LITMIR.BIZ

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accepted was his shares in the clinic,” Greg said thoughtfully. “Anything to it?”

      “Not just like that. The two kids got the shares with no voting rights until they reach majority. Until then David keeps control. Lorraine won’t object to changing the charter. It’s money in the bank for the kids,” Thomas said bitterly.

      Upon his mother’s death, David would come into her shares of the clinic. Owning them, and with control of his children’s shares, he would control fifty percent of the vote.

      The sudden catastrophic stroke and imminent death of Joyce McIvey had shaken Thomas Kelso profoundly, in a way that his own wife’s decline had not. He had seen that coming for several years. His grief and mourning had turned into dull acceptance, knowing that his wife was on the spiral that circled downward inexorably, with no hint of when it might end. He set down his glass and leaned forward in his chair. “Greg, I’ve made an appointment with Sid Blankenship for this coming Thursday. I want you there.”

      “Why?” Greg asked.

      “I intend to change my will,” Thomas said. “If you’ll agree to it, I’m leaving you my shares of the clinic, and Donna’s, too, if that’s legal. As you well know, there’s no money in it, just a lot of work and responsibility. We wrote our wills years ago, and I don’t know if my power of attorney is sufficient to override the provisions in her will. The way it’s set up now, her clinic shares will be divided among the kids when she dies. And if they inherit, those three kids will sell out in a minute to the highest bidder, which in this case would be David McIvey. I’ll see him drawn and quartered before I’ll let control of the clinic fall into David’s hands.”

      “Amen,” Greg said softly. “Amen.”

      After Thomas Kelso left, Greg returned to the clinic. Things to see to, he said vaguely, but Naomi suspected that he wanted time alone wandering about in the garden. She started to prepare dinner, thinking through the implications of Thomas’s visit.

      If Greg and David both controlled fifty percent of the clinic, it meant that David could not sell out to one of the health organizations, for one thing. And he could not change the charter from nonprofit to profit making. But only if Greg could hold out against him. That was the sticking point, she admitted to herself. Greg had started his practice as a general practitioner, working alone, keeping his own hours. Naomi had been his office manager, bookkeeper, factotum. Early in their marriage she had delivered two stillborn daughters. They had struggled with grief, then had found solace in hard work. She had scolded him: he spent too much time with patients, talked too much with them, and he had too many. A killer schedule, she had thought, but a necessary one at that time. Then things began to change: bureaucracy, Medicaid, Medicare, HMOs, insurance companies, malpractice insurance…. The day his insurance agent told him bluntly that the company would no longer insure doctors in private practice working alone, he had threatened to quit medicine altogether. His colleagues were joining groups, joining HMOs, forming corporations, becoming more and more involved with paperwork, not medicine, and he was in danger of losing his hospital privileges, he had railed. Medicine was becoming just another big business, and if he had wanted to go into business he would have gone after an MBA, not a medical degree.

      Then, Thomas Kelso and William McIvey had interviewed him and offered him the resident physician’s post, and her the job of personnel manager. Their salaries would be modest, not in the corporate six-figure category, Thomas had said, but the directors took no salary at all, and Greg and Naomi would not have anyone breathing down their necks or second-guessing their every decision.

      Greg was the kind of doctor Robert Frost had had in mind. He let the patients talk, never rushed them, listened to whatever they wanted to talk about—medical problems, family problems, work or school, whatever. He explained everything to them. He might sit up half the night with a frightened child or hold the hand of an elderly patient who was suffering, until painkilling medication took effect.

      What he seemed incapable of was dealing with mechanistic authoritarians, the law-and-order, rigid types who knew the rules and never strayed from them, and gave no quarter to anyone who did. Like David McIvey.

      If David and Greg got into a conflict, and they would, Naomi was not at all certain Greg would hold his ground. She was not certain that he could hold his ground.

      Years before, a patient of David’s had told her how David had nearly gloated over her X rays, how he had described where he would cut, what he would do. “It was the most terrifying hour of my life,” the woman had said. “I don’t doubt that he’s the brilliant surgeon people say he is, but he’s a monster, too. I think he lives to cut people. That gives him pleasure, that and frightening his patients. He knew he was frightening me, and he kept on and on about it. Never a word of comfort. He’s a monster.”

      David was as implacable and unyielding as a glacier, moving steadily forward, crushing anything in its path, oblivious. And David had made it clear that the clinic could not survive as a family hobby in the face of the modern business climate.

      If Erica left the clinic promptly at six on those hot days, she still had a couple of hours of daylight to work on the outside of the house, which she had started to paint. She had scraped and brushed flaking paint off, had primed bare spots, and now she was putting on the final coat. Later in the year, when the season changed, she would concentrate on the inside, she had decided, and try to get as much done outside as possible now. In the mornings she worked on the west side, out of the sun. In the evenings she moved the ladder to the east side. Gradually the house was getting painted. That evening she set up her ladder, got her brush and paint and climbed up. It was a two-story house with high eaves, a stretch from as high on the ladder as she dared to go.

      She had not yet hung the paint can on the ladder when she felt the ladder starting to shift, to tilt. She dropped the brush and grabbed a gutter for support. It wouldn’t hold her weight, she thought wildly, as the ladder shifted again. It wouldn’t hold her and she didn’t dare let go and start climbing back down.

      Then she heard Darren’s voice from below. She recognized the voice instantly from listening to him at the clinic; the same easy cadence, not laughing, but not taking the situation very seriously either. They had not met, but she had seen him with patients, with the interns, talking to Greg Boardman, and she had stopped to listen to him more than once. Looking down she saw his broad face grinning up at her.

      “Drop the paint and hold on to the ladder,” he said. “I’ll keep it steady for you.”

      “The can’s open,” she said, hearing the words as inane. “You’ll be splashed with paint.”

      His grin broadened. “Just drop it. Let it go.”

      She dropped the can and it splashed paint like a geyser. Then she climbed down the ladder as Darren held it steady.

      At the bottom, on solid ground again, she looked at him in dismay. “Oh, Lord, I’m sorry! Thank you. I think you saved my life.”

      He was spattered from his shoes up, with paint on his jeans, his shirt, arms and hands, and some even on his face. He laughed. “Maybe just your neck. You set the ladder over a hole in the ground. Got a hose?”

      She shook her head. “Come on around back. You can wash up a little bit at least. I’m Erica Castle.”

      “The book lady,” he said. “I’d offer to shake hands, but it’s probably not a good idea. Darren Halvord.”

      She led the way around the mountain of trash to the back porch, where he hesitated. “I’d better leave the shoes outside,” he said. “I’ll track up your floor.”

      He took off his running shoes, then followed her into the house, where she got out towels and a washcloth and pointed him toward the bathroom. “I could wash your clothes,” she said, “but I don’t have anything you could put on.”

      “They’ll keep until I get home.”

      When he returned, with a clean face, hands and arms, she held out a glass of iced tea. “It’s about all I have to offer. Or some pretty cheap wine.”

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