The Queen of Hearts(13)

“Did he— Does he know you’re in the group?” I asked.

“I don’t—” Emma began.

“Well, heyyy there, babe!”

Emma and I both looked up, startled, as the chair next to me was suddenly occupied by a tiny blonde in a red one-piece. It was Mary Sarah Porcher, one of the pediatricians I worked with, who also had Fridays off. She grinned widely, curling her legs up under her and leaning in. “What the hell is going on?”

Mary Sarah was a walking contradiction. She had a shocking gravelly voice—I suspected she smoked—and her accent was pure Southern, so that What the hell is going on? came out as Whut the hale is gowen own? She loved to curse, an odd quality in a pediatrician, admittedly. But she was a legacy at the club and her husband was a blue-blooded Virginian whose family could trace their lineage back to the landed gentry in Burke’s Peerage. She reminded me of my old med school friend Georgia, now a urologist.

Ordinarily, there was nothing I’d have enjoyed more than hanging out with Mary Sarah and Emma at the pool, but now I was desperate to hear what Emma had started to tell me, and there was no way to explain the background situation to a third party when Emma and I could barely articulate it ourselves. We’d have to wait until Mary Sarah left.

Mary Sarah was not showing any signs of movement, however. She was dug in like an Alabama tick, lounging on her chaise and lazily flicking through Vogue while commenting on the physical attributes of the men at the pool. Since it was Friday morning, there weren’t many of these, but that didn’t slow her down any.

“Hot diggity dawg, would you look at those swim trunks? Mmmm.”

“Mary Sarah,” I said, affecting a scandalized air. “That is a very young college person.”

“I know, right? Love the view.”

A server materialized. “Hi, Dr. Porcher, Dr. Colley, Dr. Anson. Can I get you ladies a beverage?”

“Oooh, yes. It’s hot as balls out here. I’ll have a sweet tea. Thanks, babe.”

“Nonsweet tea,” said Emma.

“Just ice water.” I hated putting extras on Emma’s tab, on top of the guest fee for the pool.

The morning sputtered along. After Mary Sarah had downed what seemed like five thousand sweet teas, each of which was the equivalent of drinking a pound of sugar laced with caffeine, she finally needed to use the bathroom. Evidently she had the metabolism of a newborn and a bladder the size of Canada. Emma and I watched as she somehow bounced away in her four-inch cork mules and then turned to each other.

“Quick,” I hissed. “Fill me in. Did he get the job?”





Chapter Five


    DRINK UP, HONEY


   Emma, Present Day


I looked Zadie in the eye as I answered, “He did.”

“Does he know you’re in the group?”

“I don’t honestly know,” I said. This was true. “I assume he would’ve checked out our website at some point, and even though my last name has changed, he’d recognize my photo and bio. So surely he knows?” I shifted around in my chair. “He interviewed while I was out.”

“So . . . so . . . where is he now? Do you know anything about him?” A band of worry lines crinkled Zadie’s forehead.

“I got his CV. He’s board certified in liver and gallbladder surgery, and he’s been out west somewhere. Denver, I think. Sounds like he still does a lot of research; he had a lot of publications. He listed his interests as golfing, snowboarding, and running, but there was no mention of anything personal. I asked our manager why he’s leaving, and she said—”

“Dr. Anson! Hiiii!”

Oh no. Not good. The mother of one of Zadie’s patients stood in front of us. I knew her too, from the club. The kid appeared likable enough—for a kid—but I’d mentally diagnosed the mother as a hypochondriac veering toward full-on Munchausen by proxy, a psychiatric disorder in which people induce illness in their children because they enjoy the attention. Plus, I detest close talkers.

“Hi, Tillie,” said Zadie, with baffling warmth.

“Hi,” I said, striving for a pleasant but uninviting tone. “Zadie and I were just—”

Oblivious, Hypochondriac Mom interrupted me again. “What good luck to run into you, Dr. Anson! I was about to call,” she said, plopping uninvited onto my chair, forcing me to shift over so that one buttock was dangling midair. I stared at her back. Was I invisible? “I hate to bother you”—clearly a lie—“but I’ve been noticing some potential issues with Newton’s pulse ox, and—”

She prattled on. I sighed. This failed to gain attention, so I raised my eyebrows and cleared my throat, which neither woman noticed. Finally I broke in. “Oh,” I said to Hypochondriac, gesturing across the pool to a clump of people standing near the bar. “Isn’t that Dr. Porcher over there? Is she your pediatrician?”

Hypochondriac cut off midword and leapt up. The difficult moms tended to love Mary Sarah, whose effusive personality made everyone feel validated. “Great!” she shouted over her shoulder as she galloped off. “Thanks!”

“Two birds with one stone,” I said, relieved. “I’ll buy Mary Sarah a drink later.”

“I think you’ll have to buy her a whole pitcher.” Zadie giggled, watching a little herd of men in golf shirts who’d been chatting with Mary Sarah disperse in all directions as soon as Hypochondriac descended on them.