by Nick Trout
I close out the link and review the email one more time. He certainly had no problem throwing Charlie under the bus. And what did he mean by the “covert mission”?
The other email has been forwarded via Gabe (from [email protected]). Clearly he’s in control of this account and it’s no less disturbing.
From: Honey, Winn
To: Lovelace, Thomas
CC:
Subject: Another date?
Hi Tom, Tommy, Thomas,
I don’t know what happened last night. It wasn’t like any online date I’ve ever been on. It’s okay to be nervous. It’s okay to be shy. But what I liked best was the way you just wanted to listen, to let our connectivity unfold. Men constantly read me the wrong way. They say (not me) my looks make me unapproachable, out of their league. Either that or they’d prefer to talk with their hands and not their hearts, if you know what I mean. You’re different, Tom, Tommy, Thomas, and different is a good thing. Wonder if you’re free tomorrow night? Love to continue where we left off. My place? Call me.
Love,
W
XOXO
The L word? Hugs and kisses? My place? What have I done? At best I was confused, jumpy, and totally lost for words. How can Honey interpret my improv performance as sensitive, honest, and even respectful? It’s bad enough to deceive her professionally, but manipulating this vulnerable woman’s emotions is unforgivable.
I ease back in my chair, clasp my hands behind my head, and stare out the living room window. It’s late afternoon, and what little light permeated this grim winter sky has finally given up, submitting to total blackness. With the shadows comes the uncertainty of what I have gotten myself into. Connectivity? There are two things Winn Honey and I have in common: loneliness and, at least on my part, desperation. But here’s the difference: hers is rooted in divorce and the need for validation (at least I think so) whereas mine is out of choice and, I could argue, a quest for redemption. Maybe I didn’t know quite what I was getting into when I took on Bedside Manor, but it was my choice. I chose to live in a frozen tundra void of humidity. I chose to take on a veterinary conglomerate by fair means or foul. For the greater part of my life I’ve chosen to be alone. I’ve learned to embrace the silence, to believe there’s a difference between insulation and isolation. Now I’m not so sure. Out here, in the “real world,” it seems there isn’t a vaccine or nearly enough Purell to stop you getting infected by a truly dangerous contagion—hope. It’s the possibility of not being destroyed by Healthy Paws. It’s the belief that there’s something, I don’t know, something unusual, even thrilling, about being around Amy and the chance that she might feel the same way. But now, for all the wrong reasons, I am responsible for inflicting hope on a lonely woman who didn’t get to choose.
I press Reply on Gabe’s email, insist he owes me nothing more, and ask him to forward this response.
To: Honey, Winn
From: Lovelace, Thomas
CC:
Subject: Friday night
Dear Dr. Honey,
Yes, Friday night at 8:00 p.m. will work for me. I’d like to explain the real reason for being so nervous.
Sincerely,
Tom
Succinct, formal, and aimed at dampening her anticipation as gently as possible. Dr. Winn Honey deserves to be told the truth, and, though I hate emotional confrontation, an electronic explanation feels wrong. At least at her house I’ll be out of the public eye when she comes at me with a can of pepper spray.
I abandon the online research, bundle up, grab my doctor’s bag, and decide to head out on an expedition, starting with an important purchase. The plastic bag hanging from the handle of the front door has other ideas. Inside there’s a card with my name on it and a Tupperware dish containing a large slice of lemon meringue pie.
I open the card.
The diner was all out of humble pie, but I hope this will work. I guess Crispin Peebles lives on! Now you know you’re not the only one who jumps to conclusions.
Call me soon!
A
Ignoring the absence of “love,” I leave the pie on Doris’s desk for later and, as I jump into the Silverado, savor the gut-tingling thrill that Amy wants to make up with me.
