Romance in Color

by Synithia Williams

  Petra heard the door of the outer office open. It was time for Ian Zamora’s appointment.

  • • •

  The breakup with Danielle had been pretty terrible. She was still calling him. She asked him to escort her to a corporate dinner. Even if they’d still been going out, he would probably have found an excuse to skip it.

  It was his own fault for drawing it out. His guilt allowed Danielle to convince him to take her to the newly opened Carioca. The lights were dim and João Gilberto crooned romantic nothings to various mais lindas in the background. It gave Danielle exactly the wrong idea. Worse, Ian knew the chef and that night, Juan felt he had something to prove. Before they ordered dinner, he sent them a plate of scallops with green onion aioli, then a pink shrimp sorbet, then a tiny black bean soup. What was supposed to be a quick, casual meal stretched into an endless evening. Danielle kept a running commentary on each dish as it appeared, taking pictures and posting to her Twitter account. He got the feeling that if he broke up with her while she was posting, she’d have a photo of him captioned and hashtagged and would be fielding comments about his perfidy. So he waited.

  After the meal, Juan insisted they tour the kitchen. While Danielle squealed over some cleverly shaped mousses, Juan told Ian the latest filthy jokes. Ian’s Portuguese was rusty, but he dredged up a few phrases. Juan laughed at him and told him he’d never hold on to a woman that way.

  Ian ended up blurting it out in the car as he dropped Danielle off. She sat there turning it over, parsing his words, and scrunching her brows as if she couldn’t understand him. She didn’t cry, but she was close.

  He knew he wasn’t the worst person in the world. But he had raised her hopes and pretended to be a man with staying power. He made it worse sitting in the car with her telling her it wasn’t her fault. By the end of the evening, Ian was so exhausted that he returned home and fell asleep on his couch with his clothes on and every single light in his apartment blazing.

  Now, Ian sat in what he now thought of as his chair and looked around Petra Lale’s office. A few minor changes had taken place. There was a box of tissues on the square coffee table, a fresh selection of magazines, and—she had listened to him—a water cooler in the corner. Still no receptionist, he noted, although a different J.R.R. Tolkien paperback lay on the desk.

  Petra now ushered him into her office as soon as he arrived, questioned him genially about the size and quality of his reactions last week, then swabbed his arm with alcohol and gave him new shots. She barely talked to him. Clearly, she had things running more smoothly. This should have pleased him. But he admitted that he felt disappointed with the polish she had acquired. Or maybe he wished that she spent more time with him. She was always polite and attentive, but she never referred to their encounter on the street. She seemed reserved, remote, clinical.

  He sighed and sat back in his chair in the waiting room. The kid was here again.

  “Hey,” Ian said, rubbing his tender arm.

  The kid nodded back, looking up from his iPhone.

  “Not going to call your girlfriend?” he asked, after staring at Ian for a moment.

  Well.

  “I don’t have one anymore.”

  The kid gave a long, contemplative snort. “Are you at least porking women on the regular?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You do know what that is, don’t you?”

  “Of course I—Jesus, how old are you?”

  “Twelve. But I read a lot. I know all about it, too.”

  “No, I really don’t think you do. And I’m not about to say anything more.”

  Kevin sighed, but continued to stare expectantly at Ian. “Will you at least tell me what it’s like?” Kevin asked.

  Ian glanced around desperately for something with which he could kill himself. Water cooler? Too awkward. Tolkien paperback? Too slow. US Weekly? Too soft. Luckily, Kevin began making his odd choking noise and Dr. Lale strode into the room. “More post-nasal drip?” she asked.

  Kevin nodded and batted his eyes at Petra. She chucked his chin, and Ian experienced an electric wave of jealousy, not for the way she touched the kid, Ian told himself, but for the ease that she clearly felt around Kevin. Besides, what was she doing, patting him? He was twelve, not four. Clearly, the kid enjoyed it too much.

