Skin Deep (34 page)

It was a beautiful July Fourth day—clear, dry, and mild: perfect weather to celebrate Independence Day and to watch the fireworks later that evening.

Dana was ready and waiting at four. But instead of the black BMW pulling up her driveway, a shiny limousine appeared with a uniformed driver and nobody else. He introduced himself as Max and said that Dr. Monks apologized for not coming by in person, but that he would drive her to their rendezvous. He walked her to the limo, where he retrieved a cell phone and handed it to her.

“Dana, it's Aaron. I apologize, but I got held up in town. Max will bring you here.”

“Okay. And where exactly is
here
?”

“You'll see, and bring an appetite.”

She handed Max the cell phone. “He wouldn't say where we're going.”

Max smiled. “I think you'll be pleased.” And he let her in the car.

The interior had a plastic partition dividing the front and rear seats to ensure privacy. As they pulled away, the driver clicked on some classical music and Dana settled back, thinking how her life had suddenly taken on some adventure.

They headed onto the Mystic Valley Parkway, which took them to 93 South toward Boston. Because the air was dry, the city skyline stood out in stereoscopic clarity. Her guess was they were meeting at one of the trendy new places in the South End. But instead of taking the Storrow Drive exit, the driver went straight over the Zakim Bridge and into the tunnel and then took one of the exits that brought them onto Atlantic Avenue.

After a few minutes, they turned into Waterboat Marina near the New England Aquarium. In the distance she spotted Anthony's Pier 4, where she and Steve had gone in the early years of their marriage and where they always got a window seat because Steve was a cop.

Max drove until he could go no farther. At the gate was Aaron Monks, dressed in a navy double-breasted sport coat with a white shirt and light gray pants. He smiled broadly as he watched Dana get out. Max flashed her a two-fingered salute and drove away.

“You look gorgeous,” he said. Then he snapped on his reading glasses and put his fingers to her chin, turning her face to study it in the sunlight. “Perfect,” and he gave her a kiss on each cheek.

“Thank you,” she said.

His eyes lit up as he regarded her. “And you're pleased with the results?”

“Of course. But why all the mystery?”

He took her arm. “Actually, no mystery. I was running late and thought it best to send a car.” He opened the gate and led her down the ramp to the walkway that took them past dozens of beautiful boats and to the end where a huge white yacht sat that must have been sixty feet long with a high flying bridge surmounted by radar antennae and other electronic fixtures.

“Is Donald Trump in town?”

“Donald Trump?”

He didn't seem to appreciate the joke, and she felt herself flush. “You mean, this is yours?”

“When I get the chance.”

He took her hand and led her up the gangplank to the deck. “Welcome aboard the
Fair Lady.”

The wide aft deck opened into an elegant main salon done in cherry with built-in beige leather sofas and chrome appointments. Next to a dinette area rose a cherry-and-chrome spiral staircase to the flying bridge. The main salon connected to four elegant staterooms plus crew quarters, also in cherry with plush beige carpeting and colorful accents. The cherry continued into the galley, a bright space with black marble counters and stainless-steel appliances.

“It looks like a Ritz Hotel suite on water.” She had to wonder about all the nose jobs it took.

“Thank you. When I can get away, it's a lot of fun.”

He led her through the salons and into the steering station in the forward deck where two men were checking a nautical chart. “This is Cho and Pierre. They'll be at the helm this evening.”

She shook their hands. Both men had coffee-colored skin and looked Polynesian and spoke with an accent that she could not place. Later Aaron would tell her that both men had Asian and Caribbean blood and were from the West Indies. They were resident surgeons in a fellowship training program allied with the Institute of Reconstructive Surgery that Aaron headed up. They would be accompanying him on his vacation to Martinique next month.

They returned to the aft deck where a table was set for two and a Boston caterer had laid out trays of shrimp, chicken cordon bleu, meat turnovers, cheeses, and fruit. There were also two fluted glasses and a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket.

The night was warm with a gentle breeze off the water. They sat across from each other at the elegantly set table. In the thickening golden light of the sun, Aaron Monks looked elegant in his blue and white.

Cho and Pierre pulled the boat into the harbor.

“How long will it take to reach Martinique?”

“We'll do it in about ten days. We could do it faster, but there's no rush.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“Even more so when we're down there. Have you been to Martinique?”

“I've been to Jamaica, but not Martinique.”

“Maybe someday you will. In the meantime…” He poured the champagne. “It seems appropriate that it's Independence Day.” He raised his glass to hers. “To the new you and freedom from the old.”

She thanked him and clicked his glass.

While they chattered, she could see how pleased he was with the results because he could not stop staring at her, his pupils looking permanently dilated.

