Page 11 of Beach Reads: Three Summer Scorchers

I lock up the private villa for this afternoon’s arrival, keying the code into the pad beside the door.

Poppy Elizabeth Lennox . That’s quite a name.

I scan her intake notes on my tablet and find a history of reckless behavior; no contact wanted with other patients; a strictly low carb, low sugar diet; private therapy sessions only and a request for immediate medication. She sounds…

Well. She sounds like a handful.

Her father specifically requested that we keep her onsite, because Poppy is a danger to herself and to the public, and she’s liable to flee. His statement was countersigned by Poppy’s own doctor.

Hmm.

I scroll down Poppy’s profile, my mouth flattening into a line.

Her head shot stares up at me from the tablet screen, and it’s somehow the surliest photo I’ve ever seen.

Long dark hair is scraped back in a pristine bun; her makeup is flawless.

The crisp points of her eyeliner look like deadly weapons.

Poppy is pouting. She glares at the camera with ill-concealed distaste.

Yeah. A handful.

The midday sun is bright and warm, palm trees swaying on each side of the villa path. I focus on my surroundings, blinking away the lingering image of angry gray eyes, but my chest is oddly raw as I turn away from the accommodation.

A fine layer of sand crunches beneath my shoes as I stroll back toward the communal areas, the tablet tucked under one arm, waving at several patients when they call to me from the pool. I change direction, walking over to meet the nearest guest.

The Honey Cove Institute is more retreat than institution. Plenty of people come here bracing for the worst, for pills that make them feel sick and for group therapy sessions that tear their darkest secrets wide open, but often we find what they really need is rest .

Time to lie by the pool.

Time to read and reflect.

Time to finally stop running from whatever they’re afraid of, and face their fears in a supportive environment. Of course some do need more, and those measures truly help them. We provide that too.

But though I may be a medical man, I’ll never prescribe a drug when a few weeks by the pool will do the trick.

“Hello, Janice.”

The woman on the nearest sun lounger beams up at me. In her late fifties and widowed, with tight bleached blonde curls and tanned skin, Janice has taken to the rest-and-relaxation culture here with gusto.

“Is she here yet?”

We haven’t had a new patient at Honey Cove for over a week. It’s a small place with a community feel. Whenever we get a new arrival, there’s always a flurry of excitement.

“Not yet.” I don’t mention the ‘no socialization’ request on Miss Lennox’s form, nor the fact that I’ve prepared the most secluded villa for her. It’s confidential, anyway. “Did you sleep better last night?”

Janice rolls her eyes, her lips pursing, and after a few minutes of listening to the widow recount her night, I sit on the edge of an empty sun lounger, the tablet resting by my side.

Janice is still going, tripping over her words in her rush to get them out, and this, to my eyes, should be an official symptom of loneliness. Word dumping.

It’s like all the unsaid things get stuck, lining up on a person’s tongue, until the dam bursts and they finally come out in a garbled flood. I smile faintly, nodding in encouragement as Janice goes on.

She’ll have to repeat it all later in our official session once I have her notes in front of me, but for now, this is what she needs. A friendly ear. A chance to let it all out.

Will Poppy Lennox need a friendly ear? Smoky gray eyes drift through my mind, and I stiffen, sitting straighter on the lounger. The warm breeze rustles through the foliage beside the pool, and the deep blue water is calm.

Across the pool area, someone snores loudly and rolls over on their towel.

“I’m not a bad sleeper,” Janice says for the dozenth time. “You know I’m not a bad sleeper, Dr Whitaker. But these nights in my villa…”

It wouldn’t matter if Janice were a bad sleeper.

It’s not a test, and it’s not a matter of blame or failure.

But I let her go on, listing all the reasons she still hasn’t had a full stretch of eight hours since she arrived: the muggy heat that feels so oppressive at night; her indigestion from all the fresh fruit; the cry of seabirds in the early hours of the morning.

Missing her husband.

