Chapter Two
“No! It’s not possible! You cannot be dating Dr.Satan,” barked Luis Gonzalez, her friend and a nurse at Hyannis Hospital. “When did this happen? How? My whole worldview has been shot to hell. I feel like I did when my parents got divorced. Betrayed. Stunned. Unsafe in the world. It’s like Snow White hooking up with Voldemort.”
“Okay, let’s use our inside voices,” Lark said. “And yes, he’s…unexpected. I get that.” Oh, this was a wee bit uncomfortable. She was lying. But Luis loved gossip and rotated throughout the floors—emergency room, maternity, oncology, medical/surgical—and had a face that invited people to share their deepest troubles, even knowing his inability to keep a secret. He wasn’t mean about it…just wanted everyone to be up to date. He was probably the one who let everyone know she’d been kicked out of Oncology. But in telling him about supposedly dating Dr.Santini, Lark wouldn’t have to tell anyone herself.
Today was her first day in the ER, where Luis was currently working. Her shift hadn’t started; she and Luis were having breakfast in the cafeteria so she could begin the lying process.
“It’s still new,” she said. “But he has some nice qualities.”
“Name two.” Luis took a hostile bite of his blueberry muffin.
“He’s smart, of course.” She forced a smile. “And…” Shit. Did Lorenzo Santini have another quality? “He’s very family oriented.”
“He has a family?” Luis asked. “I assumed he was hatched in a dark underwater cave.”
“Well, he has his parents, of course.” Did he? Had he said they were both alive? “A brother, two sisters. He’s really close to his grandmother.” She swallowed, not making eye contact. “It’s really sweet.”
Luis gave her a look. “Think about what you just said.”
Yeah, sweet and Santini didn’t belong in the same sentence. “It’s hard to believe, I know.” She smiled.
“Is he great in bed? Is that it? Are you dickmatized?”
“Sorry?”
“In love with his junk?”
“Oh, God, no! I mean, we’re not…there just yet.” There was Ellen, one of the cafeteria workers, thank God. “Hi, Ellen! How’s Raymond’s arm?”
“It’s great,” Ellen called. “Thank you for the cookies. He devoured them.” Lark had been grabbing lunch here when Ellen got the call that her son had broken his wrist sliding into second base at Little League.
“So glad he’s better,” Lark said. “Give him a hug from me.”
Luis waved to Ellen, then turned back to her. “Has he kissed you? How did he even approach you? Did he actually know your name? Seriously, Lark, give me context.”
Lark fake laughed. It sounded like little Connery coughing up some grass. Addie would have to give her some advice…she’d gotten the lies-with-ease part of their DNA. “Well,” she said to Luis, “I think we can all agree he’s very attractive.”
“Aside from his black and tarry soul.”
“Oh, look at the time. We should go, right? Don’t want to be late on my first day.”
“We’re not done here. I want all the details. If he frenches you, don’t be surprised if his tongue is forked.”
Another fake laugh. “I’ll see you in there, I guess,” she said.
“Okay, sweetie. I’m gonna grab another coffee. You good?” Luis asked.
“All set.” She smiled her thanks, but it faded the second his back was turned.
She needed Dr.Satan’s schedule and more information. Without some basic facts of his life, it would be harder to pretend to be dating him, even a little. She hadn’t heard from him since their meeting three nights ago, but she had googled him late the other night. Mostly scholarly articles and his bio (Harvard, Johns Hopkins, fellowships at the Mayo Clinic and Mass General). More about his organ transplant device and significant net worth.
But she needed to know where he lived, the names of his siblings, that kind of thing. Aside from joyless, survival-only eating, she had no idea what he did in his spare time. She was meeting his family for the first time this weekend.
She took out her phone and texted him as she walked toward the ER.
It occurs to me that we should exchange some information if we’re going to sell this. I don’t know anything about you.
Already, she knew better than to wait for an immediate response. She put her phone in the pocket of her white doctor’s coat, took a deep breath and went into the emergency room.
“Dr.Smith! So nice to have you join us!” came a loud voice. A balding, fiftysomething man with glasses and a bow tie twinkled at her.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Lark Smith, your new resident.”
