Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
THOMAS
I’ve only been at Elk Lake General Hospital for a week. While it’s emotionally more manageable than my last hospital, I’m struggling to feel useful. Tonsillitis, the flu, and gall stones are no fun, but they’re all highly treatable.
Having said that, my co-workers are nice, and the small talk is largely the same. The only difference is here they talk about eating burgers at the diner and bowling instead of consuming oysters at Daniel and hitting the latest clubs.
I have a meeting with Constance Brucker this afternoon, and I’m not looking forward to it.
She’s been out of town all week, so I have yet to get her feedback on my photoshoot with Finley.
I’m not sure how I’m going to be able to look her in the eye after that disturbing break of trust. Imagine expecting your new hire to take his shirt off and get greased up before taking pirate photos. It defies reason.
After eating a bowl of chili in the hospital cafeteria—which is actually very good—I make my way to the business offices on the other side of the building.
I check in with Constance’s secretary and sit in the small reception room to wait.
After only a few minutes, my brittle-looking boss comes out of her office to welcome me.
“Thomas, how are you?” Is it me or is she the one having a tough time making eye contact?
“I’m okay, thank you.” I follow her into her office and sit down at one of the chairs across from her desk.
Once she settles, she shuffles some papers before turning her attention to me. “I bet it’s a lot slower paced here than in New York.”
“You could say that.” I shift uncomfortably in my chair, wondering when she’s going to bring up the pictures.
I don’t have to wait long. “So …” Constance inhales sharply before jumping in. “I understand things didn’t exactly go as planned with the photographer I hired to take your photo.”
The heat of resentment starts to creep up my neck and into my face. “You could say that. I wasn’t expecting such a surprising concept for the shoot.”
“What exactly did you expect, Thomas?” Her eyes pop open like I’m the wild card here.
“I don’t know, maybe a nice professional headshot for you to hang on the wall?” I retort.
“If that’s the case”—she continues to study me in that unsettling manner of hers—“I can’t help but wonder why you insisted on dressing up like a pirate.”
“I did what now?”
She clicks the mouse on her desktop and turns the monitor slightly in my direction. The pictures of my photoshoot fill the space. “Are these, or are they not, you?” She sounds thoroughly shocked. Actually, more unimpressed than shocked. Either way, she’s not pleased.
I lean in toward the screen to get a better look. Dear god, they’re even worse than I could have imagined. So bad, in fact, they make Zoolander look like a real pro. “This wasn’t my idea,” I tell her forcefully. “The photographer made me do it.”
“That’s not what she said.” Constance clicks on her screen again before reading, “Mr. Culpepper clearly did not understand the assignment, and he was unwilling to work with me on the shots you requested.”
What? “She said you wanted me to dress like a sexy pirate and a sexy doctor. She said you wanted to use the images in a calendar like the ones firefighters have.” I spit this out so fast I sound like a little kid tattling on a classmate.
“I wanted a normal picture of you to hang in the hospital entryway.”
“Which is exactly what I went there to get for you,” I tell her. “But Finley was positive you wanted these.”
“What kind of calendars are those firefighters coming out with?” Constance asks before once again turning her attention to the computer. She clicks away before exclaiming, “Dear god. Why aren’t they wearing their uniforms? Why are there so many puppies?”
“I think they use them to raise money,” I tell her. “Finley was under the impression you wanted to do the same thing with the doctors here.”
The look of revulsion on her face is comical. “Have you seen the other doctors here?” she says. “Could you imagine Dr. McCarthy starring in a picture like this? Or Dr. Randolph?”
Harry McCarthy’s stomach would need its own month, and Edith Randolph must be nearing seventy. I simply shake my head.
Constance picks up her telephone and punches in a number. She puts the call on speaker so I can hear. The bright, chirpy voice on the end of the line answers, “Happy Snaps, this is Finley.”
“Ms. Harper.” My boss sounds downright disdainful. “This is Constance Brucker.”
“Ms. Brucker. I assume you received the pictures.” Finley sounds worried, which for some reason makes me feel bad for her.
“I did,” Constance tells her. “And I’m highly confused by them.”
Finley releases a low growl of frustration. “Me, too. I mean, your boyfriend is a smoke show, but he clearly does not know how to model.”
Constance doesn’t clarify that I’m not her boyfriend. Instead, she says, “Dr. Culpepper wasn’t there to model. He was there to have a headshot taken for the hospital wall.”
The silence is nearly deafening. In fact, I’m half-convinced Finley hung up the phone, but then she practically whispers, “Excuse me?”
