Calm, Cool, and Adjusted (14 page)
Granted, I know we’re all sinners, but I would have thought dumping someone painfully yet publicly would be reserved for the heathen. A guy who would do that deserves hysterical. It’s sort of the ultimate battle of wills.
But then my mind drifts to Simon leaving and I don’t feel as strong as I thought. If Jeff really is the type who would see an end to my lease, maybe I have the excuse I need to follow Simon. And the blonde. I have to remember the blonde is coming too.
I focus on Jeff again. “I hope you dumped her
after
she ate. You owed her that much.”
“It was after she ate. Things don’t necessarily work out, you know.” He flips open his menu and his blue eyes drop to read, thus avoiding anymore prying on my part.
Granted, breaking up is never fun, but doing it in a restaurant is so tacky. It’s like your last meal and very hard to enjoy knowing what you do. Even though Jeff won’t look at me, I stare directly at him. For someone who claims to have it all, and gaining more by the second, he sure doesn’t feel all that confident to me. It’s probably just the sports car and the virginal teeth.
“So let me ask you, did you think you could just sign me up for a free pair of implants and I’d go away quietly?”
This makes him look up from his menu. “I know your stance on natural. That most certainly wasn’t my plan. I thought you’d be loud and vocal. That’s why I brought you here.” He says this matter-of-factly while continuing to peruse his menu.
“Fair enough. Sorry I couldn’t help you out on the hysterical.” Actually, I could, but I’m practicing for Morgan’s wedding.
“So, you’ll discuss relocating with me? Calmly?” He gives me his full attention, raising his eyebrows. His warm gaze meets mine, and even though I know the form of snake that lurks within, he really is a joy to the eyes.
“You’d be perfect.”
“What?” he asks.
Yeah, it sort of scares me too.
But before I speak my brilliant plan out loud, I really have to think about whether I could spend another evening with Dr. Jeff, his blue eyes notwithstanding. A girl can only hold in so much for so long.
S
o I’m still staring at Dr. Jeff. Still imagining his gorgeous exterior and European suit with the personality of Jon Stewart, and I’m like Frankenstein. I have created the perfect wedding date. (Insert evil laughter here.) He’s a doctor, he’s intellectual, and he doesn’t even know what an adrenal dysfunction looks like. If I can simply ignore the fact that he injects poison into women and makes Mr. Cunningham from
Happy Days
look forward thinking, I have myself an answer.
“I have a proposition for you, Jeff.” I sit forward in my chair, trying desperately to hide my true emotions of what I actually think of him and his ever-expanding shallow, plastic world.
“Should I be afraid?” He narrows his eyes at me.
“I’m just a natural healing chiropractor, hardly anything worth a wave of your flyswatter.”
“A mosquito with the personality and effect of a mountain lion.”
He so owes me this. I can still bring out the big guns, the threat of a doctor’s worst fear: a lawyer. “I’ll go quietly from the building, let you have my space at the end of the year with no lawsuit or rise in the sublease, on one condition.”
He drops his menu, and I can see he trusts me about as much as he trusts a malpractice attorney. “I’m not sending my patients to you.”
I ignore his inane suggestion—as though I’d want his patients. I’m just going to blurt it out; there’s no easy way to say it. “Attend my best friend’s wedding with me. As my date.”
He laughs. “Poppy, have you looked in the mirror? You hardly need to settle for me on a date. We all know your opinion of me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I can get a date. Just not necessarily one who will mingle with the San Francisco society crowd with ease. That’s your specialty, isn’t it? Feeding on the froth that is idle conversation.”
“If this is your idea of charming me into it—”
“I have no such intention of charming you into anything. Morgan Malliard wants a certain kind of wedding, and I just think you’d fit in perfectly. They’ll probably wonder why I’m an attendant when you’re the actual guest, but I’ll deal with that in time.”
“You know Morgan Malliard?”
“My best friend.”
“You’re telling me if I go to a high-society wedding with you, you won’t sue the landlord or me for your early-exit lease.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” I don’t mention I wouldn’t sue him anyway. Life is too short, and life’s not fair. If there’s anything history has taught me, that’s it. Besides, after the dot-com bust, office space is plentiful.
“What’s the catch? Do I have to dress up like a piece of broccoli or something?”