“Oh, we know all about you,” he said, “and listen, don’t feel bad because Oncology doesn’t want you. You’re more than welcome here as long as you keep the sobbing to a minimum.”
There was a ripple of laughter from the small cluster of people behind him. Her reputation preceded her, apparently.
“No promises,” she said, feeling her cheeks warm.
“I’m Howard Unger,” he said. “Medical director of the Emergency Department here. King, really. These are my subjects—Lalita Williams, MD; Miriam Fishbein, APRN; Daniel Newton, DO; and Mara Goshal, MD.” Three women and a guy nodded or waved or smiled. Cheery group. “Rena is the unit secretary,” Dr.Unger continued. “Our dark overlord and commander.”
“That’s my actual title,” said a middle-aged woman sitting behind a series of monitors. She smiled, too.
“Hi, Rena. Hi, everyone,” Lark said. “Great meeting you.”
“How do you feel about fecal impaction, Dr.Smith?” Dr.Unger asked, donning a serious expression.
She felt her mouth tug. “I’m passionate about fecal impaction.”
“That’s the attitude! She’ll fit right in. Okay, let’s go, team. Lark, you’re technically a second year, but since you’re new to us, you’re gonna get the crap jobs for a couple of weeks. Literally. Hello, Mrs.Hendricks! Rumor has it you haven’t pooped in more than a week. How are you feeling?”
Lark listened as Dr.Unger asked Mrs.Hendricks, a sour-faced woman in her seventies, about her medical history, pain, food consumption, bowel habits.
“What other questions should we ask, Dr.Smith?” he asked, turning to her.
“Uh, what was the consistency of the last stool you passed?”
“It was ropy and hard,” Mrs.Hendricks said.
“Was it dark or tarry?” Lark asked. Same words Luis had asked about Dr.Satan’s soul.
“Tarry? No. It was beige.”
“No blood?”
“No! Just ropy and beige! God! Do we have to talk about this, or can you people just give me something for the pain? My stomach is killing me.”
But emergencies required that the right questions be asked and answered, and the interrogation continued. Mrs.Hendricks snarled her answers about rectal discomfort, abdominal pain, anorexia, vomiting and a whole host of other questions.
“Okay,” Dr.Unger said. “Give us a minute, and we’ll be back soon.” Lark and the others trailed as Dr.Unger went to a computer station, logged in, flew through some screens and ordered an x-ray.
“We’ll have to wait a little while till you can scoop the poop, Dr.Smith, so let’s keep busy, shall we? Come, my little ducklings.” Dr.Unger led the way to the next bay. On the bed lay a teenager who’d cut his head while skateboarding. His dark hair was matted with blood, and the entire side of his face and neck were stained red. His mother sat beside him, looking both stressed and irritated.
Dr.Unger introduced himself and asked what happened. “Took a fall on my skateboard,” the kid said.
“Were you wearing a helmet?” Dr.Unger asked, pulling on some gloves to examine the wound.
“Nope.”
“No helmet,” Dr.Unger chided. “I’m inclined to let you bleed for another hour or two, just to teach you a lesson.”
“Cool,” said the kid, taking a selfie. “Bro, don’t even stitch me up. I’m a total badass.”
“Stop being such an idiot,” his mother told him, snatching his phone out of his hand. “This phone is mine now, and I’m burning that stupid board when we get home.” She looked at Dr.Unger. “He was videoing himself, skated right into a signpost, and now he’s making jokes.”
“Cause of injury: idiocy,” Dr.Unger intoned. “But, Jackson, seriously, thank you, because we love stapling heads. Mara, you’re up, I believe.”
“Thank you, Jackson,” Mara said. “This will truly be a highlight of my day.” The cheeky attitude was sure different from Oncology.
“I don’t even want you to numb his head,” the mom said. “Maybe this way, he’ll learn a lesson.”
“I’m sorry I can’t accommodate you there,” Dr.Unger said. “That pesky Hippocratic oath. But Lark here could kick him really hard in the shin, right, Dr.Smith?”
