by Jeff High
CHAPTER 31
The Ides of March
Winter gave a final performance in the first days of March, spitefully blowing a bitter wind that leached into your bones. This was followed by a few gray days of cold rain that teemed upon the saturated earth. But by the second week, milder air began to pour over the valley and spring began to arrive. On my morning runs out Summerfield Road, the low hum of tractors could be heard in the distance. The countryside was beginning to come alive with the clamor of chirping birds, the drowsy smell of flowers, and patches of green clover conquering their old domains.
Despite John’s determination and enthusiasm, the renovation work on the bandstand had made only modest progress. Rot had been found in a few of the piers, requiring delays until they could be properly inspected and replaced. Connie and Estelle finally had all the permits needed for the remodeling of the bakery, although no actual work had begun.
Estelle was still living at Connie’s house, an arrangement that seemed agreeable to both sisters. The three of us would often have dinner together several nights a week. Watching the two of them spar over everything from renovation plans to recipes to disagreements about long-ago events, dates, marriages, and children’s names proved to be wildly entertaining.
Altogether, though, I was seeing less and less of Connie. Her sister and the bakery project were steadily consuming more of her time. I was able to manage fine on my own and magically, the house remained orderly and spotless, proving she was still tidying up during the hours when I wasn’t there, but I missed our conversations. Little had been said between us about the Randall Simmons incident and I wondered if she was aware of John’s plans regarding his fate. Yet, given our limited time together, I chose not to broach the subject and churn up the deep well of hurt surrounding the incident.
On Friday I walked out my front door to the intoxicating smell of warm grass. It was one of those charmed days. I breathed in a deep draft of the fresh, vibrant, living air. A fragrant wind from the nearby hills washed over me. Spring was still a while away from full splendor, but the promise was there, of sunshine and scented blossoms and balmy days to come.
I walked to the clinic and entered through the back door. As was my usual routine, I peeked down the hall to the waiting room to get a sense of how busy the day might be. It was something of a marvel to me that often the waiting room actually held people who were there simply to provide moral support to an ill friend. Such was Watervalley. Maybe the free coffee drew them. I worried about patients hacking away in the waiting room, fearing that along with some pretty good gossip their benevolent neighbors would also pick up a virus or two.
My first patient of the day was Oni Kinser. His wife, Florence, had come with him. She was a squat, tough, fortysomething woman with a raspy voice, bushy black eyebrows, and a hard, mean face. I guessed Florence hadn’t smiled in twenty years and was proud of it. She struck me as a woman who chain-smoked Marlboros and started fistfights with other moms at Little League games.
Oni was a short, portly fellow with a ruddy face and red hair. He was generally quiet with a perpetual worried look on his face. No doubt, living within backhand range of Florence had done this to him. His actual name was Oneciferous, making it understandable why he was always on the defensive and spent a lot of time trying to compensate. Ann and I followed them to the exam room. Oni remained hunched over as he walked, making pathetic grunting sounds at even the slightest motion.
Florence maintained a sour, bulldog face, her large jowls drawing her mouth into a fixed frown. She regarded Oni with a narrow-eyed scrutiny, looking for all the world like she might pop him one just for good measure. Once settled in the exam room, I asked Oni what might be the problem. Florence answered for him.
“Last night was our anniversary, so we went to the Alibi for a few beers, you know, to celebrate.”
I nodded, doing my best to keep a straight face at their choice of a roadhouse as a destination date.
“Well, we got a little loopy and decided to hit the dance floor. They were playing ‘Boot Scootin’ Boogie.’ It’s kind of our song. So I made the big mistake of telling Fred Astaire here to dance like no one was watching. He took me seriously. I thought he was having a seizure.”
I pressed my lips together, hard, doing my best to suppress the laugh that was threatening to erupt. Ann was doing a better job of it, standing completely poker-faced.
“Anyway, the next thing I know, he’s all hunched over grabbing his back. It sure put a damper on the romance, I can tell you that.”
I nodded thoughtfully, still fighting the terrible urge to cackle outright. The edges of Ann’s mouth were beginning to curl upward, which wasn’t helping. Thankfully, Florence had finished and I was able to examine Oni and ask him questions directly, eliminating Florence as interpreter. His injury proved to be tissue related, so I prescribed some muscle relaxers along with some medication for the pain. After the exam, Ann and I retreated to my office, where we instantly exploded behind the closed door. Admittedly, I felt a little guilty about laughing at the Kinsers’ expense. Sometimes the clinic stage provided more comedy than drama.
As it turned out, all the drama occurred in the afternoon.
By two thirty we were through with all the appointments and walk-ins. The clinic stayed open until five. Typically, a few pediatric cases would show up after school let out or someone would stop by to get a prescription updated. Ann had asked to leave early, noting that she was going out that evening and had some errands to run first.
Shortly before three there was a timid knock on the door. It was Nancy, who normally had no qualms about barging in unannounced. She cautiously approached my desk and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.
“Dr. Bradford, you have a visitor.”
“Okay. And?”
“Well, it’s a pharmaceutical rep and she says she knows you.”
