Royal Pains : Sick Rich (9781101559536) (7 page)

We were back to high school again.

I poured wine for everyone. It was fantastic. Way too expensive for my blood, but it was an unexpected treat.

Silence fell again as everyone returned to Evan's wonderful meal. The Sally Lunn bread was exactly as I remembered.

“Evan, you've outdone yourself again,” I said. “This bread is outstanding.”

“Just like when we were kids,” he said.

What'd I tell you?

“Kids?” Jill asked.

Evan related the story of our childhood trip to Williamsburg. I corrected him on a couple of things and he corrected me back, but mostly we agreed.

Chapter 8

Angela Delaney's modest two-bedroom cottage was nestled on the shore of a small pond just off Hands Creek Road a few miles north of East Hampton. It was white with black trim and shutters. Round white posts supported a sloping roof and were connected by intricately patterned black wrought-iron railings. Evan wheeled the HankMed van into the gravel parking area that ran along one side of the house and we climbed out. I hoisted our medical bag over one shoulder while Divya grabbed her purse and laptop.

The morning was warm, with a slight breeze rustling the trees that shaded the house. We found Angela on her back porch, sitting in one of the two rockers that faced the pond. She looked up from the book she was reading and smiled.

“How wonderful,” she said, setting the book on the small round table next to her. “I get to see all of you today.”

Angela had suffered a hip fracture two weeks earlier and had undergone a total hip replacement. A THR in medical jargon. After four days in the hospital and ten days in rehab, her orthopedist had discharged her yesterday afternoon.

We climbed the three steps to the porch.

“You look wonderful,” I said.

“Liar.”

“No, you truly do,” Divya said.

“I haven't washed my hair in days and haven't put on any makeup in two weeks.”

“Must be your natural beauty,” I said.

She laughed. “Now that's what I call bedside manner.”

“Happy to be home?” I asked.

“My favorite place in the world.” She waved a hand toward the pond. “When I die this is where I want to be. Sitting right here. Listening to my birds and frogs and insects.”

The pond was peaceful. The way I imagined Walden Pond would be, though I knew Walden was much larger and now a tourist area. Complete with swimming and a gift shop. But this little pond with its mirrored green surface, hardy reeds, and tree-shaded banks must be what Thoreau saw in his mind's eye when he wrote about it.

“I can understand that.” I sat in the rocker next to her, tilting forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “How are you doing?”

“Fine. Still a little sore, but I'm up and around.”

“Did your granddaughter come?”

“Oh, yes. I hate to drag her away from her busy life, but she insisted.”

“You'll need some help for a while. Knowing you, not long, but a few weeks anyway.”

“I'm old, not an invalid.”

“And you shouldn't be alone while you're getting back on your feet.”

“The physical therapy folks will be coming out every day. That's enough company.”

“Don't go all little-old-lady cranky on me.”

“At my age I can do what I want.” She gave me one of her mischievous smiles.

“Are you doing your exercises?”

She extended her leg, twisted it one way and then the other. “See. It works fine. And I use those rubber-band things they gave me three times a day just like I did in rehab.”

I slid from the rocker and knelt in front of her. “Let me see.” I grasped her ankle and knee, flexing her knee and then her hip to about forty-five degrees. A little stiff. “Does that hurt?”

“Not at all.”

“What about this?” I rotated her knee inward slightly and then outward, checking the stability and mobility of her new hip.

“A little.” She smiled. “But you're much more gentle than those physical therapy folks.” She shook her head. “They're a tough crew.”

“It's for your own good.”

“That's what they keep telling me.” She flashed a smile. “I don't believe them either.”

I eased her leg down until her foot rested on the porch again. “Looks like they're doing a good job. You'll be dancing before you know it.”

“Are you asking me for a date?” she asked, a wicked glint in her eyes.

“I see the new hip didn't change you a bit.”

“Did you expect it would? They didn't operate on my brain.”

I heard car tires on gravel and looked up as an SUV pulled in and parked near the back edge of the lot, nosing up beneath an overhanging cedar branch. A tall, lean, deeply tanned blond woman stepped out. She grabbed a bag of groceries and headed our way.

“There she is now,” Angela said.

She introduced us to Danielle, her granddaughter.

“How's she doing?” Danielle asked.

“Great,” I said. “As expected.”

“She is tough.”

I laughed. “That she is.”

“You guys sound like I'm shoe leather,” Angela said.

“Much tougher than that,” Danielle said.

Angela was tough. One of those seventy-five-year-olds that you just knew would see a hundred. Last year she had gone through a rocky gall bladder surgery. One that would have knocked most people down for a while. But despite the infection that had spread throughout her bloodstream, Angela snapped back like a twenty-year-old. Two weeks after the surgery you couldn't tell anything had happened to her.

