours me a second margarita from the carafe she brought out earlier. “If Dr. Perez can’t do it, then how about your mom’s cardiologist?”
“Thanks,” I say accepting the glass. “I contacted mom’s doctor, but he’s retiring soon and declined an interview.”
“Oh. Well if anyone can get Dr. Perez, you can,” she says, in her usual optimistic way.
“Thanks, Fizz. Cheers!” I say, taking a few sips of the strong margarita.
Fizzy salutes me back with her beer bottle and my cell rings. I answer on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Harrison.”
My eyes bug out at Fizzy and I silently mouth, It’s him!
“Who?” she whispers back.
I cover the mouthpiece and whisper, “Harrison.”
Fizzy lets out a hoot of laughter.
“Oh, hi,” I say, signaling to Fizzy to stop laughing. “What’s up?”
“I was wondering if you’d like to go to Tantra with me tonight.”
“Very funny.” I’m pleased he has a sense of humor.
Fizzy pulls the phone away from me. That’s the last time I let her knock back two strong margaritas with a Corona.
Paging Dr. Hot Page 5
