by Jane Heller
Back came the chuckle. It was a nervous tic, I saw now. There was nothing happy-go-lucky about it. “I can’t be expected to stay on top of every operation performed at the hospital. I trust my staff. They’re excellent doctors.”
“Most of them probably are,” I said. “But what about the ones who aren’t? The ones who are conning patients with unnecessary surgeries? The ones who are in it strictly for the money? Wouldn’t you agree that it’s more lucrative to cut somebody than to try and heal them?”
“‘Heal’ them,” he said, nodding. “That’s a real L.A. word, isn’t it. We must seem like quaint country docs compared to—I don’t know—Deepak Chopper.”
“Chopra. But getting back to the patient, I’ve just done a search and there’s an active class-action suit against the hospital involving nine women who had hysterectomies,” I said, eyeing my trusty laptop. “You’ve got to be more worried than you’re letting on.”
He straightened his already ramrod-straight posture. He’d had enough of my interrogation. “We have a legal department. They’ll handle whatever it is. I’d rather talk about us.”
Us. Back came the yearning in his voice, evidence of the crush, the infatuation, or whatever it was he felt for me. It was as if he couldn’t believe he’d managed to succeed professionally but still couldn’t manage to win my heart.
“Look,” I said. “I don’t know if the hospital is guilty of negligence or of something even more criminal, but I do know that you’re in the hot seat as assistant chief of staff. So I’d pay attention if I were you and stop acting like what I’ve been saying isn’t your problem. Because it is your problem, Richard.”
“Right. Okay.” He held up his hands in surrender. “You’ve made your point and I’ll pay more attention.”
“Good move.” Maybe he was guilty of something and maybe he wasn’t, but it wasn’t up to me to sort it all out. I was just glad I’d spoken up.
“Now,” he said after clearing his throat, “I’m getting myself some coffee and when I come back, I hope we can segue into a more personal subject. I was thinking of getting tickets to that play over in Center Creek for tomorrow night. It’s not like the splashy musicals you’re used to seeing—your job at Famous probably took you to Broadway shows and Las Vegas shows and all kinds of—”
“I’m busy tomorrow night,” I said, wishing my date with Malcolm could start right then, so I wouldn’t have to deal with one more invitation from Richard. He was relentless.
“Busy?” He seemed surprised. “Anyone I know?”
“Yes. In a way.” Oh, why not? I thought. It was time he understood once and for all that he and I were not going to be a couple and that the man I was busy with on Saturday night was Malcolm. I’d spent the past several weeks trying to tiptoe around his feelings, and yet all I’d gotten in return was his refusal to take mine into consideration. And now with the lawsuit and his possible complicity, I was done tiptoeing.
“Does this person have a name?”
I was about to tell him, but he answered his own question.
“Ah, it’s our celebrity, isn’t it,” he said, minus the chuckle. “Jonathan informed me that you’ve hardly left his side.”
Small town. Small talk. I should have remembered there’d be no secrets. Except that there were things Richard didn’t know. I thought he might finally leave me alone if he heard the truth.
“Malcolm was the reason I got fired at Famous,” I began. “Well, my fear of flying was the reason I got fired, but he exploited it to get out of having to do the interview.” I went on about Harvey’s obsession with the story and my half-baked efforts to cure myself of my flying phobia and the scene at the airport that led to my flameout at the magazine.
“Was he contrite when you told him he was the one who’d ruined your career?” he asked, still taking in my news.
“He doesn’t know I ever worked at Famous,” I said. “I haven’t—”
“He thinks you think he’s Luke Sykes.” He shook his head in amazement. “You do take our patient-confidentiality rules seriously.”
“No. Actually, he confided in me about being Malcolm Goddard.”
Richard tried to make sense of my admission. “So you know who he really is but he doesn’t know who you really are?”
“In a nutshell.” I took a deep breath. “I intended to write a story about him. That’s the reason I became a volunteer. I’m not proud of that, because I’ve come to love volunteering, but initially I needed an excuse for getting close to him. The plan was to write a story without his consent, e-mail it to my editor, and get my job back.”
