Читать книгу What Phoebe Wants - Cindi Myers, Cindi Myers - Страница 12

RELUCTANTLY, I MADE MY WAY to Dr. Patterson’s office.

Albert grinned at me from his usual post. Someone had crowned him with a Houston Astros ball cap. “Orange is not your color,” I told him. “It does nothing for your complexion.”

“Good afternoon, Phoebe.” Dr. Patterson looked up from a patient chart. “Did you have a pleasant lunch?” He frowned. “What’s wrong with your neck?”

“You’re what’s wrong with it.” I glared at him. “When you groped me earlier, you gave me a hickey.”

He blinked, his expression bland. “Obviously, you’re delusional.” He consulted the papers in his hand, suddenly all business. “I’d like you to help me with some research I’m doing for my upcoming presentation at the annual Texas Medical Association conference. It’s a tremendous honor to be selected and my presentation must be perfect.”

Right. This was all about him. What else was new? “I’m a transcriptionist,” I said, trying to match his chilly demeanor. “I don’t see how I could help—”

“I’d ask the receptionist to take care of it, but until we hire a new one, that position is vacant and I can’t wait to prepare this presentation.” He handed me a sheet torn from a yellow legal pad. “Besides, you’re not busy right now, not with the new transcription system being installed. All you have to do is conduct a Web search for the topics listed here.”

I frowned at the list of medical terms on the paper. “I’m not sure what these mean.”

“You’re welcome to use my reference books to look up anything you need.” He nodded toward an oak bookcase against the far wall. “And I’ll be happy to assist you when I have the time.” His smile was just short of a leer.

I folded the sheet of paper. “Would this assignment involve working late?” With you?

He moved toward me. “I promise you’ll be rewarded.”

I prepared to dodge out of the way when Joan Lee appeared in the doorway, trailed by a drug pusher in a gray suit. You hang around doctors’ offices long enough, you can spot these guys and gals. Expensive suits, perfectly styled hair, imported sports cars—everything about them screams big bucks, including their perfectly straight, gleaming white teeth. Those teeth were always on display as they grinned and glad-handed their way through the office. They passed out pens and sticky notes like candy. Sometimes they even passed out candy. At Christmas, they brought elaborate gift baskets, which the doctor usually kept for himself.

I didn’t intend to let this interruption derail our discussion. With any luck, the pusher would be in and out in a few minutes and I could tell Patterson exactly what he could do with his little extra “project.”

I drifted to the bookcase and pretended to be interested in the Merck Manual.

“I brought those samples you asked about, doc.” The salesman’s voice boomed through the office as he opened his sample case.

Patterson glanced at me, but I kept turning pages in the big green book, feigning avid interest in a description of contact dermatitis.

“Great, Jerry. Thanks a lot.”

Jerry pulled out a cardboard tray of little boxes. Each bottle would contain a few pills of medication, meant to be handed out as samples to patients, who would then be convinced enough of the drug’s benefits to opt for a full prescription. “Everything they say about this stuff is true,” Jerry gushed. “It’ll sure put pep in your pecker.”

By now I had a pretty good idea of what drug Jerry was peddling. Sure enough, every box in that tray was emblazoned with the familiar blue tablet and a capital V.

To my secret delight, a stain of red crept up the back of Patterson’s neck. He hastily shoved the samples in his desk and ushered Jerry from the room.

As soon as they were gone, I replaced the Merck on the shelf and rushed to the desk. I opened the drawer and took out the tray of little boxes. Sure enough, it was Viagra. As if the doc needed any more pep in his pecker.

I didn’t have time to open all the little boxes and empty each bottle, so I dropped the whole tray in the trash can beside Patterson’s desk and carried it out with me.

I passed Joan in the hall and she gave me a curious look.

“I thought since I wasn’t busy, I’d try to clean up a little around here,” I said.

At the end of the hall, I ducked into the ladies’ room and emptied every bottle in the toilet. Then I stuffed Patterson’s trash can in the supply closet and sauntered back into the corridor, humming to myself. My bad mood had vanished. I felt almost giddy. I didn’t know what had come over me. I’d never done anything so daring in my life.

I pushed aside a momentary nudge of guilt by telling myself that Patterson deserved this small payback after the way he’d treated me. Women everywhere would be thankful if they knew what I’d just done.

I passed Jeff near the end of the hallway. “What are you looking so smug about?” he asked.

I gave him what I hoped was a mysterious smile. “My mama always said nothing would make your day like doing a good deed for someone else and she was right.”

He angled himself against the wall, blocking my way. “What good deed did you do?”

I shook my finger at him. “Oh, but it’s more virtuous to do your good deeds in secret.”

“Since when are you virtuous?” He reached out and stroked the bandage at my throat. “Barney. Definitely your style.”

I fought against a blush. “It was all we had. They’re very popular with kids. Would you like one?”

His voice was a low rumble that set up vibrations in my chest. “I can think of a few things I’d like from you, but a Band-Aid isn’t one of them.”

