Page 26 of Doctorshipped
“Hello? No one answered the door, so I just let myself in.”
“One moment,” I say from under the desk. “I’ll be right with you.”
I’m definitely getting that CLOSED sign this week.
“Hi,” Fiona says, remaining on all fours and tilting her head up like a dog. “I’m Fiona.”
“Hi, Fiona. I’m Cherry. But you can call me Miss Blanchard. What are you doing down there?”
“We’re hunting for frogs,” my daughter explains as if frog hunting is as normal an occurrence as our daily meals or brushing our teeth before bed.
“I see,” Cherry answers in a tone that says she doesn’t see—not even a little.
I corner the frog with the paper, hoping he’ll hop onto the plate, but the paper obviously scares him because he pees. A lot. Wow. He pees what must be five times his body weight in fluids. Where is all that coming from? He finally finishes peeing, and then, he leaps. He really can leap. He hops out from under the desk toward the center of the room.
Cherry shrieks. “It’s a FROG! A REAL FROG! Oh my! That’s … Get! That! Thing! Away from me!”
She’s jumping and teetering in her heels and squealing and screeching. I can’t see what’s going on above her knees, but if the bottom third of her is any indication, she’s frantic.
Fiona sees the frog, and with the precision she’s probably gained from all her years on the ice, she pounces, cupping her hands over the small green fugitive.
“Got him!” she shouts. Then she turns toward her cupped hands and says in the softest, most nurturing voice, “Ribbit, you scared mommy. You can’t just jump around like that. You could get hurt.”
I still haven’t stood from under the desk. I back out now, and stand, wiping my hands down the front of my slacks.
While Fiona deposits “Ribbit” back into the tupperware, I turn to assess the other intruder—the non-reptilian one standing in my doorway in a tight red dress with lipstick and shoes to match her name.
“Well, hello there,” she says to me in a tone I wish no woman would ever use with me, especially not in front of my daughter. “They said you were handsome. They didn’t do you justice.”
“Hello,” I say.
There’s still one loose frog. Another sentence I never thought I’d ever think. I send Fiona a look. She’s already glancing around the floor, obviously sensitive to the fact that Cherry doesn’t need to be alerted to the reality that we have a cold-blooded creature on the run, or the hop, at this moment.
Thankfully my daughter’s naturally empathic and intuitive disposition helps her read my expression. She’s subtle in her search efforts, and Cherry essentially ignores her. Another red flag. I’m not looking for female companionship, but if I were, it would need to be someone who is smitten with my daughter. As smitten as Jayme seems to be.
But not Jayme, obviously.
Not anyone.
But, especially not her.
I clear my throat.
“Can I help you?” I ask Cherry.
“Oh, why, yes. Of course. I think you could very much help me.”
“Medically?” I clarify.
“Hmmm.” She hums. “Maybe that too.”
My daughter looks up at me and rolls her eyes.
“Well, that’s the only help I’m here to offer.”
“I see. Well, maybe I could help you.”
Not likely considering the only help I need at the moment is an extra set of eyes on the frog-hunt, and someone who could get down on their knees to search for the third absconded amphibian. Considering the way that dress looks like it’s about to cut off all circulation, I’m quite sure Cherry couldn’t lower herself to the floor, even if she would.
