The Bad Break

by Jill Orr

  “How come you did the interviews without talking to me first?” Flick apparently did not find my research praiseworthy. “You heard Jackson. I am supposed to be giving you the benefit of my experience on this.”

  I hadn’t expected him to throw me a parade, but I hadn’t expected him to be angry with me either. “Yeah but c’mon, Flick. David? And his office manager? Obviously those two were going to included on the list.”

  “‘Yeah-but’ nothing—”

  “I just thought that—”

  “I know what you ‘just thought,’ Riley,” Flick said. “You just think you know it all and that you don’t need any help from anybody, but I’m here to tell you, kid, that isn’t the case.”

  The familiar brew of humiliation and anger swirled inside my gut. I took a deep breath and forced myself to calm down before speaking. “Flick,” I said using my most controlled voice, “I think if you look at my notes, you’ll see that I did a pretty good job with the questions.”

  “Did you ask David if his father ever talked about moving away from Tuttle Corner? Or what he would have wanted to do if he hadn’t been a cardiologist? And how about Donna—did you think to ask her if he ever got frustrated with his patients or staff?”

  “No, but I—”

  “Did you think to ask about any negative aspects of his life, or was it all softball stuff designed to make them feel better?”

  I felt my cheeks grow hot. “Not exactly, but I did ask David what he learned from his father’s life.” That ought to shut him up for a second.

  He fixed a challenging stare on me. “And what did he tell you?”

  “Life is short. Don’t be an asshole.”

  Flick looked at me like he was trying to figure out if I was quoting David or offering him advice. After a beat, he must have realized it was a quote. (Well, it actually worked on both levels.) And then Flick did something I had not seen him do in over six years. He started laughing—I mean, really laughing. His whole demeanor changed—the lines etched into his face from time and experience rearranged themselves; his shoulders, usually squared for battle, relaxed; his eyes crinkled at the edges. It was like looking at a whole different person. It took me completely off guard and I wasn’t sure how to react, so I pulled a Holman and just looked at him like he was an anthropological curiosity.

  As his laughter died down, he settled himself into his ancient rolling chair—the one he’d brought with him years ago from when he worked up in Washington, D.C. “That’s a helluva line. I’ll give you that.”

  Still unsure if it was safe to let my own guard down, I sat too—but cautiously so, perched on the edge of the chair across from him.

  “So what did that mean?” he said, the trace of laughter still in his voice.

  “What?”

  “When David said that. What did he mean?”

  I looked at him, blank.

  “Did he mean that he learned not to be an asshole because his dad was one, or because he wasn’t one?”

  Damn. It was an excellent question, and one I hadn’t thought to ask. Flick read it on my face like a neon sign. I braced myself for the lashing I was about to get. But again, he went another direction.

  “Riley,” he said in a softer, gentler tone than before. “You’re doing a good job. You’re trying, I can see that. But you’re new to this and I’ve been around a long time. You could learn a thing or two from me, you know?”

  I regarded him carefully. Was he playing some sort of game? To soften me up before delivering a death blow? But the tenderness in his voice suggested not. It felt like a genuine offer of guidance and direction, two things I could really use. “Okay,” I said.

  He smiled and looked at me with such warmth it almost took my breath away. “Okay then. Let’s get to work.”

  I spent the next hour in Flick’s office going over my notes, talking through the interviews with David and Donna, and formulating a plan of action for what I’d do next. It was a strange thing to be working side by side with the same man for whom I’d had such contempt over the past few years. Flick had been my granddaddy’s best friend and colleague for more than forty years. I’d grown up calling him Uncle Hal, but everything changed when Granddad died. The sheriff had ruled his death a suicide, even though Granddad wasn’t remotely suicidal and didn’t even own the gun he supposedly shot himself with. I’d begged Flick as a reporter—not to mention his friend—to help me look into it further. I’d brought him all sorts of information about inconsistencies that didn’t add up, but Flick had shut me down, refused to help, wouldn’t even discuss it with me. He told me to let it go. There was a part of me that would never forgive Hal Flick for giving up on my granddaddy the way he did.

  I was walking out of his office with a revised question list in my hands when Flick said to my back, “Albert would have been proud of you, you know.”

  I stilled. It had been five years since Flick had spoken my granddaddy’s name to me. Afraid to break the spell with any sudden movements, I made a little half turn toward him. “You think?”

  “I know,” he said. “He loved this beat, and he’d be real happy to see you here keeping it alive.”

  I should have let it go, let the moment be so that we might have been able to return to the subject another time. But hearing Flick say Granddaddy’s name was like being given a drop of water after a long hike in the desert. I wanted more. “Flick, you don’t really think he killed himself, do you?”

  “Ah, geez, not this again,” he said sharply. It felt like being smacked in the face.

  “Forget it.” I turned to leave.

  “Riley—” I heard him call my name, but I was already halfway down the hall, my pulse pounding in the base of my throat with no one to blame but myself. I knew as well as anyone that leopards don’t change their spots.

  Hey Riley,

  U have totally been on my mind and I’ve been wondering how ur doing. Did u listen to that guided meditation on how to be more assertive that I sent u the link for? I think it’ll really help u with that whole “against your will” thing ur worried about.

