Mickey Reichert - I, Robot - To Protect

Susan enjoyed being with him in silence until they had nearly reached the restaurant. Then, suddenly, she found herself asking, “So, is Remington an old family name?”

“Nope, I’m the first.” Remington gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “My dad is a gun collector. My twin brothers are Colt and Ruger. The family joke is that, when they named my sister, he was trying to decide between Uzi and AR-15.”

Susan cringed. “Yuck. So, what’s your sister’s name?”

“Uzi.”

Susan’s cheeks turned scarlet. Stupid. She whipped her free hand to her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Remington shook his head, chuckling. “I’m kidding, Susan. My sister’s name is Emily.”

“Emily? Really?”

“Mom got to name any girls.”

Susan relaxed. “Lucky Emily.” Suddenly realizing the oblique insult, she added quickly, “Though I like Remington. It sounds . . .” She considered the right word.

Remington filled it in for her. “Arrogant? Jerky?”

Susan had caught on to his sense of humor. “I was going to say ‘powerful.’ But it is, obviously, the perfect name for a surgeon.”

“I hear ‘pretentious’ more often than ‘powerful.’ That’s why I’ve always gone by Remy. Colt’s not so bad — kind of trendy. But I’ve always felt bad for Ruger.”

Spotting the restaurant, Susan pointed. “There it is.” They headed toward the Golden Chopstick.

“So, how many siblings do you have, Susan?”

“None.” Growing up, Susan had appreciated being an only child, not having to share her father’s attention with anyone. Aside from discussions of his work, he tended to involve her in everything, to speak to her like an adult. “My mother died when I was very young, and my father never remarried.”

“Marriage isn’t an ultimate prerequisite for children.” Remington held open the door. The scent of food and sauces wafted through the opening, tantalizing. Susan realized just how hungry she was. They stepped inside.

“True,” Susan admitted, “but I can’t recall my father even dating after Mom died. He loved her with an all-consuming passion. He devoted himself wholly to his work and to me.” As she spoke the words, Susan realized how odd they probably sounded to Remington. She had never thought much about her father’s celibacy. As a child, it had seemed absolutely natural to remain wholly devoted to the memory of Amanda Calvin. “To him, she was the perfect woman. In his mind, no other woman could begin to measure up.”

Remington nodded, lips pursed. “She must have been quite a woman.”

Susan barely remembered her mother but gave the only answer she could. “She was.”

The host waved the pair to an empty table. Susan took the seat facing the window, and Remington sat across from her. The table already had two plates and sets of chopsticks, as well as a pair of built-in menu screens. The host left them to seat the next group of guests.

Remington planted his elbows on his menu screen to lean toward Susan. “If you don’t mind my asking, what happened to your mother?”

It was a sore spot, but the question and the questioner were innocent. “I don’t exactly know, beyond that it was a car accident. Dad would rather have all his teeth pulled out without anesthetic than talk about it.” Susan glanced at her menu screen.

Remington moved his arms to read his own menu. “And none of your relatives would tell you about it, either?”

For most of her life, Susan had simply assumed most families did not intermingle with distant relatives. “Neither of my parents had sisters or brothers. I only have one living grandparent, my father’s mother.” She flipped her hand over. “Susan. My namesake. She never raised the subject, and it was clearly so painful to my father that I would have felt disloyal bringing it up.”

“Hmm.” Remington studied the menu. “What do you suggest?”

For an instant, Susan thought he meant about her mother’s death. Truthfully, she bore some of the blame for not knowing the details of the accident. She probably could have cornered Nana or pressed John Calvin until he told her. But the pain and discomfort the topic clearly inflicted on her father upset her, and she preferred not discussing it with anyone, including Remington Hawthorn. “Everything’s good here.”

Remington glanced around the packed restaurant. “That’s obvious.”

“The house lo mein’s my favorite,” Susan continued. “It has four meats, including shrimp.”

“All right. House lo mein and . . .” Remington studied the menu again. “How about chicken broccoli?”

“Delicious.” Susan liked the combination. “They make an excellent wonton soup, chock-full of Chinese vegetables and even some shrimp.”

“Let me guess.” Remington pressed his fingers to his temples in the manner of a psychic. “You like . . . shrimp.”

“Very much,” Susan admitted. “You’re not allergic, are you?”

“Yes,” Remington said. “Deathly. When I said we’d order the house lo mein, I was just hoping to test your ability to handle anaphylactic shock.”

“Uh-oh,” Susan said with mock seriousness.

“What?”

“When I okayed the chicken broccoli, I was testing your ability to handle anaphylactic shock.”

Remington laughed. “I’m a surgeon, remember? I’d skip the epinephrine or the wimpy antihistamines and steroids and go straight for the tracheostomy.”

As their dinnerware consisted only of chopsticks, Susan hefted one. “What would you do? Poke me till I got a splinter? Tough to do a trach without at least a butter knife.”

Remington reached into his pocket and dropped a handful of odds and ends to the tabletop, including a packaged scalpel blade, a tiny plastic suction tube, two nickels, and a cell-sized defibrillator. “I always travel prepared.”

Susan shook her head, then rolled her eyes.

“When you work with attending surgeons, you have to be. If you don’t have what they want the moment they want it, you have to weather disdain or, worse, a tantrum.” Remington watched Susan closely. He seemed to be studying her features, and a slight smile crossed his face. He clearly liked what he saw. “But you must know that. You seem to have an incredible handle on how to get the most superior surgeons to do your bidding.”

Before Remington could say another word, the server approached. “What can I get for you?”

Remington swept his gear back into his pockets. “We’d like two bowls of wonton soup to start. Dinner for two, with house lo mein and chicken broccoli.” He looked at Susan to confirm she still wanted what they had discussed.

Susan nodded.

The server tapped the order into a cousin of the palm-pross. Their menu screens changed abruptly. “Anything to drink?”

Remington went silent and let Susan answer for herself. “Tap water, please.”

“I’ll have water, too, please. And a pot of green tea to share.”

“All right.” The server typed their drink order into his palm-pad, and their menu screens added another box.

Susan did not bother to look at her screen. From long experience, she knew it now contained a list of ingredients and calorie counts for the foods they had ordered. She had no allergies, and she wasn’t worried about superfluous calories. Remington also did not bother to look. Susan suspected he never thought about such things, nor did he seem to need to.

Picking up where he’d left off, Remington said, “I meant that, about getting surgeons to do your bidding. No one in the history of the universe has gotten the self-proclaimed ‘greatest neurosurgeon’ to apologize or admit a mistake. Starling was our last case of the day. We had to keep the OR open overtime.”