Free Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures by Merry Jones

When I left, she was still on the phone, running her hand through her hair, arguing with one of her daughters. “He’s your father, Lisa. I know he’s clueless, but you have to listen to him anyway. Yes, I mean it. Because he’s your father.” She looked at me and waved. “Have fun,” then shook her head. “No, not you. I was talking to Elle. She’s going to dinner. No. Not until you apologize to Daddy.” She raised her voice, angry. “Lisa. I meanit. Look, I’m in Mexico, for God’s sakes. Can’t you guys get along for one week?”
    I heard her yelling all the way to the elevator.

    We ate outside, a few miles from the hotel. A small restaurant on the beach, connected to the owner’s home, not frequented by tourists. The owner was chubby and mustached, greeted Dr. Du Bois with a tight embrace, talked with him in Spanish. Dr. Du Bois introduced me in English, and Emilio took my hand and seated us on a veranda, the closest table to the water. Across the patio, a couple leaned their heads together, deep in conversation. Only one other table was occupied: an old man, seated alone. Emilio stood straight and formal, promised that, if we’d let him choose our menu, he would be delighted to create our meal.
    Dr. Du Bois met my eyes, checking with me, making sure it was okay. Already, I noticed that he communicated a lot through his eyes. A blink or a spark. A twinkle. His eyes were his best feature. Or maybe not—his jaw was nice, too. And his nose—it was straight and not too small or shy. It was an elegant, proud thing. But I needed to stop staring at it. Needed not to pull an Elle and wander. Made myself smile and pay attention to Emilio as he described our dinner.
    Actually, I still wasn’t quite awake. Twenty minutes ago, I’d been sound asleep on the balcony, and then I’d grabbed a strapped sundress, twisted my hair into a bun and tossed some makeup onto my face while dashing out the door. Dr. Du Bois had been polite, hadn’t seemed bothered that I’d been fifteen minutes late or that I’d arrived in the lobby flustered and breathless, hair already coming loose and skin cream clotted on my red-hot shoulders. He’d been gracious, had said I looked lovely as he escorted me to his BMW convertible, where he’d asked if I’d wanted him to raise the roof. I hadn’t. I’d been grateful for the wind; it had been loud, limiting the need for conversation. And giving me an excuse for mussed-up hair.

    Emilio’s wife was squat and fair skinned. She lit candles for us, scolding that it had been too long since Dr. Du Bois had been there, that he worked too hard. She brought a pitcher of homemade lemonade, and Emilio brought a bottle of tequila with two glasses.
    Dr. Du Bois offered to make me a drink, mixing the two. “It’s their specialty drink.” He poured tequila into the pitcher, stirred. “I’ve been coming here for years. I thought you’d like a chance to get away from the tourist spots. It’s charming, don’t you think?”
    Was it? I looked around. Where was I? And why? Who was this slender, sun-tanned man across the table? I must have answered. Might have even asked a question because he went on.
    “I met Emilio years back at the clinic. His kids are all grown now, moved away. But his son was burned in an oven fire when he was about sixteen. He was one of my first patients here, and I was able to help repair his scars. Emilio and I became friends, and I’ve been eating here ever since.”
    We looked at each other across the table. Candlelight flickered, emphasizing his cheekbones. He picked up his glass with steady hands. Hands which, hours before, had sliced up Jen’s stomach and breasts, rearranged her nose. I cleared my throat. Tasted tequila lemonade.
    “Here,” he lifted the tequila bottle. “I think it needs a little more.”
    Oh dear. I nodded; he poured.
    “So, everything went well with Jen today?”
    He smirked. “Even though you’re friends, we have strict privacy policies. I