The man finished typing before looking up at his daughter, and that was all I needed to know about him. That was fucking it.
"Sara," he boomed, pushing to his feet. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten." He folded her into a hug while catching my eye over her shoulder. "She's always been such a scatterbrain."
What a fucking asshole.
"Dad, this is Sebastian Stremmel. I told you about him earlier. He's the top trauma surgeon at Massachusetts and the next Chief of Emergency Surgery."
I accepted his outstretched hand. "The part about emergency surgery is true. The part about Sara being a scatterbrain is not. Can't say I've ever seen her less than completely composed."
"Then you aren't looking very hard, Dr. Stremmel," he said, the words cracking into a chuckle.
Sara gave me I warned you eyes. I shrugged, giving her my this doesn't scare me scowl.
As she'd promised, the older man asked nothing of our relationship or even why I was here in Jamaica. Instead, he launched into a long story about bumping into another surgeon, someone who'd once been something of a rival and now wanted Dr. Shapiro's assistance.
"That's always how it goes. They always come back around," he said, motioning to the server with his empty tumbler. "Another bourbon on the rocks, splash of soda, and something for the kids." He ran a tight, impatient grin over Sara. "You look like you could use a drink. What do I always tell you? You need to lighten up!" He leaned toward me, his elbow on the table, his fist under his chin, a conspiratorial glint in his eyes like I was the kind of dickhead who'd join him in slamming his daughter. "Always serious, this one. You'd think the world's ending every day. Can't even scare a smile out of her."
What a fucking asshole.
I pulled my most confused expression. "You think so? Huh." I grated my knuckles down my jaw. Sara passed a hand over her lips to hide a grin. "I don't see that at all."
Since that wasn't what he'd expected, he forced a smirk and went back to his phone while Sara and I ordered a bottle of wine apiece. Bottles because this place was too classy to bother with wine by the glass, but also because ordering a fine bottle was as big a power move as anything with rich guys like this. Even bourbon drinkers who could probably buy the entire island of Jamaica.
When the server stepped away, Dr. Shapiro edged toward me again, renewed interest in his eyes because I'd obviously leveled up with that wine order. "My golf buddy likes that vintage," he said. "Morty Speeback. Hands it out to his staff around the holidays. They don't understand what they're getting, don't respect the quality, but you can't talk him out of it. I'm sure you've heard of Dr. Speeback, Dr. Stremmel. One of the best heart surgeons in Orange County."
"If you know cardio guys, you must know Cal Hartshorn." I glanced at Sara, expecting her to chime in, but she gave a slight shake of her head. "He's one of the best in the country."
Dr. Shapiro picked up his phone, read a notification at the top of the screen. "Can't say that I have."
After the server corked and poured, I reached for the glass of wine in front of me. "He worked on that pro football coach a few years back. Lots of press coverage for that one. I couldn't go a day without seeing Hartshorn's face all over ESPN." I tapped my glass to Sara's. "He's a big fan of Sara's."
"As he should be," Dr. Shapiro replied. "She's also one of the best. Massachusetts is lucky to have her."
In any other conversation, his comments would've landed with pride and admiration. In this shitshow, they resembled both inadequacy—being the best was the bare minimum—and an accusation—our hospital had something they didn't deserve. It was remarkable the way he packed so much toxic waste into a few words.
"I know for a fact the Chief is very interested in Sara," I said. She turned her head, staring out at the water as a slight laugh rolled through her shoulders.
Dr. Shapiro picked up his menu with a pointed glance at his daughter. "Have you looked at this? They have some interesting salads. I can't imagine you get much fresh produce in Boston. Everything must come trucked in from the west or shipped up from South America. What a shame. It's never very good unless it's truly fresh. You'll like one of these salads."
Before I could get my hands around that oblique comment, a man waved from a few tables over and Dr. Shapiro immediately stepped away to speak with him, saying to us, "I'll need a minute for this."
When he was out of earshot, Sara said, "Are you amusing yourself?"
I reached for my wineglass. "Somewhat."
"You can't impress him. It's not possible. He's the only one allowed to do the impressing. It doesn't matter who you know, where you've been, what you've done. He's cornered this market. It's his. You and Hartshorn could be conjoined twins and my father would not care because he didn't discover you. He decides whether you're worth telling everyone about. He does the impressing."
"You might doubt me when I say this, but I know that already. I know my way around this game. Just let me play, okay?"
"Don't start any fires," she warned.
"As long as you don't break any windows," I replied.
"It was one time," she whisper-cried. "One window."
"And don't think I'll ever let you forget it." I laughed and a wide grin pulled at her lips.
See that smile? You're wrong about this one. You're all wrong.
Dr. Shapiro returned to the table, saying, "Always running into someone who wants to talk. That was Dr. Kim. He's in from Dallas. He's taken on ten new partners this year. He was smart to listen to me." He glanced between me and Sara with a self-important grin. "How's business in Boston these days? Enough to keep busy? It would be a real shame for you to lose your skills."
Sara shrugged, and though it read as a casual gesture, all the levity we'd just shared was gone. In its place, tension that burned like a fire that crept along the walls, low and hot and destructive enough to take down the whole damn house. "My skills get more than adequate use."
"And they should," he replied, again occupied with his phone. "I didn't get you into that fellowship to sit on your hands all day."
This motherfucker.
Sara blinked at him, not that he noticed. I dropped my hand to her knee. She shook her head, telling me she didn't need the support, but I gave her a light squeeze anyway. She rolled her eyes as if I was overreacting and that would've been believable if she hadn't shifted in her seat and pressed that knee into my palm.
The similarities between my father and Dr. Shapiro weren't hard to find once the artifice of medicine was stripped away. They both loved the sound of their voices and believed the people closest to them were the least relevant, the least precious.
We placed our orders and Dr. Shapiro went on grabbing his phone every twenty seconds, motioning to someone he knew on the other side of the restaurant, and simultaneously registering his opinions on the topics presented at the conference. He was capable of carrying on a conversation without the involvement of anyone else, and that didn't bother me one bit. I was content to sip wine and stroke Sara's knee and let this guy be a fool drunk off his own Kool-Aid.