Читать книгу His Best Friend's Wife - Lee McKenzie, Lee Mckenzie - Страница 10

CHAPTER TWO

PAUL SAT IN a cubicle behind the nursing station, added a final note to Isaac Larsen’s chart and set it on the growing stack to be filed. He had grown accustomed to working with computerized medical records at Mercy Memorial in Chicago. After he settled in at Riverton Health Center, he would explore similar systems for this facility. If he decided to stay. Until his father’s illness had progressed to the point he could no longer work or take care of himself, returning to his hometown to live and practice medicine was never an option.

Now, with his blood still simmering from Annie’s casual embrace, he couldn’t decide if coming back was a good idea or the biggest mistake he’d ever made. She was more beautiful than ever, more devoted to family than ever, more... More Annie than he remembered. The hug had given them both a little jolt—he’d felt her awareness collide with his—then she had quickly pulled away as though she had accidentally touched an exposed wire. He knew she would deny her reaction if asked, so he wouldn’t. But he would take her up on the invitation to go for coffee tomorrow morning. Nothing would get in the way of that.

For now, though, he needed to make it through his first day.

Glancing at the roster, he saw he had one more patient to see before lunchtime. Mable Potter. Huh. She’d been his high school English teacher. Her daughter had made the appointment and was bringing her in to have her checked for memory loss. With her chart in hand, he sat a moment longer, trying to clear away thoughts of Annie, wishing he had the luxury to do nothing but dwell on them.

He had not been prepared to see her. Not like this. He’d had it all planned out. He would spend a few days settling in, then he would call her. In his head, he had rehearsed the conversation, steeled himself for the rush of emotion he would feel at the sound of her voice. He would act casual, off-hand, even though that wasn’t his style. She would be happy to hear from him, invite him out to the farm.

He had considered dropping by unexpectedly, as his long-time friend Jack Evans would have done, but that wasn’t his style, either. Too unpredictable. What if she wasn’t home? Or, worse yet, what if someone was there with her? Not that she was seeing anyone. Jack had assured him she wasn’t. It was too soon since Eric’s death, and that definitely wasn’t her style.

As these things tended to go, Paul’s carefully thought-out plan to see Annie on his terms—after he had mentally prepared himself for their first encounter since her husband’s funeral—had gone out the window. Instead, after a hectic morning of meeting the staff, seeing patients, figuring out the routine of a small but busy clinic, there she was. Tall and slender, wearing curve-hugging jeans and an orange-and-white, wide-striped sweater. Not a blond hair out of place. Troubled blue eyes.

Even now, the eyes haunted him.

The sadness, the lingering grief, was not a surprise. But the unexpected emotions that niggled his conscience, tugged at his heartstrings, were. Loneliness, a lack of purpose, fear. Her fear had troubled him the most. He had picked up on an almost obsessive conviction that her son had suffered a serious injury when, in fact, the kid hardly had a scratch and only minor bruises that would fade in a few days. Yes, an understandable reaction for someone whose young husband had died six months ago, but so unlike Annie. He had always seen her as the confident one, the person who fixed things, not the person who needed things fixed for her.

Still, if she was looking for a shoulder to lean on, he’d be happy to provide one, acknowledging that the idea was far from selfless. If he played his cards right, she might even be willing to lean on him more than a little. A guy could always hope.

Tomorrow, he reminded himself. Right now he had a patient to see, so he made his way to the examining room, tapped lightly on the door, let himself in.

“Good morning, Mrs. Potter. How are you doing today?”

“Do I know you?” The elderly woman’s steady, blue-eyed gaze swept him back a couple of decades. The woman sitting next to her, probably in her late forties or early fifties, wasn’t familiar.

“Twelfth-grade English. You were one of my favorite teachers at Riverton High. It’s good to see you again.”

Mable beamed at that. “I had a lot of students over the years,” she said. “I wish I could remember all of them.”

“No one would expect that,” he said, extending his hand. “But they all remember you. I’m Dr. Woodward.”

She didn’t accept the handshake, shook her head instead. “No, you’re not. Don’t be making up stories, young man. I know Dr. Woodward, and you’re not him.”

The woman next to her placed a gentle hand on Mable’s arm. “Mother, this is Dr. Woodward’s son. He’s a doctor, too.”

“Are you?”

Paul nodded.

“Well, then. He must be proud.”

Mable’s daughter gave him a look that begged for understanding. “I’m Olivia Lawrence. I mean, Potter—I’m using my maiden name again. I’m Mable’s daughter. Everyone calls me Libby.”

