Fools Rush In
Page 10
“Hey, you ran farther than you ever have before!” my mind cheeped.
“Digger was crapping when he drove by,” the soul replied.
“Still, you probably lost a pound,” the mind continued.
“Digger was crapping when he drove by,” the soul repeated. “And he saw your stomach.”
“Dr. Barnes?” Nurse Jill called from the hallway, interrupting the mind/soul argument. I dragged myself into the present. When Jill called me Dr. Barnes, it meant a patient had come in. Otherwise, I was known as honey or sweetie.
“Yes, Mrs. Doyle?” I answered, grateful for the distraction.
“There’s a patient in Room One,” she said, sticking her head into the office with a file and a big grin.
I entered Room One, and there on the exam table sat an extremely good-looking man. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Swarthy skin. Heavy eyebrows, giving him an exotic, Mediterranean look. He held a gauze bandage on his right hand, and there was blood on his denim shirt.
“Hi, I’m Millie Barnes,” I said, extending my hand. As he looked at it pointedly, I realized he couldn’t shake at just that moment. “Sorry,” I murmured with a grin.
“Lorenzo Bellefiore,” he said with a smile.
I managed not to sigh. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said, my insides quivering. “What happened here?”
Lorenzo (oh, Mommy!) glanced down at his hand. “I got cut on a horseshoe crab,” he answered, frowning. “I think I might need stitches.”
“All right, let’s have a look,” I murmured, quite, quite glad that Curtis and Mitch had taken me shopping the week before.
In my best doctor mode, trying to focus on the injury and not on the intense lust that was melting my insides, I washed my hands and pulled on latex gloves. Gently peeling away the bloody gauze from the god’s hand, I looked at the wound. Focus, Millie, focus. He was wearing a spicy cologne, and I could just barely catch a whiff of it. Again, I suppressed a lustful sigh, instead giving him a quick and reassuring (I hoped) smile. His eyelashes were sinfully long.
“Yes, indeed, you will need stitches,” I pronounced cheerfully. Suture repairs were tons of fun for me. I loved suture repairs, especially on gorgeous men with delicious names.
“Promise not to hurt me,” he said, cocking an eyebrow.
“I promise,” I purred.
Flirting! We were flirting! With each other!
I called the charming Nurse Doyle and she, with only minimal facial contortions meant to convey her own giddy joy, got the necessary elements for a basic suture repair.
As I went to work on Lorenzo, I asked him a few questions, designed only, I assure you, to put him at ease and not to pry into his personal life. Well, maybe just a little.
“So, Mr. Bellefiore—”
“Call me Lorenzo,” he said, watching me swab his skin with Betadine.
“Okay, Lorenzo, do you live here on the Cape?”
“No, I don’t.” (I already knew this. If someone this magnificent lived within a fifty-mile radius, I would have known about him.) He went on. “I was born in Brooklyn, actually, but I’ve been away at school so long, that doesn’t seem like home anymore.”
“Where did you go to school?” I asked, sneaking another look at him. Mmm.
“I finished my Ph.D. in marine biology last year,” he answered, smiling gleamingly again. “In Miami. But I got a grant to do some research up here, and I just moved about a month ago.”
“Marine biology. That’s interesting,” I said. “If you don’t like needles, you should look away now.” I was about to inject his hand with local anesthesia, and he did indeed look away.
“Youch!” he yelped, jumping. “That stings!”
“I know, I’m sorry. But it won’t hurt in a minute. Cruel to be kind. So what are you doing up here on the Cape?”
“I’m studying the mating habits of horseshoe crabs,” he answered.
“Really!” I said, squelching a giggle.
“Yes, it’s fascinating,” he went on, and proceeded to tell me about the sexual patterns of the strange and prehistoric horseshoe crab. I made the appropriate murmurs of interest as he went on, carefully stitching up his rather elegant hand. Before he even knew it, I was done.
“Ta-da!” I announced, cutting the last tie. “What do you think?”
He examined the stitches carefully before turning his soulful Mediterranean eyes on me.
“You did a great job, Doctor,” he said, and my pulse jumped.
“All in a day’s work, Doctor,” I replied. I put a sterile gauze bandage over the wound and taped it into place, instructing him on keeping the cut clean and coming back for suture removal.