“You have to get a tuxedo and look like a respectable San Francisco socialite.” Again, I notice how handsome he is, and I get another troubling thought. “Oh, and you can’t pick up women in my presence, nor can you give medical or plastic surgery advice to anyone in attendance. It seems that’s what I’m in trouble for.” I figure Morgan won’t appreciate that type of guidance any more than she will the mind-body-spirit counsel.
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it. I promise.”
He reaches across the table and shakes. “Done.”
And with that, I make a deal with the—well, never mind. It’s one I’m comfortable with, and I’ve just eliminated stress from two aspects of my life. The Spa Girls will think I’m entering into normalcy, and I can start the search for new office space without a fight. Neighbors. Sometimes you just can’t get the fence high enough.
It’s an odd world we live in when a man who puts plastic breasts in women for a living is a respectable date. I know, he does more than that. But he does that, too, and it’s just odd to me that I, a chiropractor who has studied the art of natural healing—and how the body is designed to heal itself if given the proper tools—am the weirdo. But a man who blows women up to look like Barbies—he’s the epitome of normal. I must be missing something. I really must.
I suppose it’s money. Money is respectable in this world, and plastic surgeons make money hand over fist. I suppose the one thing we have in common is that we both loathe the insurance business that tells doctors how to run their practices.
“I guess I don’t really understand you, Poppy Clayton. You’re so anti-establishment, anti-plastic surgery and you could date anyone you want with that fiery red hair and those blue eyes from heaven, so what’s up?”
“You know, don’t snow me, Jeff.” I roll my eyes. “Spare me the Hollywood screenwriting, and just ask your questions.”
“Why me for the wedding?” This time, there’s no smile. He’s dead serious. When he relaxes the sales pitch, he’s really a decent human being. I wish I could see that side of him more often. It’s the facade I can barely tolerate.
“I told you, you’re respectable in that crowd, and right now, I need respectable.” I gaze down at my respectable skirt and think about how long I have to be respectable.
Morgan is worth it
, I remind myself.
“It’s just odd you see me as the respectable date, because you don’t respect me.”
“So you’re going to grow a conscience now, is that what you’re saying? You want me to respect you in the morning?”
“I just don’t necessarily want to be used. Maybe you’d like to go with me to the wedding because you find me handsome and an interesting conversationalist.” He cocks an eyebrow.
“Nah.” I shake my head. “That wouldn’t be it. You owe me, and I just find it easier to collect where I see a need.”
“So you’re saying you don’t necessarily find me attractive.”
“Oh, no, I didn’t say that.”
Like George Washington, I cannot tell a lie.
“You’re handsome, Jeff. But you know that.” I wrinkle my nose. “But I’m just really not into appearances.”
“Except when it comes to finding a respectable date for a wedding.”
“Right. You act like there’s something wrong with that?”
“What? Being shallow for an occasion? Not at all. Let’s eat. All this arguing has made me hungry.” He buries his face in the menu again.
“I’m glad I could be of service. Haven’t you decided what you want yet?”
“I have. I’m just trying to find some of my dignity down here.”
This makes me giggle against my better judgment. As much as I want to, I can’t despise Dr. Jeff. There’s a heart in there somewhere.
He puts the menu down and stares at me with those sparkling eyes. How is it I can still see him as gorgeous when I know all he is about? When I know he only brought me here to indicate moving offices is a good idea. I try to decipher this great mystery of chemistry and energy when he speaks up again. “Confession time: I did need to discuss the lease, but that’s not why I asked you out. It was just an excuse.”
I cross my arms waiting for the next half of his so-called confession, which is clearly meant to charm me into who knows what kind of game. But the waitress isn’t here yet, so I’ve got nothing but time. The fact is I will eat at his expense no matter how many hours it costs me.
“I want to deny it, too, Poppy.”
“Deny what?”
“You don’t feel this?” He points to me and then himself. “That thing between us.”
“No,” I lie. So much for George Washington’s morals.
“You’re telling me I’ve invented this emotion that’s passed between us. There’s nothing on your part.”
I read
Smart Women, Foolish Choices
.
“I think you’re good looking,” I admit to him.
Hot
, I admit to myself.
But a jerk.
“You can find someone attractive, but still understand they represent everything you loathe in life.”