“Jeepers.” He was shell-shocked. “I figured you missed your life in L.A., but I was hoping I could change that.”
He still didn’t get it. “No. I’m sorry. But just so you know, I would never have named the hospital in the story or given away anything about Malcolm’s medical condition. And I never let him suspect that you were the one who tipped me off about him.”
“Very sporting of you. But what happened to the story? Did you send it or is that why you’re seeing Mr. Goddard tomorrow night? To pull more quotes out of him.”
“The story’s still in the computer.” Another deep breath. This was the part that would throw Richard. “I decided not to send it.”
“Too bad. It probably would have leaked out that he was a patient at the hospital and we would have gotten all that national publicity,” he clucked. “So what happened? Cold feet?”
“Warm heart. I have feelings for Malcolm. Deep feelings. It’s too early to call them love, but they might be.”
No more clucking. Or chuckling. He didn’t say a word. Not for several seconds. He just stared at me, his face contorting so he wouldn’t cry or yell or something.
“Are you okay?” I asked, because he had turned very pale.
“No, I’m crushed.” He put his head in his hands. “And I could really use that coffee now. I’d go and get it myself, but I don’t trust my legs at the moment.”
“I’ll get it for you,” I offered. Well, it was the least I could do.
I rose from my chair, walked over to the counter, and took my spot in line. The place was crowded that Friday night, and there were several people ahead of me, the most irritating of whom was the person who couldn’t decide between decaf and regular and then had to fish around in her purse for the exact amount of her purchase. After ten minutes, I came back to the table and set Richard’s mug down in front of him.
“Thanks,” he said as I sat. His lower lip was quivering, as if he was still trying to hold in his hurt and disappointment.
“Feeling any better?” I said.
“It’s not me I’m worried about, Ann. He’ll dump you the minute he finds out who you are.”
“No, he won’t, because I’ll explain everything to him,” I said. “He’ll understand.”
“Nope,” he said. “You wrote the story behind his back, let’s not forget.”
“But I didn’t send the story, let’s not forget that. I changed my mind because I care about him more than I care about my job.”
He sipped the coffee. Slurped it, actually. A drop dribbled down his chin. “I say he’ll drop you when he finds out that you’re not the innocent volunteer you’re pretending to be.”
Okay, I didn’t need him to rain on my parade. I had plenty of doubts of my own about how my truth-telling session with Malcolm would go.
I shut down my computer, packed up my things, and stood. “For the last time, I didn’t send the story. And when he hears that he helped get me fired, he will be contrite. It’ll all work out. We’ve both changed since our encounter in L.A., both made mistakes, both grown. He’ll see that.”
He shrugged. “If not, you can always come back to me.”
“Richard.”
There was nothing more to say. He was like that woman who kept showing up at David Letterman’s house in Connecticut no matter how many times he called the cops on her.
“Wait. What do I owe you
for the coffee?” he asked as I was leaving.
“My treat,” I said and hurried out the door before he found another way to keep me there.
Chapter Twenty-seven
On Saturday I forced Richard and Isabelle and everything unpleasant out of my mind, and concentrated solely on my date with Malcolm. It had been a long time since I’d felt so alive, so invigorated, and I was determined not to let anything bring me down.
My first mission was to get myself looking my very best for the date, which meant a morning appointment at Middletown’s one and only house of beauty, Maggie’s Hair and Tanning Salon, for a trim and a manicure. I hadn’t ventured into the bustling, always packed place since my high school prom, but I viewed my date as an equally momentous occasion.
Over the years, Maggie Jacoby, the salon’s fifty-seven-year-old proprietor, had tried to adapt to the latest trends (hence, the lone tanning booth), but she still “set” hair and she still used rollers to do it. When I’d called and asked for a cut and a blow dry, there was a momentary hesitation before she said, “If that’s what you want.”
