“Tyler,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Please call me Tyler. The only person who ever called me Mr. Connelly was my high school principal, and that never ended well.”
“Why? Were you a troublemaker?” I could picture it. A boy too cute for his own good. Rousing the rabble. Fraternizing with the cheerleaders. Ignoring the bookish girls like me.
He opened his eyes and peered at me without turning his face. “I wasn’t a troublemaker. I was angelic. I just have a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people.”
The curtain surrounding the bed whooshed abruptly to the side. “You got that right, kid. What the hell happened on that boat today?”
A silver-haired man with a deep sunburn and at least two days’ worth of whiskers stood across from me and glared down at my patient.
Aside from a short, shallow sigh, Mr. Conn—I mean, Tyler—didn’t show much reaction. “How’d you know I was here, Carl?”
“Word travels.” The man pulled a can of soda from the pocket of his—oh my God—was that a bathrobe he was wearing?
It was.
Light blue terry cloth.
He cracked open the can as if to make himself right at home. “But the details are a little sketchy. So, either you can tell me now what happened or I can listen to you explain it to the police, because they’re in the lobby, and something tells me they’re looking for you.”
That seemed to get my patient’s attention. He raised his hand to halt my work and tried to turn his face, but I caught him by the chin before he pulled out my most recent stitch.
“Did you say anything to them?” Tyler asked.
The other man scoffed as if that were the most absurd of questions. “Of course not.”
“Have you talked to Scotty?” Tyler asked him.
“Your brother? No. Why? What does he have to do with this?” The bathrobe-wearing soda drinker took to frowning, his lips pursed in concern.
“Find him and take him home. Tell him not to talk to anybody, OK?”
Carl took a loud gulp from the can. I heard soda fizzing and watched his Adam’s apple bob while I pondered who he was—and more importantly—what the hell was going on.
“Your mother’s not going to like this,” he said to Tyler, taking another swallow.
“Mom is the least of my concerns right now, Carl. Just find Scotty. Keep him off the phone if you can. And keep him away from Mom.”
Carl squinted and crossed his robe-clad arms. He’d yet to acknowledge me in any way. I’m not even sure he realized I was there. He just gazed down silently at my patient, until at last he said, “Little man fucked up, didn’t he?”
Tyler glanced at me as if measuring my trustworthiness, then looked back to Carl.
“No. Scotty is fine. I’ll take care of it. Now get out of here before the police see you and arrest you for vagrancy. You look like a bum in that bathrobe.”
Carl smoothed one hand over the lapel as if it were mink instead of threadbare terry cloth. “I love this bathrobe. Your mother gave it to me for Christmas. I think she shoplifted it, but she wanted to get me something nice.”
“It’s for inside the house, not out in public. We’ve told you that a thousand times.” Tyler sighed, this time deep and slow. A tension that wasn’t there before showed in the clench of his jaw. But Carl’s shrug was the epitome of indifference. He clearly found no issue with his attire or how it came to be in his possession. Finally, he looked my way, his eyes widening a little as they got to my face. He tilted his soda can toward me in a random toast. “Sorry for the interruption, Red. Family business.”
“She’s a doctor, Carl. Show a little respect.” Tyler mimicked the nurse’s earlier words, and I might have chuckled if I wasn’t so bewildered.
“Nice to meet you,” Carl replied. He held up the can, pinky finger extended. “Why do you have glitter in your hair?”
“What?”
No! I ran a hand over my head and metallic confetti drifted downward, right onto my patient’s face.
“Oh my gosh. I . . . oh!” I brushed at Tyler’s cheek to flick the pink and purple flakes away. “I’m sorry. It’s . . . it’s my birthday.”
Tyler looked up at me, the corner of his blue eyes crinkling in what I could only assume was amusement at my expense.
“It is? Happy birthday,” he said.
Carl raised his soda can higher still. “Happy birthday, Doc. Take good care of my boy here, will you?”
