Planet Lara: Tempest

4. Doctor, It Hurts When I Do This

Four

Doctor, It Hurts When I Do This

With the council email sent and my turncoat dog occupied, I grab my laptop and head to the diner for a working lunch. I need a change of scenery for an hour or so—every time the main door opens, I freeze, listening for Humboldt’s nails on the wood floor and Finan’s heavy, booted steps.

Not great for concentration.

Tommy’s is quiet, and I have my choice of booths to enjoy a Thai peanut chicken salad with mixed greens without anyone needing anything. I angle my laptop away from the main counter and instead of poring over emails and my to-do list, I cue up my favorite medical drama that I’m behind on, thanks to the unforeseen disasters that have rocked my world over the last three months.

Rude.

When the waitress slides my plate and sweating glass of Diet Coke onto the table, I thank her, plug in my earbuds, and prepare to get lost in the on-screen drama of a certain fictional Seattle hospital.

Three bites in, Mrs. Corwin has a different idea about how I will be spending my lunch hour.

I tab away from my show and remove my earbuds. “Hello, Mrs. Corwin.”

“Lara.” She slides into the booth without invitation and folds her well-manicured but veiny hands in front of her on the table. “As you know, I was a longtime friend of Archibald’s. Living here was something we joked about at charity fundraisers and golden-shovel events for his innumerable environmental projects.”

“Yes. He was fond of you too.” I have no idea if my grandfather was fond of Mrs. Corwin.

“In light of the goings-on of the past few weeks, I can see just how much you are in over your head, especially without darling Rupert here.”

I fold my laptop closed and sit straighter.

“Please don’t misunderstand, Lara. I’ve known your family for a very long time. I remember when Rupert first started working for Archibald—that is how old I am. And believe me when I say that I have no ill will toward you after the stunt you pulled—Kelly Lockhart was awful, and I’m relieved she and her ilk are gone from the island.”

“As am I.”

“Though I do not agree with your methods, I understand how someone like you would think such a display was necessary.”

“Someone like me?”

Mrs. Corwin leans closer and flattens one hand on the tabletop, stopping short of making physical contact. “I want to help. Put me on council. Allow me to use my many years of philanthropic maneuvering to lighten your hefty administrative load. I want to make Thalia Island work the way Archibald envisioned.” Her eyes and voice soften. “I want to help.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Corwin.” I swallow hard, biting back what I really want to say.

Think of Thalia Island, Lara.

“I would very much appreciate having someone on council who has the same ideals and vision for my grandfather’s mission as I do.”

She sits back, resuming her stern face. “I have already replied to the email via Lutris. I look forward to you and Catrina and Tommy confirming my place by dinner this evening. While I understand it is important to the mission to include residents from all walks of life, we need people of experience and action on council, people with know-how and an established foundation. Kombucha recipes and drum circles are all fine and dandy, but we’ll have time for that later—when we’re sure we can feed ourselves.”

Mrs. Corwin raps her knuckles on the wood tabletop. “Now, we have much to do, including the drafting of a bill of rights for island residents. Do you have that?”

“We have a Code of Conduct—”

“That’s different from what I’m referencing, dear.” She pulls a small leather notebook from the inside pocket of her bright-red Columbia rain slicker. “Secondly, I will seek to establish a series of guilds and activities for the residents to join, to foster a greater sense of community. As it is, you are assigning community-based tasks via the Lutris system, but there is no sense of togetherness, especially after recent events.”

Not loving that she’s harping about recent events, as if they aren’t fresh in my mind. “It is our hope to eventually get everyone—”

“Not eventually, Lara. Now. If you want Thalia Island to thrive, you have to put in the work.” Mrs. Corwin slides out of the booth before I can respond. She then points at my half-empty glass of soda on the table. “You should stop drinking that poison. You need to set a better example for the residents. I’ll make a motion that we stop importing carbonated, artificially sweetened chemicals to the island. For the betterment of all.”

She spins on the heel of her Merrell hiking boots and practically jogs out of the diner.

You can take away my loft apartment, my clothing allowance, my Town Car, my assistant, my private plane, and my housekeeper, but you are not taking away my Diet Coke, lady.

“Back off,” I mumble as I pour in two fingers of Japanese whisky.

“Tell me you’re not ruining good whisky by adding it to that.”

I jump, quickly hiding my new flask under the table so I can secure the lid and throw it back in my bag. Embarrassment flames my face; the society smile scurries in to hide it.

“Dr. Stillson. How are you?” I ask, offering my hand for a shake. Our new doctor—thirty-five, blondish curly hair, round tortoiseshell glasses over long-lashed eyes the color of the Salish Sea. There’s a reason he’s already had appointments with every eligible resident on the island: he’s single, and according to Catrina and her hiked eyebrow, looking.

“Good. Busy. Hungry. What’s that?” He points at my plate; I tell him. “What kind of dressing?”

“Uh, some sort of peanut vinaigrette? Light, not overwhelming.”

“May I join you?”

“Of course.”

He smiles and moves toward the counter to order. Nice teeth. Nicer ass.

My conscience clears her throat in my head. Ahem …

What?

What do you mean, what? Does the name Finan ring a bell?

It does. And is he here? No.

Whisky for lunch, and you’re already looking for a new booty call.

Oh my god, it’s SALAD. Go away.