Actually, she did a good job on me. She lopped off about two inches of my straggly ends and then dried my hair into a do that had bouncy little waves in it. The other women in the salon weren’t shy about expressing their approval. They had watched the entire production (women in Middle town with nothing better to do often hung out at Maggie’s to exchange local gossip) and pronounced me “a glamour girl.” They especially liked my nails, which Michelle, the manicurist, had filed into an oval shape (square was considered trampy, as were French manicures) and painted a soft pale pink. Of course, they all thought I was getting dolled up for a big date with Richard, because he’d told anyone who’d listen we were dating, and I didn’t want to start anything by correcting them.
Next I stopped in at Bettina’s Fancy, the Victoria’s Secret clone whose owner I’d profiled for the Crier. Not that I was anticipating a scenario in which Malcolm would see me in my underwear, mind you. I just wanted to wear something special beneath my clothes, something daring. And so I bought a black bra and black panties. They weren’t silky, weren’t satiny, weren’t even lacy. They were just black, which, for Middletown, was daring enough.
Oh, and I bought a pretty black knit dress at a new store called Illusions. The clothes were more conservative than what you’d see in L.A., but they seemed to be well made and—here was their biggest selling point—they didn’t smell of disinfectant. Grandma Raysa regularly sprayed all the closets in the house with antibacterials, some of which had fragrances. As a result, my stuff had alternately taken on the scents of Mountain Snow, Melon Burst, and Lavender Meadow.
“What’s with the shopping bags?” asked my mother when I returned with my purchases. She and my aunt were sitting at the kitchen table playing gin rummy. “And your hair. It looks so glamorous.”
So. It was unanimous. At least with the females who’d seen it. I just hoped Malcolm thought it looked glamorous too. Not movie-star glamorous, but a step up from volunteer tidy.
“I sincerely hope all this isn’t for Richie Grossman,” Aunt Toni muttered.
“Don’t interfere,” my mother scolded her sister. “If Ann ends up liking that boy, she just might stay in Middletown.”
“She doesn’t want to stay in Middletown,” snapped my aunt. “Besides, Richie Grossman isn’t good enough for her.”
“Actually, I’m meeting my friend Jeanette for dinner tonight—the volunteer from pediatrics,” I lied, hoping to end their bickering, for the moment anyway. I wished I could tell them about Malcolm, but I’d promised him I wouldn’t tell anyone that he was a patient at Heartland General and I’d kept my promise, not counting Tuscany. Soon, after he was back in L.A., I would fill them in. On him. On us. I smiled as I pictured their stunned faces. Their stunned, delighted faces.
“See? She has friends in Middletown,” said my mother. “She’s happy here.”
Aunt Toni scoffed. “If she was so happy here, she wouldn’t be getting all fixed up for this Jeanette, as if it’s some hot date.”
“She’s a big girl,” Mom said. “She can fix herself up for whomever she pleases.”
“Look, I’m fine with it if she turns out to be a lesbian,” said Toni. “She should just be a lesbian back in L.A. where she’d fit in better. They have more of them there.”
I laughed, both at the way they never ceased to discuss me in the third person and at the fact that they were still trying to figure out why I was single. “You guys enjoy your card game,” I said as I headed for my room. “And no cheating.”
I DRESSED AS carefully as if I were about to walk the red carpet at a movie premiere. I wasn’t big on makeup, as I’ve already said, but I applied some foundation and blush, some eyeliner and shadow, and some glossy lipstick whose promotional material claimed it stayed on for hours and was “kiss proof.”
Kiss proof. I couldn’t believe I was even thinking in those terms. This was only my first date with Malcolm, for God’s sake. What’s more, it was taking place in a hospital room at Heartland General, not at his estate in the Hollywood Hills. I’d be lucky if he felt well enough to hold my hand again.
Once I was satisfied that I looked okay, I hurried out to the car and drove to the hospital. Malcolm had invited me for seven o’clock. I entered the building at six fifty-nine. Since the volunteers office was closed, I didn’t have to sign in or explain to anybody what I was doing there on a Saturday night or why I was in a dress instead of a uniform. There weren’t any doctors around, naturally, and the nurses were unfamiliar to me since I always worked the day shift. Nobody would recognize me, just the way nobody recognized Malcolm.
