The Best Medicine

Chapter 22



  GETTING READY FOR MY DINNER date with Chris Beaumont was like standing in line for an amusement park ride I wasn’t sure I wanted to go on. My ambivalence had only grown since telling Hilary I’d see him again. Yes, he’d been funny, and gracious, and appealing at lunch last week, but Tyler was a real factor now, and everything was different.

But nothing was different.

Not really.

I still wanted to get married.

Didn’t I? Didn’t I still want a family? A grown-up husband with a successful career? Tyler had potential, of course. Someday he’d be a great husband—for someone in his own bracket. But Hilary was right. Everything for us was out of balance. Our ages, finances, education, goals. Taken together, that was too much to overlook. He didn’t meet any of my criteria. But Chris did.

So I had to face this date with an open mind.

Just as I’d promised Hilary, I’d give him a fair shot. With any luck, those tiny twinges of attraction I’d felt at lunch would turn into full-fledged throbbing. And if I found myself wanting to go to bed with him, it would prove my attraction to Tyler wasn’t so special after all. It was just blind biology.

When the doorbell rang at seven sharp, I was ready. It didn’t surprise me that Chris was punctual. I wasn’t surprised he looked so good in a tan shirt and dark brown pants either.

“Hi. Come on in.” I pushed open the door.

His foot hovered for a second over the threshold as Panzer barked and ambled over. He gently sniffed at Chris’s hand.

The flinch was ever so subtle, but not so subtle I didn’t notice.

“Wow. That’s a big dog.” He didn’t pet him or scratch his head. Panzer still wagged expectantly.

“Go lie down, Panz.”

My dog and I had worked out an agreement. I told him what to do, he ignored me, and eventually he would go and lie down. It wasn’t that he disobeyed. He was just slow to get to it.

Chris brushed some free-floating fur from those dark brown pants and gave up an awkward laugh. “Sorry. Not a dog person.”


“No problem. Oddly enough, I’m not much of a dog person either.”

“You’re not? Then how’d you end up with that grizzly bear?”

“Saved him from the guillotine.”

“Ah,” he said.

“Well, I’d invite you in to have a glass of wine, but since Panzer is a third wheel, maybe we should just go to the restaurant.”

He laughed again and sounded a little more comfortable. “I think that’s a good idea.”

We drove to a place about fifteen miles from Bell Harbor, a quaint little bistro type with an arbor-covered patio.

“I hope you like Italian. I guess I should have asked you before we drove out here,” he said, pulling his Lexus into the parking spot.

“You’re in luck. I love Italian.”

“No, you’re in luck. Otherwise you’d just have to watch me eat.”

I smiled. Chris Beaumont was funny. Gabby had pointed out sense of humor wasn’t on my list of husband requirements and should be. Maybe she was right. Although, even if it was, Tyler made me laugh all the time.

Inside we found red-and-white checked tablecloths covering dark wood furniture. The smell of pasta and basil filled the air. My nose twitched. My mouth watered. I hoped the taste lived up to the smell and that the company proved as appetizing as the food.

Chris ordered us a bottle of wine. Both it and the conversation flowed easily, comfortably. As dinner progressed, I decided I did like Chris Beaumont. He was intelligent without seeming pretentious, self-deprecating without being pathetic, and he knew how to tell a good story. He was a pretty good listener too.

“So, you’re thirty-six and continue to disappoint your parents by not getting married. What’s the holdup?” I asked, tearing a piece of bread off the warm loaf on the table.

“Probably the same holdup you’ve encountered. Busy with school and then work, plus I guess I never found the right person.”

“Define the right person.” Did he have a list?

He took his time in answering. “Well, you’re familiar with the demands of being in medicine. I guess the right person has to understand that too. I lost a pretty good prospect a few years ago because she couldn’t handle my residency schedule. That’s partly why I chose dermatology. I like the hours.”

“OK. What else? There must be more than just someone willing to accept your schedule.”

He tilted his wineglass and watched the liquid moving. “Sure, but I’m not sure I can pinpoint it. Forgive this horrendous analogy, but it’s like pornography. I can’t describe it, but I know it when I see it.”

I swallowed the hunk of bread. “Did you just compare your future wife to pornography?” I couldn’t decide if that was clever, funny, or gross. Or all three.

He laughed and set his glass back down. “No, I compared the process of describing something that is intangible and subjective to defining pornography. Totally different thing.”

“Yeah, I’m not following.”

He crossed his arms on the table. “I’ve had some very nice girlfriends, and some not very nice girlfriends too. But they were all different. I can’t say there was any one trait or characteristic that drew me to them. There was just . . . something.”

“No wonder you’re not married. You don’t have a plan.”

His smile grew wide. “A plan? Nope. Just an openness to new relationships. The marriage part will happen when it happens.”

“See, that’s where men are lucky. No biological clock ticking.” Oh, God. Was I really going to talk to him about my ovaries? Just because he was a medical doctor too did not mean he wanted to talk about my ovaries.

“True. Sorry about that. But it sounds like maybe you do have a plan. That’s a little bit scary.” He didn’t look scared. He looked entertained.

