Skin Deep

54

Steve was right: Dana did have a date.

Aaron Monks showed up exactly at six thirty in a long black BMW sedan. She met him at the door in a new beige pantsuit and a white blouse. He was dressed in a gray blazer with a blue shirt, blue and pink tie, and black pants.

It was her first non-Steve date in seventeen years, and she felt nervous. It didn’t help that in anticipation she had read articles about him online. But his easy, understated manner and boyish shyness put her at ease.

They took Storrow Drive into Boston and turned off at the Fenway exit, down Boylston and up Dartmouth to 1 Huntington Avenue between the Boston Public Library and Copley Place to Sorellina. A valet took the car.

Sorellina, which specialized in Italian-Mediterranean cuisine, was an elegantly designed open space in ebony and ivory, with white leather chairs and matching walls. Creating a warm modern feel was the glow of a large back-wall mural of a manicured garden spiked with cypress trees, creating a Gothic dreaminess. The high ceiling consisted of large black-and-white panels, complemented by the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Copley Place. Behind a chic border screen was a chic bar with chic people sipping chic martinis out of large chic trumpets.

The hostess was a tall thin blonde in a green sheath. She looked like a tulip. With a broad smile, she greeted Dr. Monks by name and led them to a window table looking onto Huntington. The restaurant was clearly the in-spot for Boston glitterati, financial-corporate types, and Back Bay money. As she looked around the room she felt like a visitor from Arkansas. She could not remember the last time she and Steve had dined so elegantly.

Steve.

He lived just a few blocks from here. But it was not a place he could frequent on a cop’s salary. The menu entrées ranged from thirty-four to fifty-six dollars.

When the waiter came, Dana ordered a California Chardonnay. Aaron had the same. When the wine arrived, Aaron clicked glasses with her. “I have good news. We can do you next Sunday.” And he discreetly scratched his nose.

“Oh, that’s wonderful. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he said, and smiled warmly. “I’ve put together a freelance team of nurses, surgical assistants, and an anesthesiologist. So we’re all set.”

“At which hospital?”

“At my suite. We’ve got a full operating room, which is why the lower fee.”

“If it’s not too gauche, may I ask what that will be?”

“This is not the right setting to talk business, but don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” and she sipped her wine, feeling a warm glow spread throughout her, uncertain if it was the wine, the anticipation, or the company. Or maybe all of that. When the waiter returned she ordered the special, monkfish piccata. Aaron ordered the veal Milanese and they split an appetizer of tuna tartar.

“Congratulations. I saw in the paper that you were named Teacher of the Year. You should be very proud. Teaching’s one of the toughest professions, especially at the high school level.”

“Thank you.”

“That was also a nice photograph of you.”

Except that the camera flash made her nose look even bigger than it was. “Speaking of newspapers—and you’ve heard this a thousand times—how is it that one of the top twenty-five most eligible bachelors in town is unmarried?”

“A thousand and one.” He smiled. “Well, I was married once. But she died several years ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

He made a nod of acknowledgment and took a sip of his wine.

“She must have been quite young.”

“Yes, she was.”

“And no children.”

“Nope, no children. What about you?”

“No children.”

“Would you like children?”

“Yes, I would.” It was time to change the subject. They were quiet for a moment. Then she asked, “What made you choose cosmetic surgery?” As soon as the question hit the air, she could hear Steve: Are you kidding, girl? You saw his office. Look where he eats.

“Actually, I started out wanting to be a physical anthropologist, you know, studying old bones. Then I considered forensic anthropology. But those didn’t hold my interest like cosmetic surgery.” Then he added, “And, frankly, they didn’t pay as well.” He took a sip of wine.

So much for coy rationalizations.

“Not that money was the prime consideration. Reconstructing old bones didn’t interest me as much as reconstructing living ones. I like how cosmetic surgery fuses science with aesthetics.”

“A form of living art.”

“Exactly, and well put. The good part is you help people feel better about themselves. Some come in depressed to the point of suicide. Then they have procedures, and all at once their lives are turned around. Relationships improve, careers improve. It’s very gratifying, particularly with nonelective reconstruction—people born with genetic defects or suffering other disfigurements.”

“But the majority of your work is elective surgery, correct?”

“Yes, because of the growing demand of an aging population. If people can’t live forever, they can at least look younger longer. And isn’t that what motivates most people?”

“What is?”

“Re-creating their past. Trying to recapture lost youth.” He held her eyes for a moment.

“Please excuse the intrusion.” Out of nowhere the maître d’ appeared. “Dr. Monks, madam. My name is Mario Orsini. I just want to say you performed miracles for my wife.”

Monks looked over at Dana. “I swear this is not a setup.”

“No, no,” Orsini said. “When I saw the reservation, I had to come by to thank you. You probably don’t remember, but you operated on my wife three years ago.” He produced a copy of Aaron’s book, About Face: Making Over. “If you don’t mind, to Celia.” He handed Aaron a pen.

“Ah, yes, Celia Orsini. Lovely woman,” Aaron said, and signed the book. “How is she doing?”

“She’s doing great,” Orsini said. “I also want to congratulate you on the award you got a couple of weeks ago.”

“Thank you.”

“It was right across the street at the Westin on the second.” He pointed to the upper windows of the hotel. “We could see all the cars. You’re doing wonderful work with the transplantation stuff. Again, please excuse the intrusion.” He left with the book.

“The next time we’ll go someplace a little farther from home.”

The next time. She liked the sound of that. Very much.

When they finished, he drove her home. He took her arm and walked her to the front door, where he gave her a friendly kiss on the cheek. “See you Wednesday. And remember, nothing to eat for twelve hours.”

“Thank you. I had a wonderful evening.”

“The best is yet to come.”

From inside she watched him roll back down the driveway and pull away. She turned off the lights and went to bed, still trying to determine if the warm glow at her core was the anticipation of her makeover or the hope that Aaron Monks would be a part of it.