“Let me put these away.” Danielle started toward the back door. “Can I get you guys anything? Maybe some juice or a cola?”

“We're fine,” I said.

She nodded and disappeared inside.

“Isn't she lovely?” Angela asked.

“She is,” I said.

“She lives out in LA. She's a world-class surfer. Won all kinds of awards and contests. All over the world.”

“Really?” Evan said, his gaze turning toward the back door as if looking for Danielle.

“Oh, yes. She's been on the cover of about every surfing magazine there is. I have a whole stack of them.”

“I'd like to see them,” Evan said.

Of course he would.

“See them what?” Danielle had returned.

“Your magazine covers, dear.”

Danielle blushed and rolled her eyes. “Grandma, don't embarrass me.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.” Another devilish grin from Angela.

“Have you been surfing long?” Divya asked.

“I've been on a board since I was five.”

“I hear you're pretty good,” I said, nodding toward Angela.

“Grandma exaggerates, but I do okay.”

“She's won dozens of meets and ranked . . . What is it now?”

“Sixth.”

“Sixth in the world,” Angela said. “I'd say that's good.”

“Wow,” Evan said. “A real pro surfer. That's so cool.”

“Do any of you surf?” Danielle asked.

“Not me,” Divya said. “I'm not big on water.”

“I tried it once,” Evan said. “Didn't work out so well. I think the waves were too big that day.”

“Three feet?” I said.

“They look bigger when you're in them,” Evan said.

Danielle laughed. “Yes, they do.”

“What's it like out there?” Divya asked. “When you're riding a wave?”

“Exhilarating. You feel so free. Like you're flying.”

“Right up until you crash. Right?” I said.

She laughed again. “True. Sometimes it can be a real washing machine if you get thrashed by a big wave.”

“Has that ever happened to you?” Divya asked.

“It's happened to every surfer. Sometimes you slam the bottom and get rolled over rocks. Sand up your nose. Tumbling around like a rag doll. Can't tell up from down. Sometimes you think you'll never find the surface.”

“Sounds scary to me,” I said.

“But when you're flying along over the water?” She shrugged. “There's nothing quite like it.”

“Teach me,” Evan said.

“Teach you to surf?” Divya said. “That's a disaster in the making.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Coordination isn't your strong suit.”

“Ignore her,” Evan said. “I'll even pay you.”

Danielle laughed. “That wouldn't be necessary. But I need to stay here with Grandma.”

“No, you don't,” Angela said. “I'm perfectly capable of puttering around here on my own. Besides, I'd bet Evan would be good at it.”

Evan's chest puffed out. “See. Angela thinks I could do it.”

“She obviously hasn't been around you much,” Divya said.

Angela laughed and then said to Danielle, “Go ahead. I'll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“Of course.”

Danielle hesitated and then said, “Okay. But I should warn you, the waves here aren't very big, so we might not be able to find any to ride.”

“I think smaller is better,” I said. “Otherwise Evan might be joining Angela with her physical therapy.”

“Are you saying I might break something?”

“Or someone,” Divya said.

“Maybe around three or four?” Danielle said. “While Grandma is taking her nap?”

“That'll work,” Evan said.

“Great. I'll meet you at the beach. Near that seafood restaurant.”

“Panama Joe's?”

“That's it. There's a parking lot right next to it.”

“I'll be there.” Evan clapped his hands. “This is going to be so cool.”

Cool
was definitely not the word that came to mind.

Chapter 9

We got as far as the parking area before my cell phone buzzed. I didn't recognize the number. I answered and found it was Dr. Lloyd Baransky.

“I wanted to give you an update on your patient Jimmy Sutter,” Baransky said. “I would have called last night, but we didn't complete his surgery until nearly two a.m. It was a tough one.”

“How so?”

“The dissection involved both carotids and the left subclavian.”

“Not good.”

“No. But all went well. Just took time.”

“So he's okay?”

“Amazingly so. Still on the vent, but making urine and his renal and cardiac parameters are perfect. He's coming around and moving all extremities. We'll likely extubate him soon and then we'll have a better handle on his neuro status, but so far it looks good.”

As soon as I hung up I told Divya what Baransky had said.

“He's a lucky man,” she said.

“Very.”

We climbed in the van and Evan cranked it up. My cell buzzed again. This number I recognized. It was Jill. She said she was running late and asked if we could meet at the costume shop a little later. No problem. So we headed back to Shadow Pond, where Divya and I settled at the patio table, laptops open, and began working on patient files.

No easy task with Evan's constant interruptions.

If deciding on a Fourth of July costume was hard, choosing a bathing suit for surfing was impossible. He popped in and out of the house, a new suit on each time. I had no idea he owned that many.

