Bad Cruz(13)

Catherine Costello had the Nancy Pelosi hairdo, an extra-delicate frame, and Jackie Kennedy’s wardrobe. She looked—and I say it with a lot of love—like every rich white woman you’d ever seen in a nineties’ era boss-lady-powersuit wearing television drama.

“Oh, Cruzy. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

I opened the door all the way, knowing there was little point in telling her she was. “Not at all, Mom. Come in.”

“I noticed Gabriella was in a bit of a sour mood.” Mom began unloading the brown bag she’d brought with her. A home-cooked meal, no doubt.

She was, for all intents and purposes, a wonderful, overbearing mother that I thoroughly enjoyed spending time with, and at the same time couldn’t wait to say goodbye to.

Confused? So was I.

“Yeah. We broke up.” I opened the fridge, taking out a beer for me and diet lemonade I kept especially for her.

“That’s extremely disappointing to hear.”

She began popping open the containers. Smelled like her string bean casserole and steak.

“My apologies.”

I sounded sincere, because I was sincere.

I wanted to make my parents happy. I just didn’t want to get stuck with a woman who found more pleasure in taking pictures of desserts than eating them, and considered Vogue the authority on highbrow literature.

“At the same time, I could tell your heart was not in it. Come, sit and eat.”

I did, because hell, there wasn’t anything better than your mother’s best cooking and a beer at the end of a long day, no matter how old you were.

She rounded my kitchen table and came to sit opposite me, propping her chin over her laced fingers.

“I’m not here to talk about Gabriella, though.”

“Figured as much—that was breaking news.” I speared a piece of steak and popped it into my mouth. “How can I help, Mama?”

“Rob Gussman’s back in town.”

I managed not to splutter my beer and steak out.

Barely.

“Really, now?”

She nodded. “I went to play bridge at Mrs. Underwood’s place. She was gushing about you saving that boy at Jerry’s when the subject arose. Mrs. Gussman, who dropped in to give us some of her famous apple pie, said he’s back and a little worse for wear. Had a few difficult years. He is twice divorced, you know?”

“I heard.” Rob was never really good at relationships, so I was hardly surprised. “Is he here to stay?”

“Seems that way. He rented a house and everything. Down on Norton Creek, not very far from the other Turner girl and their kid.”

“Weird that no one has seen him yet.”

“I think he is keeping a low profile for now. Anyway, why don’t you give him a call? I’m sure he’d appreciate it. I bet he feels isolated and more than a bit embarrassed after the whole debacle with the other Turner girl.”

Yup.

Tennessee Turner didn’t have any fans in this town. In fact, my mother was just coming to terms with having her sister Trinity as a daughter-in-law, she was so uncomfortable with the affiliation.

Me, I had my own views about the world, about the small-town cancel-culture mentality. I wasn’t a fan of Miss Turner, but I had to say, a lot of the crap spewed about her reeked of jealousy and pettiness.

“Sure thing.” I shoveled more casserole into my mouth. “As soon as I get back from the cruise. I have a lot on my work plate right now.”

“Oh! And then there’s Mrs. Vella’s son, Anthony. He is considering going to med school and asked if he could email you a few questions. I said yes, of course.”

“Of course,” I echoed, grounding my molars as I ate.

Saying no was not an option. I was the perfect son, the perfect neighbor, the perfect acquaintance. Always ready to help.

“One more thing before I go. Your father wants to know if you could help him go over his investment portfolio before we go on the cruise. You know how dreadful he is about these things.”

“Consider it done. I’ll drop in tomorrow.”

Yup.

Being perfect was exhausting.

Especially when, on the inside, I felt anything but.





Just when I thought the fifty-hour day couldn’t possibly get any longer, I got a call to return to the clinic because Mrs. Borowski’s kid, Jensen, had decided it was a good idea for his scrotum to get up close and personal with a Thomas the Train toy’s wheel.

It was Borowski’s second strike this month, as her daughter landed on my patient’s table not even two weeks ago with a rainbow-colored poop sample and a Joker-like smeared grin.

Apparently, little Elin had thought it was a great idea to feast on her crayons.

I arrived at the clinic, removed the train of joy from Jensen’s nut sack, good-naturedly explaining to him that it was not the last time this region of his body would land him into trouble, then peeled my elastic gloves off with a pop when Trinity, my soon to be sister-in-law and nurse, glided into my office.

“Dr. Costello.”

“Please, Trinity, call me Cruz when no patients are around. We’re about to become family.”

“Cruz.” Trinity tasted my name in her mouth, smiling shyly. “Got called in for an urgent procedure?”