Fizzy obliges and then waves her hand in a whooshing motion in front of my face. “There, the air is clean now. Happy? What the hell, Frankie, are you PMSing?”
I shake my head. “Sorry, but I’ve been dealing with two cavemen. You won’t believe what just happened.”
Her blue eyes glisten with excitement. “Harrison threw you over his shoulder, carried you to his place and made passionate love to you.”
“No, but he acted like he wanted to.” A shiver of anticipation snakes up my spine, in spite of myself.
“Wait, hold on. If I can’t smoke, at least we can have pie while you tell me.”
She jumps up and runs to the kitchen, returning with the whole pie and two forks. “Okay, dish.”
When I finish telling her everything, Fizzy topples over, clutching her belly and laughing. “I can’t believe the stuff that happens to you.”
I watch Fizzy’s jiggling tummy and suddenly I’m laughing too. It’s contagious. We giggle and struggle to catch our breath.
Romeo and Coquette return to see what all the fuss is about. Their noses twitch as they sniff around the empty pie plate and lick up a few graham cracker crumbs. Romeo settles on my lap and curls into a ball. Coquette claims her place on Fizzy’s lap and closes her eyes. Within seconds both dogs are snoozing.
“Fizzy Pop, we shouldn’t have polished off the whole pie,” I say, feeling guilty. “Especially after what Alex said to me tonight.”
She narrows her eyes as she leans in. “What did he say?”
“I was about to take my last bite of key lime pie and he took my plate away. Then he said, ‘a moment on your lips, a lifetime on your hips’ and he looked like he meant it.”
“No way!” Fizzy exclaims, looking affronted for me. “How dare he!”
My heart sinks remembering his callous comment. “I know. I mean, he’s all about healthy eating, but why did he have to refer to my hips? Worst part is he said it after he had squeezed my butt when he was kissing me earlier.”
“Well, screw him.” Fizzy licks the prongs on her fork, and then stabs the air with it. “Take that, Alex!”
“Yeah,” I agree in a small voice, grimacing. “After devouring this pie, it won’t only be a lifetime on my hips. The calories will follow me to the afterlife.”
“The afterlife will be heaven. Oh, honey. I’m not worried about a little junk in my trunk. Latin men love curves, at least Santiago does,” she claims, sassy as ever.
“You mentioned that before. Now tell me about Santiago. He sounds perfect,” I say wistfully.
“Well, I wouldn’t say he’s perfect, no guy is. But he sure keeps me happy,” she says with a sly grin.
I frown. “Come on. That’s all you’re gonna tell me? You’ve mentioned Santiago twice this week, but no details. How come I dish and you don’t?”
“Because you’ve got two men fighting over you.”
I cross my arms over my chest and give her a mock glare. “Unless you tell me about Santiago, I don’t want to talk about men anymore.”
“I’ll tell you about Santiago when I hear from him again. He tends to disappear and then resurface,” Fizzy confides in a mysterious tone. “In the meantime, let’s talk about sex.” And then she dissolves into giggles again.
I giggle with her. God, Fizzy’s laugh is so infectious—she could coax a smile out of a corpse.
It’s eleven thirty in the morning and I am having a hard time keeping my eyes open. It doesn’t help that I got about three hours of sleep last night. Fizzy and I not only polished off the key lime pie, but we went back to my place and finished the Pinot Grigio. She and Coquette ended up falling asleep on my couch. When Fizzy tried to leave with me this morning, Romeo kept running out with us, so she left with Romeo on one leash and Coquette on another.
I dial Elise’s number to touch base with her. After several rings she answers, sounding as bleary as I feel today.
“You feeling okay?” I ask her.
“Yeah, just a little sleep deprived,” she mumbles. I hope I didn’t wake her up. “Twins are a lot of work.”
“I’ll bet. How are they?”
“They’re doing great, but me, not so much,” she admits. “All of a sudden, I’m feeling blue. I want to cry all the time.”
“Could it be post-partum depression? Remember how Brooke Shields went through it after her first baby?”
