by Janet Dean
Dusk had fallen, shrouding him in twilight. He walked on, alone, the burden of his mistakes pressing against his lungs until he could barely breathe.
Chapter Eleven
Saturday turned overcast. By afternoon, the skies ripped open under the weight of unshed rain, drenching the earth, stripping colorful leaves from the trees and sending all of God’s creatures for cover—including Mary and the boys. Holding an umbrella against the deluge, they dashed into her father’s office. Mary shook out the umbrella, collapsed it near the door and then plunked the Sunday school materials for tomorrow’s lesson on her desk, hoping she’d find a few minutes to study them. Time permitting, she would read the article on asthma in the latest American Medical Association Journal.
Her list of chores was long but not long enough to keep Luke Jacobs from coming to mind. Each thought was uninvited, unwelcome and unsettling.
Beside her, the boys shook their heads like drowned dogs, flinging water and bringing her back to the task at hand. Mary rushed into her father’s quarters and returned with a towel just as Luke entered the waiting room.
Even with his hair plastered to his head, he looked ready to handle whatever came his way. Yet now she knew what lurked beneath the surface, what shaped his life. He shrugged out of his jacket, soaked from his trek between the carriage house and the office. Mary intended to sop up the mess on the floor and to wipe down the children, but Luke’s gaze locked with hers. She forgot the rain, forgot the dampness of her clothing and the puddle spreading beneath their shoes.
Moments slid through her memory—of Luke in her kitchen, up to his wrists in suds, scrubbing at her dishes. The touch of those hands, this time healing hands, on Philip and on her. And the strength of those hands, his strong, steady grip.
How she wanted to rely on that grip—but with Luke’s plans to leave, she must lean, as always, on herself. Yet how could she close her mind to the haunted expression she’d seen in his eyes yesterday, to the pain etching his face even now? Luke wasn’t telling her everything. What was he hiding? Too much stood between them. Still, he needed a friend. That much she could be.
She broke the contact between them and bent to the boys, wiping their hair and whisking water from their backs.
“Hi, Luke,” Michael said. “We had fish for dinner last night.”
“Sounds good.”
Philip nodded. “Momma fried it in a pan, but we had to watch for bones.”
“I didn’t eat it,” Ben said. “Fishies are too cute to eat. ’Sides, I might choke.”
Grateful for the boys’ chatter, Mary tidied the floor, avoiding Luke’s gaze.
Michael peeled out of his wet coat, then dug into his pockets and retrieved a paper. “I brought my arithmetic test to show Grandpa. I got a hundred,” he said, trotting off toward the backroom with Ben trailing behind.
Philip’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t have any good papers to show Grandpa.”
Luke ruffled Philip’s unruly locks—the result of his cowlick. “Having trouble with your schoolwork? I’ll be happy to help.”
“My dad was too busy to help,” Philip said quietly. “Now he can’t. He’s dead.”
Mary’s heart clutched. Her sons had experienced far too many dark days. Oh how she wished to take these moments away from them, to paint them a world filled with sunshine and happiness.
“I know,” Luke said, bending down to Philip’s level and touching the boy’s arm. “I’m sorry about your dad.”
In that moment, Mary forgave Luke for every moment of disagreement, every misspoken word. In that expression of concern to her son, a caring man emerged, a man she liked.
Liked immensely.
Yet didn’t trust. Had her past destroyed her ability to trust? Or was it something else?
Having Luke in her life posed more of a threat to her well-being than any contagious disease.
“Dr. Jacobs?”
“Yes, Philip?”
Her son looked up at him, his brows knitted in concentration. “You, uh, you don’t have any little boys and we don’t have a dad, and if you married us, we’d have a family and you would too.”
Silence as thick as quilt batting descended on the room. Mary stared at her son. Did she just hear him ask Luke Jacobs to marry her? Her heart tripped in her chest. She’d pictured that very thing yet knew what Philip did not. A chasm the width of the Rio Grande stood between her and Luke. Marriage was out of the question.
