He doesn't say anything, but his mouth does snap shut. And Gloria receives his silent tribulation as she always does, with little regard and great condescension.
She looks wonderful. She has that model figure, all tits and ass and long, long legs. She's wearing a pair of designer sweats—small white crop-top and low slung, curve hugging bottoms. Her dark hair is swept up in a knot, as if she just came from an exercise class. Her face is devoid of make-up, but that flawless complexion and those huge dark eyes don't need any enhancement. She's beautiful.
And she bloody well knows it.
She's pursing full, pink-tinted lips in my direction. “Anna, David told me what happened. Are you all right?"
I wish there was just the teeniest little note of concern in that voice, but there isn't. It's purely a rhetorical question asked for David's benefit, I'm sure.
"Yes, Gloria. I'm fine. Thanks for asking."
"Good. Glad to hear it.” She tilts her head and squints at me. “You don't look half as bad as I expected. Well—except for the hair, of course"
David shoots her a look, but my hands go instinctively to my head. I forgot I'd only towel-dried my hair after my shower. Shit.
Gloria puts a possessive hand on David's arm. “Well, we only stopped by to let you know that David and I are leaving. I know he said you have a friend coming to take care of you, but remember you can call us if you need anything."
The offer hangs in the air while we eye each other. Right.
She makes a move toward the door, but David hangs back a minute. He's frowning at me. “I still don't like this. You sure you're going to be okay?"
I smile. “Yes. Michael will be here any minute.” The lie comes easily.
"Call me tonight, okay?"
I nod, again catching Gloria's eye. I know full well if I call tonight, Gloria will answer the phone and I'll be a wrong number.
David comes closer, bends, gives me a kiss on the cheek. “We're going to LA for a few days. We leave tomorrow morning. But you have my cell phone number. Call me if you need anything. I'm only a twenty minute commuter flight away."
I nod again and they're gone. The news that David's leaving for LA doesn't hit me as bad at all. It will give me a few days to sort out what's happened on my own. No danger of an unexpected visit. I look toward the doctor.
He's still watching the door Gloria disappeared through, as though hoping to conjure her back again.
"Dr. Avery?"
He gives himself a shake, licks his lips and turns back to me. He has a dazed, questioning look in his eye. He's completely forgotten me, why he's here, and what he's supposed to be doing.
Gloria has that affect on people.
Maybe she's a witch. A real witch, not just the bitchy cousin.
"The scrubs?” I remind him gently. “You were going to get me something to wear."
His eyes clear and he jerks upright. “Of course. I'll be right back.” He clutches the clipboard to his chest and rushes out, hoping, no doubt, to snatch one last glimpse of the goddess.
Great.
I open the closet door. My purse is on the floor and I snatch it up and head back into the bathroom. There's a comb inside and I go to work on hair tangled from the shower. No wonder Dr. Avery swooned when Gloria showed up. I look like the “before” in a bad hair ad. I keep my hair short for convenience, but it does need to be combed once in awhile, and right now it stands up in peaks like a fright-show wig. Gloria must have had to really restrain herself from bursting into laughter when she saw me.
I peer at my reflection more closely. It's also no wonder Gloria didn't think I looked that bad. Damned, if those black eyes don't seem less pronounced. And the wound on my forehead appears to be closing itself even as I watch.
What is this?
I hear the outside door open. “Dr. Avery,” I call. “Look at this—"
But when I step into the room, he isn't there. On the bed a pair of hospital-green scrubs have been left in a neat, folded pile.
Guess I've seen the last of Dr. Avery.
Chapter Six
I live on Isthmus Court in Mission Beach, on a street so narrow there's no vehicle access at all. So I direct the cab driver to let me out on busy Mission Blvd. I walk the block to my home, dodging the summer surge of pedestrians that use my street as access, drawn like lemmings to the sea. It's often a nuisance, the noise and pollution, but I wouldn't live anywhere else.
My grandparents bought this place in the 50's, when charming, red shake bungalows were the norm. Now, mine is the only original cottage on the block, dwarfed by pretentious two and three story monstrosities that rise out of the ground like grotesque monuments to greed. It's a constant irritation what developers and new money have done to the neighborhood.
I'm only glad my grandmother didn't see it. She gave the cottage to me when she moved to Florida fifteen years ago. She died unexpectedly soon after, and I've lived here ever since—through college, through various forays into “real jobs” approved by my folks. Her gift is what gave me the security I needed to leave a final teaching job I hated and, eventually, to discover something that I loved.
I don't think my parents have ever forgiven her for that.
I pick up the newspapers lying on the porch and the dozen or so flyers from real estate agents inquiring as to whether I'd consider selling. They all assure me they have instant buyers, as I'm sure they do. But the smell of the ocean right outside my door and the brilliance of the sun bouncing off the water remind me of why I'd never leave—for any amount of money.
I open the door and breathe deeply, loving the familiar fragrance of cedar paneling mingled with the lodge scent of a real wood burning fireplace and the hint of my grandfather's cigars. It's comforting and welcoming and gives me a sense of belonging. My roots are here in this cottage.
I pick up the phone to check for messages. There are three. My mother, apologizing for the fight we had a night ago. Jerry Reese, the bail bondsman David and I work for, apologizing for not coming to the hospital to see us and wondering, incidentally, when we'd be available again for work. No mention of Donaldson or what happened to me. Curious. And the third from Max, my boyfriend, apologizing for not checking in sooner, but this was the first chance he's had in days and he's sorry he missed me.
Three messages, three apologies. I delete them all. I'll talk to my mother when they return from vacation. Jerry can wait until David comes back from LA I'm not about to go after Donaldson again on my own. And Max—he's DEA, in a deep undercover operation. There's no way I can call him back and there's no telling when I'll hear from him again. The relief I feel at that is no surprise.
I cross into the kitchen, tossing the newspaper on the table. My stomach is rumbling. No wonder. It's almost three o'clock, and I can't remember the last time I ate. I open the refrigerator and peer inside. There's plenty of food—luncheon meats, salad stuff, yogurt.
And the leftover lasagna from my favorite Italian place.
My salivary glands are working overtime.
I pull the covered dish out of the refrigerator and take it to the microwave. I work the corners of the cardboard take out box loose and hold it up to savor the sweet aroma of meat sauce laced with garlic.
A wave of nausea hits, so overpowering the container slips from my hand. The lasagna splatters across the counter in a greasy smear.
Shit.
I grab for a sponge and start mopping up, but the smell assaults me again. I can barely stand to scrape the mess into the garbage disposal but the thought of leaving it is even worse. I gag and choke, but finally the last of it whirls down the drain and I draw a cautious breath.
What the hell was that? I've never known lasagna to go bad.