Just Surrender... (11 page)

“Maybe,” she hedged.

“You want to learn, don’t you?” he asked, meeting her eyes. Quickly, she looked away.

“At twenty-eight? No, thank you.”

“Okay.”

“See. You didn’t even want to teach me.”

“I did. I do. We need a plan. A goal. A race.”

“Next month is a big organized ride through the city. But would you really teach me?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. It’d be great, a nice change of pace. Not bowling. Not strip clubs. Bicycling. You should know that I’m very good at biking, but I’ll let you ride ahead the whole way.”

“That’s so thoughtful of you.”

“As long as you wear the tight black shorts,” he added.

“This is all one big excuse to play Texas grab-ass, isn’t it?” she lectured, which would have sounded more chaste if she hadn’t been the one doing the ass grabbing earlier. Hopefully, he’d have forgotten that one minor point.

When he leaned in, there was acknowledgment in his eyes, that said, oops, he remembered. It was a testament to her newly found positive outlook that she didn’t mind. “Why don’t I come back with you to the hotel? I’ll show you how much fun Texas grab-ass can be.”

“Oh, yeah…” he began and then stopped. “I can’t. Working tomorrow.”

No, she wasn’t disappointed. She didn’t need to care, and her lustily throbbing loins would wait for another day. She rose to her feet, taking a deep breath of industrial camouflage. It wasn’t so bad after all. If he wanted to learn the emotional crap, then she’d teach him. It’d take him all of ten minutes to learn. For Edie, it would take another ten years. But she chose not to mention that.

“Save all your cowboy bluster for Monday. You’re going to need it for karaoke.”

He didn’t seem nearly so enthused. “Karaoke? You really don’t mean that.”

“I do. I have a book club meeting first, something for the ladies at work, but after that we’ll see what you’re made of.” Then she pressed a kiss to his cheek, then flashed her dimples in her most engaging manner. “Don’t tell me you’re chicken,” she chided, her sandaled-feet already taking her home.

“Not chicken. More…smart. You don’t want to hear me sing,” he called.

“Bricks can’t sing, either. Don’t be a brick,” she called in return, feeling the first golden rays on her shoulders. As she walked off into the sunrise, she couldn’t resist one last glance. Tyler Hart, even scared stiff, was the best fun a girl could ever have.

The next twenty-four hours passed in a haze of alcohol and depression, as Tyler poured over his obviously lacking transcripts. In the end, he’d found himself at University of Texas at Houston, studying cardiology under the demanding leadership of Dr. Richard Stringer. On the first day, Dr. Stringer gave them all a cup of coffee and then explained to his bright-eyed interns that perfection wasn’t nearly good enough. God had the luxury of letting his patients die. A doctor had to be better, smarter, steadier. A doctor had to work the miracles that God had denied. The interns glanced nervously at each other, pretending this was no big deal and the day went downhill from there.

The next few years were a sleepless blur, but in the process, Tyler discovered something fascinating. He loved surgery, he loved the power, the absoluteness, the correctness.

Now it was Sunday afternoon, and he was lucky enough to be in New York, making the rounds with the greatest surgeon ever to have grafted a vein, Dr. Abe Keating. After finishing up a consult on a seventy-three-year-old prime minister with endocarditis, Tyler walked with Dr. Keating, trying to keep the awe from his voice. When they rounded a corner, Keating froze in his tracks. Tyler stared in growing disbelief, watching as Dr. Keating greeted the approaching doctor.

“Max!” bellowed Dr. Keating. “How the hell are you?”

“Sorry I missed the opening kickoff. Damned airlines. Prescott Medical had flown me out to St. Barts. New product. NDA. The weather was a bitch and we just got in this morning.” Lockwood—the weasel—then stared and sneered at Tyler. “Tyler. Fancy seeing you in Yankee country.”

“Max,” Tyler replied tensely.

Since apparently once wasn’t good enough, Dr. Keating slapped Max on the back again, nodded absently in Tyler’s general direction and said, “I’ll let you guys catch up. Max, we’ll talk more about Prescott. Maybe drinks at the club? You can give me some advice,” Keating added, punctuating it with another pat on his back. “I think I need a wife. Sixty-two isn’t too old, is it?”

“Not at all, sir,” gushed Tyler sincerely, but Keating was already gone.

Max was grinning at Tyler as if he were happy. “Son of a bitch. How long has it been?” he asked.

“If it hasn’t been two centuries, it hasn’t been long enough.”

Max burst out laughing. “You’re here for the fellowship?”

“Not for drinks at the club. Some of us actually do practice medicine.”

“I’ve missed your dedication,” Max told him with the practiced sincerity of a surgeon.

“Yeah, it was the only way you passed organic.”

“You were just jealous because the TA slept with me.”

“I wanted to be a surgeon, not a prostitute,” Tyler answered sanctimoniously because cheating could be forgiven, having a better personality could be forgiven, but stealing Tyler’s slot at NY-Presby? Hell would freeze first.