  Petra ushered Ian into her office to check on his reactions. He had wised up for his appointment today, and he was wearing a short-sleeved polo shirt. With a quick twitch of the cuffs, he exposed the big red bumps where Doc Lale had stuck her needles. She hissed in sympathy and at the sound of her breath near his ear, he felt himself tense again. She touched the hot skin of his shoulder. He wanted to lean against her slight frame, rub his cheek against her. He was almost dizzy with want. Was he having some sort of aberrant reaction to the shot? He thought of Kevin’s elegant term: porking. Thanks to Kevin, I’m going to associate sex with breakfast sausage for the rest of my life.

  “These are some big reactions,” Dr. Lale murmured, interrupting his thoughts. “You did take your pill before the appointment, right?” She was shaking her head. “We’ll leave you at the same level next week. You aren’t allergic to a lot of things, but when your body decides on a target, it really hones in.”

  His glance fell on her lips just then. He might have groaned.

  Doc was still examining him, concerned. “Are you all right?” she asked. “You look a little hot—I mean, warm. Is your throat feeling itchy?”

  She pressed her fingers to his neck and he coughed.

  “No, no, I really am okay,” he said. “I just, I just was confused by something.” He groped desperately for something to say. “I was talking to Kevin in the waiting room. I—uh, I’d forgotten what that age was like.”

  “Oh?”

  Try not to think of sex. Try not to think of sex, he told himself. But he didn’t know how to change course. “Boys are strange,” he blurted.

  It was hard to believe that Petra Lale found him glib and charming.

  She laughed. He hadn’t heard her beautiful laugh in a long time. “They’re pretty gross,” she agreed. “It’s a medical fact.”

  She turned again and made a note on her iPhone. As she updated his chart, he watched the curve of her neck. A curl stuck up wildly behind her ear and he wanted to tug it gently. In addition to lusting after her, he liked her. It wasn’t enough that she had eyes like glinting crystals and her fingers were smooth and tipped with round, unvarnished nails. But she was sweet about weird Kevin, too, and when she laughed, she threw her whole body into it. It was as if she had the same struggle. Suddenly, her voice was cool. “Same time next week?” she asked.

  He nodded. Clearly, it was time to leave. And yet, he found himself hesitating. “Things seem to be going well around here. Nice water cooler, by the way. How’s the practice going?”

  The wall of reserve around her deepened. She barely looked up at him. “It’s a work in progress,” she said neutrally. “Thanks for asking.”

  He cast around for something to say. “I was supposed to have written a review for you. I haven’t forgotten.”

  “How scrupulous of you,” she muttered.

  How could he tell her that he’d started to write it a few times? He had written one overly formal paragraph, another that made him sound smitten. He pictured Petra reading both and he felt embarrassed. He knew he had to come up with one after giving her a condescending and pompous speech about the importance of reviews. Now, he couldn’t write it because he didn’t want her to think less of him.

  She got up and started to rearrange the little bottles of allergens in her refrigerator. Then she conceded, “Listen, it’s not an epic poem. If you can’t find anything to say about the practice or the doctoring, at least you could say...that it’s easy to get an appointment. I shouldn’t have put you on the spot.”

  “No, I didn’t mean—” He gathered his thoughts. “I’m not saying that I couldn’t find anything good about your skills. I keep coming week after we
ek, don’t I? I don’t do time in your waiting room just so I can chat with Kevin. I do like watching you with him, though. He thinks you’re great and you are. Maybe he even has a little crush on you.”

  She unbent a little at that. She obviously didn’t mind if Kevin had a thing for her. Maybe Ian’s reaction was normal, too.

  He went on. “You obviously really care about your patients. Besides, a lot of the bumps have been smoothed out. The place looks less, uh, empty. You’re right on schedule. You still need a receptionist, though.”

  Then he stopped before he could sound like more of an asshole.

  She finally laughed, much to his relief, and looked at him from under her lashes. “Bossy, aren’t you? I see why you went into business for yourself. I’m working on the other problems. I’ve increased Joanie’s hours, but I can’t have anyone in full-time yet because—” She paused and admitted softly, “Well, I guess I hinted to you that night, I really can’t afford it.”

  She shook her head. “I really, really shouldn’t be talking to you about this.”