“I guess it finally hit me that my boys are never going to have a father to raise them,” she says, bursting into tears.
“Oh, Elise, don’t feel bad about it. Your brothers promised they’d help raise the twins. And you have your mom and dad too. I’ll bet a great guy will come along soon who will love you and the boys. But in the meantime, you’ll do a fine job raising them,” I say, championing her.
Elise takes several deep, shuddering breaths and I can tell she’s struggling to compose herself. I hear her blow her nose. “Don’t mind me, Francesca. Are you doing okay handling my stuff and yours at work?”
“Yes, everything’s under control. Please don’t give it a second thought.” Truth is, it’s catching up with me—the medical beat and the social scene. At least they’ll be intertwined during the Bowled Over event.
“I have to postpone our breakfast meeting until the following weekend if that’s okay with you. I just don’t feel like going out yet. I am exhausted all the time and I’m struggling to keep nursing the twins.”
“Don’t worry about it. The following weekend works just as well.”
“Thanks. Call me if anything comes up that you need help with.”
“Sure thing.” I hang up the phone feeling sad for Elise. There must be something I can do for her…but what?
Ten minutes later, my eyes are glazing over and the computer screen is looking blurry. I wish Vinny wasn’t off today. I could have sent him out for Starbucks.
I slap my face a few times. Wake up! Alex is coming after his rounds, whenever that is—probably after noon I’m guessing.
I tried calling him as I left this morning, but got his voice mail instead. Then I texted him and he wrote back, “Sorry about yesterday. See you at the station after rounds.” I’m relieved he sounds contrite and kinda nice, but still…I don’t like the way he left yesterday.
Just as my head nods forward for the third time, I force my eyes open. Enough already. Stay alert. It’s useless fighting it. I need a shot of caffeine.
I run next door to Leticia’s bakery for a cortadito, strong Cuban espresso coffee served with a splash of steamed milk. I arrive at the entrance and am surprised to find Alex dressed in scrubs, casually leaning against the counter. He is smiling and joking with a curvaceous, young Cuban waitress in a skin tight black dress with a frilly white apron over it, sporting one-inch candy red nails and tons of gold bangles. I hold my breath and stand outside the door, wondering if I should go inside.
When the flashy brunette turns from the counter and wiggles away, Alex checks out her round thighs and ass with a wolfish grin (Horn dog). She returns bearing a plate filled with guava-filled Cuban pastries called pastelitos, and a large mug of café con leche, which is made with whole milk and sweetened by tons of sugar.
My jaw drops as he consumes not one, but two guava pastelitos. He sips the café con leche and grabs a third pastelito. Speechless and appalled, I watch him devour the heart clogging pastries. Just last night he denied me the pleasure of my last bite of one little slice of key lime pie—the hypocrite!
I smell a rat.
I push the door open, march up and rap him on the shoulder. “How are the pastelitos here?” I ask in a snarky tone.
“Francesca!” Alex almost chokes as he gulps down the pastry.
“A moment of guava jelly, a lifetime on your belly,” I say, reaching forward to wipe a glob of guava on the side of his mouth with a paper napkin. I throw the crumpled napkin on his plate and fix him with a challenging look.
That draws hearty laughter from Alex and an arched, tattooed eyebrow from the waitress watchi
ng us.
“Sassy,” Alex says, dark eyes glittering with approval. “I like that.”
“What you want?” the waitress asks me in a heavy Cuban accent.
“Un cortadito por favor,” I say in my best Spanish, trying not to sound like a gringa.
“What are you doing here?” Alex finishes the pastelito in two bites.
“Java break,” I grit out through tight lips.
“Me too. I’m glad I caught you here before we have the interview.” Alex takes some swigs of the creamy café con leche and then wipes the froth from his upper lip with the paper napkin. He pulls a fiver out of his pocket and places it on the counter and then grabs my cortadito in one hand and my arm in the other.
“We need to chat about last night,” he says, pearly whites flashing.
“Yes.” I take the small white cup of strong, sweet espresso from him and pull a long swig. “We do.”
