LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

      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

Скачать книгу