Royal Pains : Sick Rich (9781101559536) (10 page)

“Good idea,” I said.

“Of course it is.”

“Modest, too.”

“I learned it from Evan,” Jill said.

“My brother. The king of good ideas.”

“Spare me,” Divya said.

“A couple of our ER docs will man our booth,” Jill said.

“And we'll be here,” I said.

“Unfortunately so will superspy Evan R. Lawson,” Divya said.

Jill laughed. “You probably won't have to worry with him. Somehow I can't see him hanging around the booth all day. Evan has to schmooze.”

“It's what he was born to do,” I said.

“What do you think of the space?” Jill asked.

“Love it.”

“Besides the desk and the exam tables do you need anything else?”

“Privacy screens,” Divya said. “Do you have any of those lying around?”

“I think so. I'll check.” She pulled a notepad from her purse and scribbled on it. “I'll add it to the list.”

“Don't go out of the way,” I said. “We can easily rent them.”

“Trust me, it's no problem. We have more stuff in storage than you can imagine. Anything else you can think of right now?”

“Just to be sure,” Divya said, “we can park the van right here behind the booth, right?”

“I don't see any reason why not. I know Rachel Fleming will have a couple of her conversions behind her booth.”

“That would make things much easier,” I said. “We'd have all our equipment and our computers right here.”

“Consider it done,” Jill said.

“An executive decision? Just like that?”

“Of course. I'm the administrator. I can do what I want.”

“Don't let all that power go to your head.”

“I thought you said you found strong women sexy.”

“There's that, too.”

“Should I get a hose?” Divya asked.

Chapter 12

It should be easy. Paddling around on a board that's longer than you are tall. Then kneeling on it and riding a three-foot wave to shore. Piece of cake.

Maybe for most people.

Think Danielle. Most other people, too.

Not so much for others.

Think Evan.

The first two rides had been easy. Those were lying down. Even then Evan wobbled a bit but at least managed to stay on the board. The next three were kneeling. Sort of. Evan fell each time. Zero for three.

To add to Evan's misery, apparently word was out that the great Danielle Delaney was giving a surfing lesson. This drew a couple of dozen people, most standing along the shoreline, others bobbing in the water or floating on Boogie Boards nearby. Most watched quietly, some shouting encouragement, others offering suggestions, and still others simply laughing.

Danielle and Evan lay on their boards, twenty feet apart and a hundred yards offshore, waiting for the next set to build.

“Relax,” Danielle said. “Let the wave carry you. Don't fight it.”

“I'm not fighting,” Evan said. “I'm holding on. It just picks me up and flips me.”

“That's because you're trying to make it do what you want it to do instead of just letting it take you with it.”

“Like a Slip 'n Slide.”

Danielle laughed. “Not exactly, but close.”

“Hard to do with an audience.”

“Ignore them. Concentrate on what you're doing.”

“Come on, dude. You can do it,” someone shouted.

“See? You already have a fan.”

“One out of twenty.”

“That's a start.”

They rode up and then down as the first swell of the next set slid beneath them.

Evan now understood the value of a wet suit. The sun was warm but the water cold. Very cold. The bright orange and yellow no longer mattered. Warmth did.

“We'll let the next one go and catch the third,” Danielle said. “It'll be the best.”

Danielle had earlier explained that every surfer knows about wave sets. They come in two or three up to five or six and sometimes even ten or so with a quiet period in between. Common wisdom says that the third wave in the set is the best, but that's debated. Bottom line? According to Danielle, you take the one that feels right. And if you surf enough, if you've done it since you were a kid, if you're world-class, you usually guess right.

Danielle glanced over her shoulder toward the horizon. “Get ready.”

Evan paddled his board into position, nose toward the shore. Danielle did the same, edging closer to Evan.

The next swell lifted him and settled back again.

“Okay, the next one is ours,” Danielle said. “When I start paddling you do, too.”

“Got it.”

“When you get going, jump up to your knees. Just like you were doing on the beach.”

“Seemed easier there.”

“Let's go.”

