He was polite enough to force an appeasing grin before saying to her, "I just want what's best for you." He held her gaze for a second before beaming at someone over her shoulder and calling, "Did they let Ron Gilletti in here?"
Dr. Shapiro pushed away from the table, his cloth napkin falling to the floor as he moved to greet the man.
"That was fun," Sara murmured.
"I know you're being sarcastic, but I have to say itisfun to run through an offensive line like that. I'm not positive, but it feels like I worked through some issues tonight. It sucked, yet it was strangely productive."
"I'm happy you feel that way," she said, managing a small laugh. She rubbed her knuckles across her chest several times, winced. "I might require your services again in the future. Not sure I'll ever be able to endure another one of these evenings without you running interference."
"Sign me up. I'll be there." I gave her leg a squeeze. She didn't look great. "Are you okay? You demolished that snapper."
"It's what I do," she said. "Shove food in my mouth to avoid being mentally present for the backhanded flogging." I followed her gaze to her father, the man he'd called Ron, and a pair of women who seemed much too young for either of them. Much too familiar with them as well. The body language spoke in bold shouts. "Gross."
I reached for my wallet. "Are we done here? Or do we have to play a few more rounds of being less important than everyone else on the island?"
She set her napkin on the table. Flattened a hand to her belly. "You're not paying for this."
"Oh yes, I am." I flagged down the server, handed over a card. "Just you wait."
Sara continued sneaking glances at the women speaking to her father while I signed for the check. "They could be my children."
"Tell those thoughts to shut up." I wrapped my hand around her elbow. "Let's say goodbye."
"Awesome," she mumbled as we crossed the restaurant to join two men in their late sixties and a pair of women who couldn't be a minute over twenty-one. Yeah, they could be my children too. My knees ached thinking about that reality.
Dr. Shapiro pivoted when he spotted us, clapping the other man on the back and saying, "Dr. Ron Gilletti, this is my daughter Sara and Dr. Stremmel. They're in from Boston. Still working on convincing them to quit the winters and come to California for the good life."
Ron shook our hands and offered some boilerplate reasons to flee New England. He insisted Vegas was wonderful and the summers not nearly as bad as we might assume. I nodded that away, saying, "Nice to meet you both. We have to head out. Ross, dinner's on me."
I didn't know what was going through Dr. Shapiro's head, but his face looked very much like I'd thrown a bowl of hot soup in his lap and informed him his wealth manager was missing. Didn't even know which insult to address first. Within a few blinks, he recovered, saying, "It's my treat. I insist."
"Already done," I replied, stepping away. "Safe travels back to California." I pointed at Ron. "And Vegas."
Sara took hold of my hand and led the way through the restaurant. She moved quickly, and when we exited, she shook me off. "I need—"
She ran toward the bushes and it took me a second to process what was happening. I went to her, gathered up her hair as she gagged, smoothed a hand down her back. To the valet attendants watching from the curb, I called, "Could I get some water? Tissues? Thanks."
She tried to elbow me away but that wasn't happening. I should've kept an eye on her. Should've slowed her down instead of goading her father. Should've kept it low-key. I waited while the spasms moved through her. The tissues and water arrived, along with a very concerned restaurant manager who was quick to summon a taxi to take us back to the resort. No one wanted a woman tossing her cookies in front of their restaurant.
When Sara was ready, I ushered her into the back seat of the taxi and tucked her close beside me. "What do you need?" I asked.
She shook her head against my bicep, kept the wad of tissues pressed to her lips. Tears streaked her makeup. I kissed her forehead. She was clammy there. I didn't care.
As the taxi pulled onto the road, I said, "My dad left us when I was three. It was two weeks before Christmas. Right before I turned four. It's wild that I remember it, but I do. Every bit of it. There was an investment that had paid off. He said things were changing for him and we had to change too. I thought that meant we were moving into a bigger house. Nah. He was getting the fuck out. He was done. We were holding him back. He left that night. My mother said he'd return and she believed that too. She put me to bed, saying he was going through a phase. That he was out sowing some wild oats and he'd return as soon as he was done with that." I thumbed a tear from her cheek. "My sister was two at the time. She has no memory of this, but she likes to say I told her oats were very, very bad and must be avoided."
A soundless laugh shook her shoulders. I kissed her forehead again.
"It was years before my mother stopped believing he'd come back for us. I was probably eight or nine by the time she gave it up. Took off the wedding band. The part I'll never forget is how he made her think she wasn't up to his standards. None of us were, but I was barely four. I didn't have a lot to show for myself. My accomplishments were limited. My mother, on the other hand, had been with him for years before I came along. Before my sister came along. And he just blew her the fuck off because he got some cash in his pocket and decided he deserved better than her."
Sara drew in a deep breath, counted it out with light taps to my wrist. I waited until she did it twice more.
"We didn't see or hear from him again until I was finishing high school and even that was little more than a fly-by. He didn't want anything to do with us. He wanted attention and he wanted to make noise, but he never wanted us. Not until my sister came to control tickets for a Division I football team and I got an MD. My sister—bless her and her big, brass balls—doesn't participate in that shit, though I take some of his calls. I take the self-aggrandizing speeches and the circuitous asks for so-called investment capital. The asks to present some of his wealth-building opportunities to my colleagues because they're the valuable ones in this equation."
I ran a hand down her back, over the silky dress that hung beautifully from her body, but had no business in the closet of the Sara I knew. The Sara of yellow sneakers. The Sara of sweaters I wanted to pet. The quippy t-shirts. The jeans that blew my fucking mind. The pastel cups and the velvet furniture. The Sara I knew. The Sara I loved.
"I always tell him to fuck off because I'd wanted to do that from the very first moment I learned the expression. I never get tired of it." I dropped a kiss on her temple, tucked her hair over her ear. "I will always run that interference for you."
When we arrived at the resort, we strolled to her bungalow. Mine was all but forgotten. She wanted to shower alone and she did. That I leaned against the bathroom vanity, my arms crossed and my jaw locked as I watched did not change that fact.
