“Not saying otherwise. But does she feel lucky to work with me? That’s the question. For this to have a chance at working, it’s gotta be a two-way street, Jack.”
“Give it time. Sydney will respect your abilities when she sees you in action. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re nervous about this. Cut the feeling sorry for yourself crap and get in work-mode.”
“Anxious, nervous, and then some. I haven’t picked up a scalpel in two years.”
“Neither have I. You won’t be performing open heart surgery, Quent. Trust me on that. Even I send the more difficult cases over to Santa Cruz. Besides, you’ve had almost two years of physical therapy. You’re ready. I know because I talked to your personal physician.”
“You called Raynor?”
“You said I could so I did. We both know coming here is a step down for a skilled surgeon like yourself, but…”
“Come on, you don’t have to keep blowing smoke up my ass. You were one of the best chief surgeons in San Francisco before you retired the first time. I know you’re desperate to unload your practice and I’m the first taker, so there’s no need for an excess of flattery.”
“Now you listen to me. I know you were one of the finest cutters to come out of Pritzker School of Medicine. You had ten years of brilliance and grandeur in the ER. You were a God back in that trauma center.”
“And so were you at one time in a much larger hospital.”
“We both know why you chose South Lake Tahoe. You forget your dad and I crossed paths a time or two. I’m aware of everything he did for Tahoma in his day. I know you felt deep down that you had an obligation to follow in his footsteps. You did it your way. And that’s fine…”
“I did it because South Lake needed a trauma surgeon. Period. But now they have another one just as good.”
“Sure. The bullet that night might’ve changed who you were as a surgeon but not as a doctor. You can still practice medicine and be a major factor if you want to be, but it’s up to you how you go about it. Here, in a slower pace, a slower environment, you’ll see your fair share of colds and flu, some pneumonia, and enough cysts to make you second guess why you ended up here. It won’t be like the glory days you had in the ER. But you’ll still be helping people, just on a smaller scale.”
“I don’t want it to sound like I’m ungrateful for the chance you’re giving me, because I’m very appreciative.”
“But…?”
“No buts. When next Monday comes around I’ll step into your shoes as planned.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear. I also thought you might want to come in next week and spend my last days going over charts and getting to know a few of the more complicated cases.”
“Sounds good. Run it by your nurse though. I don’t want a scene on my first day.”
“Wow, you really feel there’s that kind of friction between you two?”
“Why don’t you ask her how she feels about me?”
“Jeez. Maybe I’ll do that. Before I forget, Belle wants to invite you over for Sunday dinner. A pork roast with all the trimmings.”
“Now how could I say no to a home-cooked meal?”
“If you’re smart, you won’t. See you on Sunday.”
After the call ended, Quentin decided he’d stop worrying about jumping into Jack’s practice. It would either work itself out or it wouldn’t. But he didn’t like the idea of failing. So he’d spend the next few days going over his techniques, a skillset he could once perform without any effort.
He glanced around the bare-bones loft and decided to stop obsessing about finishing it. Yes, there was a downside to biting off such a large project, one that might easily keep him busy well into next spring. But then what was the harm in that? What else did he have to do but win over an entire town by proving himself to be a terrific doctor? Certainly he had to start with Sydney Reed. Next week would be as good a time as any.
He thought of his grandmother. Despite the fact that Winona Channing Blackwood had urged him to start over here, he was sure she thought he’d gone a little mad. He could sense her worry over the phone. Even though he spent a good deal of his time trying to reassure her he could do the job, he sensed doubt there. He wasn’t convinced his grandmother believed him. Winona had always been a tough sell. Not that she didn’t love and support him—he knew she did. But he couldn’t help feeling she had qualms about whether he could make it work.
He chewed on that and decided it just meant he had one more person to win over. He told himself he could still practice medicine. He supposed there were worse things than leaving surgery behind for good and going into a private practice where he peered into kids’ ears or got them to say “aah” on a regular basis.
Jack was right. Even if the idea of practicing medicine was seeing patients with colds instead of gunshot wounds, he was still helping people. Isn’t that the type of medicine his dad had practiced? And his father had been utterly happy doing it.
While unrolling his sleeping bag, he realized it might work for him. If it took two years to win people over, then so be it. At least he’d know he hadn’t given up, that he’d done his best to turn the corner from that awful night. Outrunning the bad memories was a first step.
He stretched out on the floor and relaxed to the sound of violins coming from the boombox.
A shadow coming from under the trees caught his eye. He stood up and shut off the music. Peering out into the night, he thought he caught sight of a man standing clear as day in the moonlight. But by the time Quentin blinked again, the figure had disappeared into the shelter of eucalyptus.
Just like that, he mused, ghosts could linger in the mind, no matter how far you ran to get away from them. As he settled into his bedroll and got comfortable again, he decided at least the man he’d seen tonight hadn’t been holding a big-ass handgun and pointing the barrel at his heart.
On instinct, Quentin reached up and rubbed at his chest, felt the deep dent of the bullet wound, a reminder that life could change in the blink of an eye.