“Is your tetanus shot up to date?” I asked, rakishly snapping off my latex gloves and tossing them in the hazardous-waste bin.
“Just last year,” he answered. He scootched off the exam table. Alas, he was kind of short, maybe only five foot seven or so, but hey! Those eyelashes made up for a lot.
“Dr. Barnes, can I ask you something?” he said.
Anything and yes yes yes. “Sure, and call me Millie,” I said.
“I know we just met, but do you think you’d like to have dinner with me some night? I hardly know anyone up here, and I’d love to get to know you better.”
Oh my GOD! “I think that might be possible,” I answered calmly. “I’m working days all this week, so my nights are free.” Whoops! Too available. “If you give me a call here, maybe we can set something up.”
“That would be great.” He smiled again and again, my insides clenched with heat. Lorenzo sidled past me and went to settle up with Sienna. Jill came down the hall to pump me for details, but I headed her off at the pass.
“Mrs. Doyle, that humerus fracture needs a follow-up X-ray, so if you don’t mind, could you schedule that?” We had no humerus fracture. Jill jumped right in.
“Of course, Dr. Barnes. Anything else?”
“Yes. Mrs. Donahue needs a refill on her Coumadin, so if you could call that into the pharmacy, that would be great. And please make sure we’re restocked on suture kits in Room One, and don’t forget that we…should…should…okay, he’s gone!”
Sienna came leaping back to join us the minute Lorenzo Bellefiore walked out the door. We huddled around the small window in the doctor’s office that was, we had found, excellent for spying. Our newest and most favorite patient drove off, and then, like the three females we so clearly were, began with the high-pitched histrionics.
“Oh my God! Did you see his ass?” Sienna gushed.
“Oh my God, yes I did!” Jill answered with equal fervor.
“Ladies…ladies…I have an announcement to make,” I said, grinning hugely. “That man just asked me out.”
We were still squealing when Dr. Bala came in an hour later.
OF COURSE, I HADN’T FORGOTTEN about my humiliation and degradation of earlier that morning, but Lorenzo’s Mediterranean interruption happily microscoped that event. This romantic-stranger thing never happened to me. And I could use a distraction from Joe, having been reduced in ego to the size of a deer tick. Furthermore, it would be rather fantastic for Joe to see me out with a man whose beauty nearly equaled his.
That night, I called Katie. She was tickled that I was going out on a date and, like a good friend, pumped me for every single detail of our encounter. I was happy to oblige, sighing with delight over Lorenzo’s name/eyes/smile/lashes/hands/smell. And when Lorenzo called the next day to set a date, my happiness continued.
I HAD A FEW DAYS TO KILL before the big date, so I made a list. I loved lists. They comforted and protected me, minimized the margin of error and kept me focused, and I was going to need a lot of focus. I made the following list.
1. Call Curtis and Mitch for clothing suggestions.
2. Get hair trimmed by someone other than P-town psycho.
3. Clean house. (I wasn’t planning on having Lorenzo either pick me up or drop me off—my brother-in-law was a cop, after all, and I had been warned many times about strange men—but cleaning my house made me feel more together.)
4. Arrange to have Joe at the restaurant where I would be going with Lorenzo.
This last item would take a little finessing. Lorenzo had asked me to choose the restaurant, and I had picked the Barnacle for several reasons. Katie worked there, so she could check him out, the food was excellent and there was indeed a strong possibility that Joe would be around. Many birds slain with just one little stone.
The day before my date, I decided to visit my parents. I had been neglecting them a bit, dropping in only briefly, and so I called dear old Mom and asked her if I could come for dinner. As most moms in the world would be, she was delighted with the chance to feed her child.
“Of course you can come, honey!” she exclaimed. “What do you want me to make?”
“Anything, Mom. Everything you make is fantastic,” I replied truthfully.
“Oh, you’re so sweet. How about roast chicken?”
A sudden rush of guilt washed over me. Clearly, Mom was lonely…. She and Trish had done a lot together. Both were small-boned and slender and loved to go shopping at Talbots or the outlets, having lunch, seeing a play or movie. I had done little to fill the gap Trish had left.
