Читать книгу Dad by Default - Jacqueline Diamond, Lori Copeland, Jacqueline Diamond - Страница 9

The twelve-mile stretch of highway between Mill Valley and Downhome traversed thick stands of pine trees and stretches of aromatic dairy farms. In summer, a motorist could enjoy the soothing sight of cattle grazing in the fields and, in the woods, glimpse the occasional deer or flash of a blue jay.

Except in the rain. Then thick sheets of gray obscured the landscape and fallen branches transformed the road into an obstacle course.

Day after day, it rained. On Wednesday, Connor destroyed a tire in a sinkhole and arrived so late he threw the entire day’s schedule off.

By Friday—Jenni’s last full day on the job—he was desperate to move closer to the clinic. She’d promised to cover the half-day office hours on Saturday. After that, Connor would take over the whole shebang. In addition to treating patients, he’d be responsible for weekly visits to the nursing home and frequent on-call duty, which meant driving twenty-four miles round trip at a moment’s notice.

One of the requirements at the Home Boulevard Medical Clinic was that all doctors, regardless of specialty, handle urgent-care cases in rotation. Although the fire department transported emergency patients to Mill Valley Medical Center or arranged an airlift to Nashville, that left plenty of cuts, infections and other problems that couldn’t wait for regular hours.

Several evenings that first week, Connor had stayed late in Downhome to check out residential prospects. Most of the apartments, he discovered, lay in a run-down area in the southeast sector of town that included Garden Street. Yvonne’s description had, if anything, been understated.

The vacancies turned out to be small and noisy places. In one, a noxious odor had permeated the walls. To reach another, he’d had to sidestep broken beer bottles on the front walk. Chickens had run in the yard, and on the north side of the road, a ramshackle barnyard had echoed with the bleating and grunting of penned animals.

Against his preferences, Connor had toured three rental houses. One lay four miles outside town along a dirt road, another suffered from mold and the third was a rabbit warren of tiny, dark rooms. While he didn’t demand architectural distinction, he required a space suitable for a studio.

That Friday, the boom of thunder and steady thrum of rain made the mood at the clinic unusually melancholy. A banner reading Farewell Jenni added a wistful note.

Connor’s schedule included a number of patients with chronic problems, several of whom had tactlessly demanded second opinions from Dr. Forrest. Although he understood that change was particularly stressful for older folks, by midday Connor’s geniality began to fray.

As she’d done all week, Yvonne took care of business briskly and efficiently. Perhaps a bit too briskly. Her ironic tone while saying “Yes, Doctor” and “Right away, Doctor” grew irksome.

“Don’t worry,” Chris McRay confided over sandwiches in the lunchroom. “She treated me like a case of chicken pox for the first few months I was here.”

“What changed her mind?”

“My sunny personality, I guess,” his companion joked. That might be true. Everyone liked the outgoing pediatrician, who played the kazoo and blew soap bubbles at his young patients to put them at ease.

“I’m not exactly a sunny personality,” Connor admitted.

“You do seem on the serious side.” Chris downed a handful of peanuts before continuing. “Maybe you intimidate her. You might try relaxing your shoulders.”

“My shoulders?” They didn’t feel particularly stiff.

“You tend to hunch them when she’s around,” the pediatrician noted. “I thought maybe you were expecting a karate chop.”

“More or less.” Ruefully, he added, “I wouldn’t say she finds me intimidating. Annoying, possibly.”

“It’ll pass.” Chris peered into his lunch sack and happily drew out a brownie that his new wife, Karen, the director of the local nursing home, had probably baked. Lucky guy.

Connor couldn’t picture Yvonne taking such pains to please a man. Especially not with a young daughter to care for.

Idly, he wondered if she were dating anyone. With her vivacious, if explosive, temperament and unusual beauty, she ought to have a swarm of admirers.

Well, they weren’t going to include him. He and his nurse shared about as much in common as a volcano and a sheet of ice. Which of them might be in danger of melting Connor didn’t care to speculate on.

After lunch, he went to see if the part-time radiologist had readied a report. While passing the nurses’ lounge, he heard Yvonne’s tense voice from inside, where she was obviously talking on the phone.

“Mom, you shouldn’t be home alone. No, I am not late getting back from school. For heaven’s sake, you called me at work. I’m twenty-six years old, remember?”

