The Best Medicine

The Best Medicine By Tracy Brogan



Chapter 1



BIRTHDAY PARTIES ARE A LOT like pelvic exams—a little uncomfortable, a little awkward, a little too personal, but an unavoidable yearly nuisance—like a Pap smear, only with presents. So I should have known I couldn’t tiptoe past this day with both my secret, and my dignity, intact.

There I was, just minding my own business, looking for a cup of coffee in the Bell Harbor Plastic Surgery Center staff lounge, when suddenly I was surrounded. They pounced, silently and with no warning. The air around me morphed into a shimmering tsunami of pink and purple metallic confetti, and throaty laughter filled my ears. Warm bodies surged forward, pressing me into the corner of the room. More sparkles flew, clinging to my face and hair like sparkly shrapnel.

They were on to me, and there was no escape.

I was a victim of the Birthday Ninja Glitter-Bomb Squad.

Because today was no ordinary day. It was, in fact, my birthday. A birthday I wasn’t happy about. A birthday I wanted to ignore. A birthday that punted me from the eighteen-to-thirty-four bracket into the thirty-five-to-death category. Now I was trapped inside the birthday ninjas’ rainbow-bright web. Resistance was futile.

“Surprise!”

“Happy birthday, Evelyn!”

“Happy birthday, Dr. Rhoades!”

Another cloud of confetti descended, and someone plunked a tarnished rhinestone tiara on my head, which assuredly clashed against my red hair. Quasi-benevolent good wishes blended with giggles and old-age jibes as the lounge filled with my six physician partners and members of our office staff, two dozen in all. Delle, our rotund, middle-aged receptionist, bustled forward importantly and placed a candle-laden cake on the table in the center of the room. She smiled wide, triumphant.

They all did. The whole herd of them beamed at me and shifted on their feet, expectation glowing in their shining eyes. They looked jubilant, the way people do when they want you to be overcome with delight . . . which I was not.

It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate their efforts. I’m not a complete birthday Scrooge . . . except when it comes to my own birthday. I’m just not a big-celebration, look-at-me kind of woman. Having all that attention directed my way for something no more notable than aging seems silly. It’s like getting the green participation ribbon for field day. I hadn’t worked to earn this. I was being rewarded simply for showing up.

“Well, did we surprise you?” Delle demanded. She nudged thick glasses against the bridge of her nose with a pudgy thumb. She had different frames for each day of the week. These were teal. It must be Tuesday.

For a split second I hoped the open flames of all those candles might set off the smoke alarms, forcing us to vacate the building. But no such luck. Snagged in that moment, I had no choice but to take one for the team. I plastered on my fake happy birthday face.

“Gosh, you guys. Yes. Wow. You really did surprise me. I had no idea anyone even knew it was my birthday.” My surprise was genuine, but I also did a pretty commendable job at sounding pleased. Score one for me.

“Dr. Pullman told us. You should thank her.” Delle pointed at the tall brunette with the two-hundred-dollar haircut and ridiculously impractical high-heeled shoes.

I swung my gaze toward Hilary Pullman, the one person in town who knew unequivocally I didn’t want a fuss made today. She was my professional colleague, my most trusted confidante, and until ten seconds ago, my closest friend. We’d met during our plastic surgery residency and bonded over the trials and tribulations of being a woman in medicine. Nothing quite cements a friendship like sharing a post-call toothbrush before morning rounds.

Hilary had grown up in Bell Harbor, and our friendship was half the reason I’d chosen to practice here. But friend or not, she knew I hated birthday parties in my honor. I squinted at her and tried to look fierce, but she was a foot taller than me in those damn heels. I was at a distinct disadvantage.

She returned a guileless smile and shrugged in her typical sorry-but-not-really fashion. She stepped away from the cluster of birthday revelers. The hem of her fitted black pencil skirt barely cleared the bottom of her white lab coat. Some might say that skirt was too short. And they’d be right. But in all honesty, if I had legs like hers, I’d wear skirts like that too. Unfortunately, I didn’t, and so I couldn’t. I was five two. Nothing was short on me except for me.

Hilary picked up a spatula from the table with her graceful fingers and handed it to me, handle first.

“Happy birthday, Evie. I know this isn’t as sharp as what you’re used to, but here you go. Don’t stab me with it.” She winked playfully.