“Nice to meet you, Libby.” He accepted her perfunctory handshake and returned his attention to her mother. “My father is an excellent doctor. I only hope I can live up to his standards.” The words were true enough. His father had been a great physician, just a lousy parent. “Now, how can I help you today, Mrs. Potter?”

“Well...” She glanced nervously at her daughter. “I don’t remember.”

Libby gently took her mother’s hand. “It’s okay, Mom. We all forget things from time to time. Right?” She looked to Paul for affirmation.

“We sure do.” He sat on a wheeled stool. “The important thing to figure out is if you’re more forgetful than usual. Do you live alone, Mrs. Potter?”

“I did after my husband passed on, but now I have my daughter home with me.”

Libby smiled and nodded. “I’ve lived in St. Paul for many years—I’m a teacher like my mother—but I’ve had some recent, um, changes in my life and now I’m back in Riverton. I’ll be living with my mother and teaching second grade at Riverton Elementary starting next week.”

“Very good. You must be happy to have her with you.”

The elderly woman brightened. “I am. Especially since that good-for-nothing reprobate of a husband of hers didn’t come with her.”

Libby sighed. Paul suppressed a chuckle, trying to recall the last time he’d heard the word reprobate used in a sentence. Probably not since twelfth-grade English. “I remember you always were one to speak your mind, Mrs. Potter. Now if it’s okay with you, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“You go right ahead,” she said. “As long as they’re not too personal.”

Libby closed her eyes, shook her head.

After all these years, still not pulling any punches, Paul thought. The poor woman probably knew things weren’t quite right and she was scared witless. Geriatrics weren’t his strong suit, but for now he would go easy on her, he decided. Depending on what he learned, he might refer them to a specialist in the city.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “If you feel any of the questions are too personal, then you don’t have to answer them.”

“That seems fair.” But she clung to her daughter’s hand like a lifeline.

“How long have you lived in Riverton, Mrs. Potter?”

“All my life.”

He looked to Libby, who confirmed the answer with a subtle nod.

“So you must know pretty well everyone in town.”

“I suppose I do. I’ve taught a lot of them, too. And their children and their children’s children.”

“She even taught me,” Libby added, her soft voice filled with affection.

“And you were a good student. A good girl, too. At least until you married that good-for-nothing...”

Reprobate. She seemed unable to recall the disparaging word that had come so quickly just moments ago, and since it didn’t bear repeating, Paul pressed on.

“Where do you live?”

“On Cottonwood Street.” He knew that was true, could even picture her cute little one-and-a-half-story home a few blocks from his father’s place.

“Do you know what day it is?”

“Thursday. I know that because on Thursdays I go to the Clip ’n’ Curl to have my hair done.”

Close, but it was actually Friday.

“We did that yesterday, Mom,” Libby gently reminded her.

“Humph. You don’t say.”

“Can you tell me what you had for breakfast this morning?” Paul asked.

“Why do you need to know that?” Mable asked. She looked confused and sounded defensive.

“I’m just checking to see if you remember.”

“Well, if you must know, I had tea. And...porridge. I have that every day.”

Again, Libby’s almost imperceptible headshake indicated that this wasn’t accurate. Since nothing would be gained by contradicting her, he continued with some casual conversation.

“When I was a boy,” he told her, “I remember my grandmother telling me to eat my porridge because it would stick to my ribs.”

Mable beamed, and most likely assumed she had answered the question correctly.

Libby patted her hand.

As he suspected, her long-term memory was intact. The short-term, not so much. Based on personal experience, these were symptoms he knew all too well.

“I’m going to refer you to a specialist in the city,” he said to Libby. “I’ll set that up today and call your home with the details.”

“Thank you, Dr. Woodward. I—we—really appreciate it.”

“I remember you,” Mable said to him out of the blue. “You’re old Doc Woodward’s son.”

“I am.”

“You were in my English class, but that was a long time ago.”

“So, you do remember me.”

“Of course I do. You were friends with Jack Evans and that Larsen boy.”

“That’s right.”

“You were a better student, as I recall. Homework always done on time, good grades. And now you’re a doctor, too.”

“I am.”

“Well, your father must be proud. How is he, anyway?”

“He’s doing well.” There was no point in telling her that his father was a little lacking in the son-I’m-so-proud-of-you department, or that he was also seeing the Alzheimer’s specialist in Madison.

“And those other boys?”

“A couple of months ago, Jack was appointed Riverton’s new chief of police. He’s living here now and engaged to Emily Finnegan. And Eric Larsen...” Paul had to pause, steady breath. “He passed away six months ago.”

