Critical (6 page)
Refusing to give the issue more thought, she pulled out her cell phone and pressed the speed-dial button for home. Expecting to hear her daughter's voice since she usually answered before the completion of the first ring, Angela found herself talking with Haydee, the nanny-cum-majordomo. As busy as Angela's life was, she allowed Haydee to fill multiple roles.
"Where's the terror?" Angela questioned. The appellation "the terror" was the way Angela and Haydee humorously referred to Michelle behind the girl's back. It was humorous because it was the opposite of what they felt. Both women thought Michelle mildly and age-appropriately willful and occasionally argumentative, as evidenced by the belly-button-piercing issue, but otherwise near perfect.
"She's in bed, and I believe already asleep. Should I wake her?"
"Heavens, no!" Angela said, feeling a mild pang of loneliness. "Surely not."
After a short conversation about various domestic issues, Angela made an impromptu decision. She concluded the conversation by telling Haydee not to wait up for her, as she wouldn't be home for several more hours.
Sliding forward on the seat, Angela spoke to the driver through the Plexiglas partition. Instead of going home to a sleeping daughter, she'd decided to go to her health club. With all that was going on, she'd not been there for months and certainly could use a workout for mental as much as physical reasons. Besides, she reasoned, there would be people around, and on top of that, she could get a bite to eat in the club's surprisingly good restaurant/bar.
Angela's athletic club was close to her apartment, a block over and a few blocks down Columbus Avenue. She found her underused membership card without much difficulty in her overstuffed wallet. In short order, she changed into her workout clothes and took a turn on one of the stationary bikes while watching CNN. She was dismayed at how out of shape she was. Within five minutes, she was out of breath. After ten minutes, she was sweating to the extent that she feared she looked like a glass of iced tea in the tropics. Yet she persisted on sheer willpower until she had reached her twenty-minute goal.
Dismounting from the bike, Angela put her hands on her hips and stood with her chest heaving, trying to catch her breath. For a moment, it took all her concentration. On top of that, she was drenched. Her hairband, which in the past had been more of an affectation than a necessity, was completely soaked. She imagined she looked like a wreck with her face flushed, her workout gear clinging to her body, and her hair a veritable mop. What was so embarrassing was that the people on the neighboring bikes were all riding with such apparent ease. No one seemed to be perspiring, and many were able to concentrate on reading as they pedaled. Angela knew there was no way she could have read anything during her workout, especially toward the end.
She picked up her towel and dried her face. Feeling self-conscious about her lack of endurance and bedraggled appearance, she quickly scanned the faces of the other riders as she set off toward the weight room. Luckily for her self-esteem, no one paid her any heed until she briefly locked eyes with a blond man who was pedaling furiously yet hadn't broken a sweat. The rapidity with which he looked away confirmed Angela's concerns about her appearance. As she passed behind him, she had to smile at her paranoia; in point of fact, she didn't care what the stranger thought.
Angela wandered around the weight room with no particular plan, using the machines randomly. She was careful not to use too much weight or do too many repetitions. The last thing she wanted to do was pull a muscle or sprain a joint. Despite the hour, the room was reasonably crowded. She noticed how a number of the men were checking out the women while pretending they weren't, reminding her how shallow some men could be.
Taking a pair of very light free weights, she positioned herself in front of a mirror and began stretching more than exercising the muscles of her upper body. While she continued, she appraised herself and tried to be objective. Her figure was still quite good and hadn't significantly changed from how it had looked in her mid-twenties. Obviously, that was due far more to genes than to effort, considering how seldom she'd made it to the gym while she'd nurtured Angels Healthcare. Her belly was flat, despite her pregnancy. Her legs had good definition, and her tush was firmer than she deserved. All in all, she was content with her appearance, except for her hair.
Angels Healthcare had been embroiled in the current MRSA-induced catastrophe only a month when she found a few stray gray hairs. Her mother had gone gray early so she shouldn't have been so surprised, but it had bothered her to the extent that she'd secretly gotten a rinse at the local pharmacy and used it several times. Although the gray had disappeared, she'd worried that some of her natural sheen had gone with it. And now, as she looked at it in the health-club weight room mirror, she was convinced.
Angela suddenly made a brief but exaggerated expression of utter horror in the mirror as a way of mocking herself. In the final analysis, she was not a vain person. Accomplishment was what interested her, not appearances.
"Are you all right?" a voice asked.
Angela turned and looked up into the face of the blond man with whom she'd briefly locked eyes in the room with the stationary bikes. He was somewhere in his mid-forties, reasonably handsome, and probably equivalently intelligent. He had bright blue eyes, cropped hair, and an insouciant, engaging smile. He was wearing a T-shirt that said
Make my day.
"I'm quite okay," Angela said after her brief assessment of the stranger. "Why do you ask?"
"I thought there for a minute you were about to cry."
Angela laughed heartily. When she'd made her mocking expression in the mirror, she'd momentarily forgotten she was in a room with a bunch of secretly attentive males.
"Why are you laughing? Really! A minute ago, while you were doing your curls, you looked like you were about to break down in tears."
"It would take too long to explain."
"Time is not a problem for me. How about a drink after we finish our workouts and you can explain? After that, who knows?"
With a wry smile, Angela regarded the man standing next to her. It had been a while since she had experienced such a rapid, unabashed come-on. Under normal circumstances, she would have merely smiled and walked away. In her current mood, some repartee and companionship had an uncharacteristic appeal, at least for an hour or so. After all, she was trying to clear her mind.
"I don't know your name," Angela said, knowing full well she was opening the proverbial door.
"Chet McGovern. And yours?"
