The Missing Year

by Belinda Frisch

  She undid his belt and unbuttoned his pants. “I wondered the same thing.”

  Ross ran his hands over the small of her back, lifting her skirt and finding that she wasn’t wearing panties. The discovery sent him over the edge. He kicked off his socks and shoes, stepped out of his pants and boxers, and lowered her onto the bed. Her hair spilled around her, a thick auburn crown. Her eyes locked intently on his, the look on her face anything but romantic.

  Mattie dug her nails into his back and said, “Take this off.”

  Ross lifted his sweater over his head and started unbuttoning his collared shirt. Mattie pulled his shirt hard enough apart to pop the last two buttons. Sun soaked through the sheers, warming Ross’s back. He knelt between Mattie’s legs, kicking off his pants and feeling the scratchy comforter rough against his knees. He unfastened her black lace bra and admired the view. She was breathtaking in this light. He pushed up her skirt until it circled her narrow waist like a belt and held his hands on her hips. Mattie threw back her head and moaned when he entered her.

  “Don’t do that,” he said. “I don’t know how long I’ll last if you do that.”

  Mattie arched her back to meet his thrusts. “That’s okay. We have all night.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Ross sat up in bed, as tired as he was hungry. “Can I get you something? A drink? Something to eat?” He stumbled into his boxers, a bit weak-legged.

  Mattie seemed to have caught her second wind. She leaned up on her elbow, holding the sheet to her chest. “What’s the house specialty?”

  “At this hour?” Ross scanned the groceries Camille had bought for him. “Looks like either snacks or a frozen dinner.”

  “What constitutes a frozen dinner?”

  “Pot pies? Pizza?”

  “And snacks?”

  “Cheese and crackers?” Ross held up a block of sharp cheddar.

  “Cheese and crackers it is. You don’t happen to have a bottle of wine, do you?”

  “Have you ever known me to be without one?” He popped the cork off a Cabernet and poured two short glasses. “They aren’t going to have time to breathe.” Reds needed at least a bit of air to taste right.

  Mattie put on Ross’s shirt and chuckled. “I can fix these buttons in the meantime. Do you have a sewing kit?”

  Ross chewed the piece of cheese in his mouth. “What do you think?”

  “Asking too much?”

  Ross sipped the Cabernet, finding the taste still a bit bitter. “I can call the front desk. I’m sure they have one if it’s not too late.” He looked for his phone, the only clock in the room. “Speaking of time, and don’t take this as me pushing you, but how long are you staying?”

  “I booked a red eye out of Albany for tomorrow night. I had no idea how things were going to go between us.” Mattie worked on straightening the bed, but it was a lost cause. Nothing was anywhere near in its place. She tossed the comforter onto the floor, starting from zero, and hospital cornered the sheets.

  “You could change your flight, you know.” Ross suddenly wanted her to stay. He had forgotten how easy things could be between them, how comforting.

  “I could, but I have work and—”

  “And what?” Ross noticed a quick change. “Mattie, what’s wrong?”

  She drew her eyebrows together and frowned, digging something from between the box spring and mattress.

  “What are you doing?” he said.

  She lifted her hand, a purple bra dangling from her fingertip.

  Ross’s throat tightened.

  “What’s this?”

  “I—I—” Ross found himself at a loss for words.

  “Whose bra is this?” Mattie narrowed her eyes, her face red and jaw clenched.

  “Mattie, it’s a motel.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean, I have no idea who that belongs to. It must’ve gotten mixed in with the laundry. It could have stuck to the sheets and got made into the bed. I mean, why would anyone leave their bra under a mattress?”

  A pair of headlights panned across the motel room and settled on the far wall.

  “Since when do motels wash bras, Ross?”

  “I don’t know. Motels have laundry service, don’t they?”

  No sooner had he said it than and a blond bombshell as adorable as she was quirky walked in as if she owned the place.

  Camille.

  Ross buried his face in his hands.