Nonetheless, she felt a tiny prick at the back of her mind. Perhaps it was the expectation that she was starting all over, that these procedures were tantamount to a rebirth—as if the needles, nips, tucks, and nose job meant she was officially divorced from her past, that like some exotic reptile she had molted her old self and was scuttling off in pride to a new dawn. The rhinoplasty was an improvement, and she was delighted. And perhaps it would take time for her interior self to catch up. But she felt like the same person inside.

Over the next few hours, Pierre and Cho took them for a sunset cruise around the harbor, passing some of the many islands that Aaron named and gave brief histories of, including Kingdom Head where, he said, in the seventeenth century a woman was executed for witchcraft. Rumor had it that her ashes and ancient Celtic ruins lay buried somewhere on the island. He was very knowledgeable about the seafaring history of Boston. He didn't joke or laugh much, and she concentrated on his stories and resisted trying to lighten the discourse that bordered on a lecture.

But that was fine, and it was a glorious night with a magnificent view of Boston over the pearly lavender water and under a cloudless indigo sky.
You wanted some romance back in your life,
she told herself.
Well here's one hell of a start.

Dana two
.

The moon rose full on the harbor, and the setting sun silhouetted the skyline in flaming reds. Along the waterfront, buildings glowed like so many jewels floating on a black expanse. In a couple of hours the sky would be exploding in fireworks.

“They're still talking about the suicide of that professor fellow in the news,” Aaron said. “That it was an act of confession. I imagine your husband must feel some relief in that.”

“I think he is. But it's been bad press for the department, as you can imagine.”

“Of course. But maybe it's behind them.”

She took a sip of champagne and wondered what Steve was doing at the moment. Probably poring over depressing crime reports. He'd love to be out here since he had a half-mystical yearning for the sea and always wanted to own a boat. Last year at this time, they picnicked on the Charles with Marie Dacey and her husband John and her friend Jane Graham and her husband Jack. Then they walked up the river to watch the fireworks.

“Well, I wish him the best.”

She suddenly felt a jolt. “Oh, my God.”

“What?”

“I forgot something.” She reached for her handbag and removed her cell phone. “Excuse me,” she said, getting up and moving away from the table to talk privately.

“I'm afraid you're not going to have much luck out here.”

He was right, they were beyond range for a connection. She had gotten so caught up in the unveiling as Steve put it that it she had forgotten that tonight they had a date to talk.
Damn!

“If it's an emergency, we can use the ship-to-shore radio.”

She imagined him getting an emergency call from the coast guard that his wife was at sea with someone else. “No, that's okay.” Steve was probably at the house calling her cell phone. He'd hang out there for an hour then head home, feeling jilted just as he was hoping to work things out with her. She felt awful.

“Are you sure?” Aaron asked. “We can go back in.”

They were at the outer reaches of the harbor, near the Boston lighthouse island. It would take an hour to reach the marina. And even if they got within calling range, Steve would have left, resigned to the fact that she had forgotten. “No. It's okay,” she said, knowing that it wasn't okay. But there was nothing she could do.

I'm sorry, Steve
.

 

Later, under an outrageously starry sky, the fireworks show started.

It began with the faint strains of the Boston Symphony Orchestra in the Hatch Shell playing “The 1812 Overture,” followed by a fusillade of cannon fire that sent up a roar from the crowd gathered along the Charles, filling the Esplanade and the banks between which floated the huge barges where the pyrotechnics were staged.

Then the sky opened up with fiery chrysanthemums in red, white, and blue, followed by half an hour of continuous starbursts and booms that echoed and re-echoed across the Boston Harbor. The cityscape flickered in colored fire under the canopy of smoke. Then for maybe two consecutive minutes the final volley turned the night into crackling, booming bouquets of Technicolor explosions followed by a moment's silence then one solitary
boom
that concluded the show.

And a million people said, “Waaaaaaaaaaw.”

They returned to the marina after midnight. Because of the holiday, the waterfront was still bustling with activity. They took a short stroll along the walkway of Atlantic Avenue and through Columbus Park. She tried not to think of Steve, although that was impossible. Her guilt kept surfacing throughout the evening, sometimes crossing with resentment that he had put pressure on her to reconcile just as she was emerging into postop, post-separation singlehood. She'd call him in the morning, hoping he'd forgive her.

When they returned to the marina, Max was waiting nearby in the limo. “Thank you. This was wonderful.” And she leaned up and kissed Aaron on the mouth.