“Perhaps another group session this evening,” I suggest. Sadly, I fear the sun lounger has taken Janice as far as it can go. “There are others here who know how you feel. Who can empathize.”

Mouth twisting, Janice frowns toward a nearby palm tree. The bark is rough and peeling.

“Fine,” she mutters eventually. “But,” she jabs a finger toward my chest, her bracelets clinking, “I still want our sessions too. Don’t you cancel on me, Doc.”

I hold up my palms. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The sun lounger creaks as I push to my feet, a songbird trilling in the bushes nearby. It’s only midday, and there are still lots of patients to check on. Staff to brief. So much paperwork .

And one surly society princess to settle into her villa.

Lucky me.

* * *

Poppy Elizabeth Lennox has a wild mane of dark hair, freed from the tight bun of her photo. Her eyes are ringed with kohl, and her frayed jeans and worn t-shirt are… not what I expected.

She makes an odd sight, climbing stiffly out of her father’s sleek limo. The engine purrs, the car idling on Honey Cove’s circular driveway, and the glossy black paint is already smeared with dust.

“Oh, perfect,” Poppy says when she spots me waiting for her. She throws her next words over her shoulder to the driver where he’s lifting her suitcase from the trunk. “Tell Lilian I was right, will you? There is a hot doctor here.”

Poppy turns back to me and smiles, but it’s not friendly. It’s toothy. It reminds me of those cheesy old vampire movies.

I clear my throat and walk forward with my hand thrust out, but Poppy folds her arms over her chest, her smile sickly sweet.

“Better not. Haven’t you heard? I’m out of control, doctor.”

Reckless behavior.

A danger to the public and herself.

I frown at the bitter young woman in front of me. She’s tense, yes, her slender body rigid with anger, and she bites out each word like she can barely unclench her jaw. Her pulse thrums in her throat, and she’s grinding her teeth. If anyone needs to relax, it’s this girl.

But Poppy doesn’t strike me as out of control. Not at first glance, anyway.

“We’ve prepared a private villa for you.”

“Fancy,” she spits.

Yes, she’ll be a handful alright, and I choke back a sigh. “The Honey Cove Institute is gated, with security on site. Until we’ve completed your first assessment, Miss Lennox, you are not permitted to leave. This is for your own safety and the safety of others.”

Flinty eyes bore into me, crackling with hatred. I wouldn’t be surprised if the sky opened up and a lightning bolt struck me down. “And after the assessment?”

Isn’t it obvious? This is a treatment center, not a prison.

“If you are deemed well enough, you’ll be free to come and go as you please, and to withdraw yourself from the program if you wish.

We have your medical notes from home, of course, to give the assessment more context, and you and I will complete a full interview—”

Poppy turns on her heel, marching across the circular driveway.

“Your villa is this way,” I call.

She wheels around, somehow even more furious than before. How is her storming off in the wrong direction my fault?

“I want that assessment today,” she says, shouldering past me with her arms still folded. Rolling my eyes, I take her elbow and guide her toward the right path between the trees. “Don’t bother bringing my suitcase.”

I won’t. I’m a doctor, not a fucking bellhop.

“I’ve got it,” the driver rumbles behind us, dragging the wheeled case along the cobbled path.

Shame. A petty part of me would have liked to watch this society girl struggle with her designer suitcase all the way to her villa, huffing and puffing, her forehead dewy with sweat.

“I have appointments already scheduled for the rest of this afternoon, Miss Lennox. Other patients besides yourself.” Other priorities . “We will have our first session tomorrow morning.”

Her scoff makes my temples throb. “And then you’ll let me go?”

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. “If you are well enough, then yes, Miss Lennox. We’ll let you go.” And it’s a dick move, but I can’t resist adding: “Believe me, I’ll call you a cab myself.”

It’s a struggle not to return her scathing look as we approach her villa. To keep my expression blank.

Lord help me. I’ve been a doctor for years now, and no one has ever tested my patience like this.