  “You found my bra,” Camille said with an ear-to-ear grin.

  Mattie shook her hand in Camille’s direction. “Who is this?”

  Camille snatched the bra. “Camille McKenzie,” she said. “Ross, I’m sorry. Is this a bad time?”

  “You really have to ask?”

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt. It’s just that what good is a matching pair of bra and panties if you only have half the set?”

  Ross’s only option was damage control.

  “Listen, it’s not what you think, Mattie. Camille is a friend.”

  “I was Sarah’s best friend,” Camille said.

  “And that gives you a right to sleep with her husband?” Mattie was furious.

  “You’ve got some nerve,” Camille said.

  “Camille, please.” Ross turned to Mattie. “Nothing happened between Camille and I, I swear it.”

  Mattie gathered her clothes and threw Ross’s at him. His belt buckle smashed his big toe and he howled.

  “You all right?” Camille asked.

  “Fine,” Ross said through clenched teeth. “You have to believe me, Mattie. Camille, tell her.”

  Camille shrugged. “Nothing happened.”

  “Right, nothing happened, and this woman’s bra got lodged in the bed how?”

  “Do you sleep in your bra?” Camille said.

  Mattie threw her hands up. “Is this some kind of bizarre universe? Where is your tact, woman?”

  “You asked,” Camille said.

  “Camille!” Ross shook his head.

  “What?”

  “Don’t make things any worse than they already are.”

  Mattie huffed. “Worse? How could things be any worse?”

  “You want to know what happened?” Camille waved her bra at Mattie.

  “I have a pretty good idea.”

  “I don’t think you do,” Camille said.

  Ross stood back, wearing nothing but a pair of plaid boxer shorts, cheese knife in hand, reflecting on the insanity of the situation: Mattie, naked except for his button-down and Camille waving her bra, about to spill God knows what details about their night together.

  It was the worst threesome ever.

  “Camille, can you give us a minute?” Ross said.

  “She needs to hear this.” Camille clearly didn’t care for Mattie. “You know what a good guy you have here? I threw myself at him. I mean, literally threw myself at him. I was drunk, a sure thing, if you get my drift.”

  “And your point?” Mattie said.

  “He told me no. He could’ve taken advantage, but he didn’t. You know what he did instead? He talked to me until I fell asleep, mostly about Sarah. The bra was my fault. I mean, who can sleep with those wires poking them? I must’ve taken it off out of habit. Like I said, I was drunk, but I’m sure Ross and I didn’t have sex. Apparently, I tucked my bra under the mattress.”

  “Apparently,” Mattie said. She stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  “Mattie, come on.” Ross knocked on the door.

  “Go away.”

  He could hear her stumbling around in the cramped space. “Mattie, let me in.”

  “Not a chance.” The door flung open. Mattie’s wrinkled outfit looked more “homeless hooker” than “seductress,” earning a sideways glance from Camille. Mattie staggered, putting on her high-heeled shoes, and grabbed her keys off Ross’s desk. “I’m out of here,” she said, slamming the motel room door behind her.

  Camille looked smugly pleased. “Was it something
I said?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Ross stared out his office window at the trees bending under the merciless breeze of an impending storm. Seeing Mattie had brought feelings he hadn’t realized he had to the surface. He wondered if treating Lila wasn’t partly to blame. All he could think about was Mattie’s red-eye flight. With any luck it would be cancelled due to weather, or she’d hear one of his countless messages and have a change of heart. He wasn’t hopeful. After the previous night’s circus with Camille, it was Mattie’s turn to do the ignoring.

  “Are you okay?” Lila shifted in her chair, the leather creaking under her steadily increasing weight. She wore a pair of gray yoga pants, a bright pink sweatshirt, and her hair tied in a messy knot on top of her head. She plucked away at the half-bare tree.

  “I’m fine.” Ross opened her file. “Worried about a friend is all.”

