Butterfly (25 page)

A shudder raced throughout Seneca as she digested this information. “When you mention frontotemporal, I take that to mean the brain.” The doctor nodded. “Can the condition be slowed or corrected with surgery?”

“I’m sorry, but the disease is incurable and will only get worse with time. Your mother requires twenty-four-hour care.”

“What about medication?” she asked.

“Some patients react favorably to selective SSRIs, or serotonin reuptake inhibitors. They are the same drugs used to treat depression and anxiety.”

“How many years do you expect people who’re diagnosed with FTD to survive?”

“A rough estimate is five to ten years. What I don’t know is how long your mother has had the disease.”

“It started, or we became aware of it, about ten years ago.”

“Maybe your mother is one of the luckier one who will beat the odds. I’m hopeful, because there are new drugs coming out for these types of disorders, and an increase in research into curing the disease. I give you my word that your mother will be well cared for here. We have a complete open-door policy where we encourage family members to stop in any time of the day or night to look in on their loved ones.”

Smiling, Seneca offered her hand. “Thank you, Dr. Marks.”

“You’re welcome.” He pushed a pad across the desk stamped with the logo of a pharmaceutical. “Would you mind giving me an autograph? My teenage daughter will think I’m the coolest dad in the world when I tell her that I talked to Butterfly.”

Taking his pen, she scrawled her signature on the square of paper, then drew the facsimile of a butterfly underneath. Pushing to her feet, she walked out of the doctor’s office and to the room where her mother had been assigned. The facility, situated on two hundred acres in northern Virginia, looked like a small private college with apartment-like dorm rooms. She’d requested a private room for Dahlia. Medicare and Os car’s pension would cover most of the cost, while Seneca would subsidize the balance.

She found her mother sitting in a chair watching a flat-screen television. Seneca smiled. “Mom?”

Dahlia looked at her, her brow furrowing as she tried re
membering who she was. “What a pretty girl.” That said, she returned her attention to the images on the screen.

“Stay well, Mama,” she whispered.

Seneca felt a gentle peace, knowing her mother was going to get the best medical care available. She returned to the parking area to retrieve her car. Her hands grasped the steering wheel in a death grip as she followed road signs leading back to D.C. Her first impulse was to check into a hotel near the airport, then call Booth to let him know she’d taken care of her business and she was ready to leave the country. But that couldn’t happen until she confronted her brother and sister-in-law.

Maya answered the door, peering around Seneca. “Where’s Mom?”

“She’s in bed.” Seneca didn’t tell her
which
bed.

“Come on in. I just put the kids to bed.”

“That’s okay. I’m not going to stay long. Where’s Jerome?”

“He’s in his study marking papers. I’ll get him.”

Seneca sat down on a butter-soft leather sofa. The renovations and furnishings had turned a formerly dilapidated house into a showplace. She didn’t stand when Jerome walked in and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

He sat on a matching chair, Maya hovering over his back. “Maya told me you took Mom out today.”

Her face was a mask of stone. “I did. In fact, I took her out of here.”

Jerome leaned forward. “What are you saying?”

“Our mother is now in a skilled nursing facility not far from here.” She took a business card from the back pocket of her jeans. “You can visit her whenever you want, but you’re not
allowed to remove her from the premises, or you’ll be arrested for kidnapping. Maya is on their ‘no entry’ list.”

“What the…”

“Shut up, Jerome, and let me finish,” Seneca snapped.

Maya blanched. “Remember, you’re in my home.”

Seneca pointed at her. “Look, bitch, you need not speak to me, because I’m less than a minute off your ass. You left my mother tied to a chair sitting in her own waste while you went shopping. If you’d been here when I arrived I know I’d be in jail for manslaughter right now.” She popped up as if pulled by a taut spring. “The money stops today. I’ve already notified my bank not to send any more checks. Dad’s pension and Mom’s disability checks will go directly to the facility to cover her care. Jerome, you’re my brother and I love you, but I’ll never forgive
your
wife for what she did today. No need to get up. I’ll find my way out.”