Luke’s complexion had paled to the color of paste. Evidently he was even more mortified than she.
“Umm, that’d be a really good idea, Philip, and your mother is a very nice lady, but…”
“You don’t want us?”
Her son’s face fell, dropping as abruptly as a deflated balloon. Mary rushed to Philip’s side, unsure what to do, what to say. If only she hadn’t brought the boys with her today.
Michael had reappeared and stationed himself on Philip’s other side, his expression fierce.
Luke still had his hand on Philip’s arm. “Who wouldn’t want you? You’re a wonderful boy, you and your brothers. Your mom too.”
“Then why won’t you marry us?” Philip’s eyes, big as saucers with the innocent question of a child, brimmed with tears.
“Because…” Luke cleared his throat, searching for the words to explain the complicated issues of an adult. “My work is in New York, and someday soon I have to go back there.”
“Oh.” Philip considered that and his eyes brightened. “Maybe somebody else will marry us, and we can have a dad.”
Far more perceptive than his eight years, he stepped away from Luke’s touch. Mary gathered Philip into her arms, only two arms—yet enough to hold and love her son.
Or so she told herself.
Luke rose and turned away, an unreadable expression in his gaze. Was she merely fooling herself? Philip wanted his world restored, to have a life with a mom and a dad.
No matter how hard she tried, she wasn’t enough.
Michael, wearing a scowl on his face, obviously wanted no part of such an idea. Tears gathered in her eyes, uncertain which son she worried about more.
Mary hurried to the surgery. She found Ben hanging over his grandfather’s every move. She led her son to her father’s quarters, settling the boys in the living room with a pile of metal soldiers to do battle with, then walked to her desk, trying in vain to concentrate on tomorrow’s Sunday school lesson.
But she kept seeing Philip’s sweet face brimming with hope, hope for a dad. A lump rose in Mary’s throat. No matter how much she loved him, she couldn’t fill the need her son had for a father.
The door opened, cutting off Mary’s thoughts. Geraldine Whitehall entered, her eyes wild with dread. Mary bit back a moan.
“Oh, thank goodness, you’re here!” Geraldine raised trembling fingers to her lips. “Is Doc in?”
Obviously Mrs. Whitehall had gotten herself into quite a state. Mary grabbed a pad from her desk. “Come on back.”
Down the hall, Luke and her father stood talking. At the sound of their footsteps, Luke turned guarded eyes on Mary. Her pulse skittered. Philip’s proposal, no matter how much they might try to skirt it, lay between them—forming a connection of sorts, but also an uncomfortable wariness.
The two men entered the examining room ahead of them. Her father sat across from his patient. “What’s wrong, Mrs. Whitehall?”
Clutching her hands in her lap, Geraldine swallowed. “I have lockjaw.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I can’t open my mouth.”
A muscle twitched in her father’s cheek. Writing Geraldine’s complaint on the pad, Mary clamped her teeth together to hold back sudden laughter.
“Appears to be in good working order to me,” her father said.
“I mean wide. I can’t open my mouth wide. It kinda locks.” She moved her jaw up and down. “Did you hear that click?”
Her father motioned to the patient to take a seat on the examining tabl
e and then held the stethoscope to her jaw. “Do that again for Dr. Jacobs.”
Luke complied, listening while Mrs. Whitehall opened and closed her mouth like a fish out of water. “Your jaw works normally,” Luke said in a gentle tone. “No need to worry. Can you explain why you thought you had lockjaw?”
Whether he intended to or not, Luke was connecting to the townspeople and they to him. All signs of a good doctor. Good doctor or not, he was leaving.
Tears sprang to Geraldine’s eyes. “Two days ago, I got a cut. I read in—”
“You read that someone got lockjaw from a cut,” her father interrupted.
Her brows rose. “How did you know?”
“Just a guess. Let me see it.”
She stuck out a finger. Her father leaned in for a closer look, turned the finger over, then glanced up, a quizzical expression on his face.
“Right there,” she said pointing at the side.