  If ur wanting a more intense kind of strategy, u should totally check out Bestmillenniallife.com’s YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME app available in the App Store for Android and iOS. It’s only $2.99 and it gives u daily affirmations that will totally teach u how to learn to stand up for urself in the workplace. It seriously changed my life! Before YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME, I used to say yes to everything—babysitting, dogsitting, housesitting. Now I have gained the confidence to say no to any kind of sitting except the kind I want to do on the couch—haha lol!

  Anyway. I see from ur file that you’ve recently started a new job. That must be thrilling! Tell me all about it!

  xx,

  Jenna B

  Personal Success Concierge™

  Bestmillenniallife.com

  Dear Jenna,

  I have not had a chance to listen to the podcast yet—obviously, or else I would have found a way to let you know I really don’t need your services. Maybe I should check out the app (haha lol, as you say).

  All best,

  Riley

  Dear Riley,

  U r frickin’ hilarious! U crack me up! Seriously, I have tears of laughter rolling down my cheeks now.

  So tell me about ur job . . .

  xx,

  Jenna B

  Personal Success Concierge™

  Bestmillenniallife.com

  Dear Jenna,

  I wasn’t trying to be funny, but I guess it’s good to know I made you laugh.

  My job is not going that well at the moment, if I’m being honest. I’m feeling a little overwhelmed. Plus, I’m afraid if I screw up, I’ll not only lose my job but it could end up having serious consequences for a friend.

  All best,

  Riley

  Hey Riley,

  UGH. That sounds heavy. Here’s a quote that always inspires me when I’m feeling overwhelmed: “I cheated on my fears, broke up with my doubts, g
ot engaged to my faith, and now I’m married to my dreams.” I’m not sure who said it because I saw it as a meme on Pinterest, but I’m pretty sure it was someone famous. And I like it because I feel like it works on so many levels. Hope it inspires u as much as it does me!

  xx,

  Jenna B

  Personal Success Concierge™

  Bestmillenniallife.com

  CHAPTER 12

  I arrived at Tuttle General for the second time that day. The plan was to see if I could find David to clarify a few things, and see if I could get one of his father’s colleagues to talk to me about what he had been like to work with. I walked quickly through the lobby toward the elevators, but before I got there, a voice called out my name. A raspy Swedish-accented voice. Damn.

  “Riley!”

  I turned around slowly and plastered a static smile on my face. “Hey, Ridley.”

  Ridley floated up beside me and kissed me on both cheeks. She looked radiant, of course, her bright blond hair shining even brighter under the fluorescent lights—she was the very essence of health and vitality, a sharp contrast with the hospital setting of illness and death. She once again wore a belly-baring tank top and long cotton skirt, but today she wore a bright boho-chic kimono atop the whole outfit, which was so impossibly stylish that she looked like a maternity-store model as opposed to a real-life pregnant person. It made me want to puke.

  “What are you doing here? You are not sick, I hope?” Ridley asked with a look of genuine concern on her flawless, not-even-kind-of-bloated face.

  “Just here for work. Have to do some interviews for the Davenport obit.”

  “I am here for a checkup.” She pointed to the double doors just opposite the conference room: the Women’s Health Associates office suite where Dr. Wilson, my—and Ridley’s—OB/GYN worked. “Thirty-five weeks today.” She put her hands on either side of her baby bump and swirled them, just as she’d done the other night.

  Again, I had a niggling pang from somewhere deep within. It was hard to believe that thirty-five weeks ago I still thought Ryan and I had a future together. Maybe the feeling was nothing more than a physical manifestation of surprise. At least I hoped so.

  “Well, hope you get a good report!” I said brightly. “See you—”

  “Riley?” She interrupted me. Double-damn. “Would you like to have coffee with me sometime?”

  “Oh, um, well, gee . . .” I was about as good at responding to being asked out by my ex-boyfriend’s baby mama as I was by cute doctors.

  She reached out a long, toned arm and touched my shoulder. “I’d like us to be friends.” She flashed me the brilliant smile containing her perfectly proportioned teeth that fell into a straight line with just the barest hint of pink gum tissue peeking out from above. It was the kind of smile that made all mankind fall to its knees. But I was not all mankind, and I was not interested in being friends with Ridley. She was fine—a nice person, I’m sure—but she was having Ryan’s baby, a distinction I used to believe would be mine, and so we did not need to be friends.

  “Sure,” I said in as noncommittal a way as possible. “Let’s do that sometime! See you ar—”

  She again interrupted my getaway, this time by pulling me into a tight hug. “Oh, thank you, Riley! I was so nervous to ask you, and Ryan said I shouldn’t bother you—but I have not made any female friends since moving to Tuttle Corner and I think you and I have so much in common—I just know we are destined to be the best of friends!”

  She was so tall that my head was at her breast level, and as she hugged me with more force than I felt was necessary, the side of my face smushed into her boobs—the only part of her that seemed to be swollen from pregnancy.

  “Okay. All right,” I said, as I pulled free. “That’s good enough.” I felt eyes on us and turned to see David Davenport coming off of the elevator, a look of bemusement on his handsome face.

