“How long until we hear something about the tests?” asks Mel when he finishes.
“Anytime now, actually. You were lucky today . . .” He realizes the irony of what he just said and grins like a goon. “Okay, you could have been luckier. But one of our best orthopedic surgeons happens to be here. This is Dr. Lattimore’s designated surgery day, and he had just finished up some paperwork when you came in. He decided to stick around and is assessing the films right now.”
Just about the time my head goes light and my knee quits aching, the door opens, and in walks a most amazing man. He’s maybe forty, tall and sinewy beneath careless expensive clothes. His hair is the deep golden color of lager, well barbered, but uncombed and slightly askew. Generally, I’m not big on the casual look, but it works perfectly for this guy.
“Good afternoon . . . er, I guess technically, it’s evening. I’m Dr. Lattimore. I specialize in sports injuries. And you, Ms. Cannon, have a doozy.”
“Doozy? Is that official doctor language?”
He laughs, and it’s honey rich. Inviting. “Yes, actually. It’s Latin for ‘one destroyed knee.’ You’ve torn both your anterior cruciate ligament and your medial collateral ligament. In addition, your meniscus looks like it went through a meat grinder. You must have been moving!”
“Yes, and I was cruising along just fine until I got rear-ended.”
“So, what does that mean?” demands Melody.
“And you are . . . ?” The good doctor turns in her direction.
“Melody’s my sister. And my mom. All rolled up in one.”
“I see. Well, what that means is reconstructive surgery. A single ligament tear can often be rehabbed successfully without it, but not two, and the cartilage complicates things further.” He moves toward me, assessing. “You look like an athlete. I’m sure you’ll want to heal as quickly as possible, and this is the best option.”
He reaches the side of the gurney, pulls back the sheet to examine my knee. His fingers are long tapers, manicured and suede skinned, and when he touches my leg, tiny ripples of energy radiate upward, clear to my thigh. Whoa. What was that?
Whatever it was, I’m pretty sure he felt it, too. Our eyes meet, and I see that his are the green-gray of the ocean beneath rain. “Phew,” he says, palpating my knee very gently. “You’re going to be swollen for a while, and we can’t do surgery until the swelling subsides, or we’d risk scar tissue.” He pauses, fingertips still exciting my nerves. “Don’t know why I’m saying ‘we.’ Once you can bend and straighten without a problem, you can have the surgery done at the hospital of your choice.”
When his hand withdraws, I notice no wedding ring, nor any white shadow indicating one is worn outside of the workplace. “So, does that mean I’m bedridden, or what?”
“Not at all. You should stay off that leg for at least two weeks, but I’ll give you some exercises to do. You’ll want to regain strength and range of motion as soon as possible. But don’t stand for long periods or walk too far without the crutches I’ll send home with you. We’ll brace it for now, too.”
“Can she drive?” asks Mel.
“Not for a while. You can chauffeur, right?”
Melody smiles. “Looks like it’s Christmas at my house, after all.”
God help me.
The nurse comes in with a sheaf of papers, gives them to the doctor, who in turn hands them over to me. “As promised, the pre-op exercises. Plus one of my business cards, in case you decide you want to do the surgery at Barton. Dr. Rice will finish up in here, and you’ll be on your way. Sorry about the circumstances, but it’s been a pleasure meeting you.”
He reaches out to shake my hand. I am subtle but direct when I don’t let go immediately. I want him to feel the electric rush when I lock his eyes with mine and lower my voice. “Would it be out of line to ask for your cell number? In case something comes up in the middle of the night?”
“Highly unusual request,” he says. But he grins, retrieves his business card, and scribbles on the back: Cavin, 530-777-8992.
Eleven
I’m not surprised Dr. Cavin Lattimore gave me his number. But Melody is stunned, not only by the gesture but also by my boldness in requesting it. We are back in the room, and I’m on the sofa, leg pillow-propped on the coffee table, in front of a gas fire in the faux fireplace.
“Cavin,” I sigh. “Great name, huh? I’ve never met a Cavin before.”