“What’s her name?” Nancy handed me the card. “Michelle Herzenberg,” I read. I thought for a moment. “I can’t place her.”
Nancy was still staring at me, frozen in a state of speechless timidity. “Nancy, what’s wrong?”
“She’s just, well. She’s different.”
“Different how? She have a third eye or something?”
“No. But she certainly has everything else.”
I had no idea what Nancy was talking about and chose not to ask. It was a pharm rep. They stopped by from time to time. This was nothing unusual. “Nancy, why don’t you show her in?”
She nodded and left, and within seconds, there appeared in my doorway the explanation for Nancy’s trepidation.
Michelle Herzenberg was a stunning, beautiful blonde. Tall and graceful, she carried herself with an energetic assurance. Professionally dressed in a snug skirt and tall heels that accented her long legs, she had a crisp designer look about her, a kind of Madison Avenue class and style. Coupled with her long hair and sensuous facial features, she was one of those mesmerizing people who seemed to drag an invisible cape of glamour behind them. She electrified the air as she entered.
“Luke Bradford. I bet you don’t remember me.”
“I’d like to say we have met, but I’m afraid I can’t put you in context.” I had responded with a controlled confidence and not with the wide-eyed, slack-jawed wonderment that I suspect she normally received.
“I saw you at a number of the parties at Vanderbilt. I graduated from pharmacy school this past year.”
“Well, there you go. That makes perfect sense. I knew I had seen you somewhere.” I paused, adding hesitantly, “Sorry, though. I still don’t remember meeting you.”
“Oh, we were probably never introduced. But I knew who you were. Everyone knew who you were. My gosh, you were the med school phenom.”
“Well, thanks. I mean, you’re probably stretching the truth, but you’re doing a really nice job of it. So, for heaven’s sake, don’t stop.”
She laughed and we stood chatting for several minutes, catching up on familiar names and old haunts. Aside from being dramatically beautiful, Michelle Herzenberg had the incredible ability to look at you with total engagement. She laughed warmly and had a breathy, seductive voice that could be sweet and low, conveying an inviting, captivating charm. Even still, while it was delightful to talk with her and enjoy the full attention of such a striking woman, her magic was largely lost on me. As shallow and clichéd as it sounds, I simply wasn’t fascinated by blondes.
In hindsight, I guess she sensed this. And that made her try all the harder.
I directed her to one of the tall leather chairs in front of my desk and took the other one next to her. Sales reps handed you a ton of brochures and I had learned it was easier to sit adjacent to them. She took off her coat, revealing a rather ample and blousy figure, and then sat, crossing her long, lovely legs in my direction. Nestled in the privacy created by the two wingbacks, she leaned in toward me, speaking confidentially.
“I have to ask a question. I know I heard somewhere along the way that you were going to stay at Vanderbilt and do research. How did you end up here?”
“Kind of a long story, but the short version is that Watervalley is paying off my student loans. It’s a three-year gig.”
“Wow. That must be tough. All I saw as I was driving to get here was cows. What kind of social life is there?”
“Actually, the cows can be quite entertaining once you get past the language barrier.”
She laughed. “Well, I don’t want to be too forward before we talk business, but I got in town later than I intended and thought I might spend the night at the local B and B. If you aren’t busy, I thought we could grab some dinner later.”
I paused. It was a flattering offer, but not one that I was interested in accepting. “Candidly, I have tentative plans, so I probably need to take a rain check.” It was an honest response. Christine and I had fallen into a routine of spending our weekend evenings together, even though we had made no specific arrangements.
Not missing a beat, Michelle smiled warmly, unfazed by my rejection. “Sure, perhaps another time.” No doubt, she was confident about her capacity to attract. I suspect, in her thinking, time was on her side.
She spent the next minutes articulating details about several new drugs as well as enhancements to some existing ones. I had to admit, she knew her stuff and answered my questions thoroughly. Yet there was a certain sensuous side to her movements, a skillful use of the casual touch, a curious and tender yielding in her eyes as she spoke. Her allure was effortless, enticing, and made it easy to be drawn in.
While I was reviewing the final brochure, she rose from her chair and stood beside me to point out some specifics on the drug’s possible side effects. Before I realized it, in a subtle, seductive manner, she had bent over at the waist with her long hair falling gently on my shoulder and her drooping, low-cut blouse affording an inspiring view of some of God’s most wonderful creations.
That was when Christine walked in.
CHAPTER 32
The Third Degree
“Well, hello!”
Undaunted, Michelle straightened slowly and regarded Christine as an intruder. I, on the other hand, stood abruptly, a hasty move that cast a shadow of guilt over me. Before I knew it, I was doomed.
Michelle read my actions and sized up instantly that there was a clear connection between Christine and me. She changed gears fluidly, immediately walking toward Christine with a generous smile.
“Hi, I’m Michelle Herzenberg. I’m with Biotherics Pharmaceutical.”
Not to be outdone, Christine answered, “Hi, Michelle. I’m Christine Chambers. I’m with Watervalley Elementary.”
“So, I’m guessing you’re not a patient of Dr. Bradford’s?”
“Yeah, I guess that would be true.”