“Why don’t you see if Sam and Danny can come, too?” I asked, knowing that the more people she had to fuss over, the happier my mother would be.
“Great idea! Okay, hon, I’ll see you tomorrow night.” Somehow, her happiness made me feel even guiltier.
The next night, I presented my mom with a bouquet of yellow tulips and gave her a big smooch. Danny and Sam were already there; Dad had Sam in the cellar, talking about manly things like cement and wiring, and Danny was setting up an e-mail account on my mom’s computer. It felt kind of festive, especially without my sister’s perpetually dissatisfied presence. Mom bustled around, half listening as Danny explained the nuances of Google, and I poured myself a glass of wine. The smell of roasted chicken and rosemary filled the kitchen, and I was suddenly starving. I hadn’t had many real meals in the last few months.
“I love your outfit, Millie darling,” my mom said, pausing to look at me.
“Thanks,” I smiled. I was wearing black pants and a blue shirt with a little blue-and-white floral scarf tied around my neck as instructed. Gold earrings. Gold-and-blue bracelet. Black suede shoes. “Curtis and Mitch and I went shopping. They’re better than Garanimals.”
“What are Garanimals?” Danny asked.
My mom smiled at the memory. “They were a brand of clothes. Everything came with a tag so you could tell what would match.”
“If your shirt had a gazelle tag and so did your pants, you matched,” I solemnly explained. “If they had a lion tag, they wouldn’t go with the gazelle tag, because lions eat gazelles. Are you following, Daniel?”
Mom and I laughed as Danny rolled his eyes. “We can only hope they bring them back,” she said.
“Hi, Daddy!” I said as my father and Sam emerged from the cellar. I stood on tiptoe to kiss Dad’s stubbly cheek. “How’s the King of Crap?”
“Just fine, darling. How’s my little girl?” He gave me a close look, frowning a bit. “Nancy, Millie looks thin. Aren’t we feeding her?”
“She doesn’t live with us anymore, Howard,” Mom answered. “And you do look a little thin, Millie. Are you eating okay?”
My parents thought I was thin. How I loved them! I smiled sappily while Sam smiled.
“I’ve just been running, that’s all,” I said proudly. Obviously, I was not going to tell my mother what I’d been eating recently.
“Running? Oh, that’s dangerous, honey. Howard, tell her it’s dangerous,” Mom replied.
“Millie, it’s dangerous,” Dad complied. “Let’s eat.”
We tucked into Mom’s wonderful cooking. Along with the succulent rosemary chicken, we feasted on mashed potatoes (which I’d have to avoid, as Mom used half-and-half for that extra hint of cholesterol), glazed carrots and native turnips, my favorite. Apple pie for dessert. Give me strength, Lord.
As we ate, Danny told us about his plans for the summer. He and some other kids from his class were going to Appalachia for a week to help build houses with Habitat for Humanity. On his return, he would start a job at a local camp for inner-city kids. Sam smiled modestly at his plate, but he was just about humming with pride. With the characteristic blend of confidence and terror unique to Red Sox fans, we discussed Boston’s pitching lineup (superlative), their batting (formidable) and their chances at a World Series victory (excellent). And finally, finally, Mom asked the question I’d been waiting for….
“So, Millie, how’s work?”
Okay, well, that wasn’t the question I’d been waiting for, but since no one would ask that question (“Are you seeing anyone, Millie?”), I would use work as a vehicle to discuss my upcoming date.
“Work’s great, Mom.”
“Anything interesting going on?” Sam, bless him, asked.
“Actually, I met a really nice guy a few days ago. He’s a marine biologist studying horseshoe crabs, and he got cut and needed stitches.”
“A marine biologist?” my dad asked suspiciously. Dad would have chosen a bricklayer or plumber for his girls—or a cop, of course. He viewed people with too much education as untrustworthy. Except his own baby girl, that is.
“Mmm hmm. We’re going out tomorrow night.”
This statement was met with silence. Mom put her fork down, clearly stunned. Sam looked at me from across the table, stunned. Dad scowled, stunned. The quiet was broken only by the sound of Danny’s fork clattering against his plate as he shoveled mashed potatoes into his mouth in a frenzied fashion. “Where are you going?” he asked, swallowing hugely, the only one at the table who wasn’t amazed by the fact that I had a date.