“Have you no sense of shame?” Mel asks.
“Shame? I’m not familiar with the word. Does it hurt?”
“Your sense of humor leaves much to be desired. I mean it, Tara.”
“Look. The attraction was mutual, obviously. And life is too short for games.” Except when they bring you pleasure or accomplish a goal.
“Are you really going to call him?”
I pick up my phone and dial, expecting it to go straight to voice mail.
Instead, he answers. “Cavin here.”
“Oh, hello,” I purr. “This is Tara Cannon.”
“Tara? Oh, yes. ACL, MCL, and meniscus. Everything okay?”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly say that, but I’m as comfortable as can be expected.”
“Heat for the pain. Ice for the swelling. Keep alternating the two.”
“I’ll remember that, thanks. But, actually, why I called was more personal. This happened to be day one of a five-day ski vacation. I’m sure my sister would love to get in a few more runs, and it’s going to be awfully lonely all by myself in this hotel room. Since you’re not officially my doctor—yet—would you let me buy you dinner one night? As a thank-you, I mean.”
He doesn’t point out the fact that I’ll still be alone during the day, or that I’d be leaving Melody to eat dinner solo. I know he can say no, and probably should. But he agrees. “I have to work late tomorrow. How about Friday night? I’ll make the reservation at my favorite Italian bistro. Assuming you like Italian?”
“I love all things food and wine, as long as they’re divine. It will be my treat, though.”
“Tell you what. Since there’s no challenge in a footrace, I’ll arm wrestle you for the bill. I’ve got your number now, so let me get back to you with a time tomorrow, okay?”
“Absolutely. Talk to you then.”
As soon as I end the call, Melody pounces. “You are unbelievable.”
“Oh, come on. You should believe me by now. Hey. Would you mind opening a bottle of cab?”
She goes to the little kitchen, digs for a corkscrew. “Doesn’t it ever worry you—going out with strangers?”
“We’re having dinner, Mel. Italian. In public. Anyway, don’t worry. As a rule, serial killers don’t have medical degrees.”
Melody pours two tall glasses of wine and as she hands me one, there’s a knock on the door. Our pizza has arrived. It isn’t dry-aged Kobe, but as pizzas go, it’s gourmet, loaded with white garlic sauce, extra cheese, and lots of veggies.
“Good thing I burned a lot of calories today,” Mel says around a healthy mouthful.
“I wish I would have burned a lot more. I’ll have to be careful about what I eat for a while, or I’ll end up a regular porker. Pizza today, celery and carrot sticks tomorrow.”
“Are you sure you want me to ski without you? How will you entertain yourself?”
I shrug. “Movies. Junk TV. I’ve got books on my iPad. And, if I get really bored, I’ll hobble down to the lobby to people watch, or use the computer in the business center. I’ll be fine. Just don’t forget to bring back something not fattening for dinner.” There’s no room service at this hotel.
“What if you get hungry during the day?”
“I’ll pay someone to run over to the market or something. Please stop worrying. I really don’t need you to mother me.”
“I’m not sure about that. I kind of think someone has to.” Mel helps herself to another slice, offers a second to me. “Go ahead. You won’t get fat tonight.”
What the hell? I allow the self-indu
lgence. Mel turns on the TV, finds an old chick flick—When Harry Met Sally. We eat pizza, drink wine, and watch Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan cycle through relationships while ignoring a mutual magnetic pull in favor of trying to maintain a sex-free friendship. That, of course, is impossible.
I sigh. “The problem with corny movies is love always wins the day.”
“That’s why I like ’em.” Mel’s voice is thick with satiation plus inebriation. “Besides, what’s wrong with love winning the day?”
“It’s fiction.”
“You don’t believe it can happen?”
“Pretty sure not. I’ve never experienced it. In fact, I’ve never even seen it.”
“Wait a minute. What about Graham and me?”
I’ve got a spectacular buzz going on, too, thanks to Vicoprofen and three glasses of cabernet. It makes me not care what I say. “You got married because you were pregnant, Mel.”
