Page 107 of Mirror Image

“Melly, can you say hello to Dr. Flores?” David asks.

She peeks at me just long enough to return my greeting with one tiny hand before hiding her face again.

“I caught your presentation on trauma in preteens at the APA conference in Vegas last year—you were brilliant!” the woman gushes. “I told David you were the only person he should consider for this case.”

My eyes snap back to his face, but his expression is unreadable. “I’m sorry—I thought it was Julian Braithwaite who wanted me here for the consultation?”

“I was just trying to entice Dr. Flores to come inside,” David tells his wife, ignoring my statement.

“I . . . no, really . . . I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize how late it was. I can come back tomorrow. Or, better yet, meet you at the hospital. Please, forgive me for intruding . . .”

I’m ready to bolt, already in the process of pivoting when I feel a light touch on my elbow. I look back to find the woman’s bright, open expression. She’s one of those rare people whose inner beauty radiates outward, warming and illuminating the darkest corners of the people around her. How on earth did this guy land such a stunning woman?

“Oh, please don’t go, Jenn—may I call you Jenn? David’s famous spinach artichoke pizza is just going into the oven . . . I know it’s late, but between his schedule at the hospital and this little night owl of ours, we’re rarely sitting down to dinner before eight or nine. So please, come, come. He’ll make you a nice ‘adult beverage,’ and the two of you can sit out on the deck and talk while I get this little one into a bath.”

I shake my head quickly, holding up a palm in protest. “Oh, I . . . I couldn’t—”

“Nonsense!” David declares, clearly enjoying the cocktail of shock, confusion, and awkwardness that I’ve got going on at the moment. “Of course you can!”

“Daaaaaddy!” the child whines, holding out her chubby little arms toward her father.

He scoops her up effortlessly, plopping her atop his shoulders before turning around and walking back into the house.

“What’ll it be, Dr. Flores?” he calls back to me without turning. “Beer? Wine? Vodka?”

“Yes.”

I mutter the comment under my breath, but he doesn’t miss it, turning slightly to shoot me a grin past his toddler.

“Excellent suggestion.”

For once we agree.

We’re out on the deck overlooking the canal, a couple of gin and tonics between us on the glass coffee table that separates our respective love seats. David sits back in his chair and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“I had no idea,” I begin. “That you were married. That you had a baby.”

He chuckles. “You’re surprised that anyone would want to settle down with me.”

“Well, yeah, a little, I guess.”

His frame relaxes back into his chair, and his gaze strays out to the water as he talks again.

“I’m not the same man I was ten years ago, but I couldn’t expect you to know that . . . or to even believe that. Though that woman back there in the house, and our little girl, should be some compelling evidence in my favor.”

“Okay, yeah, I can see that. But you’re still kind of a . . .”

He glances at me, smirking. “What? A dick? A douche? An arrogant prick? Yeah, I know. But, for some reason, she loves me anyway. And it makes me want to try a little harder to not be those things.” He pauses and sighs. “Look, I’ve made some pretty big mistakes in my lifetime—Cami Miller being at the top of that list. You being a close second. But apologies don’t come easily for me, and they don’t do much good anyway. I believe in making things right with actions instead of words. Making amends, if you will.”

“Well, that’s very ‘twelve steps’ of you,” I comment wryly.

“Yes, it is, in fact,” he replies, the smile gone now.

Then I see it.

“Oh! Oh my God . . . are you?”

“An alcoholic? Yes.”