Northern_Lights_2014

plain about. I told him I should have a driver too. He better not change his mind about my appointment. The man was still smiling at her as if nothing devastating just happened. It infuriated Helen and all her frustration came pouring forth. “It’s hard to pay attention to taillights when they’re covered in filth. That “thing” you’re driving is an eyesore. I’m surprised they allow people like you into the city at all. It’s obvious mountain people can’t drive on concrete. You just slammed on your brakes with no regard for the people be- hind you! It’s rude. You probably don’t even have insurance! Who’s going to pay for this? I can’t deal with this right now. I assume someone with a cell phone called in the accident so I’m just going to wait in my car until the police come. They can sort this out.” With that out of her system she tugged at the door until it sub- mitted with an unsatisfying “thunk.” As her rant rose in pitch and fury, the man took a defensive step back toward his truck as if her words were flailing fists. He glanced awkwardly around to see who witnessed this unpleasant and unsettling encoun- ter and decided it was probably time to diffuse the situation. The man cautiously approached the car and gently rapped a knuckle on the window. She jumped at the sound and glared at the rotating motion he made with his hand. The international symbol for “roll your win- dow down.” After a moment she complied, lowering the window just enough to hear him clear his throat. For a moment he looked like a little boy apologizing for doing what came natural to him. “Ma’am, I’m very sorry if my appearance startled you. You see, I’m just trying to get into character for my niece’s play later this week.” When he lifted his head his expression was anything but repentant. “But I have to say, your reac- tion and the idiotic stereotyping was extremely rude and offensive.” With that, he slid his business card through the crack of the window and walked back to his truck. The small rectangle of heavy weight paper landed on Helen’s lap face-up and she stared at it in disbe- lief. In an elegant gold leaf scroll, the card proudly announced the man to be Dr. Trey Carver, MD. Smaller letters under that claimed him to be a cosmetic surgeon. Helen closed her eyes for a second to let the infor- mation sink in. Well, hell. I can’t have him angry with me. What if he cancels my appointment now? Will An- drew even pay for another doctor? It took me a month to convince him I needed this one. Thusly motivated, she once again shoved the car door open. This time when her Gucci pump landed in the water, she didn’t no- tice. Dr. Carver looked up from his cell when movement in his rearview mirror caught his attention. His eyes widened in mildly alarmed amusement and he chuckled under his breath. Helen was hobbling over the uneven pavement with a short, comical stride, her knee-length pencil skirt making the short distance difficult to navigate. When she tapped a glistening red nail on his window, he raised an eyebrow and rolled the window down. Her garish red lips were stretched in a face-splitting smile. Any attempt at looking contrite failed mis- erably. “Dr. Carver? I’m Helen Pierson. I have an appointment with you tomorrow. Anyway, I want to apolo- gize for my behavior,” her smile grew even wider. “If you weren’t such a convincing actor, I never would have treated you like that. I just didn’t know. I hope there are no hard feelings and we can just put this un- 15