“Digger was crapping when he drove by,” the soul replied.
“Still, you probably lost a pound,” the mind continued.
“Digger was crapping when he drove by,” the soul repeated. “And he saw your stomach.”
“Dr. Barnes?” Nurse Jill called from the hallway, interrupting the mind/soul argument. I dragged myself into the present. When Jill called me Dr. Barnes, it meant a patient had come in. Otherwise, I was known as honey or sweetie.
“Yes, Mrs. Doyle?” I answered, grateful for the distraction.
“There’s a patient in Room One,” she said, sticking her head into the office with a file and a big grin.
I entered Room One, and there on the exam table sat an extremely good-looking man. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Swarthy skin. Heavy eyebrows, giving him an exotic, Mediterranean look. He held a gauze bandage on his right hand, and there was blood on his denim shirt.
“Hi, I’m Millie Barnes,” I said, extending my hand. As he looked at it pointedly, I realized he couldn’t shake at just that moment. “Sorry,” I murmured with a grin.
“Lorenzo Bellefiore,” he said with a smile.
I managed not to sigh. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said, my insides quivering. “What happened here?”
Lorenzo (oh, Mommy!) glanced down at his hand. “I got cut on a horseshoe crab,” he answered, frowning. “I think I might need stitches.”
“All right, let’s have a look,” I murmured, quite, quite glad that Curtis and Mitch had taken me shopping the week before.
In my best doctor mode, trying to focus on the injury and not on the intense lust that was melting my insides, I washed my hands and pulled on latex gloves. Gently peeling away the bloody gauze from the god’s hand, I looked at the wound. Focus, Millie, focus. He was wearing a spicy cologne, and I could just barely catch a whiff of it. Again, I suppressed a lustful sigh, instead giving him a quick and reassuring (I hoped) smile. His eyelashes were sinfully long.
“Yes, indeed, you will need stitches,” I pronounced cheerfully. Suture repairs were tons of fun for me. I loved suture repairs, especially on gorgeous men with delicious names.
“Promise not to hurt me,” he said, cocking an eyebrow.
“I promise,” I purred.
Flirting! We were flirting! With each other!
I called the charming Nurse Doyle and she, with only minimal facial contortions meant to convey her own giddy joy, got the necessary elements for a basic suture repair.
As I went to work on Lorenzo, I asked him a few questions, designed only, I assure you, to put him at ease and not to pry into his personal life. Well, maybe just a little.
“So, Mr. Bellefiore—”
“Call me Lorenzo,” he said, watching me swab his skin with Betadine.
“Okay, Lorenzo, do you live here on the Cape?”
“No, I don’t.” (I already knew this. If someone this magnificent lived within a fifty-mile radius, I would have known about him.) He went on. “I was born in Brooklyn, actually, but I’ve been away at school so long, that doesn’t seem like home anymore.”
“Where did you go to school?” I asked, sneaking another look at him. Mmm.
“I finished my Ph.D. in marine biology last year,” he answered, smiling gleamingly again. “In Miami. But I got a grant to do some research up here, and I just moved about a month ago.”
“Marine biology. That’s interesting,” I said. “If you don’t like needles, you should look away now.” I was about to inject his hand with local anesthesia, and he did indeed look away.
“Youch!” he yelped, jumping. “That stings!”
“I know, I’m sorry. But it won’t hurt in a minute. Cruel to be kind. So what are you doing up here on the Cape?”
“I’m studying the mating habits of horseshoe crabs,” he answered.
“Really!” I said, squelching a giggle.
“Yes, it’s fascinating,” he went on, and proceeded to tell me about the sexual patterns of the strange and prehistoric horseshoe crab. I made the appropriate murmurs of interest as he went on, carefully stitching up his rather elegant hand. Before he even knew it, I was done.
“Ta-da!” I announced, cutting the last tie. “What do you think?”
He examined the stitches carefully before turning his soulful Mediterranean eyes on me.
“You did a great job, Doctor,” he said, and my pulse jumped.
“All in a day’s work, Doctor,” I replied. I put a sterile gauze bandage over the wound and taped it into place, instructing him on keeping the cut clean and coming back for suture removal.
