Page 65 of Sinful Promises
A man strode into the room unannounced, and Mother’s eyes lit up like she’d won the lotto. “Doctor Alberts! Come, come. I want you to meet my daughter, Daisy.”
Doctor Alberts paused at the end of her bed and nodded at me. “Good evening, Daisy.”
“Hello.”
He checked her chart.
“Doctor Alberts isn’t married.” She winked at me.
Good God. How embarrassing.
The doctor offered me a smile that was equal parts a pleasantry and sheer exhaustion, and I rolled my eyes at him. I was sure he’d met women like my mother before who drooled over doctors.
Doctor Alberts stood at Mother’s side, and she clutched at his hand and smiled up at him with a look I’d seen from her hundreds of times. If she was healthy, Mother would have tried to jump his bones. Maybe she still would.
He turned his gaze to me. “I hope you’re letting Patricia get plenty of rest.”
I nodded. “I am. We were just doing some catching up. But I’m going to go now.”
Mother snapped her head to me. “No, don’t go.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow.” I stood, and when I reached for my backpack, I saw the box inside.
Yes. I’ll definitely be back.
After zipping it up, I reached for Mother’s hand. “Have a good night’s sleep, Mom. We still have so much to talk about.”
Mother beamed at me, but before I’d even left the room, she was telling Doctor Alberts how lovely it was of him to visit her.
Chapter Thirteen
From the hospital, I walked across the road to a series of restaurants whose survival probably depended on the thousands of people who populated the hospital. One person’s demise was another person’s bonus. I hadn’t eaten since the white chocolate and macadamia muffin this morning, and I couldn’t remember the last time I was as hungry as I was now.
I chose the Italian restaurant because of its discreet lighting and delicious garlic aromas, and because it had an empty booth right at the back. I accepted the menu from the middle-aged waiter and a glass of sparkling water.
The second he left my side, I plucked my phone from my backpack. It was five-thirty in the morning for Zali, but banking on her being up, I sent her a text.
Hey babe, you awake?
My phone buzzed just seconds later.
Unfortunately.
Can you talk?’
Absolutely. I need the distraction
Okay, give me a few minutes
I picked up the menu and scanned for something that would fill the hole in my belly, but hopefully not remind me of Roman. But as I looked at all the traditional Italian meals, it suddenly seemed like such a bad idea choosing this restaurant. The soups reminded me of Roman’s Pappa al Pomodoro in the Swiss Alps. The pastas reminded me of all the times he spoke of his mother’s wonderful cooking. Even the dessert reminded me of the ice creams we’d eaten together in Amsterdam when we had the post-marijuana munchies.
I was two seconds off grabbing my backpack and scurrying out of there when a plump Italian mamma waddled to my table with a smile that, although she looked weary, confirmed how happy she was that I’d chosen her venue over the four neighboring restaurants.
Quickly scanning the list again, I ordered spaghetti carbonara, a garlic pizza, and a glass of the house white wine.
“Grazie.” Mamma relieved me of the menu and headed back toward the kitchen on legs that looked like she’d ridden the Camino trail on a donkey ten times.
With my meal ordered, I rang Zali.