Danielle began stroking the water; Evan followed. Danielle jumped to her feet, Evan to his knees. He rode that way for maybe twenty yards and then collapsed to his left. The wave churned over him, spinning him for a couple of loops. He felt the board tug at the leash attached to his ankle. Finally the wave spit him out. He came up gasping, at first treading water, but then his feet discovered the bottom, so he stood. He corralled his board.

Danielle stood closer to shore in waist-deep water watching him. “You okay?” she asked.

“Fine.” He swiped water from his face with the palm of one hand.

“Actually, that was much better. You got up and rode the wave.”

“Not very far.”

“Still, you rode it. Now let's go do it again. I bet next time you'll finish the ride.”

They paddled back out and loitered for a few minutes, waiting for the next set. The gentle rise and fall of the ocean relaxed Evan. He looked up and down the beach, now packed with sunbathers, umbrella-shaded families and couples, and kids of all ages splashing around. He had never really felt comfortable in the water, but sitting here on a surfboard next to Danielle was pretty cool.

“This is great,” Evan said. “I can see why you do it.”

“It'll be even better when you learn a little more.”

“You mean when I can actually stand up.”

“That's right. But we'll save that for another day. Right now I want you to master riding on your knees.”

“I've got it,” Evan said. “This time all the way to shore.”

“That's the spirit.” Danielle glanced back. “Here comes number one. When the third one arrives I want you to paddle extra hard. Get out in front of it.”

Evan did. The wave caught his board and jerked him forward. He snapped up to his knees. He rode the wave, this one slightly bigger than the last. He caught Danielle from the corner of his eye. She was standing, cutting her board back and forth to stay near him.

It was perfect.

He was actually doing it.

It felt easy and he relaxed, letting the wave carry him.

Then it happened.

He leaned too far to the right. His board followed. He and Danielle collided in a twisting mass of arms and legs and flying boards.

Evan struck the bottom. Air surged out of his lungs. The water seemed to pick him up and spin him in every direction. He felt dizzy. Up and down seemed the same. Right and left, too. Then his knees dragged along the coarse sand. The spinning stopped and he finally managed to get his feet planted and stood up in waist-deep water. His board smacked against his back, knocking him off balance. He quickly regained his footing and looked toward shore, where a group of people stood, wide-eyed, some with hand to mouth, some looking past him and pointing.

He turned, thinking for sure a shark would be bearing down on him. A big shark. Like the one in
Jaws
. Big enough to eat a boat. Big enough to swallow him whole. He'd known the orange and yellow wet suit was a bad idea.

But there was no shark. Instead he saw Danielle standing chest-deep in the water, clutching her right shoulder and grimacing.

“Are you okay?” Evan asked.

“I don't think so.”

“Your shoulder?”

She nodded. “I felt it pop.” She tried to move it but winced. “Let's get out of the water.”

“I'll call Hank. He'll know what to do.”

“How about here?” I asked.

“A little,” Danielle said.

She was sitting in a chair on our Shadow Pond patio, wearing cutoff jeans and a tank top. I stood next to her, examining her shoulder. I pressed another area and she winced and recoiled.

“That's it,” she said.

I nodded.

“What is it?”

“Probably an AC separation.”

She shook her head. “That's what I was afraid of.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I had a friend with this once. A big wave rider. Hit the bottom out at Mavericks. Near San Francisco. Took him four months to recover.” She looked up at me. “Is that what I'm looking at?”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Great. I have a big meet in six weeks. Down in South Africa.”

“I'm sorry,” Evan said. “I don't know what happened.”

“You knocked me off my board,” Danielle said.

Evan was frantic. He walked around waving his arms. “I know.” He stopped next to Danielle and looked at her. “I didn't mean to.”

“It's okay,” she said. “I'm just pimping you. These things happen.”

“What can I do? I mean . . . what can I do?”

“Nothing. It'll heal. And missing a meet isn't the end of the world.” She laughed. “My sponsors might see it differently, but they'll just have to deal with it.”

“Before we write everything off,” I said, “let me get an X-ray and see how severe it is.”

“That'll tell you?” Danielle asked.

“Sure will.”

“Maybe it's not so bad,” Evan said.

“Want to help me find out?” I asked.

“How?”

“Go get the X-ray machine from the van.”

