The Best Medicine

Chapter 7



“GABBY, I NEED A FAVOR.”

She was hunched over the keyboard at the front desk. Everyone else had gone home for the day, so it was just the two of us in the office.

“Sure. What’s up?” she said, not looking away from her computer screen.

I wound up for a grand slam. “I need a man.”

Gabby straightened up so fast her chair nearly tipped over. She clawed the reading glasses from her face, then stuck an index finger into her ear and wiggled it in an obnoxiously exaggerated manner.

“Wow, for a second there I thought you asked me to find you a man.”

The onslaught of teasing was inevitable. I’d braced for it. I’d even prepared some canned responses.

“Yep. Go ahead. Make fun, but you, and your sister, and my parents, and the rest of this crazy little town have finally won. I’m ready for a man. But I’m going to go about this scientifically. Methodically.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Scientifically? Like in a lab? Please don’t tell me you’re going to build a man using parts you’ve scraped off of other people.”

I burst out laughing, and I was suddenly very glad I’d decided to ask for help. The truth was, I’d been thinking about this for days. And days. And days. Ever since seeing Tyler in the park. And in my office. And in the emergency department. My attraction to him was undeniable, but it was purely physical. He was not the man for me long-term. If I was going to find myself a significant other, I needed one who was mature and settled. And preferably with a clean criminal record.

“No, I’m not going to build one. I thought I’d try a dating service, though, to help me weed through all the inappropriate men and provide the most optimal choices.” I’d practiced my little speech in the bathroom before coming out here to ask her. My palms were damp with nerves, and I sounded like I was reading from a cue card. I pulled a sheet of notebook paper from my lab coat pocket and handed it over. “I’ve made a list of my husband requirements, weighted by priority, just like I did for my house. That’s how I always make big decisions.”

She took the list gingerly between her fingers and unfolded it as if it were hardwired to explode. She put her glasses back on and scanned it quickly. “Evelyn’s husband requirements,” she read off the top, then glanced at me. “Are you kidding with this stuff? These are your requirements?”

“Yes. Those are very logical criteria. And they’re prioritized. Remember, this is a guy for me, not you.”

“Oh, you’ve got that right. Advanced degree in science, mathematics, or engineering? That’s your number one demand?” Gabby leaned back in her chair and slid the glasses to the tip of her nose.

“I need someone I can have an intelligent conversation with.” I crossed my arms.

She nodded. “Uh-huh. Have you talked to many engineers or mathematicians?”

“Not really. Why?”

She paused, then shook her head. “Never mind. I’ll let you sail that voyage of self-discovery solo. But what’s this second one here about economic equality?”

That point was easy to defend. “I think it’s best to be with some who earns about the same amount as I do. That way I won’t have to worry he’s just after my money, and he won’t think I’m after his. It keeps the balance of power equal.”

“Right. So you’ll trust him in your bed, just not in your bank account?”

She was being kind of argumentative in the face of my sound judgment. “That’s not at all what that means. My mother taught me to take care of my own financial security. There is nothing wrong with that.”

“No, there isn’t. I’m just not sure choosing a man based on his income is going to score you the best dates. Rich guys can be big dicks. And they usually don’t have them.” She giggled at her own joke.

I tapped my foot. “So you’re suggesting I should choose a man based on the size of his penis instead of his wallet?”

Her smile indicated that’s precisely what she was suggesting. “Not exactly. A great big penis can be kind of uncomfortable too. I’m suggesting in all things, moderation. You know, not too big, not too small, not too soft, not too . . . well, forget that last one. The point is, I think you’re missing some of the more important details. Like how about good old-fashioned chemistry?”

I should have guessed she’d have opinions about this. But her opinions wouldn’t sway me.

“Sure, chemistry is a factor, but physical attraction shouldn’t be the primary reason for being with someone. My parents got divorced because every time my father became infatuated with some other woman, he thought he was in love. And obviously he wasn’t, because none of those marriages lasted either. Now he’s back with my mother because he finally understands what’s important in a relationship.”

“Which is?”

“Intellectual equality. Common interests. Similar goals. Stuff that still matters once the honeymoon is over.”

Gabby’s eyelids drooped. “Oh my God. You’re going to take all the fun out of this for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes, that’s my hidden agenda,” I said drily. “Will you help me or not?”

She folded up the list and put it in her pocket. “Of course I will. I’ll come over tonight and we can check out some dating sites. I’ll bring Chinese takeout. Do you have wine?”

“I’m not going to set up my profile while drinking. That’s a recipe for disaster.” Actually wine sounded pretty good. And this plan had disaster written all over it anyway.

“Fine. I’ll get drunk by myself. What else is new?” Gabby rolled the chair up to the desk and gave me a sincere smile. “Honestly, I love that you are doing this, Evie. And I’m honored to help you. What did Hilary have to say?”


I felt a little pang of unease. “I haven’t told her yet. I tried to the other day, but she had her own stuff going on and I never got a chance. Tonight she’s busy with family time. But I can tell you that she’d fully support my criteria. So don’t lose that!” I pointed at the pocket containing my list.

