“I’m sorry,” Chelsea said.
“Don’t be,” Jenny answered. “I’m better off without him. It’s like my late daddy always said—‘everything’s a matter of perspective’!”
“Maybe you’re right,” Chelsea said.
“Why did you wanna know?” Jenny asked.
“Well,” Chelsea said, “aside from Brandon, I’m pretty much alone up here. It’d be nice to have a woman to talk with. Maybe you could come out to the cottage sometime. We could eat chocolate, drink wine, and commiserate about our love lives.” Then a conspiratorial smile overtook her face. “And perhaps discuss Brandon a bit more . . . ,” she added.
Jenny grinned. “You got a deal,” she said. “Sounds like fun!”
While the two of them laughed, another customer entered the diner and looked around. When Jenny heard the bell atop the door ring, she looked across the room, just as she always did. Almost at once, her face fell.
“What’s wrong?” Chelsea asked.
“Somebody just came in who I could live without,” Jenny answered. “And damn if he ain’t already noticed you sitting here. You’re too good-looking, that’s what it is. Makes you stick out like a sore thumb. Truth is, pretty newcomers ain’t in great supply around here.”
A man claimed the bar stool on Chelsea’s left. Given Jenny’s warning, Chelsea didn’t turn to look at him. She didn’t have to, because he was doing enough gawking for both of them. She felt his attention strongly, and the sensation was jarring.
“Jenny . . . ,” the man said dully, his eyes still looking Chelsea up and down.
“Pug,” Jenny answered back.
Chelsea surreptitiously checked the man’s reflection in the mirror on the wall opposite the counter. As best she could tell, he was about her age. He seemed rather short, his blondish hair was wayward, and it appeared that he hadn’t shaved in several days. He wore a black and white checked shirt, carpenter’s pants, and work boots. Had he been better groomed, he might have been passable, Chelsea decided. As he sat there beside her, he seemed to be having trouble staying atop his stool. Worst of all, the way he stared at Chelsea was making her more uncomfortable by the second.
“What do you want, Pug?” Jenny asked. “Looks like you’re on another bender. Or still hung way over from the last one, at least.”
“Coffee . . . ,” he said thickly, his eyes still locked onto Chelsea. His voice was low and gravelly, like he smoked a lot.
Jenny served him some coffee.
“So who’s this?” he asked, still looking at Chelsea.
“None of your business,” Jenny answered.
“Aw, now don’t be like that,” Pug answered. Some of his words were slurred, and many of the others weren’t coming out quite right, either. “Besides, maybe the lady would like to answer for herself,” he added. Smiling, he edged a bit closer to Chelsea.
“You’re pretty,” he said.
“You’re not,” Chelsea answered.
Pug laughed. “What’s the matter, precious?” he asked. “Are you too good for the likes of me?”
Chelsea finally turned and gave him a hard look. She could smell the scent of stale liquor on his breath. His nearness repelled her, but she held fast.
“Mind your own business,” she said.
Pug smiled crookedly. “So who are you?” he asked. “Maybe we could go for a ride on my Harley sometime.”
“A ride?” she asked. “With you?” Chelsea shook her head. “You know those warning signs for kids that they have at amusement parks?” she asked.
Pug’s face screwed up with confusion. “Yeah, so what?”
“Well, take the hint,” Chelsea said.
“Huh?” Pug asked.
“Okay, I’ll spell it out for you,” Chelsea said. She then held out one hand and raised it a good six feet above the floor. “You have to be at least this tall to ride this ride.”
“That ain’t funny,” Pug answered angrily.
Just then, the old man sitting beside Chelsea put down his paper and turned to look at them. “I hear tell she’s the one inherited the old Ashburn place,” he said.
Jenny’s face suddenly fell. Damn, she thought. That’s a bell we’ll never unring . . . Why the hell did he suddenly have to put his two cents in?
“Shut up, Jeb,” Jenny ordered. “This ain’t your business, and you know it.”
For some inexplicable reason, a look of rage suddenly overtook Pug’s face, and he glared hotly into Chelsea’s eyes.