  He let out a breath. She remembered that night, too. And something about her troubled eyes told him that she remembered the red undercurrent of attraction and vulnerability that had run through their conversation. It made him feel terrible that she suddenly seemed hunted. But it also made him feel triumphant and warm.

  “Come over to Field for dinner sometime this week,” he said, ducking nearer to her. “On me. Bring…that friend of yours who likes carbs.”

  “It’s tempting, but I can’t accept gifts from patients.”

  “It’s not a gift. If you bring that friend—or boyfriend, of course—and get them hooked on our food—”

  “You mean, more hooked than Helen already is.”

  “Then, I’ll consider it fair payment.”

  A pause.

  “It’s just dinner,” Ian added, letting his voice grow warm and dark.

  He watched the slow blink of her beautiful eyes. The short lashes fanned against her cheek.

  She glanced at him then looked away quickly. “Helen will be freebasing from the bread basket by the end of the evening.”

  “I look forward to seeing that. What do you say? C’mon, don’t think too hard about it.”

  “Don’t think too hard because the proposal doesn’t make any sense? Or don’t think about it because I need to stop thinking?”

  “Yes.”

  She grinned. “For once in my life, I promise, I won’t think.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “I love that place,” Helen gasped.

  “So you think this is okay? This is really not an exceptionally ethically questionable move on my part?”

  “Hell, no. When should we go? I’m free Thursday.”

  In retrospect, promising Helen fresh butter and warm breads was not the best way to get an honest, well-considered answer. Petra knew her friend was already mentally rifling through her wardrobe, trying to figure out which were her loosest pants. Knowing Helen’s judgment was impaired made Petra even more reluctant to check about her greater, and more serious ethical violation: it seemed very possible that she might have a teeny, tiny crush on Ian Zamora, her patient, a man who put his life in her hands every week.

  She lacked moral fiber. She was the ethical equivalent of a Twinkie.

  “You’re such a great doctor,” Helen enthused. “You may not have quantity, but the quality of your patients is unquestionable. Are you sure you want to bring me? Wait, forget I said that. This place would be wasted on Sarah. She’d choose the vegetable plate and order half of it boxed up before it even reached the table.”

  “You know, a recent study from the Mayo Clinic links a high-carb diet to early dementia.”

  “Lies, dirty, dirty lies. I’ll see you Thursday.”

  As it turned out, one of Helen’s patients needed emergency surgery. Sarah couldn’t come because she was going to a lecture on micro-lending with a multilingual economist. Sarah probably preferred that to a date with a hot breadbasket, anyway.

  Petra smoothed down her green dress. She tried on a scarf and decided to leave it off. On one hand, she hated having a cold neck. On the other, she didn’t want her accessory to end up in the salad. As a concession to comfort, she decided on a pair of big wedges. Life was too short to be hobbled by pointy shoes.

  She would probably be alone for most of the evening, Petra told herself. She eyed herself in the full-length mirror, unsure if it was worse to be dressed badly and alone, or dressed well enough that it seemed like she’d been stood up. If the allergist thing didn’t pan out, she thought wryly, she could write a book on etiquette for the dateless, since she was putting in all the research already.

  Petra stuffed the scarf in her purse and added a pair of earrings, in case she needed a wardrobe change halfway through dinner. She leafed through her wallet. She checked her phone. She decided to take the roundabout way to the restaurant to calm her nerves.

  She was not going just because she was looking forward to seeing Ian, she told herself. He probably wouldn’t even be there. Or if he was there, he’d probably just say hello.

  At precisely seven o’clock, after having walked around the block five times, Petra presented herself to the hostess, who promptly showed her to a seat.

  By degrees, her anxiety began to abate. The hostess, although slinky, was relaxed and curious. She introduced herself as Lilah; clearly she wanted to know more about Ian’s special guest. Around Petra, people were laughing and drinking wine. Lilah nestled Petra into a quiet corner, partly concealed by a spray of ferns. A waiter brought out a glass of Chardonnay and a delicious gem of a stuffed mushroom and placed a menu in front of her. The room was warm and it glowed with the light from a row of hurricane lamps. She admired the tin ceiling over the wide, polished bar, the muted sounds of silverware clinking on dishes.