Gabby patted it. “Oh, I’ll take good care of this. Trust me.”

I didn’t trust her. Not as far as I could chuck a Volkswagen. But Hilary was unavailable and Gabby was all I had. Of course, I could have done this alone too, but since always being alone was what had gotten me into this position, I felt like I needed a buddy for this adventure.



Gabby sat on the floor of my apartment an hour later, polishing off her plate of moo goo gai pan and her second glass of wine. I’d caved to her peer pressure and was finishing my first merlot. My laptop was perched on the coffee table like some magic portal into my future. But I hadn’t had the nerve to turn it on.

“All right. The night’s half over, Evie. Time to boot this puppy up.” Gabby reached over, her fingers flickering over the keyboard, and the screen brightened instantly. “Bell Harbor Singles, you said, right?” She continued typing.

I nodded. “That’s the one Des McKnight’s kooky aunt-in-law suggested. I guess if it’s good enough for her, it’s good enough for me. Although she is seventy. And quite possibly suffering from dementia.”

On second thought, maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. As soon as I put my information out there . . . well, then my information would be out there. Where literally every Tom, Dick, and Harry could see it. And every Bill and Brad and Brian, and scores of countless others. It’s not as if I had any privacy in this town anyway, but this was taking things to a whole new level of transparency. Maybe I wasn’t ready for this.

But before I could stop her, the site popped up and nearly blinded me. It was a cotton-candy pink with a photo of two hands clasped in front of a setting sun. Gabby read the text out loud.

“Bell Harbor—where the sand is warm and the romance scene is hot, hot, hot. Whether you’re looking for just a little fun in the afternoon sun or a stroll down the aisle, your ideal match is waiting for you. Log on now. Your happily ever after is just one click away.”

She smiled over at me. “Just a click away, Ev. Are you ready?”

I felt a little woozy all of a sudden. I hadn’t been on a date in ages. In fact, I’d looked at my calendar just before Gabby arrived and realized I hadn’t had sex in nearly two years. With my fellowship training and traveling for interviews, it just hadn’t happened. So no wonder I was ogling a young stud like Tyler Connelly. I was suffering from a severe case of vaginal cobwebs. It must be like an old, abandoned subway tunnel down there.

Gabby moved the mouse around and clicked on a little bell that said “Create your profile.”

“Don’t forget my list,” I said.

“I’ve already forgotten your list,” she answered. “There’s a questionnaire. Let’s just go through that, and we’ll get to all your requirements that way. Even the stupid ones.”

“But I’ve listed them in order of importance.”

Gabby shook her head. “I had no idea you were so compulsive. I’ll be sure to mention that charming little personality gemstone in your profile.”

“I’m not compulsive. I’m decisive. I don’t want to waste time with someone who doesn’t meet even my most basic of requirements.”

Like Tyler Connelly.

Gabby clicked away on the keys, ignoring me.

“OK, speaking of basics, let’s start with those. What’s your preferred height range?” she asked. “It goes from three to eight feet.”

“Seriously?” I tried to imagine either extreme. Then I tried to block those images away.

“That’s pretty broad,” Gabby agreed and took a chug of wine. “How tall are you?”

“Five two.”

“OK, so no offense to the guys under five feet, but I think we can find you somebody taller without much effort. Let’s say five five to six two. I dated a Goliath once who was six eight, and the sexual mechanics were a hassle. Plus he didn’t fit in my car. Don’t go that tall.”

“Would that be the guy with the overly large penis?”

“That’s the one.”

“Duly noted.”

The idea of working out sexual mechanics with anyone suddenly felt very overwhelming. Yes, I wanted to be scientific in my pursuit of a suitable mate, but certain things, sex in particular, shouldn’t be dealt with in such a clinical fashion. It was very Masters and Johnson-y.

“How about fitness level?” Gabby asked. “Looks like the range here is from couch potato to the guys who can’t get change from their own pockets because their biceps are too big.”

I took a sip of wine and blocked more mental images. “Is there a spot that just says physically active? Like enjoys jogging or something?”

Gabby’s fingers did more clicking. “Yep, I put your preferences right in the middle here.”

We continued through the profile questionnaire, eliminating men who smoked, lived with their mothers, had an excessively high number of ex-wives, or had done hard time for murder or extortion.

“OK, here are some questions about you,” Gabby said, her hands poised over the keyboard. “What do you do for fun?”

“Fun? Fun is on there?” I set my glass down and scratched my chin. “Um, well, I work, which is fun for me. I read a lot. I like to jog in the park when I have a chance.”

Gabby made a snoring noise and let her head fall back against the sofa cushion. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? You don’t need a man for that kind of crap, Evie. You need a basset hound.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say. I’m not going to lie on my personality profile.”

“Then you’ll be the only one who doesn’t. Look, I’m not suggesting you lie, but this is a marketing exercise. You have to come up with stuff a guy would actually want to participate in. Any man who gets excited by watching you read is a pervert. How about sports? Do you like any? Or better yet, do you play something, like tennis or volleyball or something? Or golf?”

“I used to be pretty good at badminton.”