“Touchy, aren’t we? Hubris was always your problem. Too bad there’s no Greek gods to smack you down for it. You honestly think you’ve got a shot at winning the endowment? After two months of Keating admiring my surgical techniques, it’s my name that’s going to be on the plaque down in the lobby. It’s Dr. Max Lockwood who’s going to beat you out of this prestigious post.”

Tyler lifted a brow. “I read your last write-up in the journal. Sloppy.”

Max’s eyes narrowed. “Your patents mean nothing to me.”

“And the consulting deal I signed with Pulmonary Horizons?”

For the first time, Tyler saw the cold fear in Max’s face. “P.H.? Really? You’ve been busy.”

Tyler glanced around the hallway and then smiled in a completely friendly manner. “I won’t lose again, Max. I respect you, admire you, think you’re a helluva surgeon, but this time, I’m going to kick your ass.”

Max shook his head. “Don’t get your heart set on the endowment, big guy. Although, hey, if you’re going to get killed, I suppose a hospital is the place to be.”

“You were always too smug, Lockwood.”

“Not without cause,” Max boasted, but a hint of anxiety had crept into his eyes. “Did you scrub in on the Fogelman surgery?”

“Of course. I didn’t see you there.”

“I got there before the crowds,” answered Max, checking his pager as if he were in demand.

“Bastard,” muttered Tyler, checking his pager, as well.

“Keating’s opening up the prime minister tomorrow at nine a.m.”

“It’s at eight,” Tyler corrected smoothly. “And I didn’t see your name on the list.”

Max shrugged as only the guilty can. “It was worth a shot.”

“You’re not going to catch me snoozing this time.”

“I earned that fellowship fair and square.”

“It was my technique,” Tyler reminded him.

“We worked on it together,” argued Max, who never shared the limelight well.

“Slacker,” returned Tyler.

“Bastard.”

Realizing that if he was intent on giving Max the smack-down he so desperately deserved, Tyler was going to have to work a little harder. Not a problem. “It’s good to see you again, Limpwood. Prepare to be vanquished.”

Max shot him the finger, but Tyler strolled off in too good of a mood. Great sex with Edie, a little competition to keep him on his toes and cracking open the human chest cavity in order to fix what God had ignored.

No, life didn’t get better than this.

Edie laughed knowingly. Olga’s knee-jerk reaction was typical of women who chose to overindulge the male figures in their life. “How many think Jane is heroic?” she said, asking for a quick show of hands.

Three glasses raised high and Edie nodded. “Now, how many of you think Jane was a victim, whose only purpose in life was to be rescued by men over and over, rather than a role model of trail-blazing courage whose pathway was one of her own choosing?”

There were some rumblings of discontent about that provocative line of reasoning, and one eavesdropping gentleman even disagreed, as well. But Edie had expected this sort of blowback, so she continued to illustrate her point. “Let’s discuss the childhood years. Our intrepid heroine is abused, bullied and locked in her room until she faints. Dude says, ‘Go to school.’ She’s all ‘Oh, gee, what a great idea,’ and then leaves. Proactive? Taking charge? My ass is more proactive than that. And the years Jane spends at Lowood? It’s like
Oliver Twist,
only instead of ‘More, please’ it’s ‘Jane, you ignorant slut.’ Who rescues her this time? Miss Temple, that’s who, and to top it all off, Helen dies. Is that courage because she chooses to suffer with silent dignity? Antiquated, that’s what that is.”

“I thought it was classy,” defended Wanda—Wanda, of all people, who complained about her husband Harry on a daily basis.

Edie rolled her eyes. “And you would be the first one going after Mr. Brocklehurst with a cane.”

Wanda shook her head, still not convinced. “Doesn’t mean that she wasn’t classy.”

Realizing that this was going to be more difficult than she anticipated, Edie rushed onward to point number three. “Thornfield Hall? She’s a governess who falls for her married employer, who is keeping his crazy wife locked in the attic. And she thinks he’s a prize.”

“He couldn’t help his wife’s condition,” argued Honey, taking a demure sip from her mojito, all while keeping a watchful eye on the flirty dude in the corner.

Edie leaned forward, if only to break up the eye-sex. “He could have told Jane what was going on. ‘Oh, that crazy laughter. You know, that’s my wife.’ But did he think about coming clean? Hell, no.”

“He was in love with her,” Honey said. “He knew the truth would keep them apart.”

“No, his jerkiness would keep them apart,” Edie insisted valiantly, apparently the only one in the room who considered honesty a requirement before falling in love.

“She did save Rochester from a fire,” Olga added.

“You know what would have been better? If she had loved him, lost him in the fire, and after learning from the experience then reclaimed the life she should have had all along.”

“That’s very cynical,” argued Honey, who was a twenty-three-year-old stripper who made a six-figure income—mostly in cash.

Edie sighed, and motioned the bartender for another round. “Honey, describe your ideal man.”

“That’s easy,” she answered. “Good sense of humor. Smart. Responsible. A good dresser. I like men in suits.”

Wanda and Olga nodded in agreement.

“But you didn’t say a word about how he would treat you.”