She smiled at the kid, who abruptly noticed her. His cheeks flushed. “I won’t kick you this time,” she said. “We all do dumb things when we’re kids. But you don’t want to end up with a traumatic brain injury. Or worse.”
Her eyes stung abruptly. Because of course, he could’ve died from one stupid moment. An image of another mother, staring into the middle distance, flashed through her brain, and the sting became a burn.
“Go on, Dr.Smith. Safety lectures are part of our job here.”
She cleared her throat. “Imagine living the rest of your life in a nursing facility, unable to talk, walk, feed yourself, understand simple sentences. Or worse, imagine your mom having to hear you didn’t make it, just because you didn’t wear a helmet. Her life would be ruined.” Her voice cracked.
“She’s crying,” Danny whispered. “The rumors were true.”
A tear slid down Lark’s cheek, and she wiped it away.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Jackson said, his voice considerably more somber. “I really am.”
The mother wiped her eyes. “You should be. She’s right. I adore you, dummy.”
Mara got the staple kit; irrigated the wound, which was a good four-inch laceration; shot the area up with lidocaine and put in thirteen staples. It touched Lark to see that Jackson reached for his mom’s hand while Mara worked on him.
They moved from patient to patient, stopping to log in to the computer, order meds, ask Rena to get a consult, schedule follow-up visits, admissions. Most of their clients today were upwards of seventy-five. A sweet old man having chest pain who reminded Lark of Grandpop. A woman with dementia who had fallen out of bed at a nursing home. A diabetic man with a festering wound on his foot, noncompliant with medication and lifestyle changes. A woman who’d stumbled in the parking lot resulting in a very swollen, tender ankle.
After two hours of racing around from bay to bay, they circled back to Mrs.Hendricks. Dr.Unger asked Lark to palpate the patient’s abdomen, which she did. “What does Radiology think, Dr.Smith, and do you concur?”
She looked at the films. “The rectosigmoid looks full of a malleable substance,” Lark said, “which would confirm fecal impaction. No signs of obstruction or dilated small bowel. Physical exam negative for perforation.”
“Well done,” Dr.Unger said. “Treatment?”
“Manual disimpaction, since laxatives haven’t worked.”
“Correct. Please inform the patient.”
Lark looked at Mrs.Hendricks. “Mrs.Hendricks, what we’ll try first is—”
“Yeah, yeah. This isn’t my first rodeo. Just get going, okay?”
Lark gloved up, put on protective glasses and a mask, lubed her finger, got the bedpan and did the job, narrating as she did so. The rule was that the patient was told what was happening before and during the procedure. And once, er, things got moving with Mrs.Hendricks, they definitely moved. The poor woman. No wonder she was so sour.
Lalita gagged, then excused herself.
“Remember the Vicks next time,” Dr.Unger called after her. “Not that your poop doesn’t smell like roses,” he added to the patient. “Lark, if you don’t have one already, get a little container of Vicks VapoRub for under your nose. Cases like this, or gangrene, maggots, necrosis, you’ll really need it.”
“Fun,” she said, and Dr.Unger smiled at her.
The thing was, it was actually fun. By the end of the shift, there hadn’t been a single scary moment. No one’s life had been in imminent danger, except the little old man with chest pain. (He’d been admitted to rule out a heart attack.) Hyannis was a small city, and sure, there’d be the inevitable horrible car accidents, especially as traffic beefed up over the summer. Drownings, gunshot wounds and stabbings, acute and serious illnesses, but today…well, today had been good. No one had been told their loved one had died. No one had been giving a terminal diagnosis.
“You might like it here,” Dr.Unger said as they both sat at the computer station at the end of the day. “I try not to overwork my residents, because the whole work-life balance thing turns out to be true. And you do have to work nights. You’ll learn something in every field of medicine here…we all have kind of a professional attention deficit disorder, by necessity.”
“Yeah, I was picking up on that.”