“Is your tetanus shot up to date?” I asked, rakishly snapping off my latex gloves and tossing them in the hazardous-waste bin.
“Just last year,” he answered. He scootched off the exam table. Alas, he was kind of short, maybe only five foot seven or so, but hey! Those eyelashes made up for a lot.
“Dr. Barnes, can I ask you something?” he said.
Anything and yes yes yes. “Sure, and call me Millie,” I said.
“I know we just met, but do you think you’d like to have dinner with me some night? I hardly know anyone up here, and I’d love to get to know you better.”
Oh my GOD! “I think that might be possible,” I answered calmly. “I’m working days all this week, so my nights are free.” Whoops! Too available. “If you give me a call here, maybe we can set something up.”
“That would be great.” He smiled again and again, my insides clenched with heat. Lorenzo sidled past me and went to settle up with Sienna. Jill came down the hall to pump me for details, but I headed her off at the pass.
“Mrs. Doyle, that humerus fracture needs a follow-up X-ray, so if you don’t mind, could you schedule that?” We had no humerus fracture. Jill jumped right in.
“Of course, Dr. Barnes. Anything else?”
“Yes. Mrs. Donahue needs a refill on her Coumadin, so if you could call that into the pharmacy, that would be great. And please make sure we’re restocked on suture kits in Room One, and don’t forget that we…should…should…okay, he’s gone!”
Sienna came leaping back to join us the minute Lorenzo Bellefiore walked out the door. We huddled around the small window in the doctor’s office that was, we had found, excellent for spying. Our newest and most favorite patient drove off, and then, like the three females we so clearly were, began with the high-pitched histrionics.
“Oh my God! Did you see his ass?” Sienna gushed.
“Oh my God, yes I did!” Jill answered with equal fervor.
“Ladies…ladies…I have an announcement to make,” I said, grinning hugely. “That man just asked me out.”
We were still squealing when Dr. Bala came in an hour later.
OF COURSE, I HADN’T FORGOTTEN about my humiliation and degradation of earlier that morning, but Lorenzo’s Mediterranean interruption happily microscoped that event. This romantic-stranger thing never happened to me. And I could use a distraction from Joe, having been reduced in ego to the size of a deer tick. Furthermore, it would be rather fantastic for Joe to see me out with a man whose beauty nearly equaled his.
That night, I called Katie. She was tickled that I was going out on a date and, like a good friend, pumped me for every single detail of our encounter. I was happy to oblige, sighing with delight over Lorenzo’s name/eyes/smile/lashes/hands/smell. And when Lorenzo called the next day to set a date, my happiness continued.
I HAD A FEW DAYS TO KILL before the big date, so I made a list. I loved lists. They comforted and protected me, minimized the margin of error and kept me focused, and I was going to need a lot of focus. I made the following list.
1. Call Curtis and Mitch for clothing suggestions.
2. Get hair trimmed by someone other than P-town psycho.
3. Clean house. (I wasn’t planning on having Lorenzo either pick me up or drop me off—my brother-in-law was a cop, after all, and I had been warned many times about strange men—but cleaning my house made me feel more together.)
4. Arrange to have Joe at the restaurant where I would be going with Lorenzo.
This last item would take a little finessing. Lorenzo had asked me to choose the restaurant, and I had picked the Barnacle for several reasons. Katie worked there, so she could check him out, the food was excellent and there was indeed a strong possibility that Joe would be around. Many birds slain with just one little stone.
The day before my date, I decided to visit my parents. I had been neglecting them a bit, dropping in only briefly, and so I called dear old Mom and asked her if I could come for dinner. As most moms in the world would be, she was delighted with the chance to feed her child.
“Of course you can come, honey!” she exclaimed. “What do you want me to make?”
“Anything, Mom. Everything you make is fantastic,” I replied truthfully.
“Oh, you’re so sweet. How about roast chicken?”
A sudden rush of guilt washed over me. Clearly, Mom was lonely…. She and Trish had done a lot together. Both were small-boned and slender and loved to go shopping at Talbots or the outlets, having lunch, seeing a play or movie. I had done little to fill the gap Trish had left.
“Why don’t you see if Sam and Danny can come, too?” I asked, knowing that the more people she had to fuss over, the happier my mother would be.