Her mother must suffer from memory loss. Ashamed of eavesdropping, Connor hurried along.

In the lab, the report showed no sign of the problem he’d feared. Pleased, he notified the patient of the good news.

Passing the lounge on the way back, he heard Yvonne say, “Dad, surely there must be another adult-care service…don’t start on me!”

She must have hung up. The next thing Connor knew, she came charging into the hall. Barreling about the premises seemed to be a habit with her. She stopped inches from a collision.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

“It’s my fault. I ought to have known better than to block your path.”

Outside, lightning flared, making the illumination flicker.

Yvonne glared at the fixtures. “If we lose the electricity, I’m going to scream!”

Thanks to falling branches and, sometimes, entire trees, storms presented an ongoing threat of power failure. Perhaps one of these days the town would spring for a generator at the clinic or, better yet, bury the lines. Today, luckily, the lights stayed on.

“I hope your mom’s okay.” Realizing he ought to explain, Connor added, “I couldn’t avoid overhearing.”

Yvonne didn’t seem to mind. “Everybody knows, anyway. My mom has early-onset Alzheimer’s. She’s cranky and so is Dad. When he decides to vent, I’m the designated target.”

“Who takes care of her?”

“He does except when he’s at work. Unfortunately, the service they use hasn’t been terribly reliable. He claims I ought to help more, but I can’t leave my job to run over there. For Pete’s sake, they live in Mill Valley.”

Connor could only guess at the strain on an already over-burdened single mom. No wonder faint shadows showed beneath those unusual eyes.

Whoever had fathered her baby should have stuck around to help, or at least have provided financial support. That made him wonder what had happened. Was the man simply a jerk, or had she sent him away? The gossips contended she’d hooked up with someone passing through town.

He didn’t usually listen to rumors. Too bad she’d been such a popular subject with the nurses at his old office.

“Aren’t there other relatives in the area?” he asked.

“On my mom’s side, there’s just my cousin Lindsay.” Yvonne tucked a wedge of shaggy hair behind one ear. “As for my dad’s side, there’s only my great-uncle Beau. You’ve met him?”

“Luther Allen had introduced us several years ago. I understand he’s the town patriarch.” An earlier Beauregard Johnson had founded Downhome in the late 1800s and Beau was the longest-serving member of the city council.

“Patriarch? Please don’t call him that. He’s insufferable enough already,” Yvonne grumbled.

“Proud, maybe, but that’s understandable. Given his age and the fact that he’s on the council, I think he deserves our respect.” When her eyes narrowed, Connor realized his comment must sound like criticism. Perhaps it was.

“You’ll get a chance to respect him to your heart’s content this afternoon. He managed to break both wrists two weeks ago, and he’s due for a checkup.” Wrinkling her nose, she added, “I’ll ask Winifred to prep him.”

“Why?”

“He considers me a disgrace,” she answered tightly. “You two ought to get along fine.”

Although the crack bothered Connor, he decided to treat it lightly. “Ah, a zinger at last. I was beginning to miss them.” Before she could respond, he changed the subject. “How did he break his wrists?”

“At the grocery store.” Mr. Johnson owned the Tulip Tree Market, the closest thing to a supermarket in the central part of town. “He lost his balance while stocking the shelves.”

“How’s he making do? I hope he doesn’t live alone.” The man must be close to eighty and, as Connor recalled, had never married.

“Dad says he found someone to live in till his arms heal. I hope he’s paying double, because I’m sure she earns it.” After a challenging glare, the nurse marched off.

Despite her prickliness, they’d managed to spend five minutes having an almost civil conversation, Connor mused. And he’d learned some interesting facts. Given the description of Yvonne’s father and great-uncle, he could see that she’d inherited her temper.

The family appeared to be suffering stress from several angles, with Yvonne bearing the brunt. She’d apparently chosen isolation as a defensive strategy.

Connor saw the wisdom in that. He’d taken a similar route with his father.

About an hour later, he came across Beau’s chart outside Examining Room A. The top sheet, marked in Winifred’s bold handwriting, listed satisfactory blood pressure and a slight drop in weight, which wasn’t a good sign in a man as old as Mr. Johnson.