This evening’s version of cold can best be described as fierce. No one uses pleasantries like “crisp” or “brisk” this far north in January. I leave the truck to idle in the Fancies Convenience Store lot—praying the heater will finally kick in—and find what I’m looking for precisely where Amy said it would be. Up front near the checkout, a rack of a dozen minus one Cool Hand Luke aviator sunglasses. Make that a dozen minus two. Just as I’m about to pay, another item catches my eye. Next to a six-foot-tall cut-out cardboard primate is a shelf full of Gorilla Glue. It claims to be the toughest glue on the planet. Well, let’s see if it’s tough enough for Crispin’s broken tail.
Purchases paid for, heading back through the center of town en route to an unscheduled but essential house call, I can’t help but notice the two figures standing outside the diner. As I slow down, the truck’s headlights pick them out, holding them like the flash of a single frame as I trundle past. It’s a man and a woman, standing next to an outrageous, brilliant white Humvee. I keep staring as I roll along, but neither of them looks my way. They’re facing one another, in each other’s arms, wide eyes locked in… what… joy, mutual adoration. They’re oblivious to the nosy curb crawler because they’re entranced, their smiles ready to explode. The man is a stranger, but his five seconds in my high beams tells me all I need to know—taller than me and devilishly handsome. Sadly the woman is not a stranger.
Then again, maybe Amy is after all.
11
THE PITCH OF THE KEENING HORN DOPPLER SHIFTS as the angry car swishes past, and only then do I notice I’ve been driving the last mile with my high beams blaring. White knuckles fused to the steering wheel, I’ve been barreling into the night, following the contours of feta cheese snowbanks and chasing the dusty snow-snakes side-winding across the blacktop. I can’t shake the man’s image, so vivid. I could pick him out of a lineup. But it’s the expression on Amy’s face that haunts me. I can think of no better way to describe it—besotted.
Maybe I’m being paranoid. What if Amy’s expression was more nurturing than amorous, more maternal than carnal? All I know for sure is, in this sea of love, Amy looked as if she had been saved by the hunky lifeguard, while I looked on, flapping around in water wings, trying not to drown. I am so out of my depth with this woman. I yearn for the gift of the gab, when all I exude is the “gift of the geek.” If only this romantic limbo stemmed from a failure to communicate. What if Amy simply needs to understand the intensity of my… crush. No, that makes me sound like a horny teenager. Infatuation? No, that makes me sound like a stalker. Devotion. Yes, my earnest desire to get better acquainted. Who am I kidding? How can she feel comfortable around me if I’m still struggling to be comfortable with myself?
Multitasking with a cell phone (actually multitasking in general) is not my strong point, but I dial the phone number from memory, knowing it will ring at least ten times before it’s picked up.
Make that twelve.
“Hello, Harry, it’s Cyrus, Dr. Cyrus Mills. I’m the guy who helped out with—”
“I may be old, but I’m not senile. I know who you are. How you been?”
Harry Carp is Amy’s eightysomething grandfather, the one she’s nursing. She lives with Harry and his bizarre mutt, Clint.
“Good,” I lie. “How’s your dog doing?”
“Never better, thanks to you. You looking for Amy? ’Cause she’s out.”
“Actually I… um… wanted to ask you a question about Amy.”
Harry pauses. “A bit quick for a marriage proposal, don’t you think?”
“No, no, definitely not that. I… well… there’s this other man…”
“What about him?”
Harry interjects this so quickly I can’t tell whether he’s being protective or
disinterested.
“Well… should I… should I—”
“Should I what?”
“Should I be worried?” I blurt out.
I hear Harry catch a few nasal breaths, making me stew.
“I met him the other day. Just for a minute. Seemed nice enough.”
Asking if he was a friend or boyfriend seems too direct, so instead I go with something more subtle. “So you’ve met him before?” Figuring that will at least tell me how long he’s been in the picture.
“No, but—”
“But what?” I ask, jumping on the possibility of a flaw—convicted felon, debilitating speech impediment, on the run from the INS.
“I’ll say this. Clint didn’t warm up to him.”
Clint took a while to warm up to me. Or maybe it was the other way around.
