Keeping Score (12 page)

“No, you’re not.”

Marilyn’s head jerked back at Lena’s forceful denial. “Excuse me?”

“Why are you always asking to be excused? It’s not me you should be asking. It’s poor Rick.”

Marilyn’s head began to hurt. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re getting a divorce.”

Shock made Marilyn’s facial muscles lax. “No, we’re not. Where did you get
that
idea?”

Lena gave her a skeptical look. “The papers say you’re getting a divorce.” She reached into her crowded purse and pulled out a folded newspaper section.

Marilyn took the gossip section Lena offered and stared at the item on the top. According to the
Horn
, an anonymous source claimed Mrs. Evans had filed for a divorce from Brooklyn Monarchs shooting guard and twelve-year NBA veteran Warrick Evans. They’d referred to her as
missus
instead of
doctor
. They couldn’t even get that right.

“I don’t want my baby delivered by someone who would break poor Rick’s heart.” Lena sounded serious.

The words in the newspaper’s announcement wavered in and out of focus. The sheet went black, then white. An anonymous source? Really? From where had the newspaper gotten these lies and why did it print them?

“This. Isn’t. True.” Her words were thick and rough as she pushed them through her rapidly compressing vocal chords.

“Why would the newspapers lie?”

“To increase sales.” Marilyn handed back the paper. Her muscles were stiff. Her temper was straining. “It’s my marriage. I would know whether I’ve filed for divorce—and I haven’t.”

Lena stared at the folded publication. Her certainty seemed to be wavering. Marilyn no longer cared. Nothing she said would change the other woman’s mind.

She stood. “There are several O-B-G-Y-Ns on staff at this hospital. They’re all excellent. I can recommend with confidence any one of them.”

Lena looked from the gossip section to Marilyn and back. She stuffed the paper back into her purse and struggled to stand. “All right.”

Marilyn assisted Lena to her feet. “I’d be happy to meet with your new doctor to ensure your continuity of care.”

Lena frowned her confusion. She settled her purse on her left shoulder. “What?”

Marilyn forced her neck and shoulders to relax. “I’ll tell your new doctor whatever she or he needs to know to keep you healthy and ensure you deliver another strong baby.”

Lena rubbed her hands over her pregnant belly. Her troubled brown eyes met Marilyn’s. “Thank you.”

Marilyn forced a smile. “You’re welcome.” She needed to get away. She wanted to be by herself. She reached around Lena to open the door.

Lena caught Marilyn’s forearm. “I’m sorry, Doc. I do like you, but ...”

Marilyn waited a beat after Lena’s hesitation. “But you love the Monarchs more.” Lena nodded miserably. Marilyn pulled the door open. “I understand.” No, she really didn’t.

She stood back and watched Lena leave the examination room. The expectant mother of three wasn’t her only patient who also was a Brooklyn Monarchs fan. How many more patients would believe she was divorcing a beloved member of their treasured team? What did this mean for her practice at the hospital or potential partnership with the clinic?

8

Arthur Posey looked even more uptight than usual in his smoke gray pinstripe suit. The hospital administrator hovered near the break room table Marilyn usually used as her workstation. Marilyn had watched enough vampire movies to know better than to invite him closer. She wouldn’t ask what he wanted, either. She returned his stare in silence. Arthur could say whatever he had to say—or not—without her prompting.

The administrator sighed. “I understand one of your patients has left your care.”

“That’s right. Lena Alvarez.” Every muscle in her body tensed. Why was Arthur here?

He clasped his hands in front of him. It was a pose that wouldn’t encourage creases in his perfectly pressed suit. “It took some effort to convince her to stay with the hospital under the care of another physician.”

Marilyn’s mind raced to stay ahead of him. “It couldn’t have taken that much effort, Arthur. She told me she would make an appointment with one of the doctors I recommended before she left today.”

Why was he pretending he’d been the one to change Lena’s mind?

Arthur’s eyes widened, a barely perceptible indication of surprise. “Still, Kings County Medical Samaritan is not in the habit of sending our patients to other hospitals.”