"Angela Dawson. Tell me, do you pick up women frequently here at the club?"
"All the time," Chet said. "Actually, it is the reason I come as often as I do. The exercise itself is too much like work."
Angela laughed again. She appreciated both honesty and a sense of humor. It seemed that Chet McGovern had both.
"You can drink while I eat," Angela said. "I'm famished."
"You've got a deal, lady."
Forty minutes later, after the two had showered, they sat across from each other in the combination bar/restaurant. The bar was packed. Behind the bar was a flat-screen TV televising a baseball game that everyone ignored. The level of the background chatter was like a bunch of feeding seabirds. Angela was sensitive to the noise, since she hadn't been in such an environment for years. She had to lean forward over her grilled salmon salad to hear.
"I asked what kind of work you do," Chet repeated. "You look like a model."
"Oh, sure," Angela scoffed. With comments like that, she knew for certain she was with an individual who thought of himself as a pickup specialist.
"Really!" Chet persisted. "What are you, twenty-four or twenty-five?"
"Thirty-seven, actually," Angela said, resisting the temptation to be sarcastic.
"Never would have guessed it. Not with a figure like you have."
Angela merely smiled. Such comments were fun to hear, even if less than sincere.
"If not a model, what kind of work do you do?"
"I'm a businesswoman," Angela said without elaborating, and to turn the conversation away from herself, she quickly added, "And how about you? Movie star?"
It was Chet's turn to laugh. Then he leaned forward and said, "I'm a doctor." Then he sat back. From Angela's perspective, he'd assumed a decidedly self-satisfied smile, as if she was supposed to be impressed.
"What kind of a doctor?" Angela asked after a pause. "M.D. or Ph.D.?"
"M.D. and board-certified."
Whoop-de-do!
Angela thought sarcastically but didn't communicate.
"As a businesswoman, what do you actually do?"
"I suppose I'd have to admit I mostly spend my time trying to raise money as unpleasant as that is. Start-up companies are like plants: They constantly need water, and sometimes it takes a lot of water before they bear fruit."
"That's quite poetic. How close is the company you work for away from bearing fruit?"
"Very close, actually. We're two weeks away from going public."
"Two weeks! That must be very exciting."
"Right now, it's more anxiety-producing than exciting. I need to raise about two hundred thousand dollars to shore up our liquidity to get to the IPO."
Chet whistled through his teeth. He was impressed, and gathered that Angela had to be a rather high-level executive. "Is the company going to be able to do it?"
"I try to be optimistic, especially since the investment-banking gurus promise the IPO will be a sellout. Maybe you, as a board-certified physician, would like to invest. We can certainly make it worth your while with interest or equity or both. We do have a lot of physician investors: more than five hundred, to be exact."
"Really?" Chet questioned. "What kind of company is it?"
"It's called Angels Healthcare. We build and run specialty hospitals."
"I suppose that means you know something about doctors."
"You could say that," Angela agreed.
"Sadly, I'm not as liquid as I'd like at the moment," Chet said. "Sorry."
"No problem. If you change your mind, give us a call."
"Well," Chet voiced, obviously wanting to change the subject. "Are you single or married, or somewhere in between?"
Back to the come-on,
Angela thought. All at once, she didn't care to keep up her side of the conversation. She'd been amused, but suddenly she felt tired, which had been the goal. She wanted to go home. "Divorced," she said, and then added what she thought would be a turn-off. "I'm divorced, and I live with my ten-year-old daughter, who is home sleeping."
"I guess that rules out your apartment," Chet said. "I'm single -- very single, actually -- and I have a terrific apartment just around the corner. How about a nightcap?"
"And see your etchings, I suppose. Sorry. I've got both my daughter and the two hundred thousand dollars to think about." Angela waved to one of the waiters and motioned for the check.
"I'll take care of the check," Chet said magnanimously.
"No, you won't!" Angela said with a voice that brooked no disagreement. "I'm afraid I used you, in a way. As penance I insist."
"Used me?" Chet questioned with a confused expression. "What do you mean?"
"It would take much too long to explain, and I've got to get home."
Chet acted a tad desperate as Angela signed the check to her house account. "How about dinner tomorrow night?" he suggested when she'd finished.
"That's very generous of you, but I'm afraid I can't take the time. I'm not sure what to expect at the office tomorrow."
"But it would give you a chance to explain how you, quote, 'used me,'" Chet said. "I certainly don't feel used, and I've truly enjoyed meeting you. If I've offended you, I apologize. I promise I won't be so flippant. It's just an act."
Mildly surprised at Chet's willingness to reveal what seemed to be vulnerability, Angela stuck out her hand as she got to her feet.
While shaking hands, she said, "I've enjoyed your company. I mean that. Maybe after the IPO we can have another drink or even a dinner."
"I'd like that," Chet said, regaining his aplomb. "And it will be my treat."
"It's a deal," Angela said, knowing that now it was her turn to be the one less sincere.
2
APRIL 3, 2007 7:15 A.M.
"Listen," Dr. Jack Stapleton said with uncamouflaged irritation, "I'm lucky to have gotten on Dr. Wendell Anderson's schedule. Hell, he does all the knees for all the high-priced athletes in the city. There has to be a reason, and the reason is he's obviously the best. If I cancel for this Thursday, I might not get back on the schedule for months. The man is that busy."
"But you only tore your ACL a week ago," Dr. Laurie Montgomery said with equal emotion. "Obviously, I'm not an orthopedic surgeon, but it stands to reason that operating on your knee, which has been so recently traumatized, is taking added risk. For God's sake, your knee is still twice its normal size, and your abrasions haven't completely healed."
