In His Good Hands (21 page)

He ought to be happy.

Renita’s face as she’d given him back his medal—brave, hurt—flashed into his mind. He faltered. The bar crashed back into the cradle.

He squeezed his eyes shut, not knowing if it was anger or regret that was causing this pain in his chest.

How could she not understand that giving him two hundred thousand dollars would destroy their relationship? Then, to add insult to injury, she’d given him back his medal for a dollar.

“Brett, sorry to disturb you, but you still haven’t looked over the revised group fitness program before I print it up.” Janet rustled a piece of paper next to his head.

He didn’t respond. This was a minor detail; she didn’t need his approval.

Janet touched his shoulder. “Brett! You in there?”

“I heard. Just put the program on the seat of the leg press.” He waited a moment until she’d had time to go, then ducked his head under the barbell and came to a seated position, his legs straddling the bench.

She was still there, arms crossed, waiting.

With a sigh, he glanced over the program, then handed it back to her. “It looks fine.” Janet didn’t budge. “By the way, thanks for picking up the slack these past few days. I’ve had some personal issues.”

“I don’t mind taking on your clients, or even running the whole gym,” Janet said. “But overexercising isn’t the answer to whatever’s eating you. It’s bad for your body
and
your mind. You know it.”

Exercise had always been his salvation, his happy place when the going got rough. When he’d caught Amber cheating he’d practically lived at the gym, working out for hours every day. Until his aching joints and fatigued body forced him to take a break. And now, with Renita, it was the same story all over again.

Brett wiped his face and neck with a towel. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” When he didn’t answer Janet eased onto the seat of the leg press. “It’s Renita, isn’t it? You’ve had a fight or something. That’s why I’m training her now.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He pushed a hand through his damp hair.

“Okay, fine.” Janet rose. “Just a heads-up…she’s coming in this afternoon for a session.”

“I’ll get changed and go.” Wincing, he got to his feet slowly, babying his bad knee. It hadn’t bothered him for months. Now, through overwork, it was acting up again. Janet was right. He had to stop.

She paused, scanning the group of twenty-odd men and women standing around with coffee, chatting before breakfast. She froze.

By the windows across the room, talking to Norm, the owner of the athletic store, stood Brett. In a dark blazer over jeans and an open neck shirt, he looked masculine and healthy and utterly gorgeous.

Her heart contracted painfully in her chest. This must be some kind of nightmare.

Brett saw her and stumbled in his conversation, his coffee cup clattering into the saucer he held in his other hand.

Like an automaton, Renita smiled and nodded, then turned to talk to whoever was closest. To her relief, it happened to be her brother, Jack. “What are
you
doing here?”

“You invited me to attend weeks ago,” Jack said. “You urged me to join the Chamber of Commerce and to attend today’s talk. You said it would be vitally useful in growing my business.”

She’d said the same things to Brett. “Remind me in the future not to be such a civic cheerleader.”

“What’s wrong?” Jack said. “You look terrible.”

“Thanks, darling brother. I feel sick.” She met his gaze. “Brett and I broke up.”

“Oh, hell. I’m sorry to hear that.” Jack gave her a quick hug. “Are you okay?”

“No.” Before she could say anything else, Darcy Newton, the owner of the Summerside pub, came up to them.

“Hey, Renita,” Darcy said, grinning broadly. “I heard you gave a standout karaoke performance at Poppy’s birthday party.” He nudged Jack in the ribs. “Your sister missed her calling. She should have been a rock diva.”

“Ha, ha,” Renita said, faking a good-natured laugh. She was relieved when Jack, instead of ribbing her as he normally would have, directed the conversation to a new brand of draft beer Darcy was offering.

Renita pretended to listen to Jack and Darcy while watching Brett surreptitiously, aware of his every move. He took a piece of melon from the fruit plate on the table. She noted the strong flexing of his jaw as he chewed. Only a few days ago she’d kissed that mouth.

Their situation was messy. Brett was a member of the business community of Summerside now. She would see him regularly at functions like this, and around the village. And he was her brother’s friend and her father’s personal trainer. Lexie thought he was the best. Sienna acted as if she could hear wedding bells—and not just her own. Hetty…well, she wasn’t in the picture these days.