“This little scratch?”
She nodded, blinking against tears. “The article said it didn’t need to be a bad cut, like the one on this finger,” she added, holding up the still bandaged finger on her other hand.
“Now, Mrs. Whitehall, I see no sign of infection, no red streaks up your hand or arm, no reason to think you’ve got lockjaw or will get lockjaw.”
Hope shimmered in her eyes. “Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent positive. But let’s get a second opinion.” He turned to Luke. “What do you say, Dr. Jacobs?”
Silent communication passed between the two. Luke and her father worked well together. Once she’d been the only one to assist in the practice. But with Luke here, her father didn’t need her. The insight stung.
Luke turned to the patient. “You and your finger are the picture of health, Mrs. Whitehall. Your jaw works admirably.”
The café owner sagged with relief. “Honestly, this morning I could barely open my mouth, but I couldn’t get here until after the breakfast crowd. I’ve been so scared.”
Her father wrote something on a pad, then tore off the page, handing it to his patient. “I have a prescription I want you to follow to the letter.”
Geraldine studied the words written in her father’s hurried scrawl. “For four weeks,” she said, then hesitated, trying to decipher the letters, “stop reading about illness.” She looked up, her mouth gaping, the jaw indeed working fine. “That’s your prescription?”
“You’re a healthy woman, yet you’re in here two, maybe three times a month. Usually after you’ve read or heard about some illness. I want you to set your mind on what the Good Book says in the fourth chapter of Philippians. ‘Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things of good report—if there be any virtue and if there be any praise—think on these things.’” Henry patted her hand. “Our God is a God of peace. Praise Him for giving you a healthy body, and ask Him to give you a healthy mind.”
“You sound like my husband.”
“A wise man, Mr. Whitehall.”
A contrite look came over Geraldine’s face. “I feel so silly. I know how busy you are.”
“If you follow that prescription, this office visit will be the best use of my time all day.”
“I’ll try. Customers are always telling me about their cousin’s tumor or their sister’s blindness. Within minutes, I see a suspicious puffiness above my collarbone or my vision blurs.” She grimaced. “It’s a curse.”
Luke gave her a kind yet firm look. “A curse you can defeat, Mrs. Whitehall. The decision is yours.”
She nodded slowly but didn’t look convinced. Then, meeting Luke’s gaze, her eyes flared. “You don’t believe I make myself miserable on purpose, do you?”
“Not intentionally,” Luke said, his tone kind. “But perhaps these imaginary illnesses are your way of avoiding what’s really bothering you, something below the surface you don’t want to examine.”
Luke turned troubled eyes on Mary. Her breath caught in her throat. Was he implying the two of them might have something between them, something they needed to explore?
She turned away. Hadn’t she lived with enough heartache without drudging up the past? Luke Jacobs had all the answers, answers pointing blame, but what about his own life? Just when she thought they were getting closer, she sensed he hid something, kept something from her.
But what?
Doc patted Geraldine’s arm. “Now, don’t forget. No medical articles. If someone starts describing symptoms, run for the hills.” He grinned. “Well, at least as far as the café’s kitchen.”
“I promise. My, I’m relieved!” She rose and headed for the door and then turned back. “Oh, Mary, don’t forget the pies you said you’d bake for the school supper next week.”
Day after day, endless responsibilities lay heavy on Mary’s shoulders. “I haven’t forgotten.”
Luke looked from Geraldine to her. “Jesus said to rest in Him. I wonder if you ladies know the meaning of the word.”
He had no right to chastise her. How could she rest when so much needed doing? Wasn’t she to serve others? Why did this man feel compelled to make her question her existence?
Her father waved a hand. “Now go and enjoy life, Mrs. Whitehall. Stop looking for problems.”
Again, Mary’s gaze connected with Luke’s. Her stomach dipped crazily with the sudden urge to walk into his arms, to rest her chin on his chest and be held. She couldn’t fathom her response to him. The man had disrupted her life, made her question her priorities, her dreams. Philip had latched on to him and now hungered for a father. Ben, even her father, held him in high esteem. She could imagine the pain he’d bring to all of them when he left town. Luke had complicated everything. Solved nothing.