Connor flipped a page. The wrist breaks, both clean, had been X-rayed and the wrists put in casts by an orthopedic specialist at Mill Valley Medical Center. Borderline indications of osteoporosis, for which Beau took medication to build bone density, weren’t expected to prevent healing. Still, full recovery from a wrist fracture could be tricky because of the joint’s multiple bones and ligaments.

The casts wouldn’t come off for another three weeks, when Beau should return to the specialist. Today’s exam was precautionary.

Connor knocked before entering.

On the edge of the examining table loomed Beau Johnson, his rounded back and piercing gaze reminiscent of a hawk. His face seemed thinner than Connor recalled, and the long strand of white hair combed across his pate was slipping toward the front.

Nearby, a young woman in denim overalls and a flowered blouse perched on a chair, her expression wary. She identified herself as Kitty Baker, the care provider.

After exchanging pleasantries, Connor indicated the cast-bound wrists. “We’ll have to skip shaking hands, I’m afraid, Mr. Johnson.”

The old fellow cackled. “Glad you joined the clinic, Doc. Jenni does well enough for a female, but I prefer men.”

Ms. Baker frowned. She probably took plenty of ribbing from the old fellow at home.

After examining Beau and finding no undue pain or swelling, Connor leaned against the counter and regarded the patient assessingly. He was especially concerned about the weight loss for someone with thinning bones. The man might not be taking in enough calcium. “Do the casts make it hard to eat?”

“Nope. That ortho doctor left my fingers free.” Beau wiggled his digits to demonstrate. “Problem is, I got this country bumpkin cooking for me. Ever eat grits, Doc? Pig food.”

Although Connor also disliked the bland cooked-wheat dish, he saw no point in adding to Ms. Baker’s discomfiture. “Some people enjoy them.”

“And she burned the bacon this morning. What kind of fool can’t cook bacon?” The elderly man gave a disdainful sniff.

“You insisted I go fetch your slippers!” protested his aide. “I didn’t think it would burn that fast.”

While Connor suspected Kitty had a tough job, anyone working with the elderly ought to know better than to leave a pan untended on the stove. Still, he suspected good home aides were as difficult to find in Downhome as in Mill Valley.

“Go on, blame me!” Beau flared. “I suppose it’s my fault I’m old and ugly.”

“You got the ugly part right!”

Connor mulled how best to intervene. The woman’s comment was inappropriate, yet he understood how the client’s insults had alienated her.

Part of the trouble might be due to the injuries. Despite the normal exam results, Connor was also concerned about hidden trauma from the fall. Even when seniors recovered physically, they sometimes became fearful or depressed, which they expressed as anger.

“Having an aide around can be awkward,” he ventured. “However…”

“I wouldn’t need a stranger in the house if my kin treated me right!” A quaver rippled through Beau’s voice.

“You don’t get along with your relatives?” He wanted to learn Mr. Johnson’s perspective.

“There’s just my nephew and his family, and I hardly ever see them. They ain’t offered to do a darn thing for me!” Connor suspected the elderly man knew how to speak grammatically, but the colorful verbal style obviously suited him.

“You may have to be the one to reach out.” Still, it might not make much difference, considering Beau’s well-established antagonism toward Yvonne. And, of course, the pressing problems imposed by her mother’s illness.

The man nodded. “Mebbe you’re right.” Gaining steam, he added, “In fact, I’ll do precisely that. I’m going to demand they do the right thing and take care of me. I’m firing Miss Useless here as of five o’clock today.”

Kitty gave a start. “What?”

Connor’s jaw dropped. “Wait a minute.” He hadn’t intended to spark such an abrupt change.

Beau charged onward. “She don’t provide no personal attention. No loving care.”

“Mr. Johnson, someone has to cook and clean for you,” Connor insisted.

“I got a housekeeping service and Pepe can send over food from the diner. Speaking of Pepe, that fellow’s smart. Did you know he used to lease his upstairs apartment to Doc McRay?”

“I’m aware of that.” Connor could scarcely follow the fellow’s rapid shifts of topic.

Beau steamrollered on. “Winifred tells me you ain’t found a new place to stay yet. I’ve been considering renting out my top floor. Got this great big space going to waste. Now, if I could put a doctor in there, I’d feel safe if any problems showed up.”