  “Someone close?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.” He checked his phone, finding no new messages, and picked up their conversation where it had left off. “Yesterday you said that things were getting better until you found out the truth.”

  Lila chewed the inside of her cheek. “How’s Joshua? I overheard Sophie and Kendra talking about what happened.”

  “Too soon to know for sure, but preliminarily, it looks as though he’ll be all right.”

  “Where did he get a screwdriver?”

  “I don’t know,” Ross lied. “But we’re not here to talk about Joshua, Lila. What truth did you find out?”

  “That Blake wasn’t as strong as I had thought. After losing his patient, things went downhill fast. He believed making restitution to the woman’s family would offset his guilt.”

  “But it didn’t.”

  Lila shook her head. “To Blake, surgery came as naturally as breathing. I’m not sure it was as much about the patient dying—though I’m sure he felt bad about that—as it was about him accepting he’d made a mistake. Blake was a perfectionist. He took a break from the hospital, but him being away from work took a toll on us both.”

  “Sometimes it’s difficult for people to accept fault.”

  Lila nodded. “I didn’t realize how hard it was going to be. That surgery changed him. It made him … mean.” The word seemed to have fallen out of her mouth. “Not mean, but short-tempered, and only when he drank.”

  “Had Blake been drinking the day of the surgery?”

  “Oh, God. No. Before his sabbatical, Blake was the guy who drank club soda at fundraisers. He was the go-to designated driver. He would never have operated drunk.”

  “Then when?”

  “About a month after the payoff. Blake was under a lot of stress.”

  “Money-related?”

  “Money was never an issue. Blake had a trust fund and made a few hundred thousand a year. We had more than we needed, but money isn’t everything. The drinking was an isolated incident. It was a Tuesday afternoon. I remember because I had just come back from grocery shopping. Yoga and groceries, every Tuesday. I’d only been gone a few hours, but it was long enough. When I came home, Princess was barking upstairs. Other than that, the house was quiet. Too quiet. No television. No radio. I called out that I was home, but Blake didn’t answer. I brought the first load of groceries into the kitchen and found a can of soda on its side on the kitchen counter, dripping down the cabinet and onto the floor. ‘Blake? Are you here?’” She said it as if she were back in the moment. “When he didn’t answer, I put the can in the sink and went upstairs to see why Princess was so upset. I heard splashing and gagging sounds coming from the bathroom as soon as I hit the top of the stairs.”

  “Blake was sick?”

  “Like I said, he wasn’t a big drinker. I found him sprawled out on the floor, groaning. He was three sheets to the wind, an empty vodka bottle in hand.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What could I do? He couldn’t even say my name without slurring. I grabbed a towel off the towel rack, rolled it into pillow, and put it under his head. That lasted all of two seconds because the minute I moved him he threw up. He barely made it to the toilet. I felt bad for him at first, worried that things had come to this, but when I asked him why he was drinking, he got angry. He told me to leave him alone. I begged him to pull himself together. I told him what happened to his patient was an accident and not his fault. I said I loved him and that he was a great surgeon, and he pushed me. Shoved me right out the bathroom.” She lifted her sleeve and showed Ross the scar on her elbow. “I caught my arm on the dresser when I fell. I couldn’t understand what I had done wrong. Whatever was bothering him was more than the alcohol. It’s was like he wanted me out of his life.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “Absolutely not. Blake was acting so out of character that I didn’t want to get the cops involved. Blake was bad enough off that he could have easily had alcohol poisoning. The police would have had to send him for treatment. He would have been devastated to be brought to the hospital he had worked at and have everyone find out he assaulted his wife while he was drunk. There were too many rumors after his patient died already. What if they thought he was an alcoholic?”

  “What about friends?”

  “I imagine you can understand this, being a doctor, but Blake spent so much time on his career that our friends were also his colleagues. This isn’t the kind of thing you tell them.”

  “What about Jeremy Davis? Was he someone you could trust?”

  “Who?”