I had butterflies in my stomach as I rode up in the elevator to the sixth floor. Nah, forget butterflies. These critters were as huge as bats the way they were flapping around in there.
When I got to 613, I stopped in the hall and gave myself one last check in the mirror of my compact. No lipstick clinging to my teeth. No booger hanging from my nose. No crud stuck in the corner of my eyes. I was ready.
I was about to knock on the half-open door, issue my standard greeting, and ask for permission to enter, but I reminded myself that I was off duty. I was a visitor, not a volunteer. And it was my date inside 613, not just another patient. And so I simply knocked and said in what I hoped was a low, sexy voice, “It’s Ann.”
I heard shuffling and the door opened and there he was: Malcolm Goddard, the man whose whereabouts were a mystery to everyone in Hollywood. He was upright and free of needles, and he looked as handsome as, well, a movie star. He had shaved and showered and spritzed himself with some wonderfully citrusy cologne, and he was wearing a fluffy white terry-cloth bathrobe with HG, the hospital’s initials, stitched on the front pocket. (The robes were sold in the gift shop, along with the HG hats, mugs, and bib overalls. The merchandising had been Richard’s idea.)
While I was taking Malcolm in, mentally pinching myself that the date was really happening, he ran his eyes over me and whistled. “You do clean up nicely, but I kind of figured you would.”
“Look who’s talking,” I said. “Very Hugh Hefner in that robe.”
He smiled as he played with the ends of my hair.
“I put waves in it,” I said, keenly aware of every single cell in my body. Suddenly, everything felt heightened, more vivid, in Technicolor instead of black and white.
“I like you with waves,” he said. “I like you without them too.”
We stood there on that threshold, gawking at each other like two stupid teenagers, for an entire minute before I finally asked if he was going to let me come in.
“Oh, right,” he said with a goofy shrug, as if he’d completely forgotten his manners. “Please, enter.”
With that, he swung open the door and gave me my first glimpse of the room. He’d transformed it. Gone was the IV pole and any other hint that he’d been ill, and the overhead fluorescent lights had been dimmed to the level of a cocktail lounge.
But it was more than that. Much more. With some ingenuity and cash, he’d turned his quarters into a romantic setting for dinner. I was amazed and totally seduced.
There were a couple of beige chenille throws spread across his bed, making it look like a comfy sofa, and there was an identical throw draped across the top of the window, framing it as if it were a curtain. The round table where the vase of flowers still rested was now arrayed with blue-and-white-checked linen place mats and matching napkins and, between the stainless-steel utensils, there were white plates that weren’t the hospital’s usual plastic but were actual porcelain. Also on the table were cut-glass serving platters covered with pieces of aluminum foil, which he’d shaped into tops that resembled fancy silver domes. And there was an ice bucket of sorts—he’d converted a small metal wastebasket in which two bottles of spring water were chilling—along with two fluted champagne glasses. Oh, and there was music playing from the portable radio on his bedside tray table. He had it tuned to our local golden-oldies station. James Taylor was singing a song I was too overwhelmed to name.
“This is so, so beautiful,” I said. “How on earth did you manage it?”
“I bought out the gift shop,” he said. “Who knew they sold all this stuff in hospitals?”
“You didn’t go down there yourself, did you?” I said, concerned that he shouldn’t do too much too soon.
He shook his head. “Rolanda was my personal shopper. We made a deal before she left for the night. Basically, I told her I was having a guest and needed her help. My specific instructions were: ‘If it’s not a stuffed animal or a Mylar balloon with “Get Well Soon” on it, buy it.’”
I just stood there, admiring everything, appreciating that he’d gone to so much trouble for me. “I honestly don’t know what to say, Malcolm.”
“Good. You are impressed. That’s exactly the effect I was going for.” He took my hand and escorted me over to the table. “Now, let’s eat. We can’t let this feast get cold, can we?”
