Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures (9 page)

She was going into the hotel bar, a flowered scarf shielding her face.

And behind her, Charlie was holding the door.

I sat down, reasoned that the man wasn’t Charlie. And the woman wasn’t Claudia Madison, back from the dead. Not everyone was a ghost. People resembled others; it was that simple.

Even so, I didn’t feel comfortable out in the open any more. Instead of ordering lunch on the beach, I decided to eat on my balcony.

“Want company?” Melanie looked stricken that I was leaving.

“Thanks, but I don’t think so. I mean, I’d have to check with my roommates.”

“I thought your roommate was having surgery.” Her tone was sharp, accusatory.

I stiffened. “I have three roommates. One of them is
working. She needs to concentrate.” It wasn’t a lie. Susan was working. I hadn’t actually said she was doing it in our suite.

Melanie eyed me, doubtful.

Why did I feel I had to explain myself? “Besides, I’m going to nap.”

She tossed her towel over her shoulder. “No problem, Elle. I’ll be fine. Catch you later.” She strutted across the sand.

I told myself that Melanie was a big girl. And she wasn’t my responsibility. Still, as I grabbed my stuff and made my way across the sand, I felt as if I’d done something wrong.

Music pounded through the pool area. Every lounge chair was occupied; the water was crowded. Becky did lunges on the platform, demonstrating exercise steps with Chichi. Luis had the microphone, announced the directions, scanning the crowd.

“Left and up, and reach, and down. Again. Left and up—” I watched him, wondering if he was looking around for Melanie. Finally, I went inside.

I called Susan from the lobby. Found out that Jen was still in surgery. Susan was abrupt, absorbed in work. I offered to come over. She said there was no need. So I went upstairs to the room, looking forward to time alone. But when I opened the door, I realized I wasn’t. Someone was in the living room. I froze, let out an involuntary gasp.

And startled a maid.

“Oh, sorry,” I explained. “I didn’t expect to see anyone. You surprised me.”

I doubt she understood a word I was saying. She bowed her head deferentially, excused herself, and scurried toward the door.

“No, it’s fine,” I went on. “You don’t have to rush off.”

She kept her head down. “I come back later, señora.
No es una problema
.” And she was gone.

I ordered room service, hopped into the shower, and realized as the water pounded my skin, that I’d missed some spots with the sunscreen. The backs of my shoulders were scorched. Damn.
I wrapped myself in a towel, smothered my burns in aloe, took some Motrin, ate shrimp salad on the balcony. In the pool below, exercise class had ended; the music had stopped. I looked around, spotted Melanie at the poolside bar. Luis was close by, talking to a silver-haired lady wearing high heels and a bathing suit. A pelican swooped past my railing. I felt the whoosh of his outstretched wings gliding toward the ocean. Settled back on a lounge chair in the shade. Closed my eyes.

Susan shook me. Saying something urgent.

I blinked at her. Tried to make sense out of her words. Oh God. I sat up. “Is it Jen? Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. Dr. Du Bois said everything went perfectly.”

“Good. So should I go see her?”

She tilted her head as if my question made no sense. “No. She’s groggy. She’ll be back in the morning. Elle, don’t you need to get dressed?”

Dressed? I looked down. I was wearing a towel.

“What time is it?”

“I just told you. It’s almost seven. You better hustle.”

I looked around. The pool and beach were almost empty. The sun had moved over to the mountains. Lord, how long had I slept?

“Almost seven?” I tried to understand what that meant.

“Aren’t you having dinner with Dr. Du Bois?”

Dinner? What? Oh Lord, I was supposed to meet Alain Du Bois in the lobby in four minutes.

Still half asleep, I scurried around, grabbing random articles of clothes, putting some on, dropping others. Susan’s phone rang. When I left, she was still on the phone, running her hand through her hair, arguing with one of her daughters. “He’s your father, Lisa. I know he’s clueless, but you have to listen to him anyway. Yes, I mean it. Because he’s your father.” She looked at me and waved. “Have fun,” then shook her head. “No, not you. I was talking to Elle. She’s going to dinner. No. Not until you apologize to Daddy.” She raised her voice, angry. “Lisa. I mean
it. Look, I’m in Mexico, for God’s sakes. Can’t you guys get along for one week?”

I heard her yelling all the way to the elevator.

We ate outside, a few miles from the hotel. A small restaurant on the beach, connected to the owner’s home, not frequented by tourists. The owner was chubby and mustached, greeted Dr. Du Bois with a tight embrace, talked with him in Spanish. Dr. Du Bois introduced me in English, and Emilio took my hand and seated us on a veranda, the closest table to the water. Across the patio, a couple leaned their heads together, deep in conversation. Only one other table was occupied: an old man, seated alone. Emilio stood straight and formal, promised that, if we’d let him choose our menu, he would be delighted to create our meal.

Dr. Du Bois met my eyes, checking with me, making sure it was okay. Already, I noticed that he communicated a lot through his eyes. A blink or a spark. A twinkle. His eyes were his best feature. Or maybe not—his jaw was nice, too. And his nose—it was straight and not too small or shy. It was an elegant, proud thing. But I needed to stop staring at it. Needed not to pull an Elle and wander. Made myself smile and pay attention to Emilio as he described our dinner.

Actually, I still wasn’t quite awake. Twenty minutes ago, I’d been sound asleep on the balcony, and then I’d grabbed a strapped sundress, twisted my hair into a bun and tossed some makeup onto my face while dashing out the door. Dr. Du Bois had been polite, hadn’t seemed bothered that I’d been fifteen minutes late or that I’d arrived in the lobby flustered and breathless, hair already coming loose and skin cream clotted on my red-hot shoulders. He’d been gracious, had said I looked lovely as he escorted me to his BMW convertible, where he’d asked if I’d wanted him to raise the roof. I hadn’t. I’d been grateful for the wind; it had been loud, limiting the need for conversation. And giving me an excuse for mussed-up hair.