I nodded. “Um, yes. Certainly. Of course.” Glitter in my hair? I was going to kill those birthday ninjas! Something subtle and untraceable.
“Well, I’m off. I’ll try to head those cops off at the pass,” Carl said as he turned.
“No,” Tyler answered. “Let me handle this, Carl. Promise.” It wasn’t a plea. It was a directive.
I watched the terry-clothed shoulders lift in another lackadaisical motion. “OK, kid. If you say so. But your mother isn’t going to be happy.”
He stepped away from the bed and flung the curtain back to its original position. The metal rings jingled like chains rattling and then fell silent.
“I’m sorry about that,” Tyler said once the curtain had stopped swaying. His skin flushed, and although I could credit it to him feeling better, realistically I knew it was from embarrassment. But I was in no spot to judge. I didn’t usually treat patients with glitter in my hair.
“That’s OK,” I said to him. “Let’s get these stitches finished, though.”
I readjusted on the stool and picked up another suture, but my curiosity bubbled like a chemical reaction inside a test tube. I wanted to ask where he’d been today and why the police would want to question him. But I’d learned a long time ago that every patient has some sad or exciting story to tell, and it was always better to leave those kinds of messy details to the social workers. Sometimes that was hard to do, but whatever had happened before my patient hit that boat dock was no business of mine. I knew better than to get tangled up in it.
A moment passed, and I continued closing the wound until Tyler let out another big sigh.
“Do you have brothers and sisters?” he asked. His voice sounded wistful, and I felt my policy of avoidance weakening.
“No.”
Actually, I had a couple of stepsisters somewhere, but I didn’t really count them since most of my father’s marriages had been so brief I’d barely had time to sign the guest book before the wives and their dependents were gone. It was better not to get involved in the details of their messy lives either. It kept my life much simpler.
Tyler crossed his arms over his torso. The gown slipped off his shoulder a little farther, revealing more of that tattoo, but not enough so I could make it out. It was ridiculously tantalizing. This must be how men feel when they see cleavage.
“Well, I have a couple of each,” he said. “And it’s a lot of work keeping them out of trouble.”
My hand paused, my mind processed. I shouldn’t ask, but I did. “Why is it your job to keep them out of trouble?”
His chuckle sounded full of resignation rather than good humor. “It just finds us. And that guy in the bathrobe is our stepdad. You think he’s going to keep an eye on them?”
I wanted to hear more. I did. I wanted to know how my patient ended up being drunk on a Jet Ski on a Tuesday afternoon, and running into a boat dock, and what his brother Scotty had to do with it, and why his siblings were his responsibility, but I looked up at the clock on the wall, and it read 6:40 p.m. I was going to be incredibly late meeting my parents, and if left alone, they’d probably take to puncturing each other with steak knives.
This conversation with Tyler Connelly wouldn’t help me get his laceration sewn up, and that was my primary responsibility. Technically, it was my only responsibility. And besides, hearing more would only draw
me in further, an emotional complication better left unexplored. I remained silent and continued suturing.
After a moment, he closed his eyes and sighed again. “How long have you been at this?”
I gave the stitch a little tug. “About forty minutes, but I’m almost finished.”
Now his chuckle was amused. “I meant how long have you been a doctor?”
“Oh.” I smiled, though he couldn’t see me. “A while.”
“It can’t be much of a while. You look awfully young. Which birthday is this today?”
I had no intention of answering that. But it was nice to hear I at least looked young. “Mr. Connelly, I need you to stop talking and keep your jaw still, please. I’m nearly finished.”
A voice penetrated through the general din of the department, deep and authoritative. A few seconds passed, the curtain slid aside, and an imposing mass of navy blue appeared in my field of vision. I looked up to see a behemoth of a police officer standing on the other side of the stretcher. Next to him stood a second burly cop, with thick forearms and mirrored sunglasses.
“Tyler Connelly?” The bigger policeman stared down at my symmetrically gifted patient.