I took the spatula and tried to glare at her without letting the others see, but she was entirely immune to my annoyance. It wasn’t that she didn’t notice. She just didn’t care. Hilary thought her role in our friendship was to taunt me, and cajole me out of my comfort zone. Somewhere along the line, she’d decided it was her job to loosen me up. But I didn’t need loosening up. I liked myself just the way I was. Most of the time.

Delle wheezed and clasped her hands in front of her massive double-Ds. “Well, make a wish, Dr. Rhoades. Blow out the candles.”

I smiled at her and then the others, trying so valiantly to make it seem legit that it almost felt as if it were. Their intentions were good, after all. Maybe this birthday wouldn’t be so bad. Thirty-five wasn’t that old. At least there were no doomsday banners or balloons declaring me over the hill. No dead-flower bouquets or black decorations. Just confetti and a tiara. I could handle this.

I cleared my throat and took a breath. “Thank you, everyone. This is really very sweet. These past few months here in Bell Harbor have been wonderful, and you’ve all made me feel right at home. I can’t think of anything else I need to wish for.”

“How about a husband?” Delle called out, giggling again, and nodding at the others, perspiration gleaming against her dark forehead.

Oh, she was hilarious, wasn’t she? Heckling me on my own birthday?

That was one disadvantage of moving to such a small, close-knit community—the complete lack of privacy. Being the newest doctor in town had made me as fascinating an object of curiosity to the good people of Bell Harbor as a meteorite striking the cross of the St. Aloysius Church of the Immaculate Conception. Everyone in town seemed to know I lived alone in a tiny apartment, wanted to buy a house on the lakeshore, and that I was perpetually single. That last fact weighed heavily on everyone’s mind. Everyone’s except mine, that is. I still had plenty of time to find a husband.

Assuming I even wanted one.

Which I didn’t.

Most of the time.

I also didn’t want this room full of people speculating about my love life, or current lack thereof. My private life was, well . . . private. If only they’d let me keep it that way.

I offered up a fake-sounding “heh heh heh” and turned toward the cake. I stared at the candles, pretending to ponder my upcoming wish with the proper amount of reverence. Having lived most of my life entrenched in a scientific, evidence-based philosophy, however, nothing about making a wish and blowing out a flame was any part of my reality. Birthday wishes did not come true, any more than wishes made on puffy dandelions blown into the breeze or pennies tossed into a fountain. Wishes were nothing more than unrealized goals.

Still, the image of me in a gauzy white dress floating down the aisle toward a faceless, tuxedo-clad groom burst into my imagination, like a rainbow brightening a dismal sky after the storm. There were bright pink roses and lavender chiffon–clad bridesmaids. Strains of Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” hummed silently in my ears. My heart palpitated illogically, as if this vision were something to strive for. It wasn’t, of course. Not for me. Not right now. I had my career. It was enough.


Most of the time.

I twitched, erasing my mental Etch A Sketch, and blew out the candles without making any wish at all. Everyone clapped and undulated forward en masse, synchronized like a school of tuna. Tuna who wanted cake. I was surrounded once again.

“Let me help you.” Gabby, our office manager, stepped forward. She tucked a lock of blonde, pink-tipped hair behind her multipierced ear, her turquoise-and-orange skirt swishing around her ankles as she moved. She was twenty-eight but had the kind of youthful, flawless skin my patients paid thousands of dollars to recapture. She was also Hilary’s little sister, which by association sort of made her like my little sister too.

“Here are the plates,” she said, handing me a stack.

They were decorated with kittens wearing tiaras just like mine, as if I were turning five instead of thirty-five. Either these were left over from some child’s birthday or someone was teasing me. I didn’t want to know which.

“Who wants a corner piece with lots of frosting?” I called out instead, relieved to have something to do with my hands. Let’s get this party started—and finished—so I can get back to my charting and wrap up the day’s paperwork. I have other places to be.

I made short work of cutting the pieces. Being a plastic surgeon has some benefits. Gabby and Hilary passed out the plates then returned to my side to get pieces for themselves. I took a bite of my own, knowing I was obligated. Knowing it meant an extra forty-five minutes of cardio to work it off. Knowing the lard would clog up my arteries like old motor oil. But damn, it tasted good. Sticky and sweet and defiant.