Neither of us speak for a full five seconds and then Harry comes back with, “I’ve got this quote for you.”
“From Mr. Eastwood?” I know Harry to be a huge Clint Eastwood fan (every dog he’s had throughout his life has been named Clint).
“Of course, but unscripted, from the man himself, not one of his movies. It’s about pessimism.”
Is it that obvious or does Harry simply see me as a loser?
“ ‘If you think it’s going to rain, it will.’ ”
I come back with a nasal huff. “I thought you might go with, ‘If you’re waitin’ for a woman to make up her mind, you may have a long wait.’ ”
“Pale Rider, right?”
“Impressive, Harry. You take care.”
MOST PEOPLE don’t use the term expedition when describing an unscheduled house call to a sick animal. However, in my defense, this particular creature does merit the adjective wild, and besides, after witnessing the scene with Amy and her mystery man outside the diner, I’m grateful for the diversion.
I park around the back of the imposing building and notice a sign that seems tailor-made for me—HOTEL BUSINESS OR DELIVERIES ONLY. In the context of this evening’s visit, I certainly mean business and I intend to deliver a cure. Next to the sign, a gridiron of light from a lead-paned window in a door guides me to the top of a short flight of salty steps and a copper doorbell. I press the buzzer but get no buzz. Hopefully it’s ringing somewhere deep inside because the cold has already ripped off my ears, chewed away my entire face, and begun to feast on my brain. I’m used to living in Charleston, South Carolina. I don’t do freezing, let alone negative digits. Doctorin’ bag hugged to my chest, I stamp my feet on a thick rubber doormat, a bad chicken dance that does little to improve the circulation in my toes. Then I notice the mouse, dead and eviscerated, lying where the mat abuts the wooden siding, no doubt the sacrificial offering of a feline version of Hannibal Lecter.
A census taker once tried to test me. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.
The door swings open to reveal the man I came to see—Santa Hemingway.
“Dr. Mills, what a surprise,” says George Simms. “You should have used the main entrance for that drink on the house. Come in, come in.”
I shuffle inside, the warm air filling my nostrils, every inch of exposed skin prickling as it begins to defrost.
“Actually I came by because I thought I’d have another go at Henry, if he’s around.”
“He is. This way.”
I’m led down a narrow corridor, winding our way between logjams of housekeeping and room service carts, past the drone of washing machines and the aroma of fresh laundry, converging on the hubbub and heat of a hopping restaurant kitchen. Even if I ignore the vintage green-and-white-striped wallpaper, the floor gives away the age of this place. The number over the main entrance, 1853, is not a street address. Based on the subtle inclines and declines of the settled hardwood underfoot, I’m walking on the original flooring of a historic building.
“In here,” says George, “though I’m pretty sure Henry’s sixth sense about doctors works just as well at home.”
George holds open a door marked SECURITY, and I enter a room lit by the flickering glow of closed-circuit TV monitors. Eight LCD flat screens capture crisp black-and-white images of a series of empty corridors, what looks like a bar, a reception desk, the front entrance, and the rear parking lot.
“Fancy setup,” I say. “Where’s the casino?”
George smiles, grabs an empty swivel chair, and crab walks up to a desk cluttered with computers and keyboards.
“Had it installed a couple of years ago. Expensive, but worth it. Here’s why.”
George presses a key, and a screen in the middle showing an empty corridor begins fast-forwarding, the digital clock in the bottom right-hand corner whizzing through minutes and hours, people scuttling in and out of the frame, walking at double time, like in a silent movie.
“Half an hour ago, one of our guests claimed a piece of jewelry was stolen from her suite. Naturally she blames housekeeping. Thinks the maid has shifty eyes, a funny accent, insists I call the police. Guarantee, in the next half hour this same guest is going to let the front desk know she found it on a counter in her bathroom or in a drawer under an item of clothing and it was all a big mistake or her husband’s fault. But just in case, I have this surveillance video, and I’m going through to make sure no one entered the suite other than the designated housemaid. I’m gonna keep at it, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course. Where’s Henry?”