“It can be really fun. We have the best team anywhere, the best nurses and CNAs, orderlies, everything. But when it’s bad, it’s horrible. We lost a twelve-year-old last week from anaphylaxis. Same age as my nephew. In April, a woman came in with her skull, jaw and arm broken because her husband beat the shit out of her. In the winter, a tree fell on a car full of college students during that ice storm. One of them died, two almost did.”
Lark had read about that and cried (obviously), thinking about the families.
“But mostly,” Dr.Unger said, “we don’t lose patients. We send them up—” He pointed to the ceiling, indicating the five other floors of Hyannis Hospital. “Or we send them out.” He pointed to the exit. “We don’t get as close to them or their families as you would in Oncology, which has its upsides.” He paused. “I should tell you, Heather and Theo Dean are friends of mine.”
Lark’s heart jerked, and her eyes abruptly blurred with tears. “They’re wonderful people,” she said, looking away from him.
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Have a good night, Lark. You did well today.”
She finished up, said goodbye to the nurses and techs, made a note to bring in cookies so everyone would like her. Then she swung up to Hospice. Darlene, the director, wasn’t there, so Lark left her a note about hoping to volunteer, even informally, over the summer, wherever they might be able to use her.
On her way to the parking lot, she checked her phone.
Ah. Lorenzo Santini had deigned to answer her.
Check your email.
She did. No note. Just his CV.
Taking the chance that he might answer, she called him. It went straight to voice mail. “Hello, this is your fake girlfriend calling,” she said. “Since Memorial Day is five days from now, I’m going to need something other than your GPA and list of fellowships. Did you play sports in high school? What was the name of your dog growing up? Your middle name? Favorite food? Books you like to read. Things you do for fun, if you have fun, that is. Names and ages of your siblings. Your address, maybe.”
Then she got into her car and headed for her sister’s house. She’d lie to her coworkers. Not her family. Dr.Satan would have to deal.
Esme and Imogen tackled her as she walked into Addie and Nicole’s house. “Auntie, I’m your favorite, right? Right?” Esme said.
“No, I favorite!” three-year-old Imogen declared.
“No you’re not. I’m much older,” Esme said.
“You’re both my favorites,” Lark said, grabbing a niece in each arm and smooching their beautiful cheeks, inhaling the smell of sun and shampoo in their hair.
“Oh, it’s you,” Nicole said. “Addie didn’t tell me you were coming for dinner. Addie, why didn’t you tell me Lark was coming? I thought she was at work! Now I have to reset the table.”
“I don’t have to stay, Nicole,” Lark said. “You’re having company?”
“Of course it’s okay,” Addie said, bursting into the room, her voice loud and hard. “It’s always okay, and you can always stay for dinner. Or breakfast. Or lunch. Or brunch. You can sleep in bed with us if you want to. Back off, Nicole. It’s my sister.”
“Like I could forget,” Nicole said. But she gave Lark a begrudging smile.
“It sucks to be married to a twin,” Lark said, smiling back. After all, Addie’s wife had a clone whose bond had begun at the moment of conception. It was hard to compete, and Nicole liked to win, even if no one else was playing.
“Got a second?” she asked Addison, setting the girls down.
“Not really. Family dinner. I texted you to see if you were free, but you didn’t answer.”
“Sorry. My first day in the ER.”
“Right! How was it?”
“Kind of good, actually,” she said. Not that she’d stay there, of course. “Who’s coming tonight?”
“Everyone. Except Frances,” Addie said, naming Grandpop’s significant other. “Her daughter’s visiting or something. Can you watch the girls while I finish up in the kitchen?”
“Sure. My favorite thing to do.”
The girls were parked in front of their dollhouse in the vast playroom. “No, you make dinner!” Esme said, sounding very much like Nicole in tone. “I’m very busy and important!”
“No, I important!” Imogen’s dollhouse person attacked Esme’s, and the girls snarled and laughed. Perhaps a teeny bit concerning, their eerily accurate reflection of their mothers’ dynamic, but they were kids. She watched for a moment, smiling, remembering similar times with her own sisters. Esme looked just like Addie (and therefore Lark, a thrill that could not be understated). Someday, she’d have her own kids, maybe. Hopefully. For now, she had her nieces.
