Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures Read online

  And so, I’d gotten into my bathing suit, grabbed my hat and beach bag, and headed for the elevator. Which had opened to reveal Becky.

  “Elle?” she’d stepped out, looked me over. “You’re going to the beach? Where’s Jen?”

  I’d told her.

  “They left so early? Why didn’t anybody call me?”

  I’d had no answer. It hadn’t occurred to me to call.

  “Damn. I wanted to wish her luck.” Her hands had been on her hips. She’d glared at me, looking rumpled. Her hair had been mussed, and she’d been wearing last night’s clothes. “You should have let me know they were leaving early. How was I supposed to know?”

  The elevator doors had closed; the car whirred away.

  I’d felt bad. “Sorry. They just got up and went.”

  Becky had pouted. “You’re mad, aren’t you?” She’d looked at me. “Because of Chichi.”

  What?

  “Because I’m off with him instead of spending time with you guys. That’s why you didn’t call me, isn’t it?”

  I’d sighed, shaken my head. “I’m not mad at you. Nobody is.”

  “Try to understand, Elle. This isn’t just a fling. Chichi’s different. I know it’s sudden and you’ll think I’m crazy, but I think he might be the real thing.”

  I’d looked at her, thought she was crazy.

  “You think I’m being impulsive. I know you do. You think I fall in love every six minutes.”

  No. More like every three.

  “But this isn’t like that. It’s like Chichi and me—like we’ve known each other forever. Like we’re connected.”

  Probably Chichi connected to a new woman every week. “Great, Becky. I wish you the best.” I’d pushed the elevator button again.

  “Was Jen upset I wasn’t here? Did she say anything?”

  Had she even noticed? “She understood.”

  “I’ll send some flowers over later.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I’ll write a note, saying I was here, but missed her because she left early.” Becky had always been a little cowed by Jen’s temper. Tried not to irritate her.

  “That’ll be great.”

  I’d asked her to come to the beach, but she’d had plans for breakfast with Chichi. And then planned to join him at the pool for water polo—or had it been water putting? Water something. She’d invited me to join them.

  The elevator doors had opened then, and I’d waved to her as the doors had closed.

  And then, on my way out to the beach, Juan Alonzo had stopped me.

  Again, I saw Emily and Rose. They could have been twins.

  I lay back, warmed by the soft tickle of an ocean breeze, the sun reflecting off the sand. Images of the sisters faded. Tension in my shoulders eased. Thoughts floated out of reach. Voices murmured in the distance, and the gentle rhythm of waves lulled me until I let go and drifted.

  But I jolted upright in alarm the moment I realized that the insistent repetitive sound I was hearing wasn’t the white noise of the ocean or distant voices: It was my name.

  The face was blank, backlit by the sun. Even blinking and squinting, though, I knew who it was.

  Damn it. “Melanie?”

  She had hold of my left shoulder, seemed surprised at my reaction.

  “Oh, sorry. Were you sleeping?”

  Seriously?

  “How was I supposed to know?” She finally removed her hand.

  “Because my eyes were closed?”

  “Elle, everyone closes their eyes when they lay out in the sun.”

  She offered no apology.

  I lay back down, closed my eyes, hoped she’d leave.

  She didn’t. She sat on the foot of my lounge chair, cowering next to my legs. “He’s still doing it,” she lowered her voice. “Elle, I’m beyond freaked out.”

  I opened one eye. “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s just everywhere I go. He follows me. Watches me. I’m totally weirded out. See? I’m shaking.”

  I looked at her outstretched hands. The fingers trembled.

  “So, can I hang out with you? Honestly, I’m scared to be by myself.” Her sunglasses made her look bug-eyed. And her skinny frame hunkered almost in a fetal position, revealing her spine. I wondered if she had an eating disorder.

  Not my business. I didn’t know her, didn’t feel like changing that. Couldn’t think up an excuse.

  “I’m actually kind of tired, Melanie. I was hoping to catch some sleep.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll just hang here.”

  “I mean, I’m not real talkative—”

  “No problem. I have a magazine.”

  What could I say? Go away? She was afraid and turning to me for comfort. Whether I liked it or not. I couldn’t turn Melanie away.

  I motioned to a nearby beach chair. “Have at it.”

  “Thanks, Elle.” She dragged the lounge chair over, pushed it up right up to mine. “You’re great. You won’t believe it, but at first, I was worried I’d be imposing.”

  Really? Imposing? “Don’t be silly.”

  “But as soon as I met you, I felt comfortable with you. Like we were old friends. You know what I mean?”

  I was trapped. I gazed up the beach, into the distance. A woman waded ankle-deep in water, her face shielded by a scarf. Oh God. I closed my eyes.

  Melanie jabbered on.

  “Buenos dias, señoras, look what I have for you,” I heard a vendor approach, looked up to see a man dressed in white, carrying heavy cases of silver. “A bracelet, maybe, señora? A ring?”

  We shook our heads, no, gracias. He trudged away, back down the beach.

  I looked the other way, saw no sign of the woman with the scarf. Not in the water, not on the sand. Melanie was talking.

  “—that he sends them over. He pays them to check on me—look.” She nodded toward the vendor. Sure enough, he’d made his way to the snack shack, was talking to some men; Luis was one of them.

  Melanie turned away. “I don’t want Luis to see me looking at him,” she said. “He’ll take it as encouragement. Is he looking this way? Don’t stare. Just be casual.”

  I’d already been staring, so I looked away. “He’s looking around, up and down the beach.”

  “I can’t take it.”

  “Tell his boss.”

  “I have no proof. What can I say? He follows me? I’d sound crazy.”

  I glanced back at Luis. He was looking our way. “He’s looking at you.”

  “Son of a bitch,” she said. “What am I going to do? I’ve got to shake him.” She grabbed my hand. “Let’s go in the water.”

  She was on her feet, dragging me. How the hell had I acquired this woman? Well, there was no point arguing with her. Besides, it was hot; the water would feel good. We grabbed boards from the rack and splashed into the water, rode waves. Laughed. Occasionally, I thought of Jen and Susan, wondered how the operation was going. But mostly, I didn’t think about anything except timing, waiting for a good wave, feeling the exact moment to let the ocean grab me. The sun got higher in the sky. Other than that, I lost all sense of time until my stomach demanded food.

  Back on the beach, drying off, I looked around for a waiter to order lunch on the beach. Melanie was there, watching out for Luis again, talking. I tuned her out, thinking about shrimp salad and lemonade. Then I saw the woman again.

  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 clear
ly 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.”