“He died so young?” Mable asked.

“Too young.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that.”

Libby stood and urged her mother out of her chair. “We should go, Mom. Thank you,” she said to Paul.

“No problem. I’d like to see your mother again in two weeks. You can stop at the desk on your way out and have them set up the appointment.”

“I will. I hope late afternoons will work because I’ll be teaching during the daytime.”

“That won’t be a problem. I’ll be taking late appointments two days a week and for a few hours every other Saturday.”

Paul let himself out of the room and returned to his desk. He updated Mable Potter’s file, added it to the stack, then looked at his watch. He should run to his father’s place, check on the old man, make sure he had eaten the lunch Paul had left out for him that morning. He hated himself for thinking it, but few things had less appeal.

Stacey stepped around the partition, another chart in hand. “Sorry, Dr. Woodward. Another patient just came in. Would you like me to tell her to come back after lunch?”

“What are her symptoms?”

“Sore throat, nasty cough, low-grade fever.”

Paul reached for the folder. “I’ll see her now, then I’ll take a break.” One thing about being in a small town, he could leave the clinic and be anyplace in five minutes.

“Thanks. I’ll get her set up in an examining room.”

He glanced at the file, recognized the name immediately.

Rose Daniels.

* * *

ANNIE WENT THROUGH the motions of preparing lunch without giving a lot of thought to what she was doing. Then again, why would she need to? She had made hundreds, no, more like thousands, of lunches. She had been making lunches for as long as she could remember. So while she put on a pot of freshly gathered eggs to boil and sliced thick slabs of home-baked wheat bread, her mind was elsewhere and her emotions were not in keeping with her role as maker of family lunches.

Her reaction to seeing Paul had been nothing short of inappropriate. He was her husband’s best friend! She had been surprised to see him, and happy, of course, but not that kind of happy. It was easy enough to explain her reaction. She had been terrified that something might be terribly wrong with Isaac, angry with CJ for letting Isaac fall, impatient with the admissions clerk. Had her emotions been irrational? Of course they had. They had been out-of-character for her, and that meant all of her other actions and reactions had been equally over-the-top.

The timer buzzed. Annie removed the pot from the stove and transferred the eggs to a bowl of ice water. While they cooled, she finely diced a couple of celery stalks, minced several green onions and chopped a bunch of fresh parsley.

Paul wasn’t just Eric’s friend. He was her friend, too. Of course she was happy to see him and relieved to know that he would be taking care of her son. She hadn’t been able to rely on anyone but herself for a long time and it had been a relief to let someone else step in.

If she was being honest, she had at times resented Eric’s carefree life. While he had gone off to college and earned a degree, Annie had stayed in Riverton and cared for her family. After they were married, she had stayed at home and baked bread while Eric had stayed after school and coached the senior boys’ basketball team all the way to the state championship. While she washed, folded and put away a mountain of laundry, he took a group of students on a ski trip. In all fairness to her husband, he had never demanded any of those things of her. He only had to ask, and she was all over it. She had willingly taken on all of the responsibility. She always had.

And you probably always will.

One by one, she plucked the chilled eggs from the bowl of water, gave them a gentle smack against the cutting board and peeled the shells.

Annie had been only six years old when her mother left. Even in the early days before her mother walked out on them, Annie had vague recollections of being the caregiver, fetching her mother a glass of water from the kitchen and the bottle of pills from the bureau drawer because Mommy had a headache. Keeping her younger sisters entertained because Mommy needed to rest. Making lunch for her siblings because Mommy wasn’t feeling well that day. Looking back, life had actually become a little easier after their mother abandoned them because there had been one less person to look after.

Her father had ended up in a wheelchair after a stint in Iraq. The details of that event had always been sketchy because he had sheltered his daughters from the horrific details. He had been the one person in her life who had truly needed looking after and yet she had very few memories of ever actually doing anything for him.

She dumped the peeled eggs into a crockery bowl and mashed them with her pastry blender, which was much more efficient than a fork, then tossed in the chopped vegetables, sprinkled on salt and pepper, scooped in some mayonnaise and stirred.

By the time she started high school, Annie had been everyone’s go-to gal when it came to getting things done. She had organized bake sales and car washes, served on decorating committees, volunteered in the school library and served on student council. She had been a going concern and so had Eric. The difference had been that she created posters for the car wash to raise money for the boys’ basketball team and made arrangements to hold it at Gabe’s Gas ’n’ Go, while Eric showed up in board shorts and dazzled all the girls by stripping off his T-shirt. And no one had been more dazzled than she. She always had to hand it to him, though. No matter how many girls flirted with him, he was always quick to point out that he was Annie’s guy, strictly off-limits. She would have done anything for him, and he had never hesitated to ask.

