Everything She Ever Wanted: A Different Kind of Love Novel

by Liz Durano

  I slip my phone from my purse and scroll through the names in my directory. I want to talk to someone—anyone—about what’s going on. I want to scream it to the heavens that I just flirted with Dax Drexel. Even his name exudes sex.

  I could call Dianne, or maybe Barbara, both of them friends I hung out with at the country club. But as I’m about to call Barbara, I stop myself. They’re both also Jeff’s friends, which means that if I breathe just a word of my latest shenanigans out here, it’s going to get back to Jeff, and the last thing I need is for Jeff to know that I’m so hard up for a man that I’m ready to pounce on the first male I come across.

  It doesn’t hurt that I know Dax likes me. I felt it the first time we met although just because a man gets a hard-on when they fall on top of you doesn’t mean they like you. It just means the plumbing works just fine. Too fine in Dax’s case, since I’ve allowed my gaze to drift down the front of his jeans when he’s not looking, and boy, but is he pretty well-endowed.

  I take a deep breath and sit down on the couch facing the garden before burying my face in my hands. I can’t believe I even asked him to harvest vegetables! What was I thinking? Could I be any more transparent?

  I sit for a few minutes in silence, forcing my breathing to calm down. But even as my nerves settle, there’s one thing that isn’t settling at all, and it’s frustrating the hell out of me. Not for the first time, I find myself wishing I’d stayed in the resort spa in town, with all its amenities including a gym. I’d be working out by now, the restlessness I’m feeling quelled by an hour on the treadmill or the elliptical climber even as my dreams would still leave me wanting.

  This is what happens when you haven’t had sex in over a year, girl—hell, almost two years! Jeff hadn’t touched me since we started the last round of IVF treatments that led to Marcus. There’s nothing romantic about IVF, not when they sedate you to retrieve the eggs after a round of hormone therapy injections with the perfect match between egg and sperm done in the lab. After ovulation, the embryo is then implanted into the uterus and then the waiting starts. Only, my wait this time ended in a stillbirth, even after everything I’d done. With beautiful Marcus, the horizontal scar above my pubic bone is a sad reminder that I’d failed him.

  Snap out of it, Harlow! You promised yourself you’d move on.

  I get up and pace the floor for a few minutes before I finally decide to go to bed. The beers did relax me tonight, and though I could easily blame them for my behavior around Dax, I can’t fool myself any more than I already am.

  Before tonight, I was always Harlow James, Doctor of Medicine, and Assistant Director of Transplant Surgery. I held onto that identity even in my personal life as wife to the Director of Transplant Surgery himself, and I had no other friends but the people we both worked with. Even the medical team who attended to me during Marcus’ delivery were the very people I passed orders to, and afterwards, I could no longer look them in the eye knowing they’d seen me at my most vulnerable, when Jeff couldn’t even bear to stay with me and walked out of the delivery room.

  But something happened the day I met Dax Drexel. From the moment we toppled to the ground the first day we met to tonight when his family treated me like I was one of them, I was no longer Dr. Harlow James—not even when I talked about kidney functions and dialysis. I’d become just Harlow James, a woman. Though right now, she’s a woman in the middle of nowhere in dire need of a vibrator.

  *

  Dax arrives at 5:45 the next morning, pleased to find me ready to go. I’m dressed in khaki pants and a deep pink tank top under a light shirt and hiking boots. The fact that I had packed hiking boots on my cross-country drive seems to impress him, but he doesn’t spend too much time saying so. He simply makes sure we’ve got everything we need—sunscreen and a wide-brimmed hat for me and bottles of water and a packed lunch for both of us—and then we’re off.

  He hands me a Thermos filled with piping hot black coffee, with the half and half in a smaller container and a few packets of sugar stored in a plastic sandwich bag.

  “My favorite coffee shop doesn’t open till 6:45, but I stock up on their signature blend, and it’s the best out there,” he says as I inhale the aroma and sigh. Along with the intoxicating smell of his cologne mingled with soap and water, my current state is pure heaven.