Her body stiffens, though her voice remains watery. “Doesn’t mean we didn’t love each other. We did . . . do.”
“Which explains why you’re still together, I guess. But you didn’t marry for love. You married because you thought it was the right course of action.”
Mel is quiet for a minute. Then she says, “There would have been a wedding eventually, Tara. But I was not only determined that my baby would have a father, but that the whole relationship would be legal. I was not about to let my child be raised the way you and I were.”
Watching our train wreck of a mother drink herself crazier and crazier. Offer up her body for money or booze or simply a night of companionship. Subject us to her parade of bottom-feeder boyfriends—their leers, lewd comments, and sometimes their hands. There was no love in our house or trailer or weekly hotel room, except for sisterly affection. So, I understand what she’s saying.
Still, now as then, I question her motives. From where I sat, it looked as if not only her marriage but also the pregnancy itself were Melody’s means of escape, something I recognized from personal experience. Whatever love went along with that was just the maraschino atop the hot fudge.
Maraschino. Nasty fruit. But cool word.
Twelve
By the time Friday evening rolls around, I’m just about bonkers. I’ve exhausted every recreation—cinema, soap opera, reading, voyeurism—not to mention the ears of the bellmen I monetarily convinced to bring me food and drink from the nearby grocery store. It’s weird, because I live alone, and am happy that way. But at home I’ve got regular haunts where I can satisfy my slender desire for human companionship.
Melody has cut short both her ski days, leaving later and returning earlier than she would if I were in charge. She claims she’s doing it for me and up to a point that’s probably true, but I think she’s happy her legs aren’t as sore as they’d otherwise be. I should feel guilty, deserting her tonight. But dinner with Dr. Lattimore is an enticing proposition.
“You okay in there?” she calls through the cracked bathroom door.
“Sort of. But there’s nothing you can do to help.”
Getting ready for the evening is proving problematic. As I shower, I keep forgetting about my knee, which has been freed from the brace for the soap-and-water routine. Weighting it gently is fine. But once or twice I move it sideways, and the lateral motion reminds me of the injury. Painfully.
It’s nice to immerse myself in familiar perfumes, however. Two days without and, despite spending most of that time sans exertion, I was ripe. Moping makes me perspire, and since it’s unearned sweat, it stinks more.
Putting on clothes is also more challenging. Even slipping into panties takes twice as long as it should, since the knee isn’t bending much. It’s still awfully swollen, despite alternating heat and ice packs and popping Vicoprofen for pain and inflammation, plus straight ibuprofen for the analgesic affect. Rather than try to look sexy—hard to do in this condition—I’m going for a romantic look tonight. Luckily, Melody brought a couple of long, flowing skirts. Definitely more her style than mine, but I’ll make it work.
She lays them on the foot of my bed. “Which one do you like?”
“The solid is okay, but I prefer the paisley. I can wear it with my green sweater.” That, at least, is sexy—soft angora, cut just low enough to allow a long peek of cleavage without giving away the entire view.
“What about shoes? You can’t wear heels.”
Damn. “I can’t wear UGGs, either.”
“Hold on.” She goes into the other room, returns with a shoe box. “See if these will work. I saw them in one of the shops today and thought of you.”
Inside the box is a soft gold pouch, and inside of that, a pair of ballet flats in matching material. “Thanks, Mel. These are perfect.”
I manage makeup and hair without a problem, though I have to sit for the blow-dry. My leg does begin to ache whenever gravity forces too much fluid into the knee. I just pop another pill and keep on. It’s only been two days. I can’t be hooked yet, can I? It’s not that I need one, it’s that I want one.
Cavin is picking me up at six forty-five for our seven o’clock reservation. I start to limp down to the lobby, supported by the crutches I can almost maneuver. “What about a jacket?” asks Mel, holding the door.
“It’s not that cold out, is it? A jacket will spoil the look.”
“I’m sure you’ll survive without one, unless your doctor runs his car off into a snowbank and you two are lost for days.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll find a way to stay warm.”
