18. Contamination
Chapter eighteen
Contamination
Ifind Jake at the marina at twelve-ten, half under an access panel on the stern of his boat, swearing at something electrical.
That alone tells me what flavor lunch is going to be: cantankerous.
“You said noon,” I call.
He lifts his head and bangs it on the panel.
“Jesus.” He slides out far enough to glare at me. “You can’t sneak up on a man holding live wires.”
“If you’re holding live wires, do I need to call the fire department or your mother?”
“My mother would get here faster, but yell longer.”
“What the hell are you working on now?”
"Adding more lighting."
I roll my eyes as he points a screwdriver at the paper bag in my hand. “If that’s not food, I’m throwing you overboard.”
“It’s food.”
“And pie?”
“Sandwiches.”
“You're a cruel woman, Annie.”
“You invited me for lunch on a boat that currently smells like warm plastic and poor decisions. Manage your expectations.”
Jake grins and rolls out the rest of the way.
His boat is tied in the same slip he’s had for nine years, though he keeps saying he’s moving to a better one.
He won’t. He likes knowing everyone who walks past, likes being close enough to the marina office to hear gossip without having to actively engage in securing it.
He wipes his hands on a rag and takes the bag from me.
“Come on,” he says. “Tell me why you sounded weird on the phone.”
“I didn’t sound weird.”
“You asked if I had time for lunch like you were asking if I had time to bury a body.”
“I did not.”
“You did so. I was wondering if I should call Dateline.”
I step onto the boat and follow him below. The cabin is small, cluttered, and somehow very comfortable. Books stacked near the galley. Two mugs next to the sink, and a chart of Penn Cove pinned up beside a calendar he has not changed in two months.
The cushions are worn, the table scarred, and the whole place smells like salt, coffee, and engine grease. Jake drops into one side of the booth and I sit across from him.
I pull out the sandwiches and slide his over to him. He takes one bite, chews, and points at me. “Talk.”
“I’m eating.”
“Just holding the sandwich in one hand does not count as eating. Now c'mon. Out with it.”
I set the sandwich down.
Jake’s expression changes into all business before he says anything. That is the problem with best friends. They know the difference between I need you and I need a lifeline.
“I slept with Doc.” I just blurt it out so I don’t lose my nerve.
Jake stops chewing. Then he leans back and closes his eyes. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For proving me right.”
“I’m going to leave.”
“No, you’re not. You came here to tell me you slept with the doctor. I’ve waited for weeks to hear you admit you at least liked him. This is gravy.”
“Bullshit, you knew.”
“Do I have to go there?" Jake pulls out his wallet. Inside carefully tucked behind the bills is an old receipt. He hands it to me. "Read it."
"It's a receipt from the coffee shop. So what?"
"Turn it over."
Annie likes Doc and I'm pretty sure is already sleeping with him.
"It's from the day we went running and ended up at the coffee shop. Game. Set. Match."
"Okay, fine. Goddamn, you are annoying."
"I knew this moment would come. All right, I want details. How many times?"
“It's happened twice.”
“Twice.” He covers his mouth, feigning shock.
“Don’t perform.”
“I’m not performing. I’m processing.”
“You’re enjoying yourself.”
“That I am.”
I pick at the corner of my sandwich wrapper. “Once during the storm. Once at the clinic.”
“The clinic?” Jake stares at me, then looks up at the ceiling of the boat. “Arthur Painter, wherever you are, I hope you’re covering your ears.”
“Jake.”
He holds up both hands. “Fine. Second time?”
“Yesterday. At my house.”
His teasing drops, and he nods once and waits.
I wish he would make another joke. I wish he would tell me I’m an idiot, ask whether Doc is any good in bed, demand measurements, something crude and simple. Jake can do crude and simple beautifully when he wants.
Instead, he gives me the one thing I can’t handle right now.
Silence.
“I think I care about him,” I say, spilling it out between us. Plain. Annoying.
Jake’s face eases. “I know.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve been standing around waiting for me to catch up.”
“But I have been.”
I look away, through the small cabin window toward the slips outside. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Sure you do.”
“I absolutely don’t.”
“You care about him. You liked having Ellie in your house. Those two things are starting to touch, and that scares the hell out of you.”
I look back at him. “You could try being less observant.”
“I could also try growing taller. We all have limits.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He rests his forearms on the table. “You don’t have to pretend Ellie is unrelated to the Doc issue. She isn’t. You like her. She likes you. Doc trusts you with her. That’s not small.”
“I know that.”
“Knowing is not your issue.”
I hate him a little.
He sees that, too.
“What is my issue?”