“Great idea! Okay, hon, I’ll see you tomorrow night.” Somehow, her happiness made me feel even guiltier.
The next night, I presented my mom with a bouquet of yellow tulips and gave her a big smooch. Danny and Sam were already there; Dad had Sam in the cellar, talking about manly things like cement and wiring, and Danny was setting up an e-mail account on my mom’s computer. It felt kind of festive, especially without my sister’s perpetually dissatisfied presence. Mom bustled around, half listening as Danny explained the nuances of Google, and I poured myself a glass of wine. The smell of roasted chicken and rosemary filled the kitchen, and I was suddenly starving. I hadn’t had many real meals in the last few months.
“I love your outfit, Millie darling,” my mom said, pausing to look at me.
“Thanks,” I smiled. I was wearing black pants and a blue shirt with a little blue-and-white floral scarf tied around my neck as instructed. Gold earrings. Gold-and-blue bracelet. Black suede shoes. “Curtis and Mitch and I went shopping. They’re better than Garanimals.”
“What are Garanimals?” Danny asked.
My mom smiled at the memory. “They were a brand of clothes. Everything came with a tag so you could tell what would match.”
“If your shirt had a gazelle tag and so did your pants, you matched,” I solemnly explained. “If they had a lion tag, they wouldn’t go with the gazelle tag, because lions eat gazelles. Are you following, Daniel?”
Mom and I laughed as Danny rolled his eyes. “We can only hope they bring them back,” she said.
“Hi, Daddy!” I said as my father and Sam emerged from the cellar. I stood on tiptoe to kiss Dad’s stubbly cheek. “How’s the King of Crap?”
“Just fine, darling. How’s my little girl?” He gave me a close look, frowning a bit. “Nancy, Millie looks thin. Aren’t we feeding her?”
“She doesn’t live with us anymore, Howard,” Mom answered. “And you do look a little thin, Millie. Are you eating okay?”
My parents thought I was thin. How I loved them! I smiled sappily while Sam smiled.
“I’ve just been running, that’s all,” I said proudly. Obviously, I was not going to tell my mother what I’d been eating recently.
“Running? Oh, that’s dangerous, honey. Howard, tell her it’s dangerous,” Mom replied.
“Millie, it’s dangerous,” Dad complied. “Let’s eat.”
We tucked into Mom’s wonderful cooking. Along with the succulent rosemary chicken, we feasted on mashed potatoes (which I’d have to avoid, as Mom used half-and-half for that extra hint of cholesterol), glazed carrots and native turnips, my favorite. Apple pie for dessert. Give me strength, Lord.
As we ate, Danny told us about his plans for the summer. He and some other kids from his class were going to Appalachia for a week to help build houses with Habitat for Humanity. On his return, he would start a job at a local camp for inner-city kids. Sam smiled modestly at his plate, but he was just about humming with pride. With the characteristic blend of confidence and terror unique to Red Sox fans, we discussed Boston’s pitching lineup (superlative), their batting (formidable) and their chances at a World Series victory (excellent). And finally, finally, Mom asked the question I’d been waiting for….
“So, Millie, how’s work?”
Okay, well, that wasn’t the question I’d been waiting for, but since no one would ask that question (“Are you seeing anyone, Millie?”), I would use work as a vehicle to discuss my upcoming date.
“Work’s great, Mom.”
“Anything interesting going on?” Sam, bless him, asked.
“Actually, I met a really nice guy a few days ago. He’s a marine biologist studying horseshoe crabs, and he got cut and needed stitches.”
“A marine biologist?” my dad asked suspiciously. Dad would have chosen a bricklayer or plumber for his girls—or a cop, of course. He viewed people with too much education as untrustworthy. Except his own baby girl, that is.
“Mmm hmm. We’re going out tomorrow night.”
This statement was met with silence. Mom put her fork down, clearly stunned. Sam looked at me from across the table, stunned. Dad scowled, stunned. The quiet was broken only by the sound of Danny’s fork clattering against his plate as he shoveled mashed potatoes into his mouth in a frenzied fashion. “Where are you going?” he asked, swallowing hugely, the only one at the table who wasn’t amazed by the fact that I had a date.