Tyler opened his eyes again.
“Is there a problem, Officers?” I said. I had the most spontaneous compulsion to tell them Tyler Connelly had just run out the back door. But since he was lying on the stretcher between us, I didn’t think they’d be fooled. Besides, if the police wanted to talk to my patient, they probably had just cause, while I had no explicable reason to feel protective.
“I’m Tyler Connelly,” he answered without a hint of hesitation.
“Tyler Connelly, you’re under arrest for grand larceny of a stolen Jet Ski and destruction of property. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I’ve just told you?”
Grand larceny? I looked at my patient, ripples of surprise giving way to a shiver of unease as I waited for him to explain. Surely he hadn’t stolen that Jet Ski. Surely there was some mistake. Surely he’d defend himself and the police would go away satisfied no crime had occurred.
But Tyler Connelly looked up at me. No stain of embarrassment colored his cheeks this time. He was as cool as a jewel thief on the French Riviera, his icy-blue eyes clear of any doubt.
I couldn’t pull my gaze away.
Even as he said, “Yes, I understand. But before you cuff me, do you mind if the birthday girl here finishes with my stitches?”
Chapter 2
MY HEELS CLACKED A STACCATO rhythm on the cobblestone sidewalk as I rushed to the restaurant. It had taken twenty more minutes to finish with my patient—the alleged felon. Although there didn’t seem to be much alleging to it. He’d as much as confessed just by virtue of saying nothing.
What a sad, sad tale. Tyler Connelly had seemed like a charming, if somewhat careless, guy, but harmless enough. Obviously his good looks had deceived me. A criminal lurked beneath that nice tan and all those muscles. And now I’d never even know what happened to him. He’d be carted off to jail, and all that beautiful facial symmetry would be wasted on a cell mate named Dutch.
I glanced at my watch as I reached the door of Arno’s. Seven fifteen. Good grief. I hoped my parents hadn’t caused a ruckus by getting into an argument. Visions of my eleventh birthday popped up like an evil clown. My parents had still been married that year, though the fighting had escalated, and the long hospital shifts had grown more frequent. I remembered staring at that store-bought birthday cake and making my wish with every ounce of naive hope strumming through my veins. I wished for a family vacation. Someplace with a beach and lots of sunshine. Someplace warm and relaxing. Someplace that would fix all the things that seemed broken in our lives. Then I’d blown out the candles and watched as my parents had a knock-down–drag-out over who would cut the cake.
Typical surgeons. All we care about is who gets to hold the knife.
Before the wisps of smoke had cleared the air, my mother had demanded a divorce and my father had left.
Birthdays soured for me after that. But I’d tucked away the memory and moved on. It’s not as if my situation was unique. Nearly all my friends had seen their parents go full honey badger on each other at one point or another. I grew up assuming divorce was just the final phase of marriage. That’s why I often contemplated skipping it altogether.
Now here we were, together again on my birthday, having dinner at the only elegant restaurant in Bell Harbor. I walked through the door and looked around for signs of their scuffle but found none. Gentle music played, blending with the soft murmur of relaxed diners. There were no broken glasses or overturned chairs. No hastily thrown knives dangling from the woodwork. Not even any raised voices.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
Except . . .
Except for the sight of my parents sitting together. Harmoniously. Like normal people. It was like catching Batman and Bruce Wayne at the same party. My mother and father were on two sides of a square table, laughing.
Laughing?
My mother’s head tipped toward my father, her cheeks flushed as if she’d already polished off a glass or two of chardonnay. My father was telling some story and gesturing with his hands. I looked back at the door behind me. Maybe I’d tripped through a wormhole into an alternate universe.
“There she is. There’s the birthday girl,” my mother said when she spotted me. She reached up her arms and I leaned over to give her an awkward hug. Personal space was very clearly defined in my family, and you did not invade someone else’s bubble, but she seemed to be inviting me.