“What do you think of these?” Evan asked as he came back outside. He now wore a pair of dark blue swim trunks.

“They're fine,” I said.

“You didn't even look at them.”

I looked at them. “They're fine.”

Evan tugged at the waistband. “What I need are some cool baggies like they wear on TV.”

“What TV would that be?” I asked. “Don't know that I've seen baggies in quite a while.”

“Not since Gidget,” Divya said.

“You weren't even born when Gidget surfed,” Evan said.

“Neither were you, but I watch old movies, too.”

“I don't think Gidget actually surfed,” I said. “I don't remember ever seeing her with wet hair.”

“But she sat on the beach and looked cool,” Evan said. “Or was it hot?”

“Perhaps that's what you should do,” Divya said. “Sit on the beach. But you looking cool—or hot—is out of the question.”

He shook his head and headed back inside.

Divya glanced at her watch. “Are you almost done?”

“Just a couple more charts to complete.”

“We have to meet Jill in half an hour.”

“We'll make it.”

Evan returned, wearing bright yellow elastic bicycle pants. “What about these?”

“The sharks will have no problem finding you,” I said.

“Sharks? There aren't any sharks around here.”

“The ocean doesn't have compartments,” I said. “They can go wherever they want.”

“That's true,” Divya said. “And they love surfers.”

I nodded. “Something about them looking like seals from below.”

“That's a myth,” Evan said. “Shark attacks on surfers are rare.”

“True,” I said. “But the problem with statistics is that they're for the masses. For the individual it's either zero or one hundred percent.”

“I'll take zero, then.”

“I'm not sure the statistics god gives you a choice,” Divya said.

“Evan R. Lawson is not afraid.” He went back into the house.

As soon as the door closed, my cell phone chimed. It was Jill.

“You guys ready to head over?” she asked.

“As soon as we dress Evan.”

“Dress Evan?”

“He's been prancing around in bathing suits for the past half hour.”

“This should be good. Exactly why is he wearing a bathing suit?”

“He's set up a surfing lesson for this afternoon.”

“Surfing? Evan?”

“That would be the one.”

“You're kidding.”

“Wish I was.”

“Who on earth would agree to give Evan surfing lessons?”

“Someone with a death wish.”

Jill laughed.

I told her about Danielle Delaney.

“Really? Danielle Delaney? She's like a world-class surfer.”

“You know who she is?”

“Of course. One of the world's hottest female athletes.”

“She is that.”

“Should I be jealous?”

“That would be nice.”

“Funny. How did Evan pull this off?”

“Danielle's grandmother is a patient. We saw her this morning and, well, you know Evan.”

“True.”

“Right now he's trying to decide what suit to wear.”

“What difference does it make? He'll be wearing a wet suit.”

“That's true,” I said. “I never thought of that.”

I wished I had thought of that. It might have saved Divya and me a lot of aggravation. Wait—what was I thinking? No it wouldn't. Evan would simply have obsessed about the wet suit.

Evan came out the door as Jill asked, “Does he have a wet suit?”

“I'll let you ask him.” I handed the phone to Evan. “Jill has some thoughts on your surfing safari.”

Evan took the phone. His side of the conversation went like this:

“Yes, that Danielle Delaney.”

“She wants to. Even volunteered to.”

“Around four.”

“No, I don't have a wet suit. Why would I need one?”

“It's not that cold.”

“Really? It's July. I thought the water would be warmer.”

“Okay.”

He hung up.

“What's the story?” I asked.

“I need to rent a wet suit.”

I closed my laptop and stood. “First let's meet Jill at the costume shop.”

The trip to the costume shop should have been easy. A quick in and out. Jill, Divya, and I could have selected a costume and been out the door in no time. One problem. Evan. His decision-making abilities were anemic at best.

As soon as I walked in the door I realized I'd never been to a costume store. Maybe when I was very young, but if so I didn't remember it. And I would have remembered something like Marie's Costume and Theatrical Wear Emporium. No cheap plastic Superman or Batman costumes. No cowboys and Indians. No Darth Vader or stormtrooper getups. Marie's looked like the wardrobe department of a Hollywood production company.

The place was huge, warehouselike, with exposed beams, pipes, and conduits crisscrossing the high ceiling and row after row of racks stuffed with clothing. Ball gowns and ballet outfits. Peasant dresses and royal finery. A military row that had everything from Civil War uniforms to full-on Navy Seal gear. And a row of colonial clothing.

We waited at the counter while the woman behind it completed a phone conversation by telling the person on the other end that she did indeed have a selection of Romeo and Juliet outfits and that she would be open until six. She hung up and smiled.

“Can I help you?”

“This place is amazing,” I said. “I had no idea all this would be here.”

She smiled. “We supply several local theaters as well as rent costuming to the public. I'm Marie Santos.”