My knees suddenly felt wobbly. I fought the urge to hold on to him for support. “Dream on,” I said, sounding a little out of breath.

He leaned closer, a decidedly wicked grin making him more handsome than ever. “Sometimes dreams come true, you know.”

He let me by him and I tottered to my room, which was miraculously back together. A mixture of victorious exaltation and frustrated desire made me giddy. So Jeff wasn’t right for me? A woman could flirt, couldn’t she? I probably needed the practice. And putting one over on “Dr. Love” was enough to make anyone happy.

I sank into my chair. Yes, from now on I wasn’t putting up with crap from anybody. I was declaring a one-woman revolution. I reached for the phone and punched in Darla’s number.

“Darla, I want to make an appointment. I need a color job.”

“Okay. Let me make sure I have some Bashful Blonde in stock.”

I glanced at my reflection in the darkened computer monitor. “Forget the blond. I’m ready for a change.”

“A change? What kind of a change?” She sounded alarmed.

I twirled a lock of hair around my finger. “I think I’m ready for something more exciting. More daring.” My grin widened. “I’m ready to be a redhead.”

AT FIVE O’CLOCK ON THE DOT, I escaped from work, leaving Jeff on his hands and knees in my office, threading computer wire along the baseboards. “Leaving already?” he asked as I walked past.

“I have an important appointment.”

“Another hot date with the vampire?” He had a way of arching one eyebrow when he said something meant to tease me that made my mouth go dry.

Hormones, I reminded myself. Just those damned hormones. “Next time I see him, I’ll drive a stake through his heart.”

Jeff put a hand over his heart. “Remind me to never rub you the wrong way.”

You’re never going to rub me the right way, either, I thought, but did my best to keep the sentiment from my face. Jeff Fischer was sexier than any man had a right to be, but he was also six years younger than me. Not that much older than Just-a-waitress. Wouldn’t Steve laugh if he thought I was having my own midlife crisis?

With that thought souring my mood, I drove to Hair Apparent. It was one of those huge places with six stylists, two manicurists, a tanning booth and a massage therapist. The year before, they’d added the words Day Spa to their name and prices had shot up twenty percent. But I stayed with the place because of Darla. It’s hard enough to find a friend these days, and even harder to find a good hair stylist.

Darla greeted me with what looked like a giant, economysize bottle of ketchup in her hand. “What do you think?” she asked, holding up the bottle so that a beam of sunlight from the front window struck it. “It’s called Ravishing Ruby.”

“It looks like ketchup.” Maybe my decision to be a redhead had been a little hasty….

“It looks better on. Trust me.” She shoved me into a chair and wrapped me in a plastic cape.

“What’s with the Barney bandage on your neck?” she asked as she fastened the cape.

“You don’t want to know.” I grabbed a magazine off the counter beside the chair and opened it at random.

“There are two people you do not keep secrets from in this world—your hairdresser and your best friend. I happen to be both, so spill.”

I didn’t have to look in the mirror to know my face was redder than my hair was going to be. “I had a run-in with Dr. P. this morning. Apparently, he’s got the idea that I should be his next conquest.”

She frowned. “The lech. But what does that have to do with the bandage on your neck?”

“He, uh, apparently thought it would be cute to leave his mark on me,” I said grimly.

“No! A hickey?” Darla’s squeal silenced every other conversation in the room. Chairs swiveled in our direction and the other stylists froze, combs and scissors poised as they waited for the next revelation.

I sank down in the chair. Darla began combing out sections of hair and everyone else went back to work. “That man’s got a lot of nerve. You ought to report him.”

“Yeah, like that hasn’t been tried before. It never does any good. He’s this big respected doctor and I’m just some sex-starved receptionist.” I frowned at my reflection in the salon mirror. “No, the best thing to do is to just stay out of his way until he gets tired of it and decides to pick on somebody else.”

Darla’s scowl let me know what she thought of that strategy, but a good friend knows when to keep her mouth shut. She shook the ketchup bottle and began squirting color onto my hair. I closed my eyes. It looked like the fake blood they used in movies. I could always tell people I’d been the victim of a tragic accident.

“What did people at work say?” she asked.

“Most of them didn’t notice. The only one who gave me a hard time about it was Jeff.”

“Jeff? Who’s Jeff?”

I opened my eyes. “This kid who’s installing my new transcription equipment.”

“Just how old is this kid? And is he good-looking?”

I shifted in the chair. “Too young. Twenty-six.”

“Oooh. Twenty-six is a good age in men. They’re too old for fraternity parties and most of them still have all their hair. He’s handsome, I’ll bet. He must be, or you wouldn’t have ignored the question.”

I picked a piece of lint off the cape. “I wouldn’t call him ugly.” Tall, muscular, thick brown hair, dark brown eyes—no, that definitely wasn’t my idea of ugly. “It doesn’t matter what he looks like.”

