Part 4 (1/2)

He hated waiting rooms. Hated anything with the word waiting in it. He checked the time on his phone. He'd been here fifteen minutes. It wasn't even his idea to be under a doctor's care. d.a.m.n Gary and his officious dictates. So his leg hurt. It would heal.

A mom and her kid emerged from the treatment room. The kid hunch-shouldered and coughing. This family doctor was so old-fas.h.i.+oned he only had one room. As soon as the outer door closed behind the cougher and his mom, the receptionist, Carol, who'd been sitting behind that old oak counter since before Rob was born nodded toward him. ”You can go on in.”

Horace Greene had to be closing in on seventy. His hair, what was left of it, was salt-and-pepper, his beard was Santa Clauswhite and his pale blue eyes focused as keenly as ever from behind bifocal lenses. Doc Greene had been his grandmother's family doctor longer than he'd been alive, and if he had a family doctor, he supposed it was this one. Doc rose to his feet as Rob limped into his office and held out a hand.

”Rob, how you doing?”

”Been better, Doc.”

The physician gestured to the oak chair in front of his scarred oak desk and took his own seat on the other side. ”Haven't seen you in a long time. How long's it been?”

”Must be five years.”

He nodded. He might be chitchatting, but Rob wasn't fooled. Those old eyes didn't miss a thing. ”Sorry about your grandmother pa.s.sing. It was a big loss for you.”

”Yeah.”

”And what's this? You're limping. What happened?”

”I got shot.”

If Doc was surprised by the news he didn't show it. ”Mmm-hmm, so when was this? Who's looked at it?” He pulled out a notepad and began scribbling.

”About a week ago. On a.s.signment in Libya. My boss pulled some strings and got me in to a military surgeon. He took some X-rays, said there were no remaining fragments. Gave me a few st.i.tches and told me I was good to go.”

Doc glanced at him over his gla.s.ses and said, ”I bet he or she also told you to use crutches.”

The military surgeon had said that and a few other less complimentary things. He shrugged. ”You know what a fast healer I am. You've always said I've got a head like a rock.”

”But you're not bullet-proof. I should take a look at the wound.”

”I'm going to need a report from you that says I'm cleared to go back to work.”

Doc Greene rose and headed for his treatment room adjoining the office. ”Drop your duds and let's have a look.”

Rob followed him, trying his hardest not to limp, and soon found himself sitting on the exam table, his pants folded over a chair, his leg bared to the doctor's prying gaze. And fingers. ”Ow.”

”No discharge on the bandage and the wound is healing nicely.” Doc nodded, tossing the old bandage into the trash. ”You said it's been a week since the injury. We'll redress that for you and it should be okay.”

The older man fussed around in a cabinet, taking out the things he'd need. ”I'm putting on a dry dressing,” he said as he began. ”Dry gauze and tape. As soon as the wound stops weeping you can leave it open to the air to speed healing. That should happen in the next few days. Pat dry after showers.”

”Great, thanks,” Rob said after the new dressing was taped to his leg. He was happy he'd got off without a lecture on being careful or some other impertinence from the man who'd been doctoring him for three decades.

But he didn't get off that easy.

”Put your pants back on and come on back to my office. There's a few things I'd like to talk to you about.”

Reluctantly, Rob returned to the chair in front of the desk and slumped down.

Doc Greene pushed the pad aside and looked at him intently. ”How are you coping?”

”Fine.”

A beat of silence pa.s.sed but Rob wasn't going to break it. Doc continued. ”You've been through an emotionally exhausting time. You've lost someone special and you've got a significant enough injury that it's brought you home. All that combined is going to take a toll.”

”I'm fine,” he repeated, sounding less than fine even to his own ears. This was the man who had treated his grandmother through her few illnesses and had looked after her at the end. He licked his lips. ”My grandmother-she seemed fine when I was home six months ago...” He let the unspoken question hover.

Doc sat back. No wonder patients were always kept waiting. He never rushed.

”Agnes Neeson lived a life anyone would be proud of. She kept her independence to the end.” Doc smiled. ”And you know how important that was to her. She was getting frail. She had a ma.s.sive stroke and died in hospital without ever regaining consciousness.” He didn't need to consult a file. He knew all his patients and he and Agnes had been friends as well as doctor and patient.

”Would she have suffered?”

Doc shook his head. ”There are no nerve endings in your brain. There wouldn't be pain.”

”Good,” Rob said, relieved and somehow comforted. ”I wish I'd been there.”

Doc nodded. ”I know. Reading every issue of World Week cover to cover made your grandmother feel close to you. n.o.body could have been prouder of you than she was.”

The p.r.i.c.kling of tears horrified Rob. He cleared his throat and changed the subject fast. ”There's a Realtor who messed up the house.” He rubbed his sore leg. ”She took out my grandmother's furniture and staged the place. Everything's different since I was here.”

”It is. I heard the place was for sale. It's that nice young gal from Dalbello who has the listing. She'll do a good job for you.”

Rob didn't have the energy to talk about his confused feelings so he mumbled his thanks and struggled to his feet. Limping to the door, he realized that the doc was right. He wasn't as okay as he tried to pretend he was.

JULIA RAN INTO BEANANZA, her favorite coffee shop. ”Hey, Julia. How's it going?” Bruno, her favorite barista, called over the hiss of the espresso machine.

”It's a beautiful day,” she called back.

Bruno sent her a disbelieving look out of his big brown Italian eyes. ”It's raining,” he said. He wore a bill cap, one from his huge collection. She was pretty sure he was sensitive about the thinning patch of hair at the crown of his head, though maybe it was a fas.h.i.+on statement. Who knew?

He had a gold hoop in one ear and wore a T-s.h.i.+rt that said Decaf Is for Sissies.

When he'd served a hot chocolate and a chai latte to the customers in front of her, he started her drink. There was no need to ask, she ordered the same thing every day. A tall skinny latte. As though drinking enough of it might rub off and she'd awaken one day to find herself tall and skinny.

She lived in hope.

While preparing her drink, he said, ”Brownies are fresh out of the oven.” As though she needed reminding, as though the smell weren't enticing her to sin, leading her down the calorie path of doom. She could see them behind the gla.s.s case, the chocolate glistening on top, the cakey part dense and rich. ”I can't,” she moaned. ”I'm on a diet.”

”Really? Who is he?”

”Why do you think I'm only on a diet because of a man?”

”Because you've been coming into Beananza nearly every day for three years. That's like a thousand days in a row. And every time you tell me you're on a diet there's a guy.”