  “You didn’t have to,” I say as Dax slows the truck to a stop along the side of the road so I don’t spill coffee all over myself. He waits until I pour the coffee into a travel mug and add the creamer before closing the lid. As soon as he’s sure that I’m not about to burn myself with the coffee, we’re back on the road again. I like how he takes charge of certain things, like a boy scout. Always prepared.

  “I’ve got some breakfast burritos, too,” he says, pointing to two coolers behind our seats. “Your side has breakfast, and my side has lunch.”

  Okay, too prepared. “You didn’t have to, Dax.”

  “I know you’re not vegetarian since you ate the chile last night, but are you okay with chorizo? It’s one of Nana’s favorite recipes, chorizo with eggs, potatoes, cheese and green chile—“

  “Please don’t tell me Anita didn’t wake up early to cook this.”

  “She wakes up at five every morning, rain, shine, sleet or snow. And whenever I’m in town, she makes sure to make me my favorites, so stop worrying,” he says, glancing at me before returning his attention to the road. “Just have fun for a change, Dr. James. Take it easy.”

  “I’m not on call right now, so please call me Harlow.”

  “Sorry,” he says. “So, what kind of music do you like to listen to, Harlow? You get to choose, and if none of the songs in there are to your taste, we can stream the music although it might get spotty down in the canyon.”

  He hands me an iPod Touch filled with all kinds of music, from Euro techno, house, rock, to classical. Even country music and folk, if you’re into those. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I don’t find any boy bands anywhere. Instead, I smile when I see James Taylor and Jim Croce, as well as the Sex Pistols, Eagles, and Queen.

  “What about the Eagles?”

  “Perfect,” Dax says as I press Play and the music plays on the cab stereo speakers. For the next few minutes, I sip my coffee in silence, listening to Glen Frey telling me to take it easy as I take in the landscape in front of me. With Bandolier located southwest of Taos, it’s less than a two-hour drive with the sun to the east of us, and I can’t help but thank my lucky stars he’d asked me to come along. I’ve been behind the wheel for so long that I can’t remember when I let go of directions and itineraries and let someone take over for a change. And right now, with Dax in the driver’s seat and taking control, it feels good.

  We arrive at the Bandolier National Monument in less than two hours. As we drive into Frijoles Canyon, Dax tells me that for several years, the park was closed to the public and that scientists working on the Manhattan Project and military personnel were housed in the Bandolier lodge nearby. He tells me that his mother used to take him here when he was a little boy, and it was one of their favorite hikes. She was an archaeologist, specializing in Puebloan pottery, although she let that go shortly after he started school.

  “I wasn’t exactly the most well-behaved kid,” he says, making a face as he parks the car in the lot. “Turns out, I was dyslexic, and so I wasn’t keeping up with everyone else. I got into fights a lot with kids who’d tease me. That’s when she quit her job to spend more time with me and round out my education with day trips here and there. This was one of her favorite places.”

  “She sounds like an amazing woman.”

  His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and nods. “She was.”

  We’d been mostly quiet during the drive, and if we did talk, it was about a particular song or artist, and sometimes a bit of impromptu karaoke—on his part, not mine for I pretty much sounded like a strangled chicken when I tried. It was the perfect ice-breaker, listening and singing to songs that dated me and made it a
ll the more obvious just how much older I am compared to him. But there’s also nothing like the power of music to bridge the gap, for he knew the lyrics to Jim Croce, Johnny Cash and Journey’s songs just as well as I did.

  After packing our lunches in a backpack that he insists on carrying, we hike down to the Visitor Center on the Frey Trail, a switchback path to the canyon floor. Along the way, he points out certain structures, like Tyuonyi, the remains of an Anasazi village, and the cliff dwellings.

  At the Visitor Center, we walk through the Bandolier museum exhibit where I get to learn all about the park and its history. Afterward, we pick up a map at the gift shop where four siblings excitedly talk about earning their Junior Park Ranger certificates, and to my embarrassment, Dax asks the Park Ranger if I can get one, too, if we complete the trails.

  He’s definitely right about arriving early, for the air is still cool when we make our way to the Ancestral Pueblo dwellings and further along, the Alcove House, which can be reached only by wooden ladders. We continue along the Falls Trail, which Dax says will take us to Frijoles Canyon’s Upper Falls. He points out the box elders, Apache plums, and ponderosa pines that surprisingly smell like vanilla.