“I know.” She gave him a patient look, which took all of her amateur acting skills to pull off.

“I told you this would happen.” Arthur drew closer without her invitation.

“That what would happen?”

He stood beside her chair, crowding Marilyn. “You’re disrupting this hospital.”

She frowned, confused. “Lena’s devotion to the Monarchs clouded her judgment about her care.”

“Your husband’s connection with the Monarchs is costing us patients.”

Had Arthur lost his mind? “No, it’s not.”

“You’re alienating patients and losing credibility as a physician among your peers.”

“And my supervisors?” Marilyn stared him down.

Arthur’s lips thinned. “You’re trying to live in two worlds.”

Marilyn arched a brow. “How did you draw that conclusion ?”

Arthur looked down his nose at her. “You’re trying to be a celebrity and a doctor. You’re either one or the other. You can’t be both. Not at this hospital.”

Marilyn was losing the battle with her patience. She pushed herself up from her chair, forcing Arthur to take a step back. “Ah, yes. I’m sure lab coats are all the rage among Brooklyn celebrities.” She glanced down at her clothing. “And I’m just dripping with pearls, diamonds, and rubies, aren’t I? Do you like my tiara?”

Arthur looked as though he’d just sucked a lemon. “It’s not the clothes you wear. It’s your attitude. You think you’re special, that everyone should pay homage to you because you’re married to an NBA player and the two of you have almost as much money as God.”

This from an administrator who expected hospital staff to kiss his ring. Marilyn’s face and neck burned. “Don’t pretend to know anything about me or my lifestyle.”

“It’s more than Lena’s leaving. You have reporters congregating in the parking lot. Patients complain about the newspaper stories about you. Other patients are leaving the hospital.”

Marilyn had been angry before. She was incensed now. She released a slow breath. “Every statement you’ve made has been an exaggeration. Tell me, Arthur, what’s really bothering you?”

He remained silent.

Marilyn prodded him. “Is it envy? Do you wish the media were harassing
you
? Perhaps you’re bitter. Weren’t you ever picked for a team at school? Or is it more materialistic? All of the above?”

Arthur sneered. “Rick Evans is a basketball player.”

Why did it rile her so when people disrespected her husband’s profession?

Marilyn shrugged with forced nonchalance. “You’re a paper pusher.”

Arthur unfolded his hands and clenched his fists. “I’m a hospital administrator.”

“That’s what I said.”

He glowered at her a moment longer, then smoothed his wine red tie. “I’m giving you one final warning. You’ve already received one for causing a major disruption at this hospital.”

“That reporter’s presence wasn’t a major disruption.” Marilyn felt as though she were speaking through cut glass to a stone wall.

“Are you contradicting me?”

“Yes, I am.”

Arthur held his hand up like a traffic cop when Marilyn tried to continue. “I’m not finished.” He lowered his hand. “If you bring even one more disruption to this hospital, I will terminate your hospital privileges so fast your head will spin.”

Marilyn narrowed her eyes. “Are you threatening me, Arthur?”

“That’s not a threat. It’s a promise. Our mission is to save lives. Your lifestyle is impeding our mission. I won’t allow that to continue.”

“My personal life has nothing to do with my work at this hospital.” Marilyn enunciated each word. “Judge me on my patient care, not your personal prejudices.”

Arthur gave her one last, long glare. “You’ve been warned. But don’t worry. Your husband makes good money. You won’t starve.”

Marilyn returned his stare. “Am I supposed to sit on my sofa with my eight additional years of education and training?”

“Go to your husband’s games. Attend charity balls.” He arched a brow. “Isn’t that what your crowd is supposed to do? Be seen at fashion shows and theater openings?”

“It sounds as though
you
want to do that.”

Arthur turned to walk away. “Pity I’m not a ballplayer.”

Marilyn watched him leave. She’d suspected jealousy was the motivation behind his behavior. How did she convince him she wasn’t playing at being a doctor? She couldn’t lose her job, especially if she were about to lose her marriage.