“So you live next to that bastard Brandon Yale?” he demanded.
Chelsea turned away and said nothing more, which only enraged Pug further.
“Now, listen to me, you conceited bitch—”
Before Pug could finish his sentence, Jenny slammed a baseball bat down onto the countertop so hard that every plate, cup, and piece of silverware atop it jumped. As the entire diner went silent, the atmosphere became thick with tension.
“Jesus, Jenny!” Pug said. “Weren’t no need for all that!”
“Seemed like it to me,” Jenny answered back. “Now you get the hell out of here. And you too, Jeb. Coffee’s on the house.”
After giving Chelsea another lascivious look, Pug finally staggered out. With his newspaper folded under one arm, Jeb followed. Once they were gone, some of the patrons cheered and clapped, telling Chelsea that Pug and Jeb were well-known around here.
Chelsea looked down to find that her hands were shaking. At last, she let go a sigh of relief.
“Whoa . . . ,” she breathed. “Does that sort of thing happen often around here?”
Jenny shook her head as she hid the bat back under the counter. “Course not,” she answered. “Pug’s a special case, is all, and not one to let work interfere with his drinking. Jeb’s not nearly as bad. But he loves to instigate, ’cause he’s got nothing better to do.”
“Pug?” Chelsea asked.
“Yeah,” Jenny answered. “As in pugnacious. One of our teachers pinned that on him early, and it stuck. His real name is Earl Jennings. And by the way,” she added, “I loved your bit about riding this ride. Never heard that one before.”
“Why does he hate Brandon so much?” Chelsea asked.
Jenny sighed and scrubbed her face with her hands. “Well,” Jenny said, “you didn’t hear this from me, but the truth is that Brandon’s got a few demons.”
“He does?” Chelsea asked.
“For sure,” Jenny answered. “And that sonofabitch Pug is one of them.”
Chapter 15
Brandon reduced the power to the Cessna’s engine, then he gently nosed the floatplane lower. There were some light clouds in the area, and he wanted to get beneath them to improve his line of sight. Because Claire Jennings lived on the water and her home was some distance away, Brandon had chosen to take the plane. Soon he broke through the mist, and he smiled.
After leveling the Cessna at three thousand feet, he readjusted the fuel-to-air ratio a bit and set a south-by-southeasterly course. Finally he settled in to watch the various lakes, rivers, roads, and hills—each a conspicuous landmark to an experienced pilot—slip effortlessly beneath him. Brandon loved flying, and he was good at it. The army had taught him well. He had an instrument rating, which meant that he was licensed to fly in bad weather, with only his gauges to guide him. Such advanced skills, however, wouldn’t be needed today.
He always enjoyed traveling to see his “special” patients, as he sometimes liked to think of them. Almost always they were people who had no way to get to Serendipity. Many had no transportation and were without anyone to take them. Some poor souls were totally incapacitated. And others—like Claire Jennings—were simply stranded and afraid.
Although he was rarely paid for these trips, Brandon had always found reward enough in the simple doing of them. He never experienced such great personal satisfaction when treating people in an impersonal office setting or in a frantic emergency room. In their own homes, his patients always seemed to appreciate him more. They
listened more earnestly to his advice and had ample time not only to ask about his welfare but also to inquire about the latest Serendipity gossip. Many treated him to a home-cooked meal or offered some other small token of their gratitude. After graduating from medical school he’d had his pick of positions, but when it came time to decide, he realized that the money and prestige associated with loftier posts actually meant little to him. And so he had happily returned to his hometown of Serendipity, to put his talents to use.
Brandon looked for the cluster of small lakes that would indicate he was on the proper course. After a couple more minutes of searching, he spotted them. They lay about six points off to the west and ten miles or so away. They were his last major landmarks before beginning the descent toward Devil’s Pond, where Claire Jennings lived.
Banking the plane slightly to port, he headed for them. His final course was set now, and he could afford to relax a bit. As the emerald hills and silvery lakes of the Adirondacks passed beneath him, Brandon’s thoughts soon fell upon Chelsea Enright, the lovely neighbor woman who had so unexpectedly breezed her way into his life.