  “Hi,” I waved him over. “Fancy seeing you here,” I said, and then immediately regretted it. Not only did cute guys make me nervous, but inexplicably they made me talk like a seventy-year-old greeter at Wal-Mart.

  “Hey,” he said, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at Ridley. Of course.

  “David,” I said, making the obligatory introduction, “this is Ridley. Ridley, this is David Davenport.”

  Their eyes met and when they shook hands it was like a chemical reaction. Two beautiful people colliding, joining forces, their beauty shining out from around them in all directions, forming a sort of beauty-bubble that shielded them from the rest of the average-looking world.

  “Nice to meet you,” David said, and I could have sworn his voice was an octave lower than it had been this morning. His gaze was so intense it bordered on inappropriate. I mean, couldn’t he see that this woman was pregnant?

  “David,” I said, trying to wrench his attention away from Ridley. “I have another couple of quick follow-up questions for the obit. Do you have a minute?”

  The mention of time snapped him out of his trance. He checked the clock on his phone. “You can walk me down to radiology—we can talk on the way.” He then turned his attention back to Ridley and again lowered his voice. “Lovely to meet you, Ridley. I hope you don’t mind me saying, but pregnancy suits you.”

  “You are too kind.” Ridley lowered her eyes as if she felt self-conscious from his attention. Whatever. And then she looked at me. “I’ll call you about that coffee, Riley. Maybe we can go later this week?”

  “Sure, sure,” I said, but was already taking David by the elbow and starting to walk down the hall. I would not be having coffee with Ridley, of that much I was sure.

  Once we got far enough away, David said, “Who was that? She’s incredible.”

  I refrained from rolling my eyes. “Ridley Nilsson. She’s new to town.”

  “Is she married? I didn’t see a ring. I mean, obviously she’s about to have a baby, but . . .”

  I hated it that Ridley was the kind of woman who could make men ask if she was taken at eight months pregnant. And I hated it how much I hated that. “Actually, do you know Ryan Sanford?”

  “Yeah, his family has the farm and home store, right?”

  I nodded. “The baby’s his. They’re not together though.”

  David stopped walking. Literally, this news stopped him in his tracks. “Really? So she’s single?”

  “Well, you could say she’s double . . .”

  He looked confused.

  “Because she’s pregnant. You know, she’s incubating another human life?”

  “Oh,” he said, clearly not getting my joke. “Right. Hey, do you think I could have her number?”

  Seriously? What was with this guy? First, he asks me out this morning, and now—not even two hours later—he is asking me for another girl’s phone number? What the hell?

  “Yeah. Um, sure. I’ll text it to you.”

  His eyes were sort of unfocused, no doubt calling up a vision of the Swedish siren in his mind.

  “Anyway,” I said louder than I probably needed to, “I wanted to clarify a couple of things. First, you said earlier that you’re father had ‘gotten close a few times’ to remarrying—can you tell me to whom?”

  “Oh, I was just sort of kidding,” he said. “He was never officially engaged or anything like that.”

  “And you don’t know if he was seeing anyone recently?”

  David again checked his phone; he was concerned about time. “Dad didn’t like to be alone, that’s all I know. I don’t know who he was with, but in the past nine years, Dad was rarely without female companionship.”

  That would have to be good enough for the time being. He was about to run off, so I asked him what he had meant when he said he learned not to be an asshole from his dad. “Did you say that because he was one, or because he wasn’t?”

  David laughed. “Good question. Um, I’d have to say a little bit of both. He was a good man, but I guess like everyone, he had his moments.” We were approaching the
hallway that led to the radiology department, and David stopped walking. He took a step closer, touched my elbow, and lowered his voice. “I was actually going to call you. I’ve come across some information that I think might be important.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, I’ve found something odd in Dad’s files that might have something to do with why he was killed.”

  A beeping sound cut him off before he had a chance to say more and he looked down at the pager attached to the waistband of his baby-blue scrubs. “I really gotta go now. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  Not okay. But what could I do. I stood there for a second with that sense of frustration you get when you’re about to sneeze and something interrupts you. And then just before David walked through the swinging doors to radiology, he turned back around. I thought for one shining moment he was going to give me a clue as to what new information he’d come across, but instead he said, “Don’t forget to text me Ridley’s number, ’kay?”

  CHAPTER 13

  Franklin Steeler was an internal medicine doctor who had worked alongside Arthur Davenport for nearly ten years. I found him in his office doing paperwork, and when I said I’d like to chat with him about Dr. Davenport’s obituary, he’d welcomed me right in. Steeler said he often referred his patients who needed a cardiology workup to Dr. Davenport.

  “He was very thorough. My patients liked him, liked the way he treated them. I always felt comfortable sending them his way.”

  But, as he told me, there were a few notable exceptions. “Art was fond of the ladies, if you know what I mean,” Dr. Steeler said as he waggled his eyebrows up and down. “After he lost Maribelle, I guess he sought comfort in the arms of other women. Uh, frequently.”

  Dr. Davenport really had a reputation around here. “Did it affect his work?” I asked, wondering what he meant about the “notable exceptions.”