Gabby stuffed a big red frosting rose into her mouth. “Feliz aniversário,” she said around it, her teeth coated in crimson. She looked like a vampire. “That’s Portuguese for happy birthday.”

“When did you start speaking Portuguese?” Hilary asked, taking a nibble of the minuscule piece she’d taken for herself.

Her sister shrugged, noncommittal. “A while. I’ve been teaching myself. Gorgeous language. Gorgeous men.”

Hilary nodded. “Uh-huh. Speaking of gorgeous men, Evie, it wouldn’t hurt you, you know.” Her dark brown gaze turned back to me.

I looked up from my cake. “Learning to speak Portuguese?”

“No,” she whispered. “Wishing for a husband. You know, and getting a little something-something on your birthday.” She made a subtle bobbing motion with her hips as if her meaning wasn’t clear.

Gabby giggled and I choked on my cake. I reached for my coffee cup, but it was empty. I swallowed as best as I could and whispered indignantly, “What makes you think I’m not?”

“Because you would have told me.”

She’s right. I would have.

“And because your mother called about dinner tonight,” Gabby added. “I talked to her fifteen minutes ago.”

“You talked to my mother?”

Gabby nodded, the pink tips of her hair sliding over her shoulders. “Yeah, and she said, ‘Vamos ser tarde. Podemos encontrá-lo no restaurant.’”

Curiosity spiked, along with my glucose levels. “My Portuguese is a little rusty, Gab. What does that actually mean?”

“It means your parents will meet you at the restaurant because they’re running late.” She scooped up another frosting rose.

“She also said she couldn’t stand the thought of you spending another birthday alone,” Hilary added, picking up a single crumb with her fork.

“She did not say that!” My voice scraped inside my throat, and I glanced around the room to see if anyone was listening. Fortunately, their cake held them spellbound. I lowered my voice to a conscientiously modulated whisper. “My mother would never say something like that. Not if someone held a scalpel to her jugular.” I didn’t bother adding that my mother was even less sentimental than I was about stuff like this and knew I’d spent more than one birthday solidly, contentedly alone.

Hilary arched a cosmetically perfected brow. “All right. You caught me. She didn’t say that. But, Evie, you’ve been here almost four months, and I haven’t heard you mention going on even one date. It’s time you got out and met some new people.”

“Yes, men kind of people,” Gabby said. “My boyfriend, Mike, knows lots of single guys you could go out with. Well . . . lots is a strong word. But he must know at least a couple. And a couple is all you need for a pretty fun party, right?”

The sisters shared a laugh, and I pondered her level of seriousness. “I don’t think I want to know what kind of parties you have.”

Hilary set down her plate. “Well, Steve and I have boring married-couple parties, but even those are better than spending your birthday alone. Honestly, Ev, you need to make more of an effort. Stop being so picky.”

I stood tall. Well, as tall as I was able, and prepared to defend myself.

“I’m not too picky. I just haven’t had time. I’m always working.”

“You’re always working because you don’t have anything else to do.” Her admonishment was gentle but familiar. I’d heard it before.

“It was all well and good to play the busy card during residency,” Hilary added, “but you’re an attending now. You have regular office hours. And no more excuses.”

This conversation always made my skin itch. It was the one subject Hilary and I never agreed on—my dormant interest in finding a man. Just because she was happily married with two beautiful children, she couldn’t understand why I was still putting off that phase of my life, why I was still focused on career instead of family. But I simply wasn’t in a hurry. I’d seen the darker side of marriage. I knew the failure rate. I’d lived it with my own parents. My parents . . .

“Wait a minute!” I gasped as my subconscious pushed forward a thought. I clunked my plate down on the table and looked at Gabby. “Did you say they will meet me at the restaurant? They, as in both my parents?”

That couldn’t be right. It must be just my mother. Just like we’d planned.

Gabby nodded slowly, wary at my change in demeanor.

“What did she say, precisely?” I asked, resisting the urge to grab her by the shoulders and rattle her around.

Gabby’s brow furrowed. “She said, ‘Diga a Evelyn estava tarde estávamos—’”

“No! No, in English. Please.” Seriously?

Gabby cast her blue eyes toward the ceiling as if I was the one being inconvenient.