  “Doesn’t frijoles mean beans?” I ask as we find a shady spot to sit and have some lunch. It also has the perfect view of the Upper Falls.

  “Yup, so it’s called Bean Canyon, but honestly, I think Frijoles Canyon sounds so much better,” he says as he adjusts his baseball cap. “There’s less correlation to passing gas.”

  I chuckle. “I agree.”

  There’s such youthful enthusiasm in everything Dax says and does, made even more evident the moment he slips off his denim shirt and ties it around his hips and I hate that I can’t stop staring. The white tank top he wears shows off a broad, tanned chest that tapers to narrow hips, toned arms and biceps, and I pray that I don’t drool in front of him.

  When he leans towards me to reach for his backpack, I take a deep intake of breath. It’s that delicious smell again, and it hits me right between my thighs. Crap, I’m in deep trouble.

  “You okay?”

  I look up to see him watching me with a furrowed brow. Why is he still leaning over me like that, one hand grabbing hold of his backpack? I press my thighs together and exhale. “Of course, I am. Why?”

  “You’re, like, red all over…” he pauses before he lifts the backpack and then sits back down next to me. Then his eyes widen. “Wait, are you blushing?”

  Of course, I have to blush some more. “No, I’m not! I’m… I’m probably allergic to something.”

  Dax turns pale. “Oh, shit, I didn’t even ask you if you’re allergic to pine and stuff! Are you?” He rummages through his backpack and retrieves an Epi-Pen, a device with a needle on one end that emerges only when the user jabs it into muscle, preferably the outer thigh. Dax holds it up triumphantly, his thumb on the trigger. “Tell me when!”

  “No!” I exclaim, bringing my hands up in front of me. Wonderful. The last thing I need is to have some trigger-happy kid jab me with a shot of epinephrine out in the middle of nowhere. “I’m fine, Dax! Really, I am. I’m not allergic to pine or box elder, or whatever else around here.” Just you, I almost say as a joke though I’d be lying, and he’d probably see right through it. The kid’s not stupid, but he’s making me laugh so hard I end up crying. “Can you put that thing down and can we just eat our lunch in peace? Please?”

  He eyes me warily before putting the Epi-Pen away. “Alright, but tell me if you feel any discomfort at all, okay? Itchiness, difficulty breathing, that kind of thing. There’s poison ivy around here, too,” he adds, his eyes narrowing. “Do you even know what poison ivy looks like?”

  “I work out in a gym, Dax, not out in the wilderness.”

  “So, I gather that’s a no?” He sets a Tupperware bowl in front of me and removes the lid. It’s one of those types of dishes I remember when I was a kid and are now considered retro.

  “Basically, yes, it’s a no.”

  “Leaves of three, let it be. But I’ll show you when we come across any of them.” Dax hands me a metal fork neatly wrapped in a cloth napkin. “Since we’re in Frijoles Canyon, I figured a simple rice and bean salad would be perfect. Not too heavy and not too light. The dressing is red wine vinegar, and there’s some green chile in there, too. And there are chips right here.” He sets another Tupperware bowl between us.

  “Are you always this prepared? I could have made something.” Actually, I couldn’t, not unless I count the days-old Greek salad in the refrigerator.

  “I invited you to come along, Harlow, so you didn’t have to make anything. You’re my guest,” Dax says as he sets two bottles of water between us. “I always pack something whenever I come here, and if I don’t, Nana makes sure I do. She knows I take these day trips to rejuvenate and get away. It calms me.”

  “Does this count as getting away? Even with me here?” I ask, frowning.

  “Yes, it does. Very much so,” Dax says before his gaze drifts down to my bowl. “Now eat up, Dr. James, because I intend for you to earn your Junior Park Ranger certificate when we’re done.”

  Chapter 10

  Dax

  I’m afraid I killed her.

  I should have warned her that we still had to hike back to the visitor center where much to her embarrassment, I persuaded the Park Rangers to give her a Junior Park Ranger certificate complete with all the fanfare of announcing it to everyone in the shop. And then after buying a few souvenirs, we had to make our way back up to the car. But Harlow is a trooper, though right now, as she sleeps in the reclined passenger seat next to me on our way back home, an exhausted one.