Her phone buzzed…another email from Lorenzo. (She was working on not thinking of him as Dr.Satan.) He’d typed out her questions and answered them.
Did you play sports in high school? Baseball
What was the name of your dog growing up? Remy
Lark put those two facts together and guessed the dog was named after Jerry Remy, the great Sox player turned announcer. Not that original, not in Massachusetts. At least the dog hadn’t been named Fenway.
Your middle name? Carmine
Favorite food? Sardines
Whose favorite food was sardines? Really?
Books you like to read. Medical journals, an occasional biography. I do not read novels.
Of course he didn’t.
Things you do for fun, if you have fun, that is. I run 6 miles a day.
“Nailed it,” she murmured.
Names and ages of your siblings. Dante, 35; Sofia, 32; Isabella, 28
Lark would have to compliment his parents on their excellent name choices.
Your address. 35 Beacon St., Boston; 93 Monomoy Road, Chatham
Lark glanced at the girls, who were now making the dollhouse people pick out pets—a giraffe for Imogen, a Dalmatian for Esme—and googled the first address. Zillow showed a gorgeous apartment with a paneled library, marble countertops, a soaking tub in the bathroom, a vast living room and dining room. That condo wasn’t his, necessarily—the building had six units—but she imagined his would be similar. Last sold three years ago for $3.5 million. Rooftop access to a common area. (She bet he never went up there, not if the great unwashed could enjoy it, too.)
The second property, though, made her briefly consider marrying Dr.Satan. Holy guacamole! Zillow showed a property on Morris Island in Chatham, no longer on the market. Morris Island was an exclusive neighborhood in the most exclusive town on the Cape. Whereas the rest of the Cape, even Provincetown, still had neighborhoods where regular folks lived, Chatham was fast becoming a billionaire’s playground. Lorenzo’s house was mid-century modern and on a full acre, right on the water. Private beach (that sounded more like him), fireplaces, deck, a lush green lawn that probably used a separate well for watering.
Damn. Lark knew he was wealthy, but damn.
“Gran’s here!” Imogen announced, charging from the room. Esme scrambled to catch up. Mom was indeed a rock star with her granddaughters.
And Mom would not approve of her arrangement with Lorenzo Santini, Lark knew. She was a brutally honest person. Dad, though…he’d probably get a kick out of it. Grandpop definitely would.
Could she get through the summer without having Heather and Theo Dean hear about this, though? She sure would try. She still saw them. Why make them think she had a new boyfriend when it was just a pretense? The Deans lived here in Wellfleet, but if her family didn’t tell anyone, she’d be safe. She left the playroom and went downstairs, where her family was streaming in, hugging, insulting, laughing.
She had always been so glad to be one of the Smith kids. Her siblings were her armor. Harlow’s little sister, Addie’s twin, Robbie’s big sister. Winnie, well, she was a little different, a little standoffish compared to the rest of them, but she was rock solid. Mom was holding Imogen; Dad was letting Esme climb onto his back. Her parents beamed at each other for a minute, their special look of my God, our love made all these people, aren’t we amazing. Sure enough, her parents kissed. Not a peck, either.
“Please stop torturing us with physical affection,” Robbie said, covering his face with his hands.
“Seconded,” Winnie said. Their parents laughed, delighted at once again horrifying their kids with their chemistry.
“Be glad your parents still find each other smoking hot,” Dad said, getting a chorus of groans in response.
“Larkby Christina, you beautiful girl!” Grandpop called, his blue eyes twinkling.
“Hi, Grandpop,” she said, leaning into him for a hug. The comforting smell of Old Spice and Bengay enveloped her.
“I heard you’re switching specialties,” he said. “And I’m glad! Did you know, I nearly fell off the roof the other day? And if I had, you could’ve patched me right up and set my old bones.”
“Why were you on the roof, Grandpop?” she asked.
“There was the prettiest bird out there! It was blue, but it wasn’t a bluebird. I think it was an indigo bunting!”
“That’s exciting,” she said. “But maybe use those binoculars we got you for Christmas instead, hey?”
