Keeping Score (Brooklyn Monarchs 3)

“It’s more than Lena’s leaving. You have reporters congregating in the parking lot. Patients complain about the newspaper stories about you. Other patients are leaving the hospital.”

Marilyn had been angry before. She was incensed now. She released a slow breath. “Every statement you’ve made has been an exaggeration. Tell me, Arthur, what’s really bothering you?”

He remained silent.

Marilyn prodded him. “Is it envy? Do you wish the media were harassing you? Perhaps you’re bitter. Weren’t you ever picked for a team at school? Or is it more materialistic? All of the above?”

Arthur sneered. “Rick Evans is a basketball player.”

/> Why did it rile her so when people disrespected her husband’s profession?

Marilyn shrugged with forced nonchalance. “You’re a paper pusher.”

Arthur unfolded his hands and clenched his fists. “I’m a hospital administrator.”

“That’s what I said.”

He glowered at her a moment longer, then smoothed his wine red tie. “I’m giving you one final warning. You’ve already received one for causing a major disruption at this hospital.”

“That reporter’s presence wasn’t a major disruption.” Marilyn felt as though she were speaking through cut glass to a stone wall.

“Are you contradicting me?”

“Yes, I am.”

Arthur held his hand up like a traffic cop when Marilyn tried to continue. “I’m not finished.” He lowered his hand. “If you bring even one more disruption to this hospital, I will terminate your hospital privileges so fast your head will spin.”

Marilyn narrowed her eyes. “Are you threatening me, Arthur?”

“That’s not a threat. It’s a promise. Our mission is to save lives. Your lifestyle is impeding our mission. I won’t allow that to continue.”

“My personal life has nothing to do with my work at this hospital.” Marilyn enunciated each word. “Judge me on my patient care, not your personal prejudices.”

Arthur gave her one last, long glare. “You’ve been warned. But don’t worry. Your husband makes good money. You won’t starve.”

Marilyn returned his stare. “Am I supposed to sit on my sofa with my eight additional years of education and training?”

“Go to your husband’s games. Attend charity balls.” He arched a brow. “Isn’t that what your crowd is supposed to do? Be seen at fashion shows and theater openings?”

“It sounds as though you want to do that.”

Arthur turned to walk away. “Pity I’m not a ballplayer.”

Marilyn watched him leave. She’d suspected jealousy was the motivation behind his behavior. How did she convince him she wasn’t playing at being a doctor? She couldn’t lose her job, especially if she were about to lose her marriage.

Marilyn cast her gaze over the other three women sharing the table with her in the quaint Italian restaurant Wednesday night. She had nothing in common with them, except they were all either married or engaged to a Brooklyn Monarchs player.

This status granted them free membership to the Monarchs Wives Club. The club’s main purpose seemed to be organizing fund-raisers and other community improvement events. Since her hospital hours didn’t often allow Marilyn to attend the Monarchs’ games, her involvement with the club seemed the next best way of supporting Warrick’s career. But she always felt underdressed and out of place when she was with them. Marilyn swallowed a sigh and stuck her fork into another ravioli square.

The other women wore chunky accessories, expensive clothes, and perfect makeup. Even Peggy Coleman, who looked like she could give birth to Roger Harris’s baby at their table, appeared as though she was ready to pose for an Elle magazine fashion spread. Marilyn resisted the urge to adjust the collar of her blue Ann Taylor button-down blouse. She smoothed her hair, checking the clip at the nape of her neck. Even if she had the glamorous wardrobe, she wouldn’t have had time to go home and change after work before meeting the other club members for dinner.

She studied her plate of vegetable ravioli swimming in marinara sauce. It had been the least expensive entrée on the menu and the portion size closely resembled an appetizer. Still, the cost of her meal alone was more than the total cost of a dinner when she and Warrick used to dine out.

Susan Williams cut into her chicken parmesan. “The casino night theme idea for the homeless shelter fund-raiser is the bomb. We should rent a real casino.”

From where would they get the money for that?

Marilyn looked at the other two women seated at the elegantly set square table. They looked indecisive, an expression they’d worn to perfection for the past half hour.