They continued exchanging pleasantries in a diplomatic, courtly manner. I stood by doing my best to appear nonchalant while these two did a thorough sizing up of each other under the guise of gushing politeness. It was a conversation rife with all the subtle markings of one-upmanship and turf protection.
“Luke and I are old acquaintances from Vanderbilt,” Michelle said. “He had quite a reputation at the med school.” The message that “I knew him first” wasn’t lost on Christine.
“So I’ve heard. You should have seen him play basketball at Mercer. He was a real sensation there as well.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Christine was really stretching it. Once again, just as Connie and Estelle had done, it seemed that the women in my world felt free to talk about me as if I were offstage in a soundproof booth. Part of me wanted to hold up a sign that read, “Hi, I’m the Y chromosome in the room.” And while all the adoring praise was fun to hear, I plainly knew that the compliments were only a delivery system for the real points being made.
“Oh, how interesting. So, I guess you two have known each other a long time. You must be the reason no girl could ever get a date with him at Vandy? Did you follow him here from Atlanta?”
“No, I’m actually from here. Our paths have crossed over the years.”
“Really, you’re from this place? Hmm.” There was a definite undertone of judgment in Michelle’s response. Having sized up the situation, she decided it was time to retreat. But not before throwing one last volley. She turned to me, feigning a wounded tone.
“Luke Bradford, shame on you. You told me you only came here because they would pay off your loans. I can see you had lots of reasons.” With this she winked at me and proceeded to gather her things. She extended her hand to me as she left.
“Thanks, Luke. I’ll see you again in a month or so. Christine, good to meet you as well.” But as she turned to leave, she offered me one last sly, sultry smile. Even as clueless as I was, I could still read that look: “You have no idea what you’re missing.”
Christine’s sweet, amiable face immediately de-glossed the second Michelle was out the door. She regarded me with the sort of vacant smile that you give a child to let him know how hard he’ll be spanked after the company leaves. Her tone fell a half measure short of outright reprimand.
“Well. What was that all about?”
“What was what all about?”
Christine dropped her chin in a look of disbelieving reproof. “Excuse me. Have you been in a coma for the last ten minutes?”
For some reason, Christine’s stern reproach struck me as hilarious. It had all been hollow drama, nothing more. No longer able to control myself, I laughed out loud. “No, actually I have been thoroughly entertained.”
Christine crossed her arms, offering a benign smile. “Oh, so you think this is funny?”
“Well, sure. What else would it be?”
Christine stared with a withering intensity.
“Okay, why is it I feel like a marshmallow over a campfire about right now?”
She smirked. “Don’t try to be funny, Bradford.”
Again, I laughed robustly and walked to my chair, then plopped heavily into it, relaxed and amused. With arms still folded, she followed and sat in the wingback across from me. Despite her scrutinizing tone, Christine was wearing a repressed smile. I could see that she was miffed, but her intelligent, rational side was nagging at her, struggling to justify her emotions. It was a losing battle. The miffed side was winning. She stared at me silently, apparently thinking that this tactic might yield a confession. I wasn’t biting.
“So, there’s not anything further you’d like to tell me about her?” she asked.
I said nothing, which for Christine seemed to say everything. Then she did something completely unexpected. There was an unassuming drop of her chin and her face softened into a low, enticing smile. I could practically see the wheels turning. Subtly, she began to exert some considerable voltage of her own. She nimbly s
hifted in her chair, crossing her legs so that the top one bounced lightly in a delightful, flirtatious way. By imperceptible degrees she fluidly straightened her posture and ever so seductively pulled back her shoulders, allowing for a breathtaking tightening of her blouse across her generous curves.
This wasn’t fair. In a matter of seconds she was reducing me to a big blob of slobbering protoplasm. I had done nothing, but now was ready to confess to anything. Soon I would be losing all meaningful motor control. I responded while I still had breath left.
“Wow. This is adorable. I’m seeing a whole new side of you. Christine Chambers, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re acting a little jealous.”
Her response was slow and assured. “Jealous? No. Curious? Sure. I mean, let’s face it, she was looking at you like you were her favorite dessert.”
“Oh, that’s ridiculous. She’s a sales rep. She looked at me like I was an ATM.”
“You are so clueless, it’s almost cute.”
“And you are basing this on what logic?”
“Well, let’s see. You’re a guy. You have a pulse. Naturally, your actions are suspect.”
I looked to the side, shaking my head. “That is so unfair. Look, she’s just pushing her drugs. Sales reps come by all the time. They chat you up, they give you free samples, they ask you to dinner; it’s all part of the routine. They’re not required to be ugly.”
“Oh, so she asked you to dinner?”
“She did and I refused. Surely I get a few points for that?”
Christine spoke through a low, exasperated laugh. “Luke Bradford, you’re just like every other man. Sometimes even more so. She sure seemed to know a lot about you.”
“Oh, come on, seriously. She said we knew each other from Vandy, but I don’t remember her and told her as much. She probably boned up on a little of my history to break the ice.”
“So, you’re saying that my first take on her as the misguided spawn of Satan might not be completely accurate?”