“Badminton? You mean with the little rackets and the rubber birdies?” Her tone was as dry as the beach in August. Maybe I should have done this alone after all.

“It’s a sport,” I said defensively. Maybe that explained all those participation ribbons for field day. The truth was, I’d never been very outdoorsy or sporty. I’d liked track well enough back in the day, and I still jogged regularly, but that was about it.

“How is it that you don’t play golf? You’re a doctor. I thought all doctors play golf,” Gabby complained.

“I can play golf. I just don’t like to. So if I list it and end up with some golf lover, he’ll want me to play all the time. I’d be bored. And if I’m going to be bored, I may as well be single.” I felt my jaw going stern, and I’m sure I was frowning.

Gabby pushed my wineglass closer to my hand. “Relax, I’m not trying to pick on you. I just feel like it’s my duty to warn you that this profile is going to land you on some dullsville dates.”

“No, it won’t. It’s scientific, Gabby. That’s the beauty of the computerized profile. It’s like my weighted list of criteria, only even better. It’s a carefully crafted algorithm designed to find me men I have things in common with. Like . . . guys who realize golf is boring.”


Gabby rolled her shoulders and rubbed out a knot with her hand. “Yes, fine. I get that. You need things in common, but you also need a little razzle-dazzle. A little humina, humina, humina, you know? Seriously, you ranked sense of humor as irrelevant and civic awareness as essential. Are you looking for someone exciting to date or someone you can vote for?”

I reached up and rubbed my own neck, because this husband hunting was starting to become physically painful. “First of all, I would never date a politician. And second, I’m looking for a guy who’s right for me in a big-picture scenario. Somebody who I’ll still want to hang around with once we’re old and gray. Well, he can go gray. I never will. But I want a guy who likes me for who I really am, so I’m not going to pretend to be something I’m not.”

She looked at me with an expression I’d seen on colleagues’ faces when a patient’s test results were ominous. But I knew what I was doing. I was going to be honest and trust the data. I was going to go about this methodically and logically. I wasn’t going to put my future into the hands of something as intangible as chemistry or as whimsical as fate. Fate was for people without a plan. The Bell Harbor Singles website was scientific.

“All right,” she said after a moment. “We’ll try it your way, but I hope you can do CPR on yourself, because these guys are going to bore you to frickin’ death.”

She turned back to the computer and typed. I couldn’t see the screen now. The wine had made my vision a little blurry. “What are you putting on there?”

“That you like pi?a coladas and getting caught in the rain.”

“Very funny. And thanks, because now I’m going to have that song stuck in my head.”

“Serves you right.” She typed for another minute and then turned back to me. “OK, are you ready for the moment of truth? Once I push this button, your profile goes live and they can see you, and we can start searching the database for your Mr. Rhoades.”

I gulped down the last bit of wine in my glass and hiccupped. “Yep. I’m ready.”

There should have been a drum roll or something, but all we had was the tiny, almost silent, click of a keystroke.

We leaned in together as a scattered assembly of pictures filled the screen with squares of text beneath each one.

“Are those all matches?” I asked, amazed at my good fortune. This was a jackpot! There were so many. Then I looked a little closer.

Tobias Fitzhammer, forty-seven, exterminator’s junior assistant. Eugene VanderBosch, forty-four, Reiki master and martial artist. Franklin Bluth, fifty-seven, sex god.

“Does that say sex god as his occupation?” I asked, blinking to clear my vision.

“Yes. It does. And is that . . .” Gabby adjusted her glasses. “Is that a monkey on his shoulder?”

It was. A monkey wearing a sombrero. There were men in mesh tank tops, men holding various animals, tools, or sports memorabilia. There was a man in a top hat and tails—which should have made him look dapper, except he was also holding a ventriloquist’s dummy. This was not the cream of any crop. Thankfully, the pictures scrambled to bring others to the forefront.

“Oh, wait! Here’s one. He’s cute.” Gabby moved the mouse and clicked on the picture to bring up a full profile before I could object.

David Hill, forty-one, architect. Silver hair. Brownish eyes. I didn’t find him that physically appealing, but he had a nice smile, and he wasn’t holding a monkey or a dummy and he was wearing a real shirt, so that put him at the top of the list thus far.

We went through a dozen or so profiles until the second bottle of wine was gone, and so was I. I never could hold my liquor. It was time to call it a night.

“Take two ibuprofen, a B-12, and drink a big glass of water before you go to bed,” Gabby said as she got up to leave. “You’ll be fine. Tomorrow, with any luck you’ll have e-mails from some hot prospects. Boa noite.”

“What?”

“That’s Portuguese for good night,” she said, picking up her purse and fishing out her keys.

“No, I mean the other thing you said. About the e-mails.”

“Oh, well, now that your profile is live, you should start getting e-mails from interested men. That’s the fun part. It’s like shopping.”

E-mails? From total strangers? Total strangers with names like Jeremy Laramey, Chuck Luckey, and Khaled Formichelli-Pugliese? Men who thought we might be suitable life partners? Oh, no. What had I done?

My stomach roiled, and I wasn’t sure if it was the wine rebelling or my sense of hope circling the drain.