“I specifically told you to do the same thing for him that you did for my colleague, Margaret Clinton.”
“Margaret Clinton?” Finley chokes on the name.
“Yes, Dr. Margaret Clinton. She hired you to take professional photographs for her website.”
“Dr. Margaret Clinton?” Finley repeats. “I thought you were talking about Margaret Rogers.”
Constance shoots me a look like she’s talking to a mentally challenged person. “Who is Margaret Rogers?”
“She’s a client. She and her husband, Bob, come to me regularly to have boudoir pictures taken of them. Remember? I mentioned her and Bob, and you said you thought Margaret’s husband was named Randal?”
“Margaret Clinton’s husband is named Randal,” Constance assures her.
“Oh, dear.” Now I really do feel terrible for Finley. “I’m sorry, I probably should have clarified that,” she says.
“Yes, you should have. I’m going to need you to go ahead and refund my payment so I can find a professional to take Dr. Culpepper’s picture.
” Constance is a cold fish if there ever was one.
Even I feel like I’m sitting in the principal’s office waiting for punishment. I can’t imagine how Finley feels.
Feeling the need to jump to the photographer’s aid, I speak up. “I can always go back for a reshoot.” After all, I’d hate for her to lose out on the money she needs for her expansion.
“You’d go back there?” My boss sounds appalled. “After all she put you through?”
It was awful, but it was also kind of funny if you think about it. “I would,” I tell her. “If that’s okay with Finley.”
Dead air again.
“Is that all right with you, Miss Harper?” Constance demands impatiently.
“I … uh … suppose. I mean, sure … yes. I can do that.”
“Would tomorrow work for you?” my boss asks me. When I nod my head, she asks Finley, “Does three o’clock tomorrow afternoon fit into your schedule, Miss Harper?”
“Sure,” Finley squeaks. I can’t imagine how embarrassed she is. She’s got to be wondering how to face me after such a debacle. I’m kind of wondering the same thing. The woman did rub freezing cold baby oil on my chest.
“And Miss Harper,” Constance feels the need to add, “we will not require your services for a calendar.” Then she hangs up.
Poor Finley.
I make a motion to stand up, but Constance waves her hands for me to sit back down. “We have our hospital Spring Fling gala coming up in a few weeks. I hope you’re planning to attend.”
As this is the first time I’ve heard of it, I don’t have any plans yet. “Message me the details and I’ll put it on my calendar,” I tell her.
Before I can leave, she says, “I wonder if you’d like to be my date.”
“Your date?” As in, she wants to date me, or she just wants to help me navigate new terrain by introducing me around?
Instead of giving an indication what her intensions are, she simply says, “Unless you already have an attachment here in Elk Lake.”
I really don’t want to go on a date with Constance Brucker. Not only is she not my type—as in, she’s way too rigid—but she’s also my boss. It would be wrong on multiple levels, which is why I tell her, “I’ve actually started seeing someone.”
She shrugs her bony shoulders. “It can’t be serious yet.”
Who says something like that? “Perhaps not, but I’m not the kind of man who dates multiple women at the same time.”
“How provincial,” she drawls snootily. “Well, let me know if things don’t work out with her. Then we can go together.” It’s almost like she assumes our attending the Spring Fling as a duo is a done deal.
“Will do,” I tell her before leaping to my feet and fleeing.
Now more than ever, I’m questioning whether this job is going to be the one for me.
I want to keep an open mind, but I also don’t want to feel pursued by my own boss.
Especially Candace. If you’d asked me previously, I would have guessed she was either married to an equally stuck-up older man or she was single and collected Dalmatians to enhance her wardrobe.
Maybe I’ll talk to Kevin about it tonight and see what he thinks.
My new neighbor and I are going to the diner for those cheese curds he’s promised will change my life.
He’s bringing Shelly, who has made it her job to bring me different baked goods every other day since my arrival.
I’ve probably put on five pounds, but it’s been quite enjoyable.
The Picknells are a definite plus for staying in Elk Lake. I barely even knew my neighbors in New York. The only problem is that everything is so slow paced from what I’m used to, and I’m starting to worry I’ll die of boredom here. That, and you know, now my boss is making a play for me.
I briefly imagine what it would be like to tell my mother I’m coming back to the city.
That thought makes me decide to double down on trying to make this work.
It’s not that I don’t want to hear that she told me so, it’s that she won’t only say it once.
It will become her mantra, and she’ll use it every chance she gets.
Forever. Until I die. Because even though she’ll probably die first, she’s the kind of woman who would haunt me to make sure I never forgot she was right.