“He’s that good, huh? So, are you gonna go out with him?”

“I’m not going out with him. He’s just a kid.” I swiveled the chair around so suddenly Darla missed my head altogether and a big blob of the fake-blood-looking hair color landed on my shoulder and dripped down the front of the cape.

Darla wiped at the spilled color with an old towel. “Twenty-six is not a kid. And he’s only six years younger than you. Just because you married an old man when you were nineteen doesn’t make you old. Besides, haven’t you heard that younger men and older women are more compatible sexually? There was a therapist on Oprah last week talking about it.”

Maybe six years didn’t sound like much to most people, but it felt like more than six years to me. I was mature for my age. Though come to think of it, that doesn’t sound like the compliment now that it did when I was nineteen. “Darla, he’s installing some computer equipment in my office. There isn’t anything sexual about that.”

“Sure there’s not.” Her expression told me she didn’t buy it. “He’s just a hot young stud who is interested enough in you to notice a love bite from another man on your neck and comment on it. And you’ve just spent ten minutes protesting how impossible it would be for you to have the slightest interest in him. That’s longer than you’ve talked about any man other than Steve the sleaze.”

I glared at her in the mirror. She laughed. “All right, I’ll drop the subject if you tell me one thing.”

“What’s that?” I was still suspicious. Darla had a way of getting confessions out of me that I didn’t want to give.

“Did this Jeff guy have anything to do with your sudden decision to become a redhead?” She pointed at my reflection in the mirror. “And be honest.”

“It didn’t have anything to do with Jeff.” I smoothed the cape across my lap. “I’ve thought about this for years.”

“Then why didn’t you do it before?”

“Steve wouldn’t let me.” Even as I said the words, I knew they sounded pathetic.

“What did he do, lock you in the house and threaten to take away your car keys?” She shook her head and made clucking noises under her tongue. “Sorry. I just can’t stand it when men try to tell their wives what they can’t do with their hair or their clothes or anything like that. It’s like they think women are children who need to be kept in line.”

“Steve always told me he liked my hair just the way it was,” I said wistfully. In fact, the first thing he ever said to me was “Hey beautiful, do blondes really have more fun?”

Okay, so it wasn’t a great pickup line. I was nineteen at the time. Steve was thirty and I thought he was suave and sophisticated. I didn’t care what he said to me as long as he said something.

“Well, I’m glad you decided to do this.” Darla set her minute timer and grinned at me. “It’s going to look great. So why now? What happened to make you decide to do it today?

I managed a smile in return. “You might say I owe it all to some samples of Viagra.”

“Viagra? The sex pill? Are they giving it to women now?”

“Nope. And a certain troublemaking man won’t be taking it, either.” I told her about swiping the doctor’s samples and dumping them down the toilet. “It was sneaky,” I concluded. “But it sure felt good.”

“Sneaky? It was brilliant. And it serves him right, the old lecher.”

“I’m sure he’ll just get more samples, but it makes me feel like I have a little power over him now. I know his big secret.”

“Speaking of secrets, I have some more news about your ex and Just-a-waitress.”

I squirmed in the chair, remembering the last “news” Darla had told me. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

“You’re going to know soon enough, anyhow. When she was in here she also told Henry that she and Steve-o are getting married.”

My stomach clenched and I locked my jaw, freezing my face into what I hoped was an indifferent expression. I shouldn’t have been surprised, considering that they were going to have a baby, but the information hit me like a punch. “Oh, hon.” Darla put her hand on my shoulder. “You didn’t really want him back, did you?”

I shook my head so hard little drops of color spattered across the front of Darla’s smock. “No. Never.” I didn’t want him back. But Steve marrying someone else was the final evidence that a chapter in my life was over. He was moving on, but what was I doing? I lived in the same house, held the same job, did the same things and I was still alone.

“Come on over here to the shampoo bowl.” Darla nudged me toward the back of the shop. “If you like, I do a pretty good rendition of ‘I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair.”’

A bit of a smile broke through my gloom. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

She patted my shoulder. “You’ll feel better once you see the new you. I guarantee a certain younger man is going to be hot for you once he sees you in red.”

“It’s been a long time since anyone was even lukewarm,” I said. “I don’t see why Jeff should be any different.”

“But you want him to be, don’t you?” She put her face close to mine, staring into my eyes. “Don’t lie, Phoebe Elaine Frame.”

I shrugged. “Sure, I’d be flattered if some gorgeous young stud thought I was all that. But it’s not going to happen.”

“It could.”

“Even if it does, I don’t think it would be smart to get involved with him.”

She turned on the water and tested the temperature against her wrist. “Who said anything about smart? What you want at this point in your life is fun. You haven’t had nearly enough of that lately. Sounds like young Jeff could be just the ticket.”

One way or round trip? I wondered as warm water cascaded over my scalp. Or did it really matter? If I was only going along for a pleasure cruise, did it really matter where it took me or how long it lasted?