She grins. “I’m not worried about that at all. But here, take this just in case.” She wraps a pretty crocheted shawl around my shoulders. “It’s not real warm, but it will help some. And it doesn’t spoil the look. Have an amazing time.”
“You sure you’re okay here alone?”
“It’s only one night. No problem. And, by the way? I kind of like the softer, more feminine you.”
“Thanks. But I’ll take sexy, with two functional legs, in full open view. Don’t wait up for me, Mom.”
My date (and how long has it been since I’ve had an actual date, anyway?) awaits me near the front door. He watches my awkward gait across the lobby, and as I get close, he holds out his hand. “Allow me to help you, madam?”
Wrong, wrong, wrong. It should be miss, or ms. And I shouldn’t need help. I feel ridiculous, not that I’d betray a hint of that. “Thank you, kind sir. I think I need a little crutch practice.”
“I told you you can find instructional videos on YouTube. Preferable, however, is getting you off those things ASAP. But for tonight, I am happy to assist. My car is right outside.”
He steers me to a spotless Audi Quattro, pewter over impeccable white leather still wearing new-car scent, and not the kind the car wash tucks under the seat. I whistle. “Nice ride, Dr. Lattimore.”
“Cavin, please. And thank you. It’s only a couple of weeks old, so I’m still getting used to it. Hold on.” He coaxes the passenger seat all the way back, to better accommodate my unbendable leg. Good thing it’s my right one. I’d never manage to get it under the steering wheel.
“Now I see why you said I can’t drive for a while. Not going to happen all trussed up like this, that’s for sure.”
“Hey, I didn’t go to medical school for nothing, you know.” He leans the crutches against the car, guides me into the plush seat, and helps me swing my legs inside. “We’re off. Hold on tight.”
“Just don’t end up in a snowbank, okay? I didn’t bring my coat.”
It’s a short drive to the restaurant, so conversation en route is minimal and revolves around Cavin being a personal acquaintance of the head chef, whose torn rotator cuff he repaired. “He’s always happy to show off a little, so be prepared for something outside of the box.”
Turns out, Chef Christopher has a very special prix fixe menu in mind. The maître d’ seats us at an intimate table in front of the very real fireplace, burning actual apple wood logs. It is out of the way of foot traffic, so I kn
ow Cavin informed them he’d be bringing a disabled date. I am thankful for that, however, as I can stretch my leg straight without bothering anyone except, perhaps, our waiter, who is more than accommodating. “We can push another chair up under the table if you want to elevate that knee,” Paolo says.
“Is everyone in the Tahoe service industry familiar with the treatment of orthopedic injuries?” I ask.
“Everyone I know,” answers Cavin, grinning.
Paolo hands us our personalized four-course menus. “If there’s anything on here you don’t like, Chef is happy to substitute.”
Eggplant crepes with smoked salmon. Caesar salad. Veal saltimbocca or fresh sea bass, sautéed with garlic, lime, and cilantro. Chocolate chip bread pudding with amaretto cream sauce.
I order the fish; Cavin chooses the veal. Paolo inquires about drinks.
“Do you like champagne?” asks Cavin.
“Only if it’s excellent champagne. Are we celebrating something?”
“I think we are,” he says. “Cristal?”
“Perfect.”
Paolo brings the bottle, pops the cork, and when we raise our flutes, Cavin offers a toast: “To chance meetings.”
And I add, “To possibilities.”
The Cristal is fabulous, the atmosphere romantic, and if the fragrance can be trusted, the food promises to be sublime. But the company trumps it all. Cavin is charming. Funny. Straightforward. I like that in a man. Cat-and-mouse is such a tiresome game.
“Where are you from originally?” I ask.
“Southern California born and raised, that’s me.”
“LA?”
“San Diego, but I graduated from UCLA, and that’s where I went to med school. How about you?”
I skip over Idaho. No need to sour the lovely atmosphere. “I went to UNLV.”
“Vegas? Don’t think I’ve ever met someone who was actually from Las Vegas. It’s one of those places you visit, but don’t stay.”
“I would have left sooner, except I married a man with deep roots there.”