  The hike wasn’t that far, but after climbing up ladders to explore the cavates, and walking around the Big Kiva, Tyuonyl, Talus House, and Long House, along with the hike to view the falls, the miles added up. And for someone used to only running on a treadmill, a real hike can be killer to muscles unused to the uneven terrain. And as much as she hems and haws that she is used to it, Harlow James is not used to uneven terrain or being out in the hot sun for most of the day. If I hadn’t insisted on stopping to reapply more sunscreen every two hours, she’d probably be as red as a beet by now.

  She stirs the moment I slow the truck to a stop in front of a red light and sets the seat upright. “Gosh, we got back fast.”

  “Traffic was light, and I was starving, so that factored into just how fast I was driving—but I did not speed,” I say as the light turns green. “Ready to get something to eat?”

  “Sure, my treat this time, alright?”

  I open my mouth to say, no, I want to take you out to dinner, but I stop myself. Don’t scare her, dude. It’s not like you hadn’t already fed her breakfast and lunch. Dinner would be overkill.

  “Sure.”

  We settle for a casual Italian restaurant in the middle of the town square that I know won’t mind our dusty and tired asses walking in. The last thing I need right now is a dress code though I’m wearing my shirt over my tank top, having slipped it back on just before we got into the truck.

  Harlow orders baked penne with sausage and ricotta cheese while I choose my usual, Sicilian pizza with Italian sausage, Capicola ham, and salami. I wasn’t kidding when I told her I was starving.

  I like that when Harlow eats, she eats, and she doesn’t take pictures of her food to post on social media. I don’t think I even saw her use her phone except to take pictures on our hike and nothing more. It’s just us, and I like it.

  “So what is a New York doctor doing in a small town like Taos?” I ask as the waiter leaves our table after asking us if we needed anything else (we didn’t).

  “I wanted to explore the world outside of the hospital.”

  “Alone?”

  “Why not?” She takes a sip of her wine. “It felt like that movie, Thelma and Louise, without Thelma.”

  “So you’re the serious one? That would be Susan Sarandon’s character, right?”

  She
laughs. “Right.”

  “Was there a Brad Pitt somewhere along the way?”

  She giggles. “Oh, you mean that young guy who steals Thelma’s heart and all their money? No, though these days, he’d have to steal what? Debit cards, PIN numbers… my phone? Times have changed. No one carries cash anymore.”

  I wonder if that’s why she got the gun, for protection. “But you paid in cash to rent the Pearl.”

  Harlow shrugs. “I had just come from the bank and needed to get out some cash, and I figured, why not? Does that bother you?”

  “No, it’s just something Nana hasn’t encountered before, but you have your receipt, and that’s what matters.” Hell, at five hundred a night, renting the Pearl for three weeks isn’t cheap. Even though Nana gave Harlow a break in the price, it’s still a lot of money.

  “So, where else is Louise planning to go?”

  “Maybe California, I don’t know, though I need to start thinking of getting back home,” she says, shrugging. “I got sidetracked in Albuquerque when I met Andrea and saw some of her patients. She runs a no-insurance clinic in the South Valley, and she needed my opinion on some tough cases.”

  “My friend, Gabe, is into community medicine, too, like your friend. How long did you stay down there?”

  “Over a month, and I loved it. When she suggested I come up to Santa Fe to check out the outdoor market, that’s when I got in my car and headed up. And from Santa Fe, someone said I should check out Taos and maybe if I had the time, Four Corners, and I thought, why not?”

  Four Corners would be the point where the boundaries of four states meet: Colorado, Utah, Arizona and New Mexico. You could literally stand right where the four states meet. “That’s an easy five-hour drive. Have you been there?”

  Harlow shakes her head. “I’m still planning my route, though I may not have enough time. At first, I thought of driving up there and then down to check out the Grand Canyon, but I really am tired of all the driving, to be honest. I’ve been on the road roughly five months now, less one month spent in Albuquerque. That’s why I thought I’d spend a few weeks doing nothing at the Pearl, figure a few things out, and then head back home.” She pauses, chuckling. “But can you believe it? I’m actually working instead, finalizing research papers I brought along with me.”