“I wouldn’t call it a plan so much as a . . . strategy.”

“A strategy?”

“I tried a dating service.” I wasn’t sure why I was telling him this, but like the wine, out it poured. I guess that wasn’t any worse than mentioning my aging reproductive organs.

His brows lifted. “A dating service? Really? That’s not so unusual these days. Any luck?” His voice was casual but his eyes took on an intensity. If I didn’t know better, I might think Chris Beaumont was feeling a little threatened.

I shook my head. “No. Either there was some sort of glitch, or I have terrible taste in men.”

“Ah. Lucky for me on so many levels.” His smile was wide and confident. Then he laughed, and I wondered what that laugh would sound like if his mouth was just a breath away from the curve of my neck. I wondered what his arms would feel like wrapped around my waist. How it would feel to have my legs tangled up with his. I couldn’t be certain, but in that moment, I had the sensation that Chris Beaumont knew his way around a woman’s body.

He’d be good in bed, just like he was good at listening, and good at conversation. He was comfortable with himself, and he was comfortable with me. He’d probably make an excellent husband. And we could probably have a nice life. That should be good news, because all signs pointed to him being interested in me too.

And that’s what I wanted.

Only it wasn’t.

I didn’t want Chris Beaumont. I wanted to go find Tyler and bury my face against his neck and hear his laughter in my ear. It didn’t make any sense at all. I was letting hormones and emotion trump logic and reason. Hilary was going to be so mad at me. And quite frankly, I was getting mad at myself. What the hell was the matter with me?

We finished dinner, and Chris continued to be charming and engaging, and I tried with all my might to let myself be carried along. I was willing myself to become infatuated. And the harder I tried, the more blocked up I felt.

We talked about our families a little more, and our medical practices. The waitress came and cleared our dishes, and Chris paid the bill.

“So, what now?” he asked. “There’s a nice rooftop bar over the old piano factory in Bell Harbor. Feel like a nightcap?”

“The piano factory?”

“It’s an old warehouse near the bridge where they used to make—oddly enough—pianos, but it’s been converted. Now it has a couple of restaurants, a few shops, and some condos. That’s where I live, actually.”

He tossed his linen napkin on the table and flicked a crumb off the table, not looking my way as he talked. He was asking me back to his place. He just didn’t want to be blatant about it, because Chris Beaumont wasn’t the type of guy to be too obvious. No pressure on me to say yes, no foul on him if I said no.

Suddenly, I was cold and clammy all over, as if I’d never been invited to a man’s apartment before. As if I’d never said yes. But I had said yes. Recently. I’d said yes to Tyler.

“I think that sounds really nice, Chris. I wish I could, but I have an early patient day tomorrow. Could we make it another time?” My voice was flat and insincere. I should just tell him the truth. That my mind and emotions were tangled up in something else, in someone else, and I didn’t understand why.

He flicked away another crumb, and his smile seemed forced for the first time all evening. Chris Beaumont might be on to me. “Sure. Rain check, then. You’ve got my number.”

The drive home was quieter. I could chalk it up to us being tired, or full of pasta, or just plain chatted out. I even felt a little queasy and cracked open my window for some fresh air.


“Have you dated many physicians, Chris?” I finally asked, when the silence felt like a burden.

“A couple. Mostly I date pageant queens and swimsuit models.” He smiled over at me. “How about you?”

“Astronauts and superheroes, mostly.” And EMT-waiters who like dogs and keep their brothers out of jail.

“Ah. Well, I have some very exotic superhero capabilities, but they only work in the dark. Have that drink with me and I can show you.”

This guy was smooth. Nice with the old Hail Mary try. Maybe I should have that drink with him. Maybe some perfectly acceptable sex would excise Tyler from my mind. Maybe if Chris Beaumont traveled his way around my body he’d eventually get to my heart.

Probably not, though.

“Another night. OK?” I said.

“Yeah, sure. Of course.”

We pulled up in front of my apartment and he got out to open my door. Panzer barked from inside the apartment, and Chris looked toward the windows nervously.

“He’s no Cujo. I promise.”

Chris nodded and we walked up to the front door. The bugs were all around the lights, and a few tree frogs lingered on the siding waiting for an opportunity to nab a snack.

“Um, I guess I’ll say good night out here.” Chris pointed at the window where Panzer stood steaming up the glass, and I wondered how anyone could not love that furry face.

“I had a really nice time,” he said. “I’d like to see you again.”

“That would be nice, Chris.”

And it would be.

Nice.

Not fabulous or fantastic or enticing. Just . . . nice. Like root beer floats were nice. And mittens were nice. And cards from your grandmother were nice. I had tried very hard to fall for him tonight. And failed.

“Well, good night.” He hesitated for half a second and then abruptly moved in for the kill. No preamble. No breathy hesitation. No long, slow stare. Suddenly he was all up in my mouth, and I squeaked against his lips.

The whole thing went rather awkwardly. Nothing in me stirred, or raced, or thrummed, or heated up. In fact, I felt slightly nauseous and clammy.

Then Chris stepped away, and my imaginary Tyler Connelly stood behind him making a very obscene gesture.