LITMIR.BIZ

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to continue my rounds, but here’s the office number and my personal cell. Feel free to use it.”

      Peyton laughed and took the card. “It really kills me the way everyone gives out their cell numbers! Everyone knows Scott’s and Mac’s and now yours. I’m used to the city where you never do that.”

      The doctor put his arm around the P.A.’s shoulders and gave a squeeze. “I have her cell number and with the right incentive, I can be talked into giving it to you. Until then, just call me if you need me. And I’ll call you.”

      “Hey, if this is my town, I want to be called if there’s a problem. There are three ways to reach me—the office, the cell or 911 in emergencies. If you call 911 you’ll never get voice mail and whatever deputy is on duty will respond immediately. Don’t hesitate.” He smiled and gave them a little salute. “See you later.”

      Seth made his way to the diner to say hello to Gina. They’d known each other growing up, but they hadn’t been in the same class or part of the same crowd. It was safe to say that he knew Carrie better. Carrie and his mother, Gwen, had been friends for years.

      After a quick visit with Gina he went into Waylan’s. Damn if it didn’t look like the same crowd of old boys who had been in there the last time he’d stopped by at least ten years ago.

      He headed for the flower shop, which still bore the same name although the owner was relatively new. Pretty Petals had been owned by his next-door neighbor when he was growing up, a single mother and Gwen’s good friend, Rose McKinley. Rose’s only child, Iris, had been Seth’s best friend when they were kids. Iris had sold the shop a few years ago after her mother had a stroke. Then Rose had passed away after a couple of years of infirmity.

      Seth talked to his mother at least once a week, usually more often, and she kept him current on the happenings in town. Rose’s death had taken a toll on Gwen—they’d been close to the same age. Rose had died too young and it left Gwen feeling as if she was living on borrowed time. Gwen was now sixty-five.

      Norm was seventy-two and just as cranky and unforgiving as ever. He might’ve sold the service station he’d owned for decades, but he wouldn’t retire. He still worked for the new owner. Gwen wanted to spend some of their money and retirement doing fun things, traveling, maybe taking a cruise or two, but Norm wasn’t at all interested. Why Gwen wanted to spend leisure time with the old coot was beyond Seth, but he felt sorry for her, sitting out her last years in the same small town, not having much fun except for church, cards and bingo, missing her best friend, Rose.

      He walked into Pretty Petals and took off his hat. He said hello to Grace Dillon, the new owner. His mother had mentioned her several times. She was an attractive young woman about thirty years old or even younger, living the dream. She’d bought the flower shop from Iris and was thrilled to own her own business. Looking around, he saw that it had been updated since the old days.

      “Well, Seth, are you back to stay?” she asked.

      “I am for now. Just introducing myself to the folks in town, or reintroducing, as the case may be. How are things in the flower business?”

      “Very pretty,” she said.

      “Anything you’d like me to be aware of now? I’m prepared to take over Mac’s post in less than a week.”

      She shook her head. “No flower thefts that I’m aware of. Do you have any plans to move to town, now that you’ll be here all the time?”

      “Not at the moment.” He laughed a little. “My mother offered me my old room, but I think...” He ended by just shaking his head and Grace laughed with him. “It might not feel like a bachelor pad, living with Mom and Dad.” Not to mention, Dad hadn’t offered, he reminded himself. “But there’s no question, I’d eat well!”

      “Maybe you can just swing by Mom’s at the end of your workday for a little something to eat before heading home to the bachelor pad.”

      “There’s an idea. In fact, I should swing by there now.... How about a nice arrangement to take along? That always makes her so happy with me.”

      Grace turned and pulled a centerpiece out of the cooler. “Do you like this fall arrangement? I can give it to you cheap—I worked it up a couple of days ago and it hasn’t sold yet.”

      “I’m all over discounts,” he said, fishing out his wallet. “Have you seen Iris lately?” he asked without looking up.

      “I see Iris every week. At least once, usually more. She likes fresh flowers in the house—it’s a hard habit to break. Sometimes she comes in and makes her own arrangement. I can’t tell you how often I wish she worked here—she’s got a gift. That’ll be ten dollars, even.”

      “Ten? Wow, you’re sucking up to the law!”

      “I hope I never have to use my brownie points,” she said. “Welcome back, Seth. It’s nice to know you’ll be taking care of us.”

      “I’ll do my best. Be sure to let me know if I can help in any way. It won’t be flower arranging, I know that.” He gave her his business card with all the numbers on it. Then he gave her a second one. “One for the shop, one for home,” he said, though he secretly hoped that second card might make its way into Iris’s hands.

      He wished he could reconnect with Iris. When they were kids, they’d been inseparable, playing kickball, softball, fishing, hanging out on the beach or sitting at one of their houses playing video games for hours. In junior high and high school they had taken different paths—he was on all the sports teams, and she was doing girl things, plus helping her mother in the flower shop. But she’d always been his closest friend even if he didn’t admit that in mixed company. He could tell Iris anything. Anything. If he had trouble in school, frustrations with football, couldn’t get his homework right or even if he liked some girl and she wasn’t liking him back. They talked on their porches, on the phone, anywhere they met around town. If their second-story bedroom windows had faced each other’s, they’d have been hanging out of them, talking.

      Then there was some misunderstanding their senior year. Something to do with prom, but he didn’t remember all the details. She’d been angry that he wasn’t taking her to the prom, but he was going steady with someone and was planning to take his girlfriend. He and the steady girlfriend had a blowup, a messy breakup and Seth had been bummed. He had a few beers, and as usual leaned on Iris to talk about his girl problems. It was senior year, he’d had a spectacular year, was going to the University of Oregon on a full football scholarship in the fall and how dare that girl dump him right before senior prom. He could only vaguely remember, but knew he had uttered some lame thing to Iris like, I wish I was taking you, anyway. And then he got back together with the girlfriend the very next day. He thought Iris would be happy for him. He had expected her to understand—it had been a stupid spat and he and his girlfriend were all made up.

      But Iris did not understand. He obviously didn’t remember the details the way she did because that was the end of their friendship. There was something mysterious about girls and proms because he couldn’t remember Iris ever being so angry. She’d beat him up a few times when they were little kids but even then she hadn’t been so mad. He apologized about a hundred times, but she was through. She wasn’t going to help him with his homework, listen to him moan and groan about his love life, cheer him on through all his bigheaded accomplishments and then just sit home with her mother on prom night. Over. Done. Find yourself another sap to be your pal.

      From that day on, they were only cordial. When he’d been in the car accident at age twenty, she’d sent a card to the hospital. When her mother died, Seth came back to take his mother to the funeral. He also bought the biggest bouquet he could afford. They’d run into each other a few times over the years. They exchanged news, said nice things to each other, then...nothing.

      He’d reached out to her. “Iris, are we ever going to be friends again?”

      “We are friends,” she had replied.

      “I mean real friends. Like we used to be.”

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