Twenty minutes later Divya and I had completed the X-rays and loaded the data on my laptop. I sat at the kitchen table, Danielle next to me, Evan and Divya huddled behind us. I scrolled through the images, carefully examining each one, before returning to the one that best showed the problem.

“This is the clavicle, the collarbone.” I pointed to it with my pen. “This is the scapula or shoulder blade. This projection off the scapula is called the acromion. Okay?”

“Yeah,” Danielle said.

“Right here where they join is called the acromioclavicular joint. The AC joint.”

“That's the sore spot on top of my shoulder?” Danielle asked.

“That's it. See this gap here?” She nodded. “It should be a little narrower.”

“That's the separation?”

“Sure is. The good news is that yours is minor. More a ligament strain than a true separation.”

“So it's not too bad?” Evan asked.

“I've seen worse. Much worse. A severe separation can require surgery.” I turned and looked at Danielle. “Which would put you out of action for months.” She frowned. “But this? It'll be sore for a few weeks, but it'll heal.”

“No surgery?”

“A couple of days in a sling with ice packs and then rehab exercises and you'll be fine.”

“Will I miss the South Africa meet?”

“Depends on how fast you heal. But it will definitely cut into your training.”

“I can deal with that, but I'd hate to miss the trip.”

“Let's see how things progress over the next ten days,” I said. “Will you still be here?”

“I plan to be.”

“Then we'll keep an eye on it.”

She nodded. “Sounds good.”

“I would suggest you not get back in the water with Evan,” Divya said.

“It was an accident,” Evan said. “It could have happened to anyone.”

Divya crossed her arms, cocking her head to one side. “Even a superspy?”

Danielle laughed. “Okay, guys, let's not pick on Evan too much. It was partly my fault. I stayed too close to him. Should've kept more distance.”

“We are all trying to discover how to do that,” Divya said.

Danielle stood. “I need to get home and start dinner for Grandma.”

“Can I help?” Evan asked.

“She's still healing from her last injury,” Divya said. “I'm not sure she could handle another one.”

“It was an accident.”

“She's teasing you,” Danielle said. “Why don't you come over tonight? I'm making fish tacos, and we have plenty. Grandma would love it.”

“Okay. That would be fun. What time?”

“Maybe seven?”

“Cool.”

Chapter 13

By evening a drizzle had set in, followed by a healthy rain, which thankfully lightened by the time Evan pulled to a stop in Angela Delaney's gravel parking area. The sun was low and the water-soaked trees cast long shadows over the house. Rain circles and a few bubbles dotted the surface of the pond.

Evan jumped from his car and dodged a few water-filled potholes as he scurried for the cover of the rear porch. He had a bottle of wine in one hand and an empty plastic document binder in the other, holding it over his head as a quasi umbrella. He had forgotten to bring a real one.

As he climbed the porch steps, the rear door swung open. Danielle held it with her good arm. The other arm was in a sling.

“Love your umbrella,” she said.

“It's the best I could come up with.” He flapped it a couple of times, shaking off the water. “At least it's slowed down some.” He placed the plastic cover on the table that sat between Angela's porch rockers. “I'll leave it here. I might need it when I leave.”

Danielle led him into the living room, where Angela sat in a wingback chair, her leg propped on an ottoman. She closed the book she held and placed it next to the lamp on the table to her left.

“Look who the rain drove in,” Angela said. “Did you get wet, dear?”

“Not much.”

“Have a seat,” Angela said. “Danielle will get you something to drink.”

“I brought wine.” He held up the bottle. “White.” He looked at Danielle. “You are making fish tacos, right?”

“Yes.” She reached for the bottle. “I'll open it.”

“Maybe I should,” Evan said. “It might be hard to do with one hand.”

“You're probably right. Come on.”

She led him into the kitchen. It was small but looked as if it belonged in an architectural magazine. Pale yellow walls, multipaned white-trimmed windows, dark yellow tieback curtains, ceramic tile countertops, natural wood cabinets, and a freestanding square chopping block in the middle of the floor.

“We're also having rice, corn, and black beans.” She indicated three pots on the stovetop. She retrieved a wine opener from a drawer and handed it to him. “Now that you're here I'll put the fish in.” She pulled open the oven, lifted a baking pan filled with glistening white fillets, and slid it onto the rack. All with one hand.