I
t took Seneca two days of waking up to bright sunlight, warm breezes, the sight of palm trees and the blue-green waters of the Caribbean to make her feel as if she’d been reborn. The first night on the island she’d dreamed of her mother. It wasn’t the image of the frail woman staring blankly into space but the pretty, vibrant woman who’d become a mother when she should’ve been dating, going to football games and hanging out with her friends.

Seneca had experienced a modicum of guilt that she’d left Dahlia behind when she boarded the jet. However, when she rethought her conversation with the neurologist, she knew her mother was in a better place—a place where medical experts would see to her every need. She still was unable to fathom how Maya could tie a harmless and defenseless woman to a chair and then go and leave her. If she hadn’t been so desperate to free her mother and clean her up, Seneca would’ve called the police. Not only would Maya have faced arrest and charges of abuse, but it would also impact on her children. There was
no way Jerome could work and be Mr. Mom to three young children. Her brother couldn’t boil water without burning the pot.

When she’d arrived at the palatial house overlooking the ocean, it was too dark for her to survey the landscape. A middle-aged dark-skinned woman with a dimpled smile and accented English had shown her to an apartment on the second floor’s west wing. Ynes told Seneca if she needed anything all she had to do was ask her.

There wasn’t much she needed. She slept in late, went to bed after midnight and had developed a fondness for their strong black coffee and freshly baked crusty bread. She also ate three meals a day—something she hadn’t done in years. It no longer mattered if she did gain weight, because she wanted to regain the fifteen pounds she’d lost. The solution for stained teeth from the black coffee was bleaching. When she wasn’t eating or watching television novellas she spent most of her time lounging on the terrace outside her bedroom.

She’d just taken off the top to her swimsuit when she heard a knock on the door. Slipping her arms into the cotton wrap, Seneca walked across the room and opened the door. “Yes, Ynes.”

The housekeeper handed her an envelope. “Señor Rollins ask that you get this.”

“Who is Señor Rollins?”

Ynes grasped her hand and led her out to the terrace. Leaning forward, she pointed to a house partially concealed by a copse of palm trees. “He lives in that house.”

Shading her eyes with her hand against the bright sunlight, Seneca spied a stucco structure with a red tiled roof. “Who is he?”

Ynes debated whether to answer the question. Mr. Gordon didn’t like his employees to gossip. “He is a very famous doctor
in your country. He said I should wait for you to read it and give him an answer.” She gestured to the envelope.

Sliding her finger under the flap, Seneca took out a square of vellum: “Please have dinner with me. I have something you should see—ER.” She reread the invitation twice, then a third time. Ynes said Rollins was a famous doctor in the States, yet his name wasn’t familiar. “Tell him I will have dinner with him, but not at his house. If he wants to see me, then he must come here.”

Ynes turned her head in an attempt to conceal a smile. “I will tell him.”

Seneca rose gracefully to her feet when Ynes escorted a tall, slender bespectacled man with ebony skin onto the loggia where she’d set a table for two. He wore a white shirt with bright green leaves, black linen slacks and matching woven slip-ons with the aplomb of a male model. Stubble covered his well-shaped head.

Smiling, she offered him her hand. “Dr. Rollins, I presume.”

Eliot Rollins took the hand of the woman with the perfect face, a face he’d seen on the covers of fashion and entertainment magazines. He nodded. “Yes, Miss—”

“Houston. Seneca Houston.”

Large, penetrating dark eyes narrowed behind the lenses of the wire glasses. “Why is your name so familiar?” he asked innocently.

Seneca shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe we’ve met before.”

“I don’t think so. You’re not one of my patients.”

Seneca pointed to the chair opposite hers. “Please sit down, Dr. Rollins.”

“Eliot,” he said, taking the chair after Seneca sat. “I know
you’re not one of my patients because I’d recognize my work. I’m a plastic surgeon,” he explained.

Seneca touched her face. “I’ve never had any work done—at least not yet.”

“I doubt if you’ll ever have to be nipped and tucked.”

“What makes you so certain of that?”

“You have good skin and an even better bone structure. Your hair will turn gray years before you’ll discover your first wrinkle.”

Delicately arched eyebrows lifted. “What about my body?”