“Oh, fine. Your mother said, ‘Tell Evelyn we’ll meet her at the restaurant because her father got delayed in surgery.’ Why is that such a big deal?”

It was a big deal, but of course they wouldn’t understand the magnitude of just how big a deal this was. It wasn’t something I often talked about.

“My parents don’t get along,” I said. “Actually, that’s an understatement. Cats and dogs don’t get along. What my parents have is like mixing bleach with ammonia, then adding Coke and a Mentos. It’s toxic and messy for anyone within a two-mile radius.”

My parents were both cardiothoracic surgeons. Busy, important cardiothoracic surgeons, a point which I had been reminded of repeatedly throughout my youth as they shuffled me back and forth between the two of them. They’d been divorced for ages and the three of us hadn’t shared a meal together since my matriculation into medical school. And that dinner had ended abruptly with my mother dumping gazpacho on my father’s linen pants and stomping from the restaurant before the entrée was served. She’d left dents in the sidewalk.


“Didn’t they tell you they were both coming?” Hilary asked. She’d heard a handful of stories about my parents’ diabolically perverse competition with each other, but not all of them. But she knew I thought part of the reason they both practiced in Ann Arbor was to steal patients from one another.

“No, they didn’t tell me.” My mind flipped through a short list of possible reasons they’d be coming together. Maybe my father had been named surgeon general. Maybe my mother had invented another revolutionary new surgical technique. Or maybe one of them had been exposed to a virulent strain of monkey pox and had only days to live. We were meeting at a pretty nice restaurant, so I hoped it wasn’t that. But something had prompted this surprise reunion  . Not only were they both coming, but they were apparently riding together? Granted, Ann Arbor was a couple of hours’ drive from Bell Harbor, but even so, one of them must be bound and gagged in the trunk by now.

This was all very curious.

“Dr. Rhoades.” One of our nurses stuck her head in through the lounge doorway. “Dr. McKnight from the emergency department is on the phone. He says he’s got a facial laceration consult. You’re on call tonight, right?”

“You’re on call tonight?” Hilary asked. “Why didn’t you trade with someone since it’s your birthday? I could’ve done it if you’d asked ahead of time.” Her tone was a combination of surprise and condemnation. I’d obviously reinforced her belief I was deliberately keeping busy with work to avoid social obligations. But really, I just wanted the extra money. Every penny I made was being tucked away for my future house. I had my heart set on a place right on the shoreline, and those did not come cheap.

“I like taking call. And besides, everyone else has kids to go home to.” I turned to the nurse. “Please tell him I’ll be right there.” I could deal with this patient and still make it to dinner on time. I just wouldn’t be able to run home to my apartment and change first.

I raised my hand and waved to the remaining birthday crowd. It had thinned, and I realized my other partners had already returned to work.

“Thanks, everyone, for the wonderful birthday party. Sorry to carb-load and dash, but duty calls.”

A few voices called out another round of birthday wishes as Hilary and Gabby followed me into the waiting room. I turned back toward them before leaving the office.

“And a big, fat thanks to you two for spilling the beans about my birthday.” I shook my finger at them, but once again, Hilary was unimpressed by my impotent frustration, and I was secretly glad. I had to admit, I felt a little warm and fuzzy down deep inside, knowing the group had gone to this trouble on my behalf. Sure, maybe they just wanted cake, but they had all clapped when I blew out the candles.

“N?o há problema.” Gabby smiled. “By the way—”

Hilary interrupted her sister. “I know you secretly wanted us to make a fuss.”

I laughed out loud at her misplaced certainty. “No, I really didn’t. But I appreciate the gesture.”

“Someone needs to teach you how to have fun, Evie. Live a little.” Her smile was oversized for the occasion.

Gabby reached over and squeezed my arm. “I could send my friend Axel over to your apartment later for a foda pena. He’s lots of fun.”

“What’s a foda pena?”

“It’s a pity fu—”

“Shh!” I hissed and made a chopping motion across my throat.

Delle, the receptionist, had deftly and strategically positioned herself behind them to listen to our conversation. Honestly, the woman weighed more than a linebacker, but she could sneak up and eavesdrop like a professional assassin. She wasn’t brigade leader of the birthday ninjas by accident.