George spins around an adjacent chair so I can see the seat is actually occupied by a large black comma that slowly uncurls into Henry the predatory, polydactyl cat.
Cats sleep for two-thirds of every day, so twelve-year-old Henry has only been awake for four years.
“If you were hoping to jump him in his sleep, I advise against it. Henry prefers to doze, always one eye open, ready to pounce.”
Ready to kill, I think, remembering the desecrated rodent on the doormat.
“No. I have a different plan.” I set my bag down on the desk between George and his cat, extracting a box of glass slides, a pair of old oven mitts from my kitchen, and my secret weapon—Cool Hand Luke mirror sunglasses.
Probably wears them to make you focus on your own reflection and not him.
When Amy said this about Trey, it seemed like the perfect way to tackle Henry. At least it did at the time. Now that I’m here and Henry’s sitting up and watching my every move, I’m not so sure.
As a cat, Henry will not recognize my face. He’s more tuned into body shape, body language, and the pitch of my voice. Trying a slow, sneaky approach is doomed. At the very least he’ll bolt. Speed and surprise are my only hope.
With my back to him, I apply the mirror sunglasses and the oven mitts and, with the manual dexterity of a lobster, pick up a glass slide in each padded pincer. You know that feeling, the one when you’re about to leap out of the plane and trust the parachute on your back? Well, neither do I, but I imagine this is what it’s like.
“Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look?”
Ignoring the dissent, I take one step backward, perform a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree spin that may not be worthy of the late Michael Jackson but puts me exactly where I want to be, in the strike zone. It could be the flickering reflective dazzle from the monitors; it could be the two curious black cats that suddenly appear from nowhere, but the sunglasses are the silent equivalent of a SWAT team flashbang, the perfect distractor, allowing me to swipe both slides across the fleshy tip of Henry’s nose and step back before he can say, “Ah, Clarice.”
“Don’t tell me it worked,” says George, hitting Pause, freezing the frame, pushing out of his chair, and coming over to see.
Mirrors and mitts off, I inspect the greasy smears on the glass. I’ll have to wait until I get home, but they look like decent touch preps to me.
“We’ll see,” I say, packing everything away in my bag. “I’ll have to stain them up first.”
George picks up Henry, or should I say, Henry allows George to pick him up. To be fair, the
cat appears stunned, limp, and lost for words, as if I tossed a glass of cold water in his face for no good reason.
“Your father said you were stubborn. Fine by me if you cure my cat’s nose.”
It seems my father saw a stubborn streak as one of my few virtues.
“I’ll let you know what I find. Good luck with your missing jewelry,” I say, nodding at the screen. “I’ll find my own way out.”
“Thanks, Cyrus. Hey, the bar’s the other way, if you still want that drink.”
I consider hearty St. Nick clutching his black cat with the Karl Malden nose. What an odd but strangely compatible couple. Maybe I should take him up on the offer, especially after gathering inadvertent intelligence on Amy.
“Um… no, I really shouldn’t but…” I can’t help myself. “Do you happen to have a guest staying here who drives a brand-new white Humvee?”
Here’s my thinking… Harry Carp said he only met Amy’s… friend… for a minute, therefore he’s not staying at their house. If you drive an expensive SUV and you’re visiting Eden Falls, chances are you’ll stay at the best guesthouse around.
“Of course,” says George. “Mr. Marco Tellucci.”
I expected a yes or no, not a name.
“Oh… right… and is, is he alone?”
“No idea. But I do remember he insisted on a king-size bed. Very specific. Why d’you ask?”
Marco Tellucci. Got to be Italian. Damn! Swarthy, suave, and, no doubt, a sexy accent to boot. Could I hate him any more?
“No reason,” I say, backing off down the corridor the way I came. “I’ll be in touch.”