My father stood up and hugged me too, for a second longer than essential. Oh my God. One of them was dying from monkey pox.
I stared at my dad’s face. He looked fit, if a little older. It struck me then that he would do that—age while I wasn’t paying attention. But he sure didn’t look like he was dying.
He pulled out my chair, and I sat down with a thunk.
“Happy birthday, Evie,” he said, settling back into his own chair.
I was named after his mother, so he always called me Evelyn. This breach of protocol was as unnerving to me as if he’d pointed in my direction and said, “Pull my finger.” None of this was making me remotely comfortable.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said, hooking my purse over the back of my chair. If they were going to pretend like everything was nicey-nice, I should play along. “I had to finish suturing a laceration so they could formally arrest my patient.”
My mother laughed, a kind of titter that I hadn’t heard in ages. “Arrested in Bell Harbor? What on earth did he do? Skateboard on the sidewalk?”
My mother had made a joke, and my alternate universe theory started feeling more plausible.
“Practically,” I answered. “He stole a Jet Ski.”
She laughed again and took a tiny sip of wine. Her expensive white suit gleamed against the bronzy glow of her skin. She looked tan, but since she never left the operating room for more than two hours at a time, someone must have installed a tanning bed in the doctors’ lounge. She’d colored her hair too. A rich caramel color. When did she start doing that? Oh, no! Maybe it was her who was dying?
The waiter came and gave me a glass of water. I took a sip and wished it was vodka. I wasn’t much of a drinker, plus I was on call, but certainly a good stiff martini was in order. It was my birthday, after all, and they were about to ruin it with news of someone’s imminent demise. It was the only explanation for their aberrant behavior.
“Stole a Jet Ski?” my father said gruffly. “Hard to make an efficient getaway on that, I’d imagine.”
My mother nodded and laughed again.
What the hell? She was not a laugher. She
was hardly even a smiler.
The waiter came back and handed me a menu, which I accepted with trembling hands. Not a good sign in a surgeon, but these were unique circumstances.
“Have you dined with us at Arno’s before?” he asked. He was short with a goatee and reminded me a little of an elf.
I smiled. At least I hoped it looked like a smile. It may have been more of a grimace, because my parents were freaking me out. “Yes, I have. Thank you. I’ll just need a minute to look this over.”
“Of course.” He nodded politely. “I’ll check back in just a few moments.”
“Thanks.” I looked at my dad. “Did you guys order?”
“No, of course not, sweetheart. We waited for you. After all, it’s not every day we get to have dinner with our best birthday girl.”
My father usually displayed a level of sentimentality one might expect from a prison warden, so this hint at nostalgia only added to my disequilibrium. Everything was out of balance. Come to think of it, he looked tan too. That was odd. My suspicions began multiplying like mutant cancer cells.
“So, tell me, Evie, how goes the house hunting? Any luck?” My mother wiped a fingerprint off the wineglass with her napkin.
I pulled a piece of bread from the basket on the table. That cake had turned to pure crack in my system, and I needed to counteract it with something besides water.
“It’s going OK. I haven’t had much time to look, but my real estate agent and I are going to see some houses next week. Unfortunately, the places on the water are either huge and expensive or run-down little shacks. And expensive. There doesn’t seem to be much middle ground.”
“Sounds as if you’re planning to stay here long-term then.” My father picked up his glass of Glenfiddich and swirled the ice around.
“Yes, I’m planning to stay. That’s why I took the job.” I straightened in my chair as if titanium had suddenly surged through my spine, Wolverine-style.
My parents had always encouraged me to make my own decisions and pursue my own dreams—as long as that meant becoming a doctor, like them, and working at a prestigious university hospital, like them. Not only had I let them down by refusing to become a cardiothoracic surgeon, but I’d chosen a practice not affiliated with any major medical school, where my vast potential would surely erode faster than the dunes sinking into the lake.
Best Medicine, The Page 3