He was attractive, charming, brilliant, and disturbingly wealthy. Yet he did not seem arrogant or taken with himself. In fact, quite the opposite. He said very little about himself or his accomplishments, so often touted in the media. He was a good listener and said the right things; though at times he appeared awkward, she decided that he was probably not used to dating or dating someone like her who felt the compulsion to be
on,
to fill the silence. Maybe that was why he seemed so removed. Her only regret was that he lacked a sense of humor or perhaps her sense of humor—what she shared naturally with Steve. But that was fine. Maybe big-time cosmetic physicians didn't joke like ordinary mortals.

“You're welcome, and I hope we can do this again,” he said. “But it's not good night just yet. Max is taking me home, too. So I'll be riding back with you.”

They rode side by side in the rear seat without saying much, both exhausted from the long evening of sea air and champagne.

“Thank you again. I had a great time.”

“You're welcome.”

After several minutes, she wondered if he was going to take her hand or put his arm around her. When he didn't, she slipped her hand on his. It felt warm but limp. Deciding that he needed a little encouragement, she rested her head against his shoulder.

They rode that way for another few minutes until her head felt as awkward as a bowling ball. Suddenly it occurred to her that maybe she was being too forward, possibly violating some blue-blooded protocol against anything physical early in a relationship. Or maybe he was offended by her presumptuousness, especially after seeing his multimillion-dollar yacht—his coolness merely a self-protected shield against opportunism.

Then she wondered if she wasn't his type of woman. Or that maybe she simply didn't turn him on. Or maybe, as she and Steve had speculated, that he was, in fact, gay. But he did ask her out this evening.

After another few minutes it occurred to her that he might not be attracted to women whose faces he had operated on—knowing what she looked like under her skin. But with that logic, male gynecologists wouldn't sire babies.
What the hell,
she thought,
they're seasoned adults
. She leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

His only reaction was a slight flinch as if taken by surprise. He stared at her without expression.

“Are you in there?”

“Yes.”

Perhaps it was the champagne, but she kissed him again. The stiffness yielded as he slipped his arm around her shoulder and kissed her back.

Relief passed through her until she became aware that he wasn't kissing her in the regular way but making little pecks on her mouth and cheeks. It was bizarre, as if he was practice-kissing.
What the hell is he doing?
she wondered. It was like making out with a child.

Then she realized. “It's okay,” she whispered. “It doesn't hurt.”

He nodded then kissed her, letting his mouth linger on hers.

After a few moments, she opened her eyes to see Max adjust the rearview mirror as a signal that they were out of view. At a level barely perceptible, she heard the sweet refrains of Brahms flow from the speakers. Dana rested her head on his shoulder. She could smell his cologne, a flowery scent she didn't recognize.

“I'm glad you had a good time. I hope we can do this again.”

“Me, too.” She kissed him again, liking the fullness of his mouth against her, thinking about the subtle differences from Steve, the only man she had ever really kissed in the last seventeen years. She shifted in her seat and her hand landed on his thigh. Only half aware, she began to caress him as they kissed.

As if she had hit a power button, he suddenly pressed his mouth to hers and began to deep kiss her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, sliding across her lips until it began to hurt. His breathing became quick and he started to writhe in place. She removed her hand from his leg, a bit startled at his response. His breathing turned into deep-throated groans as he pressed his open mouth hard against hers, as if trying to swallow her. She broke his hold, and he sprung back.

At first she thought he was retreating to catch his breath. But in the light of the street she noticed his eyes and the expression on his face. He was struggling with the heat of his own sensations, as if he were trying not to do this, trying to suppress arousal.

“You okay?” she whispered, hardly registering the fact that they had arrived in her driveway and that Max had turned off the headlights. The motor was still running and the music still played.

“Aaron?” she whispered.

But he did not respond. Instead he pressed his mouth to hers for more, and with his tongue against her teeth tried to wedge open her mouth, and failing that he began rubbing his face against hers, licking her lips and cheeks, all the while making tiny whimpering grunts.

With some effort she pushed him off her because the pressure had exacerbated the tenderness around her nose. “You're hurting me.”

His eyes were large and glassy and his breath came in pants. Then as if snapping back, he muttered, “Sorry.” He pulled his hands together and straightened up. “I guess I got carried away.”

“Guess you did.” Her mouth was sore.

“I'm really very sorry.” Then he took her face in his hands and examined it in the light as if checking for damage.

She dabbed her nostrils to see if she was bleeding. She wasn't. “I'm okay.”

He shook his head. “I feel…sorry.”

She put her hand on his arm. “It's okay, I'm fine.”

His face struggled with expressions. “You better go.”

She nodded and got out.

As the car pulled away, she gave a little wave and headed up the driveway, digging in her bag for her keys and wondering what had happened in there.