I made my way from the plastic surgery center office down two flights of stairs and several hallways before arriving at the emergency department. Everyone I encountered along the way greeted me with a broad smile and even a few chuckles. Either news of my birthday had spread or I still wasn’t accustomed to how friendly the locals were.

The Bell Harbor ED was a busy place, but not nearly as chaotic as where I’d trained in Chicago. Emergencies around here tended to be of the beach resort variety, and the whole department had a polite atmosphere. Not that there weren’t car accidents and heart attacks and dramatic things of that sort, but nobody around here ever got stabbed or shot. There weren’t gang signs spray-painted on the side of the ambulance bay, and I hadn’t seen a strung-out hooker in months.

I pushed open the metal doors. A nurse in green scrubs seemed to skip a step at my entrance, then she too smiled wide. Her dark, wavy hair was twisted up in a bun, and I was nearly certain her name was Lecia, but since I wasn’t positive, I just smiled back. Nurses really hate it when you call them by the wrong name. I learned that the hard way in medical school.

“Hi, Dr. Rhoades. You’re fancy today. Are you here for the face lac?”

“Fancy?”

She pointed at my head.

Oh!

No.

Really?

I reached up, and yep, there it was. The tiara. I yanked it from my head, ripping out hair along with it. How could I have forgotten the flippin’ tiara? No wonder everyone kept grinning at me.

“Sorry. It’s my birthday,” I mumbled and tossed it into the nearby trash can. I brushed my hair back from my face, feeling heat steal over my cheeks. I bet I was turning splotchy too. Oh, the joys of being fair skinned. “And yes, I’m here for the face lac. What’s the story?”

She led me toward a curtained area. “Twenty-seven-year-old Caucasian male versus a fifth of whiskey and a boat dock.”

“What?”

“He ran into a boat dock while drunk driving a Jet Ski. Broke the fall with his face. But according to his story, he did not spill any of his drink.”

Her brows lifted as she nodded, clearly impressed by the order of his priorities. She pulled his chart from the rack and handed it to me, adding, “But he’s pretty, and he doesn’t want a scar.”

She shoved the curtain to the side while I looked over his stats.

Tyler Connelly. Twenty-seven. Good vital signs. No employer listed. I stepped closer to get a better look.

He was tall and broad. I could tell that much, even as he lay on the stretcher. His eyes were closed, and his hair was messy with the sort of blond highlights that came from spending hours in the sun. That explained the tan too, which covered all that I could see except for his face—which had a slightly ashen pallor and showed signs of bruising on one side. A white section of gauze was taped along his jawline, from under his chin halfway back toward his left ear.

I tucked the chart under my arm. “Mr. Connelly, I’m Dr. Rhoades.”

A soft snore came from the bed.

I looked at the nurse, who was fussing with a blood pressure cuff.

“Well, you’ve obviously managed his pain well enough,” I said drily.

She chuckled. “We haven’t given him anything. Whiskey, remember? He was half-anesthetized when he got here.”

“On a Tuesday afternoon?”

It wasn’t unusual for emergency department clientele to be drunk, but this patient didn’t look like your average derelict. He was muscular and well fed, and even with the pale hue and gauze stuck to his jaw, that was one aesthetically pleasing face. Rugged model material. Not that I was affected by that sort of thing. But damn, this was a good-looking man.


I moved right up next to the bed and raised my voice. “Mr. Connelly, wake up.”

He twitched and opened his eyes. They were bloodshot and a little glassy, but even so, they were still the prettiest, lightest blue I’d ever seen in my life.

I glanced at his chart once more.

Twenty-seven.

Unemployed.

Intoxicated.

Damn.

And damn again.

He looked at me and blinked—slow—as if his brain was downloading the instructions on how to do that. Then a lazy smile lifted one corner of his mouth.

“Wow,” he said on a sigh as he closed his eyes again. “Sexiest nurses in this place.”

The real nurse chuckled again, then leaned in close to his ear and shouted, “Hey! Sleeping Beauty! Wake up. This is the doctor. And she’s going to put stitches in your face, so you might want to show a little respect.”

Oh, I liked her! Whatever her name was.

His eyes popped open at her words, and he blinked faster. I could see his gaze slowly coming into focus. He looked me over, as if taking in a mental inventory of all my various parts.

“You’re the doctor?”