  “Jeremy Davis, the family practice doctor in Edinburgh?”

  “I’m sorry. That name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Ross had caught Lila in her first lie, at least that he knew of. He excused himself and dialed the phone number he should have called sooner.

  “Edinburgh Family Medicine, this is Jodi.”

  “Good afternoon, Jodi. This is Dr. Ross Reeves calling to speak with Dr. Davis, please.” Doctor-to-doctor calls always went through the fastest.

  “Sure, Dr. Reeves. Is this regarding a patient?”

  “Two, actually. Blake and Lila Wheeler.” It wasn’t uncommon for spouses to share doctors.

  “Just a minute, please.”

  The receptionist put him on hold for what seemed like forever.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Reeves,” Jodi said when she finally returned, “but Dr. Davis isn’t available.”

  “May I leave him a message? It’s important.”

  “You can, but—”

  “But what?”

  “But given the patients you’re asking about, it’s not likely he’ll call you back.”

  “I see.” Ross wasn’t used to such brutal honesty. “I appreciate the head’s up.”

  A moment later, the line went dead.

  “That was interesting.” Ross hung up the handset.

  “What was interesting?” Guy entered Ross’s office and closed the door behind him. “We need to talk about what happened yesterday.”

  “With Joshua?” Ross knew full well the wrath of state inquisition from a suicide that had happened back in Chicago.

  “This could be a real problem if we don’t figure out where that screwdriver came from.”

  “Is Joshua all right?”

  “His ear drum ruptured, but things could be worse.” Guy ran his wrinkled hand over his bald head.

  “No one saw anything?” Ross needed to know as much for his own security as anything else.

  “No one has come forward, no. Joshua knew enough to hide the screwdriver and he’s always scratching in his ear. By the time anyone noticed, it was too late.”

  “What about Elijah? He seemed pretty freaked out.”

  “Figures he’d be the one sitting next to Joshua when it happened. Not that I wouldn’t be upset if I were him, but a few drops of blood and he’s demanding an AIDS test, hepatitis screening—the works. It’s all I can do to keep him from writing a formal complaint. He’s OCD, but he isn’t stupid. He could do some r
eal damage.”

  “Do you want me to try and talk to him?”

  “I want you to stay focused. What happened with Joshua is a problem, but the clock’s ticking on Lila. Ruth’s all over me about you calling her. She can’t believe I didn’t fire you. We have to prove I did the right thing keeping you on.”

  “You did,” Ross said.

  “There’s a case worker coming Monday to look into yesterday’s disaster. They’re going to want to talk to you.”

  “I didn’t see anything.”

  “But you treated Joshua after the fact. You probably saved his hearing. I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you. The stress is killing me.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “I tried getting Ruth to agree to an extension, but her mind is made up. Worse, I get the feeling Lila’s not going to another facility. I get the impression Ruth intends for Lila to be on her own.”

  “She’s nowhere near ready for that. I talked to her about why she went into the lake the other day. She admitted wanting to drown.”

  Guy didn’t look surprised. “So she is still suicidal?”

  Ross nodded. “Appears so, but I haven’t figured out if she feels that way out of grief or guilt. She talks about the year before Blake’s shooting as if there was some way of her knowing it was going to happen.”

  “You don’t think she hired someone to kill him, do you?”

  “Their marriage wasn’t perfect, but no. I don’t think Lila took out a contract on her husband. She did, however, lie to me about a relationship she may or may not have had with a doctor who ended up as Blake’s admitting physician.”

  “It could be a coincidence.”

  “That a family physician ends up admitting a shooting victim? It would be a one in a million chance. Why pretend she doesn’t know the guy?”

  “Are you positive she does?”

  “I have pictures, plural, of her with him and Blake. They were like three peas in a pod. If the photos are any indication, not only did Lila know him, but they were close. A man doesn’t hold a woman that tightly without being familiar—comfortable even.”

  “Blake and Lila supposedly had a perfect marriage.”