Alex and I sit at a tiny round Formica table and there are so many negative thoughts swirling in my mind, I’m at a loss where to begin.
“I apologize for the way I left last night.” He shakes his head and his eyes darken with jealousy. “I don’t like that Harrison guy, and I resent the way he barged in on us.”
“I already told you that Harrison is a friend.”
“He doesn’t act like one. By now you must realize I have a bit of a short temper and I’m possessive.”
No, really? That’s putting it mildly, but I remain silent, wondering what he’ll say next. I don’t want to say that it’s okay for him to be that way, because it isn’t. I don’t like possessive, controlling types.
“I hope you’ll forgive me, linda,” he cajoles, his dark eyes turning soft as velvet. “I’ll even sweeten my apology by donating my speaking fee to your event.”
“Wait a minute. What do you mean donate?” I ask, perplexed.
“I always charge a fee for speaking engagements.”
My eyes widen. “You do? Even for charity?” How is that heroic? I suddenly see him with different eyes.
“How do you think I support my mom and my sisters in the style they’re accustomed to? With the rising cost of medical malpractice insurance and employing a full staff, I have to charge for my services,” he says matter-of-factly.
“I guess…” I say, stunned all the same. I am beyond disappointed. All this time I thought he was donating his time.
“Don’t look like that,” he chides with a smile. “I do my fair share of charity work at Miami Children’s Hospital and Camillus House.”
“Oh.” Camillus House is a Catholic shelter located in downtown Miami that provides decent food and a clean, temporary residence for the homeless. I recall all the recognition plaques in his office for other charity work. Maybe he isn’t that selfish, but I’m not thrilled at seeing him in this light.
“Your dinner last night was spectacular,” he says, changing the subject. “I’d love to see you again. You’re not only beautiful, but you’re an amazing cook…and wonderful company. Can we put everything behind us and start over?”
His sincere tone catches me by surprise. Just when I was beginning to dislike him, he manages to soothe my shock. Okay, remember he’s human—everyone has occasional missteps. Mom would say nobody’s perfect. And he looks appealing in his scrubs, which reminds me he is a brilliant, life-saving doctor.
“Well… I guess we can try,” I say, feeling magnanimous.
“Good, then no more Harrison and his interruptions.”
Hold on now. I never agreed to that, but I guess it’s natural for him to want Harrison out of the picture.
Alex rises from the table. He lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses the back of it.
I remain silent, but once we get the interview over with, I will tell Alex I don’t allow anyone to dictate who I associate with. I am not a pushover.
As expected, Alex wows everyone in the studio during our interview. He eloquently discusses the benefits of adding omega three fatty fish oil to our diets, especially for women at risk of heart disease. I remind the audience that Dr. Escobar is a leading epidemiologist who writes outstanding articles and books about the direct correlation between what you eat and your heart’s health.
His delivery is articulate and convincing, but I can’t get the vision of him wolfing down the pastelitos out of my head. It’s blasphemy against everything he stands for.
Mom’s words linger in my mind about taking him off the pedestal and seeing him as a mere mortal with a few flaws. I remember how Alex choked on the guava pastry when he first saw me, but then recovered right away. He even laughed at my snarky comment about the guava jelly and the effects on his belly.
No matter. He is brilliant and he looks great on screen in his green scrubs. Alex’s powerful physique is at ease as he sits on a leather stool answering in-depth questions that I emailed him in advance.
Later, he and I have convened to Antoinette’s office where we just finished watching the taped interview before the edits.
“You look amazing on camera, Dr. Escobar,” Antoinette says, smoothing her tangerine-colored tulip shaped skirt over round, perfectly tanned and waxed knees.
He flashes a stunning smile. “Call me Alex.”
“Alex,” she says with a flirtatious smile. “Have you ever considered being a TV medical correspondent? You are exceptionally charismatic and telegenic.”
Alex’s chest puffs up and his black eyes glow with pride. “I’m flattered you would mention it, and yes, I’ve had one or two people say so. But I am a very busy physician,” he says, emphasizing “very”.
“How would you like to take over the medical correspondent position for Francesca here?”