“I can’t. I see something more in you, Poppy. I think this homeopathic wall you put up is not as sturdy as you might think.”
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong. We’re human, we find each other attractive, let’s move on, shall we?”
“Fine.”
Oh my goodness, I am mortified. I just admitted I find Dr. Plastic attractive. And worse yet, it’s completely true! I am an embarrassment to my trade.
By his shade of pink, I’d say he’s tasted enough humiliation for the evening. It’s now time for a confession of my own. I figure I have to give a little now that he’s at least admitted what neither of us wants to. “You know, Jeff, if it makes any difference to you, I’ve seen a lot of the good things you do over in that office. Just in the last day or so, I’ve been watching.” I smile at him, hoping the tea arrives soon and gets me out of this most uncomfortable situation.
Truly, I am at peace about the building. I don’t like smelling the Greek food every day anyway, and the truth is I could use more space myself. Plus, I have a date for Morgan’s wedding. He is not a running nudist from San Francisco. I feel good. Let’s not push it.
“I have a leasing agent who’s going to help you find a space. A better space—maybe something near Whole Foods or that vegetarian restaurant, or maybe a yoga studio.”
“Thank you, but I’ll get Simon on it before he leaves. He’s one of my patients with a head for business.” One deal with the Dark Side is quite enough for me.
At this point, the waitress comes back in and whispers in Jeff’s ear.
“Excuse me,” he says, while getting up quickly. He tosses me his keys. “Would you get my doctor bag out of my car?”
I catch the keys, wondering what’s going on, but I do as I’m told, snaking my way through all the throngs of waiting customers. Opening the trunk of the Lexus, there’s a small black bag, which I retrieve and walk resolutely back into the restaurant. The same waitress meets me at the door and pulls me to the kitchen, where I see a lot of blood.
“Little accident.” Jeff says, reaching for his bag. My stomach lunges as I see the chef has sliced more than the sushi. Jeff has wrapped the man’s forefinger in gauze and asks me to get things out for him as he intends to sew the man back together.
“Shouldn’t you just call 911?”
“I can save the finger faster this way.” Jeff digs into his bag and pulls out a series of things, including surgical gloves. “Where’s the sink?” he asks the waitress, and he starts to clean his hands, lifting them to the sky while he scrubs.
Suddenly, I’m not as hungry as I once was.
“No 911,” the chef orders from the chair he’s sitting in. “Customers won’t come back if they see 911. Jeff will do it.” He nods at Jeff, showing complete confidence in his regular customer.
Jeff looks up at me and smiles apologetically.
The restaurant continues to work with the one remaining chef, and the waitresses exert extra energy to maintain a sense of calm that there’s nothing whatsoever going on that’s out of the ordinary. If they get tired of sushi, they’d make excellent airline attendants.
I sit beside Jeff and hand him things as he needs them, watching him sew the portion of the finger back on with the skill of a master seamstress. “Forty-eight stitches,” he says when he’s done. “Impressive.” He wraps the finished product in gauze. “It’s going to hurt for some time. You keep it on ice, and no more work tonight.”
“How long?” The chef holds up his finger.
“At least three weeks. You come to my office tomorrow, and we’ll clean it up and redress it.”
The man sighs loudly and resigns himself to the healing process.
“You’re not squeamish,” Jeff says to me as he puts things back into his bag. He has a plastic bag and he places the dirty needle and scissors into it and puts them in the side pocket of his attaché.
“No,” I admit. “I was giving my mother insulin shots when I was nine. She didn’t like to do it herself.”
“It’s a surprise you didn’t go to medical school after seeing all that. Not even a flinch. I watched you.”
“I’d hope you were watching what you were doing.” He zips his medical bag and I think we’ve found the one area we might respect each other in. “What drew you to medical school?”
Jeff laughs. “My father didn’t actually give me a choice, and by the time I knew I had one, it was too late. I was already in love with medicine, and surgery especially. Once the fight was on for surgical time during my residency, it was over. I’d found my calling.”
“You have warm eyes,” I hear myself say. “I don’t know what to believe about you. You’re half car salesman, half competent doctor. I’m not sure which one I trust.” We share a smile, and I’m not sure it matters. One thing is certain, Jeff is as serious about what he does as I am about what I do.