Out of the corner of her eye Renita saw Brett clap a hand on Norm’s shoulder. Then he started toward her.

She turned to Jack, but he was talking with someone else. At that precise moment everyone in the room was busy conversing. Then Brett was right there, so close she could smell his aftershave and see the whorls in his faint reddish stubble.

He stood beside her, looking out at the room. “This is awkward.”

All of a sudden she felt a surge of anger. This was
her
town, her family. “I’m not leaving.”

“Nor am I. I’m here for the talk,” he said adamantly.

A spoon clanging on a coffee cup got everyone’s attention. Theresa, Summerside’s forty-something mayor, said above the hubbub, “Everyone, please take a seat where your name tag is. While we eat we’ll listen to Mr. George Marshall speak about business planning for growth.”

Renita made her way to the long table covered in white linen, scanning the name tags for her place. Finding it, she pulled out a chair— Oh, great. Brett was right beside her. Half a dozen words she couldn’t say aloud in front of the Chamber of Commerce ran through her head.

“What’s with the place tags?” Brett said, taking his seat.

“Someone’s bright idea to facilitate networking,” Renita muttered as they sat down. Hers, in fact, but that had been a year ago, long before Brett ever came back to Summerside.

Chamber of Commerce breakfasts usually flew by in a stream of conversation and exchange of news. This morning the minutes dragged. Renita couldn’t focus on the talk, given by a nationally prominent businessman. While Brett took notes, she pushed her food around her plate and pretended to eat. The mushroom omelet tasted like sawdust. She was hyperaware of Brett, every movement, every sound, the shift of his thigh, the flexing of his fingers as his pen moved across the page of his notebook.

They reached for the water jug at the same time. She felt the electricity of his touch right down to her bones.

He jerked back, angling his chair away. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She gritted her teeth.

“Renita, you’ve hardly touched your food,” Theresa said from across the table. “Is something wrong with it?”

“It’s delicious.” She took a bite, but her throat felt blocked. She couldn’t swallow. “Excuse me,” she mumbled. Pushing back her chair, she half ran, half stumbled from the room.

The ladies’ room was empty, thank God. She collapsed on the closed lid of the toilet and dropped her head in her hands. Her heart was hammering in her chest as she fought back tears. Damn. She couldn’t just leave. She’d forgotten her purse on the back of her chair in the restaurant.

Someone knocked on her cubicle door. It was probably Theresa. “I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“It’s me.” Brett added in a low voice, “I’m taking off. I pretended to get a text from Tegan.”

“You can’t come in here. This is the women’s restroom,” Renita hissed. Looking down, she could see the toes of his black leather shoes.

“Here’s your purse.” He slid it under the door.

Renita clamped her jaw shut.

“Renita. Are you all right?”

She stood and opened the door. “I’m fine.”

“I told Theresa you were coming down with something,” he went on. “Gives you an out if you want to take it.”

“I—I’ll go back in. As long as you’re leaving.”

“I heard what I came for. The networking can wait.” Brett raised his hand as if to touch her cheek. Then his fingers curled and he dropped his hand.

Renita brushed past him, getting an agonizing whiff of his aftershave, and pushed through the door to the landing. She took a moment to compose herself before going back in to the meeting. She heard uneven footsteps descending the stairs, and cocked her head to listen. Was he limping? Before she could make up her mind, the door of the restaurant opened, and then closed with a quiet snick.

She choked out a laugh even as she began to cry. Sensing her distress, Lucy licked her knee.

Dogs didn’t break your heart; birds might insult you, but they didn’t know what they were saying. Cats…well, cats simply assumed you were as independent as they were.

Okay, she’d made a mistake. Couldn’t Brett see she’d done it from the best of motivations—love? Everyone had insecurities, him included. If he loved her, he should be able to let his guard down, accept her help.

Oh, she understood his view—that if she loved him, she should have respected his wishes and protected his pride. Yet she’d shown him her vulnerable side, and he couldn’t do the same. Which left them at an impasse.

She glanced at her watch and carried Frankie back to the aviary. It was time to get ready to go to the clinic. Her breast surgery was scheduled for that day. Even though Brett hadn’t been supportive, she’d hoped he’d be there for her when she needed some TLC. That wasn’t going to happen now.