Honey smiled patiently, as if Edie was the one who was slow. “That’s implied. He’d send me flowers and take me to shows and shower me with oodles of compliments.”

Edie whacked herself on the forehead. “No, no, no. These are shallow gestures that the patriarchy has defined for us in lieu of an equitable partnership. Flowers? Give me a break. What if he showed up early instead of late? What if he walked the dog? Or changed a tire?”

“Harry doesn’t change tires,” complained Wanda. “He’s says, ‘I got Triple A for that.’ And we don’t even have a car.”

“I think Mr. Rochester would change a tire,” Honey rationalized, still defending the world’s sorriest excuse for a hero.

“Tires did not exist in 1847,” Olga explained.

“They had wheels,” Honey argued. “Mr. Rochester would change a wheel for Jane.”

“And maybe he would,” Edie agreed, “but he still wanted Jane to run away with him.”

Even Wanda took the opposing side. “So they could be together. There’s nothing wrong with that, Edie.”

“He could have offed his wife,” Olga suggested. “Then they would be free to be together.”

“Ladies, I think we’re missing the big picture. Mr. Rochester is not a good person.”

Wanda cast a disapproving eye at Edie. “He loved Jane.”

“He lied to Jane.”

“He thought she would be freaked out by his injured repulsiveness.”

“Because yes, once again, Jane is thrust into the role of a caretaker, until, gee willikers, his sight magically appears.”

If Tyler were here, he would be on Edie’s side. Tyler was a very sensible man. Frankly, the world needed more sensible men.

“Jane could have studied to be an eye surgeon. They can do wonders these days. I saw this piece on
Sixty Minutes
…” Honey trailed off when the bartender appeared with their drinks, and it was then that Edie abandoned all hope of education.

They were hopeless. All of them. Including Edie, most of all. She had counted on the group to support her position because in a mere two hours and thirty-seven minutes, she would be meeting a man who made her heart beat a little faster, a little happier. Normally this would not worry her. She often had great times with men. But not men like Tyler. He worried her, these expectations worried her. He thought she was capable of teaching him great things. As for Edie, her expectations for Tyler were rocketing toward the stratosphere, and frankly, she wasn’t a stratosphere kind of gal.

Noticing Edie’s sad face, Wanda came over and sat next to her. “You know we’re just giving you a hard time because it’s fun.”

“I don’t think we’re ever going to learn, Wanda. I think we’re destined to get heartbroken over and over again, because the X chromosome has doormat written all over it.”

“Olga said he changed your tire,” Wanda said, as if that made being a doormat somehow acceptable.

“It was Barnaby’s tire.”

Olga shot Edie a sympathetic smile. “Does he have a mad wife?”

“No, only an ex-girlfriend by the name of Cynthia,” explained Edie, because she needed to remain rational, grounded, and not worry about whether her red halter dress was appropriate for karaoke later.

“At least he didn’t lie to you,” Honey offered, defending the man who needed no defending at all.

Out of all of her friends, Wanda was the oldest, the wisest, and the one who could see through Edie the best. “Why don’t you want to like him?” she asked.

Edie considered her answer very carefully. There was a time when Edie would have lied to preserve her image, when she would have brushed it off with a wink and a laugh, but things inside her were starting to change. She told herself it was age, she told herself it was experience. Neither of which were true, and she knew it, but she wasn’t ready to think about that. Not yet.

“I do like him. He’s completely not my type, but he’s very likeable. Have you ever met someone like that? That you don’t want to like, but damn them, they make you?”

“Harry,” muttered Wanda.

“Paco,” murmured Olga.

“Edward,” crooned Edie.

All around them, the room was full of people searching for that intangible something, that mysterious someone, and they were willing to take a leap of faith that the stranger in front of them was someone who was worthy of the risk. Edie had spent her entire young-adult years disapproving of her mother’s silent suffering, and even that didn’t stop the first, ill-fated flutterings for Tyler. She had dreamed of love, she had idealized love, but when push came to shove, she didn’t want to be the woman left sitting alone at night.

Wanda patted her hand. “Don’t beat yourself up, Edie. The heart knows what it knows.”

“The heart is a senseless organ.”

“But necessary.”

“We have a date,” Edie confessed, her senseless organ joyously leaping at the words.

Honey—who wasn’t seasoned enough to sense what an absolute betrayal this was to Edie’s entire belief system—sparkled with excitement for her. “When?”

Edie checked her watch, mentally reminding herself that this was no big deal. Casual. Carefree.
Liar.
“In an hour.”

Honey glanced over the halter dress with a critical eye. “You’re going in that?”

At the innocent question, the doubts started, the worries began and the dry heaves collected in Edie’s stomach. “It’s my best nondate, date dress. Not too sincere, not too trashy. It says fun and carefree. It says ‘I’m not Jane Eyre.’”

“It goes well with that gleam in your eye,” Wanda told her, smiling.

“What gleam?” asked Edie, praying such a gleam wasn’t serious recognition of something else.

Wanda shook her head and started to laugh. “Hope, darling. We call that hope.”