Emilio’s wife was squat and fair skinned. She lit candles for us, scolding that it had been too long since Dr. Du Bois had been there, that he worked too hard. She brought a pitcher of homemade lemonade, and Emilio brought a bottle of tequila with two glasses.

Dr. Du Bois offered to make me a drink, mixing the two. “It’s their specialty drink.” He poured tequila into the pitcher, stirred. “I’ve been coming here for years. I thought you’d like a chance to get away from the tourist spots. It’s charming, don’t you think?”

Was it? I looked around. Where was I? And why? Who was this slender, sun-tanned man across the table? I must have answered. Might have even asked a question because he went on.

“I met Emilio years back at the clinic. His kids are all grown now, moved away. But his son was burned in an oven fire when he was about sixteen. He was one of my first patients here, and I was able to help repair his scars. Emilio and I became friends, and I’ve been eating here ever since.”

We looked at each other across the table. Candlelight flickered, emphasizing his cheekbones. He picked up his glass with steady hands. Hands which, hours before, had sliced up Jen’s stomach and breasts, rearranged her nose. I cleared my throat. Tasted tequila lemonade.

“Here,” he lifted the tequila bottle. “I think it needs a little more.”

Oh dear. I nodded; he poured.

“So, everything went well with Jen today?”

He smirked. “Even though you’re friends, we have strict privacy policies. I can’t discuss her case with you. But I have no doubt that she’ll be happy with her results.”

Oh. I’d said something stupid. Was glad that sunburn and dusk would hide my blush.

“And besides, my work isn’t why we’re here. You tried to save Claudia Madison, a woman I valued not just as a longtime patient, but also as a dear friend.” He held up a glass. “Here’s
to a brave woman. No, sorry—to a beautiful, intriguing, brave woman—Elle Harrison.” He clinked my glass. At the rim.

I blushed again.

“That’s sweet of you, but anyone would have done—”

“Not true. You risked your life to save a stranger. Don’t try to minimize it. You’re clearly an unusual woman. Are you always that daring? That selfless? Tell me: Who is Elle Harrison?”

Really? I swallowed more tequila and lemonade. And I braced myself for get-to-know-you time, the inevitable part of a first date, filled with questions and answers, flirtations, and lies. But I didn’t want to talk about myself to this man. Even though he was Jen’s doctor, I really didn’t know him. More than that, I didn’t want to say I was a widow—hadn’t said that word out loud yet. Certainly not to a man who was taking me to dinner. I hated the word. Especially when combined with my profession: I was a widow who was on a leave of absence from teaching second grade. How pitiful and boring was that? Much better to stick with “intriguing” and “brave.” Before he could ask more questions, I turned it around.

“I’d rather talk about you. Tell me what brought you to Mexico. Why do you practice here?” Nicely done.

“Is that really what you want to talk about?” His eyes glittered, teased.

My face heated up yet again. “It’s a start.”

He smiled. Told me about his practice, how he and an American colleague had opened a practice here to provide services at lower costs than in the U.S.

“In the U.S., insurance doesn’t cover elective procedures like cosmetic surgery. In many cases, they are prohibitively expensive; here, we can charge less.”

“So people come here to save money?” I thought of Jen.

“Mostly, yes. Sometimes they come because American doctors have turned them down.”

Turned them down? “Why?”

He sighed. “You really want to talk about this?” He looked
cornered, continued only after I assured him that, yes, I did. “Okay. For some patients, one operation is enough. They correct thin lips or tiny breasts. But for others, nothing is enough.”

I pictured breasts being made larger and larger, until they tipped the woman over.

“For some patients,” he went on, “cosmetic surgery becomes a habit. In a way, they’re surgery addicts. They undergo procedure after procedure—liposuction and rhinoplasty. Breast enhancement or reduction—they keep coming back. Maybe they want attention from the medical staff, or maybe they want to look perfect. Who knows? I’m not a psychiatrist, so I don’t have to understand why. But often, American doctors turn these patients away. So they come here.”

“And you’ll do it? Even if you think a patient is addicted to surgery?” I was appalled.

Dr. Du Bois shrugged, took a drink. “Of course I will. As long as the procedure isn’t too great a risk to their health. If a patient wants it, we will do the work.”

I stiffened, looked off toward the ocean. Obviously, he’d work on anyone who could pay him. He’d operated on Jen even though she hadn’t needed anything done.

“What’s wrong? I’ve upset you?”

“Dr. Du Bois, why—”

“Alain,” he corrected. “Please.”

I met his eyes. They twinkled. “Alain.” I took a breath, tried not to sound judgmental. “Why would you perform unnecessary surgery? Especially on patients with a surgery addiction?”

He met my eyes. “Seriously? On such a beautiful night? You want to talk about my surgical practice?” He sighed.

I sat straight, attentive. Tried to look impartial.

“All right, if you insist. Elle, quite simply, each of us is given a body. It is my belief that, as long as we don’t hurt anyone else, we should have control over that body. If a man wants to change his appearance, why should anyone be able to tell him that he can’t?”

Emilio’s wife came over with chips, guacamole, and salsa. “I made these myself. The best.” She stood behind Alain, her hands on his shoulders. “This man is my hero. Be nice to him. I love him as my own.”

He took her hand and kissed it, released it as she walked away, ample hips swaying.