“You probably can have at least four children before considering a tummy tuck.” Eliot found her body was as exquisite as her face, even if she was a little too thin.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Dr. Rollins, after I push out my fourth baby.”

“It’s Eliot. I’m only Dr. Rollins to my patients.”

She inclined her head. “Okay, Eliot. Your note said you have something I should see.” She held out her hand, palm up. “May I see it?”

Reaching into the pocket of his shirt, Eliot placed a memory card on her outstretched hand. “I took this from a trespassing paparazzo who was hiding on my second-floor veranda taking photos of you.”

Seneca went completely still. She’d come to the island to get away from the glare of spotlights and flashbulbs distorting her vision; however, it appeared she wasn’t as cloistered as she’d thought.

“What did you do to him?”

Eliot met the eyes of the most exquisite woman he’d ever seen. He had female patients who’d bankrupted their wealthy husbands to get the face and body of the woman sitting opposite him. She’d pulled her curly back and tied it with a
yellow ribbon that matched the midriff top and hip-hugging long skirt.

“I took his camera. That’s a lot more punitive than reporting him to the police.”

“Have you looked at what’s on this?”

Eliot shook his head. “No. The only thing I’ll say is the pervert was photographing you sunbathing.”

“You looked?”

“No, I didn’t look.”

“But you said you saw me sunbathing,” she countered.

“I said when I caught the creep I wanted to see what he was looking at, so I peered over the veranda and saw you sunbathing.”

Throwing back her head, Seneca laughed uncontrollably, the sultry sound caressing Eliot like the brush of a feather. “What’s so funny, Butterfly?”

Seneca sobered immediately. “So you do know who I am?”

“Only someone who’d been living on another planet wouldn’t know who you are. Do photographers always stalk you?”

“Not usually. Living in New York allows me to have some anonymity. I’m certain it would very different if I lived in L.A.”

“You don’t like L.A.?”

“It’s nice, but I prefer living in New York. Have you ever been to New York?” she asked Eliot. She liked the way he angled his head as if he were deep in thought, or contemplating the answers to the questions she put to him. It was difficult to pinpoint his age, but she estimated he was somewhere between thirty and forty.

“I visit New York several times a year.”

Propping her arm on the table, Seneca rested her chin on the heel of her hand. “Business or personal?”

“It’s always business.” Eliot assumed a similar position, his gaze burning into Seneca’s. “If I decide to come to New York and it’s not business-related, would you show me around?”

“What would you like to see?”

“A Broadway play, museums, go to a Yankees game, and maybe a jazz club.”

“No famous restaurants, Dr. Rollins?”

Eliot lowered his arm. “Do you have an Eliot in your past you don’t like, because you seem to have a problem saying my name.”

“No. I’ve never met an Eliot.”

“Then why do you insist on calling me Dr. Rollins?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because when the housekeeper gave me your note she identified you as Dr. Rollins.

“I…” Whatever Seneca was going to say was preempted when Ynes and another older woman entered the loggia pushing a serving cart from which wafted the most delicious aromas.

Her eyes met Eliot’s as the women set out platters of thinly sliced grilled steak with onions, white rice, red beans and sweet plantains. Ynes was smiling when she filled two goblets with sangria.

Waiting for the two women to return to the house, Seneca raised her wineglass. “It’s very nice meeting you, Eliot Rollins.”

Smiling and following suit, Eliot raised his glass. “And I’m honored to meet you, Seneca Houston.” He took a deep swallow of the chilled red wine. “How long are you going to be in Punta Cana?”

Seneca traced the rim of her glass with a forefinger. “I’m not certain. I’ve decided to play it by ear.”

“Which means?”

“The length of my stay is open-ended.” She paused. “I suppose you’re curious as to why I’m hanging out here.”

“A little. But you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

How could Seneca tell Eliot that it wasn’t that she didn’t want to tell him but she needed to tell him, because she had come to the realization that she didn’t have a close girlfriend in whom she could confide, and just when her off-again, on-again relationship with her sister had stabilized, the focus of Robyn’s life had shifted to her husband and his widening political social circle. Robyn had attended so many D.C. parties that she’d hired a part-time social secretary.