“You keep dividing your wants into categories so none of them add up to a life.”
I don't answer.
Jake picks up his sandwich again. “Also, I need details.”
“No.”
“Some details.”
“No.”
“Was he good?”
I give him a look.
He grins. “Damn, that good, eh?”
“You’re unbearable.”
“And correct.”
I eat two bites to avoid answering, which is answer enough.
Jake’s grin turns into something gentler. “He good to you?”
I swallow. “Yes.”
“Good.”
“That’s all you’re going to ask?”
“No.” He finishes his sandwich. “But that’s the one that matters.”
By the time I leave the marina, I am irritated, exposed, and my spirits lighter than they were when I arrived.
Jake walks me up the dock, one hand in his pocket, and I hand him the lunch bag, with a slice of apple pie inside.
"You're the best." He leans over and kisses my cheek.
"I'm aware."
“Tell Doc what’s going on,” he says.
“I’m going to, tonight.”
“You mean that?”
“Yes.”
He nods. “Good.”
***
The clinic is full when I get back.
Doc is in exam room one with a toddler who has spent the morning turning a mild fever into a family crisis.
I hear his voice through the door, calm and low, then the mother’s strained laugh.
Reception has two messages waiting, one lab result flagged, and Mr. Andrews in a chair pretending his knee is not bothering him.
Work helps.
It always does.
Doc walks a patient out after two and looks at me across reception and winks.
That wink is the problem.
It's not even obvious to anyone else in the room. It's only Doc looking at me for one short second before he turns back to Mrs. Stanhope and asks whether she's taking the new medication with food.
One second should not undo me, but it does.
I think my heart actually fluttered and I know adrenaline shot straight to my libido. Thank god for lab coats, because my nipples are hard as rocks.
This is crazy.
We move around each other for the next two hours with ridiculous politeness. He reaches for a chart at the same time I do, pulls his hand back, and tells me to take it. I hand him the otoscope he needs before he asks just to brush my hand against his, then pretend I didn't know he needed it.
He says thank you in his doctor voice, which makes me want to drag him back to that supply closet.
I feel like a damn teenager.
The waiting room keeps us from doing anything stupid. Fevers. A sliced thumb. One sprained elbow from a child who tried to prove chairs can fly if enough cousins are involved. A medication question from Mrs. McCracken. And two calls about the pharmacy issues.
The cannery continues to invade every space.
In the waiting room, the conversation is lively. Someone says Ian Danvers sounds more prepared than he expected. Someone else says her nephew thinks the project could bring steady jobs if the contracts are real.
Real. The word makes me flinch, but I don't let anyone see it.
By four, I'm so sick of hearing Ian's name and about this project. And my stomach has started a slow churn, knowing I haven't told Doc the full truth.
Doc watches me staring at the call log after Mrs. Park leaves.
“You all right?”
I look up too fast. “Yes.”
His eyes stay on my face. “Is this about me?”
“No.”
He waits.
“Well, sort of,” I say, quieter, and he starts to look worried. “Oh no Doc, not like that. I'm ready to tell you. About everything.”
His face eases and he takes an audible breath.
“I have Mrs. Cox in room two,” he says. “After?”
“Any chance we could do it tonight?” I say. “Maybe after Ellie goes to bed?”
“Yes, that actually works great. She’s having dinner at Erin’s tonight.”
The relief comes so fast I nearly hate it.
"Great."
“All right, it’s a...” He clears his throat. “It’s a plan, then.”
Doc blushes and quickly looks at the chart in his hand, then returns to me. “We’ll talk tonight.” He says it like a promise he intends to keep and smiles as he heads in to Mrs. Cox.
At three-thirty, a call comes in from the farm off Engle Road.
A fall. Fifty-two-year-old male. Fell off a ladder, about 20 feet. Possible shoulder dislocation. Maybe a wrist fracture. Maybe worse. The caller is one of the sons, talking too fast, trying to sound useful and failing.
Doc takes the phone from me before I can ask the next question.
I listen to his side of it. Direct questions: conscious, breathing, any blood, where, did he hit his head. Doc's already reaching for his bag before he hangs up.
“I’m coming with you,” I say.
“No.”
“Don't start.”
“We need someone here." He looks around. "The waiting room is not empty and Mr. Chen still needs that dressing changed in exam three before he leaves.” He looks at me. “I need you here.”
It's the right answer.
"I need you to call 911 for me. Here are the notes. I’ll be there in eight minutes. It’s going to take rescue at least twenty.”
He steps closer and places his hand on my forearm. “If I’m not back before you close, I’ll see you tonight.”
“Tonight," I agree.
Then he is gone.