Authors: Sophia Knightly
“Hey, Elise,” I say in a soft voice not to disturb her.
When she looks up, my jaw drops in shock. I can’t believe my eyes! Surely this haggard woman cannot be Elise Richards.
“Hi,” she says in a wan voice. “Thanks for the basket. You shouldn’t have, but I love it.”
“You’re very welcome.”
I can barely get the words out, I’m so stunned. Poor Elise is a wreck. Her usually sleek blonde bob looks like a Brillo pad that’s been pulled apart with the ends frayed and sticking out in every direction. I want to do something special for her right away to lift her spirits. I know—I’ll treat her to a Keratin hair treatment as soon as she can get to a beauty parlor.
I set the basket down on a table beside the window and approach her side. “How are you feeling?” I ask, noting her bleary, red eyes and the dark circles underneath.
Elise’s pale body is hunched over in a wrinkled hospital gown pooled around her waist while she struggles to breastfeed
both
babies at a time.
“I’ve had better days,” she says, her lower lip quivering. “My nipples are sore, my stitches itch, and I have hemorrhoids for the first time in my life.”
“Oh no—not hemorrhoids! Do they hurt much?” I ask, cringing. I shouldn’t be cringing, but I can’t help it. “Will they go away?”
“They better go away!” Elise wails.
“I’m sorry,” I say, sympathizing with her despair. I set down the basket and move closer to her side. “How can I help you?
“Please tell me everything’s going to be fine,” she implores me.
“Everything’s going to be fine. Of course it is!” I say with conviction. Privately, I hate to be a pessimist, but from where I’m standing things don’t look so good. “Have your parents arrived yet?”
She nods. “They’re downstairs having lunch.”
“Oh, good.” Elise is the youngest of six children. Her retired parents already have fourteen grandkids including the twins, so they’re experts at child-raising.
“Man, these babies are glued to me like I’m serving whiskey!”
“They are too cute,” I coo, awed by how identical they are.
“Thanks. I guess the upside of nursing is that I’ll lose the fifty pounds I gained faster.” Elise sighs. “I’m worried about getting in front of the camera again. I’m forty, wrinkled and as big as a moose.”
I wave my hand. “No, you’re not. You’re beautiful and smart and talented. You’ll be back in shape in no time. No time, I tell you! The baby weight will melt away,” I say cheerfully.
“I guess so.” Elise gives me a shaky smile. “You’re sweet to try to cheer me up with the pep talk. How’s the heart campaign coming along?”
“It’s going great, but I wasn’t able to get Dr. Perez to chair the Bowled Over event. She’s swamped with other commitments.”
“Oh, too bad,” Elise says, distracted when one of the babies pulls away from her breast and starts to fuss.
“Want me to call the nurse?” I ask.
“No, but can you take Jake for a minute?”
“Sure, hold on a sec.” I run to the door and hold my hands under the antibacterial pump on the wall beside it long enough to disinfect them. Poor little Jake is howling and bright red by the time I take him from Elise.
“Shh, shh,” I croon, carefully cradling him while Elise gently dislodges his twin from her breast.
“Here,” she says handing me a clean cloth. “Put this on your shoulder and burp him like I’m burping Josh.”
“Okay,” I say, even though I’m anxious about holding such a teeny newborn. With excruciating care, I position Jake’s precious body against my cloth-covered shoulder. I have never held anything so delicate in my life. He feels like a fragile bird beneath my hand as I pat his back. My eyes well up thinking about Elise all alone with her babies. The injustice is staggering. Where is the father, I wonder as I angrily blink back tears. It’s not fair that Elise has to be both parents for her babies.
Elise sees my tears and bursts out crying. Great, now we’re a crying orchestra, Elise, the twins and me.
I force a smile on my face so I can cheer her up. “Your sons are beautiful, Elise. You are so lucky.”
“Thank you,” she blubbers. “Don’t mind me, I’m majorly hormonal.”
“I’m feeling a little hormonal too.” I take a trembling breath and change the subject. “Back to the heart campaign…Dr. Perez had a great suggestion. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. I figured it would be impossible because he’s practically a celebrity.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Dr. Alex Escobar. You know, the cardiologist who writes the ‘Heart to Heart’ column.”