She left for the mall early so she didn’t have time to mope at home. Besides, fasting for the anesthetic, she was starving. She needed to get away from the fridge.

Every woman she knew swore by retail therapy. Maybe that would do the trick for her, too. But an hour later she was listlessly picking through the racks, completely uninterested in the fashions that now fit her. Maybe she would even cancel the surgery. What was the point of looking good if she wasn’t with Brett?

Dumb attitude. Being single was all the more reason to make an effort. She forced herself to buy a new top and skirt and some strappy sandals. While she was at it she bought a purse. As soon as she’d signed the credit card slip, she was hit with guilt and remorse. Shopping hadn’t made her feel better. And a new dress was an extravagance she could no longer afford.

Buying Brett’s Brownlow Medal had increased her mortgage payments substantially. Now she would struggle to pay for extras like this breast surgery. And she didn’t have any backup savings in case she lost her job. For someone who wasn’t a risk-taker this kind of vulnerability was truly scary.

At the appointed time she made her way to the clinic and was admitted. A nurse named Marisa in a pale blue fitted uniform showed her to a room with a hospital bed and gave her a green gown that opened at the front. The smell of antiseptic tickled her throat and the stark white fluorescent bulbs made her squint.

She got changed and lay on the bed. Dr. Renfrew, the surgeon she’d met at her initial consultation, breezed in, accompanied by Marisa. In his green scrubs, he was a boyish-looking man in his forties with a chatty bedside manner.

“How are you doing, Renita? Good?” Barely waiting for her nod, he delicately opened her gown, holding her gaze as he talked. “We’ll get you prepped. We’re just waiting for the anesthetist. It won’t be long before Marisa will bring you into O.R.”

Marisa handed him the surgical marker and with a practiced hand Dr. Renfrew swiftly but carefully inked dotted lines around her nipples where the incisions for the implants would be made. “All done.” He smiled at her, squeezed her shoulder and breezed out.

Marisa handed her a magazine. “You can sit up, if you like. It won’t be long,” she repeated, then left the room.

Renita waited, leafing through the magazine. Every few minutes she checked her watch. Hopping up, she paced the linoleum in her paper slippers. What was taking so long? She wanted to get this over with before she changed her mind.

Before she changed her mind?

The thought stopped her cold. Was she afraid of going under the knife?

Well, who in their right mind wouldn’t be?

Renita went to the mirror and pulled aside her gown to look at the purple markings on her breasts.

Cut on dotted line.

She’d seen plastic surgery performed on TV. The surgeon’s knife slicing through skin and into flesh. She shivered. Beads of blood formed along the incision, the doctor pulled back the skin and muscle layer…. Ugh.

She flexed her pectoral muscles like a bodybuilder, then turned sideways to study her profile.

Okay, so her breasts couldn’t compare to Pammy’s. Or Amber’s, for that matter. Sure, if they were bigger they’d be more in proportion to her hips. But they weren’t
that
small.

“What is this obsession with being perfect?” Was
she obsessed? Or did she just want to look her best? Nothing wrong with that.

But why the sudden focus on her breasts?

Brett hadn’t cared about their size. Why did she?

Her extra weight had always been a source of insecurity. Now that she’d trimmed down she should be gaining confidence. No sooner had she lost weight than she’d started worrying over the size of her breasts. After she got them “fixed” what would be next?

She’d done the psychological assessment required prior to cosmetic surgery, blithely writing down what she figured the counselor wanted to hear. Maybe she should have thought this through more thoroughly before she’d signed on the dotted line.

Dotted lines.

All of a sudden she wanted to scrub her skin, get rid of the purple markings—evidence that she didn’t like herself.

Losing weight and getting fit were good things.

Surgery to enlarge her breasts so a man would think she was attractive…dumb.

Worse, she was being a coward where Brett was concerned. And she didn’t like cowards. All of a sudden she was angry. Angry at herself, angry at him. They’d had a chance for something special and they’d both screwed it up, her for fear of getting hurt, him for his stupid macho pride.

Marisa, ageless with her smooth forehead and slender figure, came into the room pushing a gurney. “The anesthetist is here. If you’ll hop on the gurney, I’ll take you into the operating room.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Renita said. “I don’t want breast surgery. I want to go home.”