“I’ve decided to retire from modeling.” A feeling of inner peace that had evaded her for years swept over Seneca with the pronouncement, and she felt almost giddy with relief.

“Aren’t you too young to retire?” Eliot asked.

“Not from modeling. I started modeling part-time at eighteen, and three years later I had my first runway show in Miami. Since then, all the years have become a blur.”

Eliot extended his hand. “Give me your plate and I’ll serve you. There’s no way we’re going let this delicious-looking food go to waste.” He took her plate, spooning a small portion of each dish on her plate, then handed it back to her. “You take more if you want.”

Seneca looked at the food on her plate. The portions were for a small child. Her head came up. “I do eat.”

Eliot smiled. “You don’t have to try and convince me that you don’t have an eating disorder.”

“I don’t,” she said defensively. “I’ve lost fifteen pounds in the past three months.”

“Why?”

“I was working too hard and traveling much too much,
so I had to decide to whether to continue to model and drop dead from exhaustion or give it up and live a normal life.”

“Eat, Seneca. You can talk later.”

She did eat, taking two servings of everything, while Eliot talked. He told her he’d always wanted to be a doctor but hadn’t decided on a specialty until his last year of medical school. He’d become a dermatologist, practicing for several years before choosing cosmetic and reconstructive surgery.

“What is your most popular procedure?” Seneca asked after swallowing the red wine.

“I’d have to say rhinoplasty closely followed by breast enhancement.”

Seneca wrinkled her nose. “Do people really hate how they look that much?”

Eliot lifted broad shoulders under the colorful shirt. “Hate is a strong word. I’d like to believe they’re uncomfortable with themselves whenever they look in the mirror. They see something that doesn’t fit their perception of perfect. But then you have to ask yourself, what is perfection? Do you like what you see in the mirror?”

“We’re not talking about me, Eliot.”

“But I am talking about you, Seneca. I’ve had a few women come to me and ask if I can give them a nose or eyes like some model or actress they admire. Your name has come up a few times. We’re a society that has become obsessed with looks and youth. And it isn’t just women. I have almost as many male patients who want larger calves and penises. Why a man would want a ten-inch penis boggles my mind.”

“Do you give it to them?”

“I give my patients whatever they want as long as it doesn’t compromise medical ethics.”

“How do you decide how to change just, say, a too-wide nose or heavy eyelids?”

“With today’s technology, before-and-after photos are placed side by side, giving the patient an opportunity to approve of the result. To determine the width of your nose you should draw a vertical line from the inner corner of your eye. It should fall somewhere near the outer edge of the nostril. Patients are told to smile in their photos because nostrils tend to spread out.

“I perform what is called an ABR, or alar base reduction, to narrow the width and opening size of the nostrils. It’s performed under local anesthesia and downtime is usually two to three days, with the sutures removed on the fifth day.”

Seneca affected a noticeable shudder. “It sounds painful.”

“It is, but patients are given pain medication.”

“How much is a rhinoplasty?”

“It can range between twenty-five hundred and five thousand.”

“How many breast enhancements do you perform a year?”

Eliot’s eyelids lowered behind the lenses of his glasses. “Too many,” he admitted. “Are you considering implants?”

Seneca glanced down at the front of her top. Whenever she lost weight she usually lost a cup size. “No. I have enough for my size, thank you.”

“I wouldn’t take you on as a patient even if you asked me.”

“Why would you say something like that, Eliot?”

“You have a perfectly symmetrical face. Only a doctor out to make money would change your features. I read somewhere that ten billion was spent on cosmetic procedures in 2008, and that’s about ten percent less than was spent in 2007 because of surgery alternatives.”

“Are you talking about Botox?”

Attractive lines deepened around Eliot’s eyes when he
smiled. “Fillers like Botox and Restylane, laser skin resurfacing and laser treatments for leg veins have surged in popularity, while there has been a decrease in liposuction, tummy tucks and face-lifts. A weakened economy will also impact the price of beauty.”

Seneca found herself intrigued by the doctor, who kept her entertained with stories about some of his patients who traded up husbands when he refused to pay for another procedure. “I assume you have an office in Beverly Hills?”