I got that reaction a lot. The price of being a short, curvy redhead in the land of tall, lab-coated men and their biggie-sized egos. But if my mother had taught me anything, it was how to never let anyone make me feel like less than I was. I wasn’t about to be reduced by an unemployed twenty-seven-year-old who had nothing better to do on a Tuesday afternoon than get drunk and play with his man toys. I crossed my arms and lifted my chin, making me at least half an inch taller.

“Yes, Mr. Connelly. I’m Dr. Evelyn Rhoades, a board-certified plastic surgeon. I hear you had an accident today, so I’m going to take that bandage off your face and take a look. Got it?”

I set the chart down and moved over to the other side of the bed.

“Sure. Yeah. Of course.” His small nod ended in a grimace, maybe due to pain caused by his injuries, or more than likely, the onset of his inevitable hangover. The aroma of alcohol permeated the air around him. Not the stale, sour stench that usually accompanied homeless alcoholics. This was more of a sweet, cloying smell, like bubbly pink champagne left out after a party. Mixed with cocoa butter. Apparently my booze-swizzling patient was not so irresponsible as to forgo sunscreen.

“Are you in any discomfort, Mr. Connelly?” I asked.

“I’m fine.” His glance told me he had more to say but that whatever it was had nothing to do with his medical condition and everything to do with his impression of me. He seemed intrigued but a little suspicious.

“Dr. McKnight is treating his arm and shoulder,” the nurse said. “We’re waiting on some X-rays, but he doesn’t appear to have any fractures or signs of concussion.”

I pulled on purple latex gloves. “It sounds like you could have been hurt much worse, Mr. Connelly. Statistically speaking, you were lucky.”

His ridiculously silver-blue eyes met mine. “Yeah, I’m a lucky guy.” He started to chuckle but seemed to reconsider and coughed instead. His hands moved guardedly to his chest, indicating some level of pain. Even though he was covered by a blue-speckled hospital gown, I noticed all kinds of muscles flexing and squeezing as he did that.

His, and mine.

Damn you, Gabby and your foda pena!

I nudged a black rolling stool closer to the stretcher with my knee while a voice in my head reminded me he was twenty-seven. And unemployed. And drunk.

And a patient! There was that little matter as well.

“Mr. Connelly, I’m here to address your facial injury, so let’s deal with that first.”

I ignored the way his gown slipped off his shoulder as he readjusted on the bed. I ignored the edge of his deltoid tattoo peeking out from the shifting fabric too. It didn’t allure me in any way. I was a professional. I would simply concentrate on his injury, not his physique. Just because Hilary and Gabby thought I needed some sexual gymnastics, and just because it had been ages since my last horizontal workout with a man, and just because it was my birthday, this man-boy from Neverland was certainly not what I needed. What I needed was to get to work.

The nurse started setting up a suture tray without being asked, while I gently peeled off the gauze.

My patient had a jagged laceration running along the edge of his jaw, ending at his chin. It was about three centimeters long, deep but not all the way to the bone. Still, a wound like this would require a multilayer closure, and he’d most definitely have a scar. I could keep it minimal, though. I’d leave him dashing rather than disfigured. I could do that. I had mad skills.

“You’re going to need some stitches, Mr. Connelly. Have you ever had stitches before?” I pressed at the skin.

He chuckled again. “Plenty of times.”

“Are you accident-prone?” I’m not sure why I asked him that. It wasn’t medically relevant, but something tugged at me, an inconvenient curiosity about how this patient spent his time.

“No. I just don’t like sitting still.” His voice was deep, with a pleasant raspy quality. The kind of voice that might make a less professional woman think illicit thoughts. Fortunately for him, and for me, I wasn’t that kind of woman. Most of the time.

“What types of injuries have you had in the past?” I asked, while continuing to not peek at that tattoo.

He sighed, as if pondering my question hurt his head, which, under the circumstances, it probably did.

“Dislocated shoulder, torn ACL. Wrist fracture. Split my forehead snowboarding once.” He reached up and touched the corner of his right eyebrow, indicating a pale scar.

I might have noticed that scar had I not been avoiding eye contact. I leaned closer to examine it. He turned toward me just as I did, and I found myself thinking it was diabolically unfair that any man should have such thick, dark lashes while mine required copious amounts of mascara.

“Do you want to hear them all?” he asked. “I told the other doctor everything.”