Annie slathered butter onto slices of bread, spread them with scoops of egg salad, added leaves of fresh lettuce, cut the sandwiches in half and arranged them on a large white platter. There. Another day, another lunch. Time to call her father, Isaac and CJ. As she set out plates, glasses, napkins and a pitcher of milk, she found herself wondering what Paul was having for lunch. And then resisted the urge to pick up her phone and call him.

* * *

PAUL HAD HEARD an earful about Rose Daniels from his long-time friend, Jack Evans. She was from Chicago, twenty years old, the daughter of a street person who’d been murdered in the spring. Jack, still with the Chicago PD at the time, had been the lead investigator in the serial murders of three women, one of whom had been Rose’s mother. In one of those bizarre, small-world coincidences, it turned out Rose’s mother, Scarlett, a drug addict, was also Annie Finnegan’s mother.

Scarlett had left her family in Riverton when her daughters were too young to remember. After Scarlett died, Rose had found out about her mother’s abandoned family and had surreptitiously come to Riverton to check them out. Annie, being Annie, had taken the young woman under her wing and welcomed her into the Finnegan fold.

Jack had talked about the case at length because, being engaged to Annie’s sister, Emily, he had a vested interest in it. Paul remembered him saying that, as a child, Rose had been in and out of foster homes. Now, with Annie’s help, she had moved here and landed a waitressing job at the Riverton Bar & Grill. From what Jack had told him, Paul also knew the young woman had a serious drinking problem and the attitude that went along with it. Understandable for someone who’d grown up with none of the advantages, but his sympathy was overridden by his concern for Annie, who clearly had enough on her plate already. According to Jack, Emily had been devastated by the news of what had happened to their mother and still hadn’t warmed up to her half sister, Rose. CJ wasn’t a fan, either. Annie, however, had become the young woman’s champion.

Paul closed the chart, rapped lightly on the door of the examining room.

A throaty “Come in” was followed by a phlegmy coughing fit.

He opened the door and paused. He had expected to see a fresh-faced young woman with intelligent eyes and a ready smile—she was one of the Finnegan sisters. Sort of. Yet, aside from the eyes, nothing about Rose’s appearance hinted at a connection to the Finnegans. She was thin to the point of being gaunt and her face had a sickly pallor. Black liner emphasized the dark circles under her eyes. Her side-swept bangs were disproportionately long compared to the rest of her sleek, dark, short-cropped hair. She sat on the edge of the examining table wearing one of the clinic’s faded blue gowns over tattered blue jeans and scuffed, black combat boots.

“Hi, Rose. I’m Dr. Paul Woodward. That’s a nasty-sounding cough.”

She nodded, clearing her throat.

Paul selected a tongue depressor from a glass jar and tore off the paper wrapper. “Open up and let’s have a look at that throat.”

As suspected, her tonsils were swollen and her throat an angry shade of red. She exhaled with the “ah,” her breath a pungent blend of tobacco smoke and alcohol.

“I’ll take a throat swab and send it to the lab,” he said. “Just to be sure you don’t have a strep infection going on in there.” After he sealed the swab and labeled it, he reached for a prescription pad. “I’m going to prescribe an antibiotic. I want you take this twice a day for ten days. And no alcohol while you’re taking it,” he said, watching closely for her reaction.

“Oh. Sure. I don’t drink much anyway.”

Right. Except for prelunch cocktails that had her smelling like a bottle of gin. He tore the sheet off the pad, handed it to her. “What about cigarettes?” he asked.

She responded with a one-shoulder shrug.

With his stethoscope, he listened to her lungs rattle as she wheezed a couple of deep breaths in and out for him. “If you ever think about quitting,” he said with as much gentleness as he could muster, “I can give you information about smoking cessation programs.”

“Oh, I can quit if I want to.”

Okay, then. “Fair enough. If you’d like to stop at the desk and book an appointment for a checkup next week, I should have the lab results by Tuesday. And while you’re at the drugstore getting the prescription filled, ask the pharmacist for a good cough syrup.”

“Sure.” It was all she managed to say before launching into another coughing fit.

“Good. I’ll see you next week, Rose.” He left the examining room and closed the door behind him.

He could see why the younger Finnegan sisters hadn’t warmed up to their half sister, but he could also see why Annie had rushed to her rescue. This young woman needed all the help she could get.