What a zany notion. Connor spread his hands to stem the flow of words. “I prefer to live alone. And frankly, I’m already scheduled for as much on-call duty as I can handle.”

His patient ignored the objection. “If you step out the front door of this clinic and look to your left, you’ll see my house right past the Café Montreal. Can’t get any more convenient than that!”

This discussion must stop. “Mr. Johnson, I’m not going to replace your aide.”

“You mixed up my meaning.” Beau cleared his throat. “I ain’t asking you to help unless I fall down or something. Truth is, I could use the rent, and having you around would make me feel a whole lot safer. My third floor’s big enough to practice your golf swing. There’s a bedroom and bath, and you can use the kitchen much as you like. Don’t have to cook for me, neither, though I bet you wouldn’t burn any bacon.”

Ms. Baker managed to break into the stream of words. “Are you really firing me?”

“Not till the end of the day,” Beau retorted.

Near tears, she let fly. “Well, I hate working for you! And any fool can tell the doctor doesn’t want to rent your attic. It’s hot as Hades up there.” To Connor, she added, “Somebody put in a skylight. What’s the use of that?”

“The temperature’s fine if you open the windows,” Beau countered.

Connor couldn’t believe the coincidence. “A skylight?” A flood of natural light was exactly what an artist required.

“My sister-in-law, Virginie—” Beau pronounced the name Ver-Ginny “—put it in so she could dabble in watercolors. She and my brother Manley used to live there when they was alive.” He eased to his feet, leaning on the doctor briefly. “Kitty, you going to earn the rest of your day’s pay or what?”

Unhappily, she went to his assistance. Connor took one more stab at changing his mind. “Mr. Johnson, if you’re having trouble getting down from an examining table, you can’t dispense with Ms. Baker’s services.”

“Normal furniture ain’t this high,” came the prompt rejoinder. “I can get in and out of bed and I can walk to the store just fine. Speaking of walking, stroll over to my house after work, doc. The doors ain’t locked, so if I’m not home, let yourself in and go on up.”

Judging by the old fellow’s stare, he’d keep badgering till he got his way. “If I get a chance.”

“It’s private and quiet except when that bohemian woman hires some annoying folksinger at the café,” Beau assured him. “Well, missy, you going to open the door or stand around with your finger in your nose?”

Connor’s sympathies went to the about-to-be-jobless Ms. Baker. “I didn’t mean to get you fired.”

She made a face. “I only accepted the job because my folks said it was my Christian duty. I used to feel sorry for Mr. Johnson. Not anymore!”

The elderly man scowled. “I ain’t no charity case.” To Connor, he added, “Don’t forget to stop by.”

“I’ll do my best.” Connor moved back to let his patient pass. Without meaning to, he added, “How interesting that there’s a studio. Painting’s my hobby.”

“Being an old crank is my hobby,” Beau replied in a surprisingly cheerful tone.

Connor felt a twinge of appreciation for the curmudgeon. Renting was out of the question, though.

He’d pay a visit to keep the peace, and that would be the end of it.

AT THE NURSES’ STATION, Winifred was shaking her head. “That great-uncle of yours fired his aide,” she told Yvonne. “Don’t know what he’s going to do now.”

Great. More family problems. “Sometimes I think we Johnsons are genetically programmed to tick people off.”

“He seems to like Dr. Hardison, though. I heard that old man cackling to beat the band.”

“Well, of course,” Yvonne grumbled. “They have a lot in common. Disliking me, for one thing.”

The older nurse tapped her fingers on the counter. “I’m not so sure, girl. Doc Connor’s got a way of following you with his eyes.”

The disclosure gave Yvonne an odd, shivery sensation. “You’re probably misinterpreting it.”

“I never misinterpret the way a man looks at a woman.” Winifred promptly changed the subject. “You know, my daughter Freda and her crew clean for Mr. Johnson. She thinks he’s lonely.”

“Then why’d he fire his aide?”

“I don’t imagine he’s lonely for her sort of company.” With that enigmatic comment, the other woman got busy calling in a prescription over the phone.

Yvonne put her great-uncle promptly out of her thoughts. Dismissing Connor was a lot harder.

But she managed.

ALTHOUGH HE FELT almost guilty about going over to Beau’s house without telling Yvonne, Connor couldn’t find a casual way to raise the subject. Besides, he didn’t expect anything to result.