I straightened up again and glanced at the nurse. “Could you hand me the chart, please?” She did and I flipped through it, taking in the laundry list of his previous injuries thoroughly documented by Dr. McKnight. Broken bones, sprains, contusions. This guy was either clumsy as hell or a full-throttle adrenaline junkie. And he looked a little too muscular to be clumsy.

“Well, Mr. Connelly, aside from all the physical damage done to your person before today, would you say you’re in generally good health?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ma’am?

Oh. That one stung. I was a feminist through and through, but no woman under seventy-five wants to be called ma’am. He may as well have called me granny. Sharp, useless distress pierced my lungs. Maybe this birthday thing was bothering me more than I realized. I suddenly felt . . . dare I say . . . crotchety?

“Don’t you think it’s rather reckless to be on a Jet Ski while drinking whiskey?”

Oh, yes. That was most decidedly crotchety. I could feel my lips pinching around the word whiskey like a prohibition-era preacher’s wife.

But my facially gifted young patient just laughed. “Yeah, the whiskey was a bad decision. But I gave up beer for Lent. Plus I didn’t plan to be on the Jet Ski. That was sort of an accident.”

I couldn’t imagine how one accidentally ended up on a Jet Ski, but really, this was none of my business. It wasn’t my job to pass judgment on this unleashed puppy. It was only my job to fix what he’d broken. Not to mention the fact that I was pretty sure Lent was somewhere around Easter, and since it was June, he was obviously not going to give me straight answers anyway. Time to mind my own business and get to work.


“Well, let’s give you some stitches and get you out of here.”

The nurse turned, and I finally caught sight of her ID badge. Her name was Susie. Where the hell had I gotten Lecia? This was precisely the reason why I needed to be careful addressing anyone by name. I could not be trusted to get it right. I could list all the muscles in the human body, but ask me to name the clerical staff in my own office, much less random nurses in the emergency department, and I’d be sunk.

“Thank you, Susie,” I called out as she walked away to tend to another patient.

I got myself situated with my instruments and supplies at hand and set about suturing this laceration. This was what I excelled at. Not names. Not chatting. This was my groove. The buzz of voices and pings of medical machinery blended into a common hum around me. This was the background noise of a better portion of my life, and I typically found the commotion soothing.

Not so much today as I tried to focus on the wound in front of me. But it wasn’t the noise or the chaos of the busy emergency department distracting me. It was Mr. Connelly’s face. From a purely scientific standpoint, his appearance was mesmerizing. He had a nearly perfect symmetry to his features, right down to his matching dimples, and very few people have that sort of balance. It was fascinating. That’s why I kept looking at him. For science.

As a scientist, I also couldn’t help but appreciate the broad musculature of his wide shoulders or the sinews of his forearm, which moved when he folded his hands over his lean, flat abdomen. There was probably a six-pack under that gown too. Not to mention some other fine example of well-proportioned mass.

Wow. Was it warm in here? I think it was warm in here. Or maybe this birthday had triggered my first perimenopausal hot flash. Because I couldn’t possibly be getting this hot and bothered just because Mr. Connelly was attractive. That kind of thing never affected me. I created beautiful faces for a living. And besides that, he was only twenty-seven years old, for goodness’ sake. Eight years younger than me. And he’d called me ma’am!

This was Delle and Hilary and Gabby’s fault, putting crazy, lusty thoughts into my head. That’s what the problem was.

Now maybe if I was a twentysomething-year-old woman, this agitation would be logical, in spite of his apparent lack of common sense or gainful employment. Or then again . . . maybe it wouldn’t. My twenties had been spent in medical school, and then residency, and then a fellowship after that. I’d studied while my peers had partied and slept around. They had gone on spring break, and I had taken that extra time to volunteer at a free clinic. My parents taught me work always came before play. And this guy was all play.

Still, there was a secret part of me who missed never having been frivolous and carefree and stupid. Not stupid enough to play chicken with a boat dock, but maybe stupid enough to be drunk in the middle of the week.

An unexpectedly remorseful sigh escaped before I could catch it.

“You getting bored?” My patient’s eyes were closed again, but a little crook bent the corners of his mouth.

“I’m doing a procedure, Mr. Connelly. I’m never bored during a procedure,” I answered.

“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 f*cked 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?”