“You didn’t,” he says. “Wait, okay, sorry, that’s condescending. You did. I won’t lie. May I speak frankly? You did mess up. Big-time. That’s why I’m here.”
“I’m not following.”
“I don’t need a scholarship ceremony to honor your mother’s memory. I can do it in a much more concrete way.” Barlow holds up his hand. “Wait, I’m not saying this right. Let me start again. I came tonight to see you.”
“Me? Why?”
“I have a favor to ask.”
When he doesn’t immediately continue, Maggie says, “Go ahead.”
“I’d like you to come by my office on Monday.”
“This Monday?”
“Yes. Ten a.m.”
“You have a Barlow Center in Baltimore now?”
“No, but maybe soon. Right now, they’re in Palm Beach, Los Angeles, and New York City. I’d like you to come up to New York City. I’ll arrange a private car to drive you, and I have a suite reserved at the Aman.”
“I don’t understand. Why do you want me to come to New York?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“I just... it’s not my place.”
Maggie makes a face. “Then whose place is it?”
“It’s an intriguing offer. That’s all I can tell you right now.”
“I don’t have a medical license anymore.”
“I know. The offer is a tad” — Barlow looks up as though searching for a better word but finally shrugs — “unusual.”
“Can’t you just tell me now?”
“I can’t, no.”
She thinks about it. “If you don’t mind me saying, Doctor Barlow, this is all a little weird.”
“I know.”
“More than a little weird, in fact.”
“It is, I admit that. Look, I know you and Sharon are having serious financial difficulties—”
“How do you know that?”
“—but I’ll write you a check right now for twenty thousand dollars. Just to show up.”
He reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out a pen and...
“Is that a checkbook?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“What is this, 1987? Who still carries around a checkbook?”
Barlow can’t help but smile. “I wanted to be prepared.”
He starts scribbling on the check.
“You don’t need to do that,” she says.
“No, I do. You should be compensated for your time.”
“Don’t,” she says a little more forcibly. “I’m going to say it again: You’re being weird.”
“I know.” He puts the checkbook back in his pocket. “Do you trust me, Maggie?”
In truth she trusts no one anymore. Well, almost no one.
“One more thing,” he says.
“What?”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about this.”
“I have to tell my sister.”
“It would be better if you didn’t.”
“I’m living with her. I just can’t vanish to New York City.”
“Sure, you can.” He hands her a card. “I’ll have someone text you to arrange the car pickup.”
“I’d rather take Amtrak,” Maggie says.
“If that’s what you prefer. There’ll be a reservation under your name at the Aman hotel on Fifty-Seventh Street starting tomorrow night. We’ll be in touch about the details for Monday.”
Maggie takes the embossed business card, looks at it, looks at him. Dr. Evan Barlow runs one of the most successful high-end cosmetic surgery practices in the world. He is worth millions and reeks of it. She tries to read his face. It’s smooth, professional, handsome, full of gravitas.
But does she also see fear?
“What’s really going on, Doctor Barlow?”
“I can’t say more, Maggie. Take it or leave it.”
“And if I leave it?”
He shrugs. “It was nice to see you.”
Barlow kisses her on the cheek and heads to the door.
“How did you know I’d be here?” she asks.
Something crosses his face, something she can’t read. He gives his head a small shake and turns the knob.
“You’ll find out all on Monday,” Barlow says, and then he heads back inside.
Chapter Two
Marc says, “You’ll hem and haw, but we both know you’re going to go.”
He’s right. Again.
Maggie is walking across campus. She’d stayed long enough so it would not appear that anyone had run her off, but as soon as the speeches were done and the mingling began again in earnest, Maggie slipped out.
“So,” Marc continues, “what do you think Doctor Barlow wants?”
“I was hoping you’d have an answer,” Maggie says.
“Hmm, let me do a quick search on him... whoa.”
“What?”
“Did you know Evan Barlow is on the Forbes list of richest doctors?”
Maggie makes a face. “Forbes has a list of richest doctors?”
“Top one hundred, yeah.”
“And Barlow is on it?”
“Number forty-two. Net worth estimated at nearly a billion dollars.”
“He makes that as a doctor?”
“Not really, no. He makes it as, I don’t know, I guess you’d call him a medical entrepreneur. Barlow Cosmetics is a major brand. Plastic surgery is still their mainstay, but they’ve gotten into home remedies and beauty products. Ironic.”
“What?”
“None of the richest doctors made their money seeing patients. It’s either from pharmaceuticals or insurance or patents. A few doing biotech, pushing the bounds of medicine, as their slogan says.”
“So what does Doctor Barlow want with me?”
On the too-small screen, Marc shrugs. “He was your favorite teacher, right?”
“Yes.”
“Your mentor. Close to your family.”
Maggie nods. “He told me tonight that he’d always been in love with my mother.”
“So maybe that’s it. Maybe he just wants to help you out.”
“How?”
“Give you a job at Barlow Cosmetics.”
“But I lost my license. I can’t do surgery.”
“You could still do some other kind of work for him.”
“Like what? I’m only good at one thing.” Maggie sees the smirk on Marc’s face. She sighs and rolls her eyes. “Don’t say it.”
Marc smiles. “What?”
“Just don’t.”
“You mean about you only being good at one thing?”
“Stop.”
“Okay, okay,” he says, raising his hand in mock surrender. “But I still think it’s most likely Barlow knows your situation and wants to help.”
Because her head is down and her eyes are on the screen, Maggie nearly bumps into a group of students walking in the other direction. One of them mutters something about watching where she’s going, and she offers a sincere apology because, to be fair, she hates when people are walking with their heads down and eyes on the screen.
“What else do you see?” she asks.
“He opened the first Barlow Cosmetic Center seventeen years ago. Supposedly it’s cutting-edge and state-of-the-art.”
“What’s the difference between those?” Maggie asks.
“What?”
“They always say that in ads. ‘Cutting-edge and state-of-the-art.’ Aren’t they the same thing?”
“Cutting edge refers to the most recent and advanced tools or platforms in a particular field. State of the art refers to the best technology or techniques made up of the most modern methods.”
Maggie makes a face. “You just looked that up.”
“I did, yes.”
“He wasn’t a billionaire when we were at Columbia,” she says. “He did cleft lift and palates, burns, reconstructive surgery. Worked almost exclusively with the underserved.”
“Like you,” Marc says.