Marilyn cast her gaze over the other three women sharing the table with her in the quaint Italian restaurant Wednesday night. She had nothing in common with them, except they were all either married or engaged to a Brooklyn Monarchs player.

This status granted them free membership to the Monarchs Wives Club. The club’s main purpose seemed to be organizing fund-raisers and other community improvement events. Since her hospital hours didn’t often allow Marilyn to attend the Monarchs’ games, her involvement with the club seemed the next best way of supporting Warrick’s career. But she always felt underdressed and out of place when she was with them. Marilyn swallowed a sigh and stuck her fork into another ravioli square.

The other women wore chunky accessories, expensive clothes, and perfect makeup. Even Peggy Coleman, who looked like she could give birth to Roger Harris’s baby at their table, appeared as though she was ready to pose for an
Elle
magazine fashion spread. Marilyn resisted the urge to adjust the collar of her blue Ann Taylor button-down blouse. She smoothed her hair, checking the clip at the nape of her neck. Even if she had the glamorous wardrobe, she wouldn’t have had time to go home and change after work before meeting the other club members for dinner.

She studied her plate of vegetable ravioli swimming in marinara sauce. It had been the least expensive entrée on the menu and the portion size closely resembled an appetizer. Still, the cost of her meal alone was more than the total cost of a dinner when she and Warrick used to dine out.

Susan Williams cut into her chicken parmesan. “The casino night theme idea for the homeless shelter fund-raiser is the bomb. We should rent a real casino.”

From where would they get the money for that?

Marilyn looked at the other two women seated at the elegantly set square table. They looked indecisive, an expression they’d worn to perfection for the past half hour.

She turned to Susan. “There aren’t any casinos in Brooklyn. Besides we need to keep our expenses low to raise as much money as we can.”

Susan, who’d married Monarchs point guard Darius Williams more than four years earlier, shrugged a bony shoulder. “Then we’ll drive to Atlantic City. It’s not far.” Her mocha brown cheeks flushed and her dark brown eyes glittered with excitement. “A trip to Atlantic City would be the bomb. It would add to the glamour of the event.”

Peggy rubbed her belly. “I don’t know, Susan. I’m six months pregnant. I can’t drive to Atlantic City. I’d have to stop every ten minutes to pee.” She patted her left hand over her hair. The twenty-four-carat pink diamond engagement ring sparkled against her baby fine ash blond hair.

Susan kissed her teeth. “There are rest stops all over the interstate. Just pull over and use one.”

Marilyn coughed as her bite of ravioli traveled down the wrong pipe. She caught her breath, drawing in the heady scents of rich spices and tangy tomato sauce. Heaven. She swallowed a drink of water from her glass. “Keeping it in Brooklyn would also guarantee that more people attended.”

Susan’s expression was frustrated. “You just said Brooklyn doesn’t have any casinos.”

Count to ten. “The church’s fund-raiser doesn’t have to be in a casino. We could hold it in the Morning Glory Chapel’s recreation room.”

Susan’s lips formed a perfect O. “A rec room? That’s so tacky.”

Faye Ryland, point guard Jarrett Hickman’s longtime girlfriend, nodded. Her orange-tipped dark brown bangs swung across her eyes. “That’s a good idea. The fund-raiser is for the Morning Glory anyway. Atlantic City is three hours away. Shit. A lot of people aren’t going to want to make the trip. Especially at night.”

Marilyn sipped her ice water. “And especially with gas prices so high.”

Susan gave her a shrewd look. “But that’s not a problem for you, right? You can afford it.”

Here we go again. “So could most of the people on our guest list. The point is, the less they have to spend to attend the event, the more they’ll spend
at
the event.”

Susan’s constant and transparent attempts to find out how much she and Warrick made was one of the reasons she disliked the Monarchs Wives Club meetings. Surely, the club’s president knew Warrick’s salary—as well as the salary of every other NBA player—was posted on the Internet, much to Marilyn’s dismay. Maybe Susan did and she was only after Marilyn’s income figure. Well, that information wasn’t for public consumption. Their friends, family, neighbors, and perfect strangers already knew too much about them.