“You're pretty good for only being able to use one arm.”

“And whose fault might that be?”

“I told you, it was . . .”

She interrupted him by snapping a dish towel at him. “I'm teasing you.”

“I know, but I still feel guilty.” The wine cork popped free.

“Good.” She laughed. “The fish will only take a few minutes and then we'll be ready for dinner.”

“I'm starving.”

“Surfing will do that to you.” She took three wineglasses from an overhead cabinet and placed them on the chopping block.

“I'm not sure what I did would qualify as surfing.”

“You worked hard.”

“Too hard.” He began to fill the glasses. “How's your shoulder doing?”

“Beginning to get stiff and sore.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“No more about that. I told you, stuff happens.” She picked up one of the wineglasses. “This will help.” She took a sip. “Very good.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Go entertain Grandma. It'll be ready in a few minutes.”

Evan took a glass of wine to Angela and sat on the sofa.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

“Better than Danielle.” She flashed a devilish grin.

“It was an accident.”

“I'm teasing you.”

“Do you two have the same writer?”

Angela laughed. “Don't need one. She's basically my clone. Always has been.” She sighed. “I see so much of myself in her.”

“Well, that's a good thing.”

“Yes, it is.” She lifted her wineglass toward him and then took a sip. “My, this is good.”

“The man at the wine store suggested it.”

“He did a good job.” She took another sip. “Truth is that Danielle has always suffered bumps and bruises. A real tomboy like I was. From tree climbing as a child to all types of sports. Seemed she was always doing something to something.”

“This wasn't her fault. It was mine.”

“She'll heal. She always does.”

“But she might miss that meet in South Africa.”

“Bet she doesn't.”

“Bet she doesn't what?” Danielle said as she entered the living room.

“Miss your next meet, dear.”

Danielle moved her shoulder slightly. “I don't know. This is getting pretty sore.”

Angela laughed. “If I had a nickel for every time I've heard you say that.”

Danielle gave a one-shouldered shrug.

“She would always say that and then the next day go out and wax the competition.”

Danielle rolled her eyes. “Don't listen to anything she says.”

“Why, dear? It's all true.”

“Five minutes.” Danielle looked at Evan. “Why don't you help Grandma to the dining table and I'll bring everything out?”

“I can get myself there,” Angela said. “You go help Danielle.” She swung her leg off the ottoman and stood. “See?”

“I'll take your wine,” Evan said.

“That would help.”

The dinner was perfect. The beans, the rice, the corn, and especially the broiled fish splashed with fresh-squeezed lime juice and rolled in corn tortillas. Evan devoured four of the tacos.

While they ate, they talked about Danielle's career, HankMed and Evan's work, and of course Danielle's childhood. Angela told an unending series of stories that drew laughter from Evan and a red face and the occasional “Grandma, don't tell that” from Danielle. Angela always waved her away and went on with the story.

While they finished up a dessert of raspberry sherbet, the conversation turned to Angela's rehab. She was frustrated with her slow progress, but Danielle said she was simply expecting too much too soon.

“The PT techs said you were doing well and were ahead of schedule,” Danielle said.

“Doesn't feel that way to me. Feels like I'm an invalid. Confined to my house.”

“Your surgeon said you could go out. In fact, he insisted, didn't he?”

Angela rolled her eyes. “He's not old.”

Evan laughed. “Neither are you.”

“Are you blind? Look at me.”

“You're beautiful.”

Angela raised an eyebrow to Danielle. “I told you he was a charmer.”

“But he's right. You are beautiful—and you need to get out of the house.”

“I tell you what,” Evan said. “Tomorrow morning I'll buy breakfast. There's a great place over in East Hampton. You'll love it.”

“That would be great,” Danielle said. “And then maybe we'll go shopping or something.”

“You two go. I'll stay here.”

“No.” Evan and Danielle said in unison.

“But what if I fall or something?”

“I'll be there,” Danielle said.

“And I'll bring Hank and Divya.”

Angela nodded and then a smile appeared. “That would be nice.” She folded her napkin and laid it on the table. “Okay, it's a date.”