“Now that I nearly lost my balance and almost fractured my skull, I think I will!” he said. “Hello, Nicole, aren’t you wonderful for having us over for dinner. Thank you, sweetheart!”
Even Nicole’s stony heart couldn’t resist Grandpop.
Eventually, everyone found their place around the giant dining room table. When they were growing up, Addie and Lark had talked about their adult lives, the way all kids did. They both wanted to stay on the Cape, both wanted to be married and have kids, both wanted a big beautiful house so they could have family dinners and show off their domestic skills—cooking, hospitality, flower arranging.
Addie had made that dream a reality. Lark had been on track, but God had intervened. Or not intervened, as the case had been.
“This is gorgeous,” Lark said. “Is that bread homemade?”
“It is,” said Addie, smiling, “and you’re welcome. It’s true, I’m amazing, but you’re a doctor, Larkby. Many people would see that as an accomplishment.”
Lark sat down next to her. Grandpop was on her other side, Mom across from her.
“Did everyone know that Cynthia and Bertie are in Paris?” Grandpop asked. “Paris! Mon Dieu!” Cynthia was his niece (or something; no one really knew, but she called him Uncle Robert). “They’re having a splendid time! They FaceTimed me from the Arc de Triomphe! I felt almost like I was there.”
“Aw,” Harlow said. “That was very sweet of them.”
Addie and Nicole brought out vegetable lasagna and salad, Dad poured wine for those who wanted it, and the Smith family fell on their food like hyenas on a limping baby zebra. For a few minutes, it was silent aside from the sounds of eating, and Lark figured it was time to seize the moment.
“I have some interesting news,” she said.
“Heard you got kicked out of Oncology,” Robbie said. “Probably for the best, don’t you think?”
“No, Robbie, she doesn’t think,” Addie snapped. “She wants to cure cancer. Or at least, treat it. Because she’s an angel, not like you, loser.”
“Or you, you snobby, materialistic Instagrammer,” Robbie answered.
“Shit! I forgot to take a picture of the lasagna,” Addie said.
“I got a few in the kitchen with the tulips in the background,” Nicole said. “And don’t swear in front of the girls.”
“Anyway,” Lark said, “that is true, Robbie. I’m now working in the ER, but it’s temporary. Um, but that’s not the news. It’s something else.” She glanced at Addie apologetically. Addie hated not knowing things first. “It’s a little complicated.” Yes. Addie was scowling.
“I love complicated!” Grandpop said. “Complicated makes life interesting.”
“What is it, honey?” Dad asked.
“Um…well, it’s kind of sweet, actually. This doctor who works at the hospital wants me to be his sort of date for the summer. His sister’s getting married, and he doesn’t want to be the bachelor brother, so he asked me to…hang out.”
Robbie gasped dramatically. “Oh, my God, I love that. Fake boyfriend turns real. The Proposal. The Wedding Date. Single All the Way. To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before. Pretty Woman. I’m here for it.”
“Since when do you watch rom-coms?” Winnie asked. “I thought you were straight.”
“Since forever, and stop forcing all that heteronormativity on me, Winfrida,” Robbie said.
“My name is Windsor, and okay, fair point.”
“How charming this is!” Grandpop exclaimed. “Maybe Robbie’s right and it will blossom into something real! I think this family is overdue for a wedding, don’t you, Harlow?”
“No comment,” Harlow said, smiling. She was pretty serious with her guy.
“I take it you’re friends with him already?” Dad asked.
“We know each other a little,” Lark said. Her face felt hot.
“What aren’t you telling us?” Addie demanded. This was the punishment for not telling her first.
“Um…nothing! He’s a surgeon. Uh…successful. Handsome.”
“I hate supper, Mommy,” Esme said. “Can I have macaroni and cheese instead? This is yucky.”
“I hope he’s paying you,” Robbie said. “Tell me he’s paying you. It just makes the falling in love part better. The Wedding Date and Pretty Woman have set a strong precedent in the love-for-money arena.”
“Of course he’s not paying her, Robbie,” Mom snapped. “She’s not a sex worker.”