Dr. Stillson returns and slides into the spot Mrs. Corwin recently vacated just as I tuck away my laptop and its fake doctors. “Catrina tells me you all are swamped now that you’ve lost half your town council.”

“That would be a correct diagnosis.” Oh, Lara, gag. Thankfully, he humors me with a grin. “How are things over at the clinic?”

“I never knew a generous handful of very healthy people could have so many questions.”

“I’m sure it’ll slow down. At least until the next group arrives. The residents were anxious after the salmonella situation, so they’re thrilled you’re here to help. Poor Catrina was run off her feet.”

“She’s an amazing practitioner. I’m lucky to work with her.” His smile stretches all the way across his face. Genuine and warm.

“I agree. She’s pretty great.” Like the mom I never had. “You’re all settled in and everything, then?”

“I am.”

The young waitress with her brunette hair in two braids slides his lunch in front of him, lingering for a second so she, too, can partake of the handsome young doctor’s attentions. She hurries away only to return with a glass of ice water.

“Fresh lemon. I know you like lemon,” she says, her fair complexion betraying her.

“Thanks very much, Laramie.”

She grins and hurries back behind the counter.

“Laramie. I did not know that was her name, and I’ve been here way longer than you,” I admit quietly.

“It’s a doctor thing. I try to learn names and faces right away. Makes it easier when they come to me for something they find embarrassing.” He digs into his salad, moaning with the first bite. “God, this is good.”

My naughty little mind sticks on that moan. “Mm-hmm. Yes. Tommy is a master.”

“You’ve done a good thing here, Lara,” he says around a mouthful of greens. “This place is amazing.”

“It’s not amazing because of me.”

“Humble too.”

“No, seriously. I’m still trying to get my sea legs.”

“So far, it’s terrific—and it’ll only get better.”

“Let’s hope. Thank you.”

“I was so happy when the Foundation offered me the job.”

“And we are so happy you decided to take it, and show up early.”

“I was a little worried when I saw the news about the food poisoning, but knowing what we know now”—he pauses to take a healthy swallow of his lemon water—“I can’t believe it was intentional.”

“Definitely not how I saw my first week playing out,” I say, wishing I could take a sip from my soda but also not wanting the new doctor to think he needs to slip AA brochures into my town-hall mailbox. “Laramie? Can I get a water too?” My throat is suddenly sub-Saharan.

“I’m really looking forward to learning how to grow my own food. I had a spot in the community garden in Kitsilano, but people kept stealing my vegetables. The email from earlier said you’ll be starting up the planting classes so we can get things going?”

“Uh, yes. We will. Soon. Very soon.” I have no idea what he’s talking about. What email?

Laramie slides my water onto the table just in time. I down half of it, then dab my lips with a cloth napkin. Afraid he will continue asking me about whatever planting classes he’s just mentioned—or anything else from an email I didn’t write and obviously haven’t seen—I deflect and ask him about his life as a doctor, his family, his future plans.

He’s in the middle of explaining how he’d love to be a hundred percent self-sufficient with his small plot of Thalia land when the bell above the diner door dings and a familiar face waltzes in.

Humboldt is the first to find me. He pauses for a second to sniff at the doctor’s blue-scrub-clad leg under the table and then attempts to climb onto my bench, his front two legs propped on the cushioned bamboo seat. “Humboldt, down! You’re a mess!”

Finan slides up next to the table and pulls Humboldt back onto all fours. “Sorry. We’re just on our way to get lunch. Should’ve fed him first.” He extends a hand. “Dr. Stillson, good to see you.” The doctor shakes it. I cringe when he smiles; a piece of cilantro is wedged between his perfect front teeth.

“I wish you guys would call me Liam, at least when we’re not in the office.”

Finan looks at me. “Lara.”

“Finan.”

“Would you care to join us?” Dr. Stillson asks.

“You know, I’m about done here. Finan is welcome to my spot.”

“No, thanks, Doc. I’m just grabbing a sandwich to go.” He looks at me, his eyes hard. “Much to do before the sun sets. Enjoy the rest of your lunch.” He waves and saunters toward the counter where Laramie has a brown paper sack ready to go. He pays quickly and as he passes our table again, he waves goodbye to Dr. Stillson, but not me.

“He seems like a good guy. Catrina says he has been a huge factor in getting the island up and running.”

Deciding I don’t care what Dr. Stillson—Liam—thinks, I pick up the spiked drink and finish it. “Finan’s great. Thanks for joining me. I’ll grab yours,” I say, pointing to his unfinished plate. As I fish my wallet from my bag, I contemplate whether I should tell the doctor about the cilantro.

Nah.

I slide out of the booth, bag over my shoulder. “Let me know about those gardening classes,” he says. “Maybe we could go together?”

“Nothing gets me more excited than perfect soil composition.” I wink and hide my Finan-shaped annoyance behind a plastic smile and fake wave.

I stall my exit long enough to lean over the counter and ask Laramie to add our lunches to my tab and apologize for the Humboldt-shaped paw prints on the seat. “Also, one of those to go, please.” I point to the glazed strawberry turnover in the Plexiglas case near the register.

As I rush down the block, I again chastise myself for the choice of open-toed power heels when the weather report is only a thumb swipe away. Shoving the turnover into my face helps.

A little.