Given how long the old Ashburn cottage had been abandoned, he had all but given up on the prospect of anyone ever opening it back up. But he had always imagined that if someone did, the new owners would likely be a family with kids, or an elderly couple wanting a place in which to spend their remaining summers. And so, when the Fabiennes told him that a single woman had inherited it, he had been surprised. And very pleasantly so, once he met her.
Although he liked Chelsea very much, he still didn’t know a lot about her. There could be no denying that she was beautiful and intelligent. Plus, she had a spunky attitude that he found very attractive. He smiled as he remembered tending to her wound. What was it she had said? Oh, yes—she had intimated that he might be “some sort of country-fried quack.” She had grit, he realized, but she also seemed gentle and caring.
But as Brandon thought about things some more, he frowned. Yes, he was interested in Chelsea. Very much so, in fact. But there was something holding him back—something that he had been trying to overcome for the last three years, but to no avail. And going to visit Claire Jennings this morning would only reopen those old wounds. He possessed a guilty sort of pain that had been thrust upon him against his bidding—one that had lodged so deep in his soul that he was starting to doubt it would ever leave.
He was acutely aware of its catalyst. But at the same time, he had no idea how to banish it from his thoughts, his dreams, and his heart. He wanted it gone so that he could get on with his life. But what woman could love so broken a man as he? Even with such a potent incentive as Chelsea Enright now in his life, he still felt powerless to change things. Just then he saw Devil’s Pond looming up ahead, and it forced his mind back to the task at hand.
The name Devil’s Pond was misleading, because it was easily the size of Lake Evergreen. It lay east to west in an oblong shape and was surrounded by high hills. If the wind was northerly or southerly, it made for difficult water landings because it forced the pilot to land across the lake, rather than along it. Luckily, today’s weather obliged.
As Brandon descended, he saw the Jenningses’ isolated trailer up ahead, nestled in among a stand of pine trees. Dropping the power a bit, he nosed down and buzzed the trailer. He did this for two reasons: to see for himself if Pug’s old pickup was in fact actually gone, and to let Claire know that he had arrived. As he made another pass, he saw that Claire had left the trailer and was walking toward the Jenningses’ ramshackle dock. Brandon then circled around again and began his landing procedure.
Carburetor heat on . . . speed reduced . . . flaps down . . . fuel mixture adjusted for the final time . . . airspeed indicator reading just above stall speed . . . steady, steady . . .
With the lake surface looming larger by the second, he lifted the Cessna’s nose slightly and let her settle. Just as the stall warning buzzer went off, the twin floats hit the waves once, twice, then the plane finally leveled and began taxiing across the waves. Brandon gave the engine a quick shot of power so as to help turn her, then he steered her toward the dock and cut the engine, letting her glide nearer. As he approached, Claire helped to guide the plane alongside.
Brandon grabbed his bag, opened his door, and stepped out onto the port-side float. From there, it was an easy jump to the dock. Claire was already tying up the plane. As he neared her, she let go a rather tepid smile.
“Hi,” she said quietly.
Brandon gave her a hug. Doing so felt good but also hurt at the same time.
“Hi back to you,” he said. “It’s been a while.”
“Yes,” Claire answered.
Saying nothing more, she and Brandon began walking toward the trailer.
Chapter 16
Just as Brandon remembered, the area surrounding the Jenningses’ place was a disaster. The weeds were ankle high. An old Chevy truck with its hood up had sat idle for so long that vegetation had grown straight up through its cannibalized engine compartment. A ragged clothesline, heavy with wet and mended wash, lay bowed between two trees. What remained of the stone walkway to the trailer was cracked and broken, and the screen door hung slightly askew, as if begging for someone to come and fix it. Inside a doorless, dilapidated shed, Pug’s old black Harley leaned tiredly on its kickstand.
Brandon shook his head. Some place for a handyman, he thought.