He offered to pay me, Mom. Quite a bit, in fact.“He’s not paying me, Mom. Well. Not in money.”
“She is a sex worker!” Robbie crowed. “I knew you were too good to be true, Lark!”
“Can you not say ‘sex worker’ in front of the girls?” Nicole asked.
“What’s a sex worker?” Imogen asked. “I want a sex worker!”
With a sharp sigh, Nicole rose from the table and took the girls by the hand into the kitchen, accusation trailing like fog behind her.
“Obviously, I’m not a sex worker,” Lark said. “It’s just…he…well, he’s going to maybe help me with some introductions at Dana-Farber, that’s all. As a favor.”
“Why does he need you to pretend to be his girlfriend?” Mom asked. “That sounds unethical.”
“Not exactly his girlfriend,” Lark said. Crap. “More like someone he might be dating.”
“And what is the difference?”
“Uh…we’re not serious yet.”
“Why does he need anyone at all?” Winnie asked. “Being single isn’t the worst thing in the world.”
“Agreed,” Lark said. “But his grandmother is really old, and he wants her to think he’s…settling down. For her peace of mind, before she dies.”
“Rom-com city!” Robbie said. He raised his hand for a high five, and Grandpop obliged.
“So you’re lying to an old woman,” said Mom.
“It sounds so bad when you put it that way,” Harlow murmured. “I liked the way Lark said it better.”
“Thanks,” Lark said. “I seriously doubt we’ll fall in love, because he’s”—horrible—“not my type.”
“Someone has to be your type again, honey,” Dad said. “You never know.”
“I do know. Thanks, Dad. I think.”
“No one could take Justin’s place, Lark,” Dad said. “We know that. Doesn’t mean you can’t fall in love again.”
There was a moment of silence at the mention of Justin’s name. Winnie reached past Grandpop and patted her shoulder awkwardly.
“Right,” Lark said. “Thanks. Yes, well, anyway, I’d love to keep this a secret from Justin’s parents, okay? No need for them to know. It’s basically me going to a few pre-wedding events, meeting his family, the wedding itself, and that’s it.”
“Why would we tell the Deans?” Winnie asked. “We won’t say a word.”
“What’s his name?” Addie asked.
Lark looked at her. “Uh…Lorenzo Santini.”
Her twin raised an eyebrow. “The anal fissure guy?”
This was the problem with telling a sibling everything. Especially a sibling with a wicked good memory.
“This just gets better and better,” Robbie said. “The anal fissure guy! What a title! I can’t wait to meet him.”
“You won’t meet him,” Lark said. “But yes.” She looked at her parents. “He grilled me about…well, about anal fissures on my surgical rotation.”
“Lorenzo Santini,” Dad said. “The one everyone called Dr.Satan?”
Addie got her memory from Dad, apparently.
“Mm-hmm. He doesn’t have time for a girlfriend, and he asked me, and I said yes.”
“In exchange for a job? Don’t you want that to happen because of your own merit, Lark?” Mom asked, sliding the knife in with expert precision.
“He’s just going to put me in touch, Mom. The rest will be up to me.”
“I don’t like it,” Mom said. “Pretending to be in a relationship with a prestigious surgeon way above your pay grade…it sounds like sexual harassment to me. You could report him.”
“Nope. Not gonna. He’s just kind of socially awkward, and I’m helping him out.”
“He once made a whole team of radiologists cry,” Dad said almost fondly. “We nurses knew to run when we saw him coming down the hall. I was at the head of the pack.”
“Good thing you’re in such good shape,” Mom murmured, squeezing Dad’s bicep.
“I’d love to show you more later,” he murmured back.
“And here we go,” said Winnie. “Would anyone like to ask me something?”
“Is there something you’re trying to tell us, Winnie?” Dad asked.
“Nope. Just making a point. Completely meaning to change the subject, does anyone want to go out for ice cream later? Nicole said she made kale cake for dessert.”
“Why would someone be that cruel?” Robbie asked. “Why?”
This was the best thing about being part of a big family, Lark thought. No one could have the attention all the time.
And thank God for that.