  Soon, she felt herself even more soothed by a velvety lamb stew. She was glad that she hadn’t had to make conversation or be forced to share bites of her dinner. Her waiter would have to scrape her out of the chair like a melted caramel.

  I should treat myself more often, she thought drowsily, even though technically she had not paid for this dinner. In her mind, she planned solo excursions for tapas in a smoky bar, filled with gorgeous Spanish men. She should go hiking. She should travel to Tibet and meditate, pal around with Sherpas. Today, a restaurant: tomorrow, the world. She would also learn to pull money from hats. She tipped her glass back for a deep swallow.

  This was how Ian found her as he strode into the room, seeking her gaze. She almost snorted the contents of her wineglass. Her pulse zoomed to life again. She was ridiculous, she thought. He stopped at a few tables to say hello. Everyone responded to him, and he laughed and chatted. But it seemed that his warmth was all for her. She reminded herself it was an illusion. All the people he spoke to probably felt exactly that way. She watched him as he came within the last few tables near her, and she put down her glass and wiped her palms on her thighs.

  Then he was in front of her. Her chest gave a squeeze. He hesitated a moment. He sat down.

  “Enjoying your meal? How has everything been?”

  “Better than a massage,” she said. “Better than violins.”

  What? She was not drunk. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, but her extraocular muscles weren’t meant for these kinds of acrobatics.

  “Better than a birthday with a chocolate cake, balloons, and a petting zoo,” she added hastily.

  “Now I’ll know exactly what to get you when you turn thirty-two.”

  He remembered. They smiled at each other goofily for a minute and the room seemed to still.

  “You’ve got to try the butterscotch pudding,” Ian said finally. “Nina, our pastry chef, has a great touch.”

  “This has been so wonderful, thank you. And thank your staff for me. Really, I’m stuffed.”

  “You’re going to skip dessert, aren’t you?”

  In truth, she’d been looking
forward to it all night. She hesitated. “Butterscotch,” she said, “and pudding. I don’t know how I feel about either of those things. On the other hand, I definitely always enjoy chocolate in almost any form.”

  Ian sat forward. “Nina’s cake is wonderful, but you can get chocolate desserts anywhere. The butterscotch pudding at Field, however, is in its own category.”

  “On the contrary, Ian Zamora, clearly you’ve spent too much time in upscale restaurants because I’m here to let you know that you can get butterscotch pudding almost anywhere. As I recall, it’s the flavor that you buy when the grocery store has run out of vanilla. When you do make it, you wonder why you even bothered with dessert because no one wants to finish this weird sweet, sludgy stuff.”

  Ian grinned. He leaned forward. “Petra Lale, MD, obviously you’ve never had good butterscotch before, and by that, I mean real butterscotch that tastes rich and thick and is fragrant with vanilla and brown sugar, not to mention the garnish of bourbon-laced whipped cream. Nina has to lock it down in our freezers when she makes it because staff are always dipping their fingers in the bowl.”

  Petra glared. He was making her want things that she should not want to enjoy. “This isn’t part of the famed upsell, is it?”

  A laugh. “No. It’s because it really is wonderful.”

  Ian signaled to the waiter and within minutes, he set a bowl quivering with thick, blond custard, white dollops of bourbon cream, and two perfect raspberries in front of Petra. Petra looked up to see Ian watching her closely.

  “Please don’t tell me that you’re going to sit there and stare at me while I eat,” Petra said.

  “I might interject a comment or two.”

  “Won’t you at least share it with me?”

  “Nope,” he said.

  She swirled her spoon in and took a bite, and another, and another.

  “I’d almost think you were trying to seduce me,” she murmured.

  She glanced up. His face seemed frozen.

  Oh God, what had she said? “Erm, what I mean is, I think you enjoyed being right about the pudding,” Petra said. “It’s simple and wonderful, and delicious. There’s really no other word for it except delicious.”