So why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? Why couldn’t she stop comparing him favorably to Sam?
The answer terrified her. Luke Jacobs had become important not only to her family but also to her. Yet his plans didn’t mesh with her life. How could she be so foolish?
With Luke Jacobs around, unlike Geraldine Whitehall, Mary didn’t have to look for problems. Problems smacked her in the face.
Why had God brought him into her life?
Luke stood in front of Mary’s desk. She bent over reading material, unaware of his presence, absently coiling a tendril of hair around her finger. His fingers itched to remove the pins from her glorious tresses. Not smart, Jacobs, not smart at all.
Only a foolish man would hanker after this woman who had one son craving a dad and another erecting walls. And the third, not her son, but his, a secret that would destroy any shred of feeling she might have for him. He should leave—and soon. Yet even as he formed the thought, he knew Mary Graves had crept into his heart, her sons too—boys who reminded Luke of himself. And Ben made him long for a relationship he hadn’t expected to crave.
Instead of avoiding her like any sane man would’ve, he sat on the corner of her desk. The words poured out of his mouth, “Care to have a cup of coffee?”
Her head snapped up. “Oh, Luke. You startled me.” A bewildered expression came over her face. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you’d like to get some coffee.”
“Coffee?”
“Surely you’ve heard of that dark, warm liquid sure to perk you up?”
Her smile hauled him closer. “Yes, I have, and I could use some perking up but—”
Raising a hand, he stopped the flow of excuses trying to push past her lips. “Before you tell me about the coffee in Doc’s kitchen and your sons playing in his quarters, your father said to tell you to go. He wants time alone with his grandsons.”
She studied her clasped hands, digesting her father’s claim, a claim sounding weak even to Luke’s ears.
“He also said you work too hard and need to remember even the Lord rested.”
She gazed up at him. “All right. Where?”
“The Whitehall C
afé. I want to give Mrs. Whitehall a chance to forgive me by complimenting her pie.”
“You were tough on her.” She cocked her head. “Who said anything about pie?”
“What’s coffee without pie?” He grinned. “And what’s pie without lunch?” he said, lost in her fascinating green eyes.
She put a hand on her hip. “Are you asking me to lunch?”
“Yes, ma’am. I thought I’d start out nice and easy. Get you used to the idea of sharing a table with me before I got to my true objective—a meal.”
A meal. Nothing more. He didn’t want to mislead Mary, yet he couldn’t stop wanting to spend time with her.
“But the boys—”
“Your father will feed them.”
“What if a patient comes in with an emergency?”
“Doc can send Michael to get us.”
Laughing, Mary rose to her feet. “I shouldn’t. I have too much to do, but the prospect of being waited on sounds delightful.”
“I’ll remember that.” He held out his arm. She slid a hand in the crook, barely brushing his arm, yet sending his thoughts careening into risky territory.
Whoa, Jacobs.
They sauntered toward the café, clouds scuttling across the noonday sky, but at least for now, the rain had stopped. He was crazy for doing this. Two hours ago, her son had proposed marriage—the institution he steered clear of. He should be avoiding her and all the expectations wrapped up with her, like her family—a family clearly needing a male leader. And he was anything but. Yet Luke found himself drawn again and again to Mary Graves, a stethoscope to her heartbeat. In her presence, he felt whole. As if he was more than a man who created medicine in a lab, more than his profession. With her, he felt linked to another human being, which both alarmed and thrilled him. Mary had appeared in his life, taken his well-thought-out plans and, without meaning to, had tossed them aside. The reasons he’d given himself for staying—Ben’s asthma, Doc’s need for help—were pathetic excuses.
In truth, Mary Graves kept him here. She and his son.
They were also the reasons he would leave. Not that she’d have him, but he couldn’t tie himself to anyone. Not even two people as special as Ben and Mary.