As Beau had indicated, he strolled out the front of the clinic after work, made a left and crossed Home Boulevard toward the park called the Green. In the weak poststorm sunshine, the three-story farmhouse wore its plainness with pride.

No one answered the bell. After ringing again and knocking, Connor decided to take Beau at his word and enter. Otherwise, he’d have to pay another visit.

The whirr of a ceiling fan greeted him in the hall. It kept the temperature pleasant despite the August heat outside.

In the living room at right, a tapestry carpet set off a wealth of antique furnishings. Connor’s ex-wife, Margo, had preferred stark modern designs, but he liked the décor.

Straight ahead lay a curving staircase. Beau kept the steps in good repair and the railing buffed, Connor saw approvingly. Proper maintenance was vital to help protect older people from falling.

He called out a few times in case the homeowner had failed to hear the door. Receiving no answer, he went upstairs, as Mr. Johnson had instructed.

On the second floor, a southern window faced Grandpap Johnson Way to the south. Beyond lay the elementary and junior-senior high schools, at opposite ends of a campus. Apparently, noisy football games didn’t bother Beau as much as folksingers at the café.

Curiosity drove Connor to peek into a nearby room. Clear plastic sheeting covered a dollhouse and an electric-train set in what had obviously once served as a playroom.

He felt a twinge of nostalgia for the all-too-brief boyhood he and his brother, Ryan, had enjoyed before their alcoholic mother deserted them and their stern father. It saddened him, in a way, that he’d probably never have kids of his own. Margo hadn’t wanted any, and as the years went by Connor had begun to doubt he possessed the right fatherly instincts.

That Beau had preserved these toys seemed odd, since he had no direct descendants. Perhaps he, too, nursed a few regrets.

Curious about the rest of the house, Connor peered into a bedroom. The furnishings included more antiques, and botanical prints on the wall. Beside the quilt-covered bed, an old-fashioned record player sat atop a shelf filled with LPs.

Embarrassed about prying, he located the attic staircase, a straight shoot into darkness. What had happened to the third-floor skylight? he wondered in disappointment.

Only as he approached the top did Connor notice the closed door. That explained the gloom.

The door opened inward, releasing a wash of golden clarity. Pent-up heat blasted him in the face.

Connor stood at the edge of an enormous, empty room in which Leonardo da Vinci could have staged the entire Last Supper without crowding. To one side, a large industrial sink was perfect for washing out brushes.

Despite the advent of dusk, the lingering illumination made Connor long to grab a brush and set to work. He scarcely noticed the wooden floor’s roughness or the accumulation of spiderwebs festooning the rafters.

The heat did register, forcefully. However, he’d be willing to give up deep breathing for this.

Recalling Beau’s comment, Connor yanked open a couple of windows. Cross-ventilation brought the scents of fresh-baked croissants and quiche, and dropped the temperature to a bearable range.

Turning, Connor drank in the expanse. This was close to heaven.

Surely he couldn’t be seriously considering renting here. Cautiously, he reviewed the objections.

For one thing, the apartment belonged to a patient. Still, since practically everyone in Downhome might require his services, he’d have to overlook the fact one way or another.

Also, he didn’t want to get sucked into Beau’s personal problems. A proper lease and a firm discussion ought to make the terms absolutely clear.

There was one further danger. Renting a place so close at hand and so perfect for an artist might tempt Connor to short-change his duties. He’d never had a space like this, where a man could spend days on end painting, like an alcoholic on a binge.

On the other hand, the location directly across from the clinic would save hours of driving. As for the prospect of losing control, no one exercised a tighter grip on his impulses than he did.

Belatedly, he wondered how Yvonne might feel about his living in her great-uncle’s house. She could hardly object, though, when the two of them didn’t appear to be on speaking terms.

She would never even see the place. Never stretch her slender figure on Connor’s couch and gaze up with those violet eyes. Never tempt him to paint her frost-colored hair and satiny skin…

Sans clothing, of course.

In spite of his better judgment, Connor once again longed for just such an opportunity. Fortunately, fantasies rarely came true.

Finding this place was enough of a marvel. Determined to be practical, he went to inspect the bedroom and bath, which proved to be small but adequate.

He could hardly wait to sign the lease.