“The owner, I take it?”

“And chief cook and bottle washer.”

As I introduced her to Divya and Evan, Jill came through the front door, cell phone to her ear. She immediately ended her call and I introduced her to Marie.

“We need costumes,” Evan said.

“I assumed that's why you were here.” She flashed a playful smile.

She was in her mid-forties, with dark hair lightly streaked with gray and dark brown eyes that lit up when she smiled.

“What type of costumes?”

“Colonial. Revolutionary War,” Jill said.

“Ah.” She nodded. “You must be going to Nathan Zimmer's party?”

“Yes, we are,” I said. “How'd you know?”

“You're about the two-dozenth persons to come looking for that period. A little unusual in July. Around Halloween I wouldn't have noticed, but July isn't a big month for costumes. Except for the theaters.”

“Are we too late?” Evan asked. “Are all the colonial ones gone?”

She waved a hand toward the packed racks. “I think we can find something for you. What did you have in mind?”

“A spy outfit,” Evan said. “I want to go as a spy.”

“Very good. You'll make a great spy.”

Evan looked at me. “See? Not everyone thinks I look like a bookkeeper.”

“Marie doesn't know you.”

“Actually, you'd make an excellent bookkeeper or newspaperman,” Marie said. “I can see you with a blousy shirt, armbands, wire-rimmed glasses, and an eyeshade.”

“Sounds like a riverboat gambler,” Jill said. “Did they have those in colonial times?”

“I think that was a little later,” Marie said. “After the Mississippi River Valley was more populated.”

Jill nodded. “That makes sense.” She looked at Evan. “So, spy it is.”

Marie came around the counter. “This way.”

For the next twenty minutes she showed Evan a selection of Revolutionary War spy costumes complete with waistcoats, capes, and hats. While she occupied Evan, Jill and I rummaged through the adjacent racks and Divya moved two rows away to a collection of colonial ball gowns. Finally, Evan, his arms loaded with choices, headed toward the dressing rooms along the back wall.

“Now, what can I help you two with?” Marie asked as she walked to where Jill and I were sorting through one of the racks.

Jill held a Martha Washington dress against her body. Black with white lace at the neck and sleeves. “What about this?”

“Better than a highway robber,” I said.

Marie gave us a quizzical look.

“That was one of the things we were considering,” I said.

“This is much better,” Marie said. “Don't you think?”

“Looks great to me,” I said.

“I agree,” Marie added. She adjusted the lace at the neckline. “You'll look like a true colonial woman.”

“What about him?” Jill nodded in my direction.

Marie studied me for a moment, her brow furrowed, and then said, “Since highwayman is out, I think a frontiersman would work.” She turned and headed down the row. We followed.

She shuffled through the hangers until she found the one she was looking for. She removed it and laid it on top of the rack. The costume consisted of a buckskin shirt and pants and a wide leather belt. She slid the shirt from the hanger and, holding it by the shoulders, draped it against my chest. It was medium brown, long, hanging to midthigh, and had fringe across the chest and at the cuffs and hem.

“I think this will work,” Marie said.

“I love it,” Jill said. “You look like Davy Crockett.”

“He wasn't born until after the Revolution. He died at the Alamo in eighteen thirty-six,” I said.

“You're just full of worthless information, aren't you?” Jill said.

Marie laughed. “But this was typical frontier wear for eighteenth-century America.”

“Do you have a coonskin cap?” Jill asked.

“Yes.”

“The outfit is fine, but no coonskin,” I said.

“But you'd look so cute in it.” Jill laughed.

“Cute is not what I'm going for.”

Divya walked up. She was stunning in a rose-colored floor-length gown. A fitted bodice, narrow waist, and broad, flowing skirt. The shoulders bloused and the sleeves flared into lace ruffles.

“Wow!” I said.

“That is stunning,” Jill said.

“You don't think it's too much?” Divya asked.

“No,” Jill and I said in unison.

“It's perfect,” Jill said.

Divya did a full turn. The skirt rustled. “I feel like a true colonial lady.”

“That color is perfect for you,” Marie said.

Evan came out of the dressing room. He wore brown pants stuffed into knee-high boots, a frilly white shirt beneath a dark brown waistcoat, a wide leather belt with a brass buckle, and a chocolate-colored cape.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I still think bookkeeper would be more fitting,” Divya said.

“And I was just going to say how beautiful you look in that gown,” Evan said.

“Thank you.” Divya curtsied. “And you make a beautiful spy.”

That drew a laugh from Marie.

“Spies aren't beautiful,” Evan said. “They're stealthy and cool.”

“That's you. Stealthy and cool.”

“Absolutely,” Evan said as he made a wide turn, causing the cape to flare around him.

Divya raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“I think our work here is done,” I said to Marie.