Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,95

“I was thinking about a waterproof bag for my telescope. I’m looking forward to this.”

At the boarding ramp, though, the Brazilian stopped me again. “Oh! A question about marina policy. Five more minutes, Doc?”

Five minutes took only two, but what Diemer had to say was more than enough to put my vacation mood on hold—until I’d exited A-Dock into a party that was becoming a holiday in itself.

No way to dodge the voices hailing me or the beers thrust into my face.

But I did manage to text Tomlinson: Call ASAP.

26

IT WAS AFTER TEN, LATE FOR A THURSDAY NIGHT IN February, when my pocket vibrated an alert. So I rushed to have a look at Tomlinson’s response to my urgent text. It read:

Out of beer. Feed dog?

Which caused the woman at my shoulder to inquire, “I guess I should have asked: Are you married?” Then apologize, “Peeking at your texts! My god . . . what’s in this punch?”

I didn’t know. After two beers, I’d switched to iced tea. Giving her shoulder a squeeze, I replied, “The first time you came here, remember the hippie-looking guy I avoided because I figured he was a druggie, nothing but trouble? Well, he was—and he is. Hang on, I need to answer this.”

“Tomlinson?” she asked. How many times had I winced at that rock star inflection? But it was a first for this woman.

“In fact,” I said, “I should probably go. I need to leave before sunrise and I still have to go over my checklist on the boat.”

Her hand slipped comfortably to my wrist, fingers light at first, but then they explored and tightened by rote—checking my pulse. “Not yet, Doc. Please—did I offend you?”

A hint of affection, which was nice but unnecessary. “Just the opposite,” I told her. “You made my night.”

Well, she had made it more fun, at least. But I still had to add, “Sher, I really do have to go.”

It had been ten years since I’d seen Dr. Sheri Braun-Richards, but I’d recognized her immediately as I exited A-Dock, a woman who had been ripened, not diminished, by the years. Fuller-bodied, but still willowy in the way she moved, elfin hair, now auburn, to her shoulders, wearing a business skirt and jacket instead of hip-hugger jeans. Not tall, but the way her eyes panned, searching the marina, had isolated her even in a crowd, and I’d locked onto her face at the same instant she spotted me.

“Marion Ford . . . ? My god! You really do remember . . . ?”

Yes, I remembered.

“The first vacation after my internship—I’m still embarrassed about how I behaved!”

I remembered that, too.

So the doctor and I had spent an hour catching up. Nice. A decade is a solid chunk of time, so there was no posturing, no need for the plastic smiles or uneasiness typical of former lovers who meet unexpectedly. And because our relationship had been brief as the lady’s vacation, there were no old wounds to deal with. On the other hand, I didn’t feel an instant abdominal lusting or the drive to hustle the lady home to restage past bedroom scenes. But talking with Sheri was fun, produced a pleasant patina of nostalgia that was . . . well, nice.

The attractive gynecologist with the probing smile and sharp blue eyes had moved her practice from Davenport to Atlanta and then shortened her name to Sheri Braun after the divorce. Now she was head of her department, no children, just a cat, living fifty miles up the beach in Venice. She hadn’t returned to Sanibel until agreeing to speak this weekend at a conference at “Port Sanibel”—the newest marketing perversion of “Punta Rassa,” where the old telegraph office had somehow managed to survive.

“Venice is so pretty, and it isn’t far,” Sheri reminded me. “Maybe we could have lunch sometime.”

Lunch dates are time wasters to be avoided like the plague but I heard myself reply, “I’d like that a lot,” then glanced at the time before explaining, “Look, Tomlinson’s dealing with a sick friend—that’s why I have to run. It’s not just the boat trip.”

When Sheri replied, “I am a doctor and I am licensed in Florida,” it also meant I’ll leave my friends and come along. A good idea, it seemed, but then pictured Cressa Arturo waiting in my lab, drug-addled but still assertive in a space that she behaved as if she owned. So I dodged the offer by tapping my head and saying, “The friend’s problems are up here,