As he strode up the fractured walkway, he sighed. He hadn’t been inside the Jenningses’ trailer often, but each time he had, it had been a mess. And no wonder, given that Pug was an alcoholic. Brandon had long felt sorry for Claire. Although she was a good woman, living with Pug was nearly impossible. Still, she tried. Because Pug had been off drinking all night, Claire had been given a chance to tidy things up, and for once the inside of the trailer seemed largely presentable.
As Brandon walked into the living room and looked around, Claire followed him.
“Where’s Rachel?” he asked.
“This way,” Claire answered as she began leading him down the single hallway.
There wasn’t much in Rachel’s room, but at least it was clean. A dresser, a chair for Claire, and a child’s mobile hanging from the ceiling were the only noteworthy items. Three-year-old Rachel lay in the crib, crying. Her face was red, and it was immediately clear to Brandon that she was in distress.
Brandon handed his bag to Claire, then he walked over and lifted Rachel from her crib. Rachel muttered “Da-da?” but on realizing she was mistaken, she started crying again. As Brandon held her close, she soon quieted. Feeling a bit upstaged, Claire gathered her robe closer and stared down at her ragged house slippers.
“You’re always so good with children,” she said. “Better’n me, for sure. How d’you do it?”
Brandon turned and looked at her. “I have no idea,” he answered, “but it certainly helps in my line of work.”
Claire had once been pretty, with the prospect of a happy life lying before her. But even at her young age of thirty, those days seemed distant. She was too thin by far. Her sallow face revealed years of struggle and hardship, and she had long, rather scraggly brown hair. Whenever Brandon saw her—which was seldom these days—she always seemed beaten, downtrodden. And again, why wouldn’t she? Brandon thought.
When Claire had gotten pregnant soon after high school, she and Pug were married. She lost her first child, a boy, during his delivery. Pug had always wanted a son, and the child’s death threw him into a long-standing depression that nearly destroyed their marriage. Soon after, he started drinking more heavily.
Despite that loss, what he saw as his greatest personal tragedy came some years later, causing his subliminal rage and sense of blame to become permanent parts of his character. Rachel’s birth had also occurred around then, and it had helped a bit to ameliorate things for a time. But soon after—and fueled by yet more alcohol—Pug’s frenzied sense of anger returned for good. It was a tale with which Brandon was all to
o familiar, because he had been such an integral part of it.
Brandon looked at Claire again. “I need to put her down on a bed,” he said.
Claire nodded, and they left the room. The master bedroom had the same sort of forlorn, thrift-store look about it. Brandon gently placed Rachel on the bed, while Claire put his bag down beside her.
He took Rachel’s temperature to find that it was 101 degrees. Using a stethoscope, he listened to her lungs, heart, and abdomen. After examining her eyes, ears, nose, and throat, he nodded to himself and put his instruments back into his case.
“What is it?” Claire asked.
“The flu, most likely,” he answered. “But it’s her fever that concerns me most. We need to make sure that it doesn’t become something worse, like pneumonia. Do you own a thermometer?”
Embarrassed, Claire shook her head. Brandon reached back into his bag and produced a spare one.
“You can keep that,” he said. “I assume you know how to use it . . .”
Claire nodded. “What else should I be doing for her?”
After giving Rachel a low dose of Tylenol, Brandon handed the bottle to Claire.
“Give her one of those, with food, as instructed on the bottle,” he said. “Her fever should break soon. If it isn’t gone by this time tomorrow, call me again. And make sure that she gets lots of fluids.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I only wish that I could pay you something.”
“You know better than that,” he answered.
Claire picked Rachel up, and she and Brandon walked back down the hall. When Rachel realized that she was back in her crib, at last she fell asleep. Brandon and Claire returned to the sparse kitchen, where they sat at a cheap dinette table with four chairs.
“Want some coffee?” Claire asked.
Brandon nodded. “That’d be good,” he answered. “I didn’t have the best night, either.”
Claire stood and poured two cups of coffee. As she did, Brandon sadly watched.
She could have been so much more, he thought. And she should have been. Funny how instead of unfolding for us as they might, our dreams sometimes only get in the way. . .
More Than Words Can Say Page 13
