The Queen of Hearts(59)
“You know, he’s always willing to switch one of his call days with the other guys, right?” Emma asked, sounding peevish but more lively. “They think he’s the best partner. He golfs with Jack Inman, and Jack’s introduced him to Buzzy Cooper and that crowd, so now we’ll probably have to endure him leering at us at the pool next summer too. Why can’t he leave us alone?”
“Emma?” I asked. “What did the texts say?”
“That’s why I called. He keeps asking for your address.”
“Which under no circumstances you would share with him,” I said.
“Of course not. But this last message I got—it’s from hours ago now—said that he’s stopping by your office. Today. It said he’s stopping by today.”
“What?” I shrieked. This was a really bad time to get attacked by the past. I glanced at my schedule, which stared back at me reproachfully. I was already two patients behind, and there was no way I could insert a wholly undesirable encounter with a detested ex-boyfriend into the middle of my work day.
“Hang on, hang on,” said Emma. “I called him. We had a brief but emphatic discussion of why that would be the stupidest idea ever, and he relented. But he says he sent you something.”
Perfectly on cue, there was a knock on my door. I hung up with Emma and swung the door open to reveal Della Rae, our receptionist. Or at least the person looked like Della Rae from the bottom half. Her torso and head were obscured by a gigantic tower of gold foil boxes of various sizes, topped off with an enormous blobby thing in the shape of a bow.
“What is that?” I asked weakly.
“Chocolate!” She beamed, lowering the monstrosity onto my desk. “Somebody knows you pretty well, Dr. Anson. Even the bow is made of candy.”
“I don’t like candy!” I protested, hastily shoving closed the top drawer of my desk, which was full of emergency chocolate bars. “Give it to the girls out front.”
“Ooh, okay,” said Della Rae, scooping it back up. “But here’s the card.” She grinned and flipped a white envelope at me. A strange mix of repulsion and intrigue gripped me as I caught sight of the spiky handwriting inside. I opened it.
Zadie,
I promise I am not stalking you. I want to say I am sorry for what I did to you, and I miss you. And I am still so sorry about what happened to your friend Graham.
I hope we can be friends.
All my best,
Nick
Chapter Twenty-four
GET IN THERE WITH YOUR ELBOWS
Emma, Present Day
Because Zadie is my closest friend—my only close friend, really—I find myself willing to overlook traits that would ordinarily disturb me. Like a certain lack of punctuality and a tendency to believe that obligations mysteriously pop up on her calendar without her placing them there.
So I wasn’t surprised when, on my first Saturday back from Finland, Zadie failed to appear for a run we’d scheduled for eight a.m. in order to discuss the situation with the Packards. A quick call to her cell revealed the reason: she had forgotten which day it was and was at her twins’ basketball game.
“I’m so sorry, Em!” she wailed. “They have three games and the first one is almost over. . . . Why don’t you meet me here? Drew can stay at the game and we can still run.”
I agreed. I knew that Zadie had reached out to Boyd Packard in an attempt to save my career and hadn’t heard back yet. Over the last few months, I’d tried to soothe myself by running or reading or organizing, but it was like trying to relax before you were beheaded. I struggled to present a normal facade to the world. Depression had wormed its way into my core, each sonorous beat of my heart sending out a wash of dread. I walked around in a fugue of resignation, certain I’d never again feel the absence of worry.
Still, I held on to one hope: that Zadie would save me.
When I reached the Presbyterian church where the games were played, a sea of people churned in the lobby outside the gymnasium, all squawking and chattering with the bright, mindless intensity of birds. Moms in tight, sweat-wicking performance athletic pants, clutching to-go cups from Starbucks; clumps of dads in golf shirts; shrieking children weaving through everyone’s legs. I hugged my arms in at my sides. I didn’t see Zadie anywhere.
I kept to the periphery of the room, my eyes darting through the crowd for a friendly face. No one spoke to me as I edged closer to the indoor basketball courts. Finally, I spotted Delaney by the vending machine, which she was attempting to manipulate by shoving crinkled-up paper towels into the coin slots. Because I was distracted by the hapless vending machine—which was making a grinding noise as it tried to reject the onslaught of counterfeit funds—it took me a second to realize something was off in Delaney’s appearance. Closer inspection revealed she had lodged a wad of scrunched-up paper towels under her headband. That, and her outfit was odd: she was decked out in a pair of tight-fitting camo shorts and a T-shirt emblazoned with a photo of a deranged-looking older gentleman with a full beard. The caption read, Y’ALL OUGHTA GO BY WALMART AND PICK YOU UP A PERSONALITY.
Zadie appeared out of the crowd and stared at Delaney. “Honey,” she said in a calm but ominous tone. “What are you wearing?”
Delaney looked down. “This?” she asked pertly.