“Oh, him,” Elise replies, her tone like a deflated balloon. “He’s not a good choice.”
“Why not? He’s amazing. I read his column every Monday morning, even before I get to the headlines.”
“I don’t like him.”
“How come?” I ask, surprised. What is there not to like about a man who provides excellent insight and hope for heart patients?
Elise starts to say something, but is interrupted by her mom and dad as they return from lunch. They take over with the twins and Elise visibly relaxes. I say my good-byes and promise to call her tomorrow.
On the drive to the station, I’m still rattled by what I just witnessed. Elise sure has her hands full. I’ve never seen her so unhinged and so vulnerable. I haven’t wanted to pry about who the father is and I don’t know if she’s even told him about the twins. Come to think of it, I know close to nothing about Elise’s personal life because she’s very private. Thank God she has a close-knit family who will help her raise the twins. Even with a full-time nanny, she’ll need all the help she can get.
Vinny, the young Cuban intern, intercepts me as I breeze into the WBCG station. He looks excited, but for Vinny that’s normal.
“What’s up?” I ask, noticing the way his big brown eyes bug out.
“Guess who’s here?” he whispers conspiratorially, dying to dish as his dark eyes do the hula hoop.
“Who?” I ask, playing the game.
“Dr. Deviled Ham.”
I grin. That’s exactly what Devon is. “Where is he?” I glance over my shoulder.
“He and Antoinette are having a cozy
tête-à-tête
in her office,” he says, giving me a wink.
Vinny loves to say things like
tête-à-tête
and
entrez-nous
. He’s the only twenty-one-year-old guy I know who does, except maybe a Frenchman. But Vinny isn’t French—he’s a college student majoring in broadcast journalism, with a minor in French. He’s also a smart, good-looking kid with a penchant for mischief who constantly entertains me. You could say he’s the perfect sidekick at work.
“Oops, I just remembered I have a lunch meeting,” I say backtracking toward the entrance. “Please tell Antoinette I’ll be in around four today. Hopefully Dr. Hamme will be long gone by then.”
“Sure thing,
cherie
,” Vinny says, flashing a deep dimpled smile.
“Thanks.” I dash out of there before Dr. Hamme gets a whiff of my pheromones.
Back in my car, I realize I’m starving. I didn’t really have a lunch appointment. It’s already one o’clock and I can’t think on an empty stomach. I’m tempted to go to Cilantro Grill for their
carnitas
burrito, but if I’m going to approach Dr. Escobar, I should eat something sensible for lunch.
In last week’s column, Dr. Escobar talked about heart healthy nutrition and mentioned his favorite lunch place was Samantha’s Salads on Ponce de Leon Boulevard. I check the address on my iPhone and realize it’s a few blocks from Dr. Escobar’s office, so I head on over.
The first thing I notice about Samantha’s Salads is its cheery decor with sunflower yellow walls and Mediterranean blue-tiled tables. As I enter, people are lined up waiting to place their orders. I stand at the end of the line and content myself with checking out the food.
Displayed behind the three-tiered glistening glass counter is a colorful array of freshly prepared entrees and an amazing salad section with every conceivable veggie. My mouth waters when I see the tray of chipotle shrimp quesadillas waiting for me to bite into, or the marinated calamari or the Tuscan tuna salad. What do I do? I want them all!
I catch a yummy whiff of baked artisan breads coming out of the oven. To hell with moderation, I think, as I ponder which one I’ll taste and which I’ll take home with me. What would Dr. Escobar think of my gluttony, I wonder sheepishly.
“May I help you?” the slim, middle-aged woman behind the counter asks and I realize it’s my turn. Her long salt-and-pepper hair is pulled back into a ponytail at her nape and she doesn’t have a stitch of makeup, but her skin glows like a young girl’s. Must be the result of all the colorful anti-oxidants she eats.
“I can’t decide what to eat. Everything looks divine.” I gesture toward the row of goodies lined up in the glass counter. “Which is Dr. Escobar’s favorite salad?”
“Who?” She squints at me from beneath furrowed eyebrows.