I gasp and stare at her.
Antoinette ignores my reaction. “We would compensate you rather nicely,” she adds, sweetening the pot.
“Oh?” He looks very interested.
Nooo! Did I hear her correctly? Did Antoinette just ask Alex to take over Elise’s job? I sure hope not!
Romeo: Oh bother, Francesca is confused about men—again. So what else is new? I’m glad I’m not confused. I’m in love—or lust—with Coquette. Whatever, it’s the same to me.
I lived up to my name and put the moves on Coquette today. Now I’m basking in Fizzyland with her. After a stroll around the block this morning and a massage from Fizzy, we plopped on the bed when Fizzy left to run errands.
Coquette and I ran a few personal errands of our own…rowrrr!
Chapter Fifteen
I am flabbergasted. I cannot believe Antoinette asked Alex to take over for me, just like that. And what about Elise, who’s in the throes of post-partum depression and expecting to have a job to come back to? She’s a single mother. Who will support Josh and Jake?
This is terrible.
Seeing my shocked reaction, Alex shoots me a concerned look. “I wouldn’t want to take away Francesca’s job. She does it so well.” His words are kind, but his tone isn’t sincere—at all.
He’s eating up Antoinette’s accolades and it’s obvious he’s capable of wolfing down Elise’s job like he did those pastelitos earlier. The worst part is he thinks I’m worried about salvaging my job, when it’s Elise I’m looking out for.
Antoinette waves a dismissive hand and pats her thick bangs in place above thin, penciled-in eyebrows. With her platinum blonde hair and vibrant orange-colored outfit, Antoinette looks like a giant Creamsicle today. I hope she melts into a puddle.
She doesn’t even spare me a glance. “Don’t worry about Francesca. She’s juggling two jobs. Your contribution would be while Elise, our medical reporter, is on maternity leave,” Antoinette explains.
What a relief! Now that I know Elise isn’t in danger of being replaced by Alex permanently, I feel better. Still, it rankles that Antoinette would ask him without consulting me first.
“I have access to the latest in medicine through the University of Miami. One of my colleagues is doing breakthrough research on mining immature adult stem cells
to repair damaged hearts,” Alex says.
“Sounds fascinating,” Antoinette coos, attention riveted on Alex.
“As you know, embryonic stem cell research has been an ethical question for physicians. This is a huge breakthrough,” he says in an authoritative voice.
“Why is that?” Antoinette leans in to listen intently.
“Because embryos are not destroyed. I could bring him in for an interview,” Alex offers.
“Yes, let’s do it!” Antoinette squeals, tossing her long hair over the ruffled neckline of her blouse.
Hello? Has everyone forgotten I’m sitting here? Antoinette and Alex are engaged in an animated discussion, displacing me without a blink of an eye.
I clear my throat for their attention. “Actually, I am going to be busy next month with the Food and Wine Festival,” I say, to reestablish myself in the conversation. “If you ask me…”
Cleary annoyed, Antoinette gives me a sharp look. “What did you say?”
“I was talking about the Food and Wine Festival. It has mushroomed and is extremely popular with the locals and tourists who fly in just for the event.” Antoinette taps her pen in rapid-fire rhythm on her desk, a sure sign that she’s ready to throw me out for interrupting. “There are many celebrity chefs arriving for me to interview,” I say in a rush.
“Sounds like it’s a boost to the economy here,” Alex says.
Antoinette gives me an icy glare. “We are discussing important health issues. Issues that will change life as we know it and you want to talk about food and wine?”
She turns her attention back to Alex as I slump in my chair. If I didn’t need this job so desperately, I’d be tempted to walk out.
Antoinette beams at Alex. “I would be very pleased if you consider taking the job, Alex. Your books on epidemiology will garner lots of attention from being on WBCG. It’s not often one finds a doctor with such natural talent for the camera.”
“I’ll be happy to consider a serious offer,” Alex says with a broad smile.
“Great. We’ll have an offer on the table for you by the end of the day,” Antoinette promises.
Paging Dr. Hot Page 13