“Dr. Alex Escobar. The famous cardiologist.”
“Never heard of him.”
“You haven’t?”
When she shakes her head, I surmise she must be a new employee. The owner would know what time Dr. Escobar usually has lunch.
“Is Samantha here today?” I ask, glancing behind the woman, only to find two young guys wearing bright green Samantha’s Salad T-shirts filling orders.
“I am Samantha,” she says, surprising me. If she is the owner, then how can she not know who Dr. Escobar is?
“Dr. Escobar mentioned this restaurant in his ‘Heart to Heart’ column last week.”
“No wonder we’ve had so much business,” Samantha says, beaming at me. “I should probably get a copy of his article and tack it up on the wall.”
“Yes, you should. His column is quite illuminating,” I say with a surge of loyalty, even though I’ve never met the man. I decide not to belabor things by mentioning he has a PhD in epidemiology. She’ll find out when she reads his column.
Samantha smiles and waits for my order.
I don’t get it. If this is Dr. Escobar’s favorite lunch spot, wouldn’t Samantha know him by now? And then I realize why. The man is humble—he probably wants to keep his identity private. Yes, that’s it. He deserves a little time to unwind and enjoy his lunch before rushing back to an office full of patients. A hard-working doctor who saves lives should be able to enjoy his lunch without interruptions by other diners, especially the ones who might ask for medical advice.
“So what’ll you have?” Samantha’s question prods me from my musing and I notice there’s a long line of hungry people impatiently waiting to place their orders.
“Oh, sorry. I’ll have the Greek salad combo with a rosemary ciabatta roll and raspberry white tea.” I pause guiltily. “And can you add two chocolate chip cookies?”
“You got it,” Samantha says, handing me a ticket.
While I wait for my number to be called, I wonder if I’ll be lucky enough to find Dr. Escobar in the crowded eatery. After a quick inventory, no such luck, so I take a seat at the bar facing the window and enjoy a little people watching, Miami-style.
A saucy brunette in her mid-thirties with big, bouncy breasts, a tiny waist and a shapely, high butt struts by on tanned legs wearing high-heeled wedge sandals, teeny white shorts and a bright orange halter-top. Her walk screams
boom cheeky boom
loud and clear. Yet what draws my attention is not the oversexed look, but her happy-go-lucky attitude. When a guy catcalls, “Shake it don’t break it, Mama,” she rewards him with a sassy grin.
This only happens in Miami. If a curvy girl wore a skimpy outfit like that in mid-town Manhattan, she’d cause an instant traffic jam.
I glance down at my aqua wrap-style dress, noting with dismay there’s nothing
boom cheeky boom
about it. Still, it’s a big change from my mostly black New York wardrobe. Teeny shorts and a revealing halter top are not my style, but the brunette’s cheeky confidence awakens strange hankerings inside me.
I wish I had her mojo. I love the word mojo—in Spanish it means someone who has magic power. Where is my mojo
anyway? I gotta find it before I approach Dr. Escobar. If I put my mind to it, I can be as gutsy as the cheeky brunette.
With that new challenge egging me on, I wolf down my lunch, pay the tab and rush out the door, determined to track down Dr. Escobar.
Romeo: Well, ain’t life grand? Francesca is still at work, but Fizzy just brought up my week’s ration of Doggy Gourmet. Ever since Francesca heard that Oprah’s dogs eat mostly protein, she contacted Doggy Gourmet and now I get amazing meals. Yums! Meat, meat, and more meat!
But I need to rest for all the exercise Francesca’s planning for us. I think I’ll take another snooze until she comes home.
Zzzzzzzzzzzz.
Chapter Eight
I begin to feel anxious the minute I enter Dr. Escobar’s imposing medical building. Sleek in style with huge windows, the place is state-of-the-art modern. By the time the elevator reaches the ninth floor, I’m fidgeting. It’s not the height that’s causing my vertigo—it’s the doctors’ offices and the sterile smell that get to me.
Relax
, I tell myself as I stand outside the doctor’s office. I am not here as a patient, I’m here as a medical reporter and to snare Dr. Escobar for the charity event. I take a deep breath and open the door.