As he drifted off to sleep, he forced himself to move past the detour his life had taken. Not only had he made a huge change, he was alone in a town where he was considered an outsider. He’d heard the gossip among the locals. The rumors ran hot and cold whether or not he was a high tech crook or a common con man who’d deserved that shot to the chest. Had he been sleeping with another doctor’s wife and the husband caught up with him in that snowy parking lot five days before Christmas? It was amazing how the rumor mill cranked out a slew of false information.
So far he hadn’t felt the urge to set the record straight. He was in no hurry to do so either. Since his closest friends were the team of contractors he’d hired, let the town talk. Let Sydney Reed believe what she wanted to believe.
He’d make the mystery work in his favor. Somehow.
He glanced out the opening at the full moon. November was just getting started. But Thanksgiving was just around the corner. He’d set a goal for himself. By Christmas he hoped to have most of the locals in his corner. He could be outgoing. He just hadn’t been inclined to be sociable lately. He had a decent bedside manner, which he hadn’t practiced in two years.
In the solitude of his loft, he hoped to find himself again, find the old Quentin Blackwood. Lord knew, Pelican Pointe had to be a damn sight better than staying put in South Lake Tahoe and listening to all the gossip there.
Jack was right again. Feeling sorry for himself wouldn’t cut it. He was on a different path now. And he’d gladly accept the challenge and the uncertainty of it. He had to. There really was no other option.
Two
Quentin woke drenched in a wave of warm sunshine. The choir singing in his ear was courtesy of the nest full of Western scrub jay he’d seen making their home near the worn-out pilings.
He sat up, filled his lungs with ocean air and took the time to watch a family of sandpipers pick their way along the beach looking for whatever they could scrounge for breakfast.
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He was still marveling at the peace and quiet when he rolled out of his sleeping bag craving caffeine. Thanks to his crew of carpenters, he had a section they’d carved out for an open kitchen area in one of the corners. Brand-new steel beams ran the length of the space under a sloping skylight. The plan was to add a stainless steel counter that would function as an island.
But right now, without furniture, he used a card table on loan from the local lawyer to hold his coffeemaker and a few discarded plates his grandmother had sent by UPS.
It was the sunshine blasting through the skylight that had him squinting to grind the beans. While he waited for his brew, he decided to grab his laptop and go through his emails. But when he heard steps out on the wooden dock, he stuck his head out the door and waved to Troy and Zach. The men were carrying the vintage spruce dining table he’d ordered.
“Hey there. Sorry we’re so early, but Bree’s roped us into painting the nursery today,” Troy explained.
“And since you don’t have a stick of furniture in this place, we wanted to get your table to you pronto,” Zach added. “We finished the stain three days ago and polished it up for you last night.”
“No problem,” Quentin called out. He ran his hand over the top, admiring the craftsmanship. “You guys do good work. It’s an absolute beauty and fits this spot more than I ever imagined.”
“It turned out fantastic,” Troy boasted, as they maneuvered the seven-foot table through the double doors. “Where do you want it?”
“For now, right in the middle of the side wall. When you guys put in the glass next week, I’ll move it in front of the windows.”
“Eat and look out over the water. I like it,” Troy tossed back. “I also like the workbench look you picked out. Where’d you get the idea for that anyway?”
“I wanted something that was a cross between a rustic look and industrial. I think you guys hit this one out of the park.”
“Want us to make you chairs to go with it?” Zach offered.
“Could you? I don’t think I could find exact ones to match the woodgrain.”
Zach grinned. “No problem. If you haven’t figured it out by this time, we’ll pretty much try to build anything once. How many?”
Quentin’s brow tightened. “Eight would do it, and make two of them arm chairs, you know, for each end of the table.”
“You got it.”
Troy spotted the sleeping bag on the floor and leaned in toward Quentin. “I know you live here alone, man, but shouldn’t you think about getting a bed first?”
“Actually I have my eye on one at that store called Reclaimed Treasures, the one Ryder’s wife owns. It’s made from sapele, a hard-to-find African hardwood. I’m not sure who got rid of it or why they’d part with such a piece as that, but in my book, they don’t know what they let go.”
Zach snapped his fingers. “I know the one you mean. Julianne found that gorgeous planked wood at a dump site and talked Ryder into making a headboard out of it. Troy and I watched him sand it down by hand after a lot of attempts to smooth out the rough spots. He spent days applying several coats of natural tung oil to it before sealing it with a polyurethane finish. Beautiful piece of furniture. You couldn’t go wrong buying that.”
“You guys really should think about going into the furniture-making business,” Quentin chided as he watched them arrange the table just so along the side.
“How’s that look?” Troy asked.
“Perfect. I’ll go get my checkbook.”
“I don’t want to be nosy or anything…” Zach began. “But why don’t you have more furniture than this? If you intend to take over Doc’s practice, you need something better than a bedroll for a decent night’s sleep.”
“When I put my condo on the market, the buyer wanted everything in it, lock, stock, and furniture. At the time, I didn’t mind. A fresh start here meant I could leave the stuff behind without bringing along memories. But now…I’m rethinking selling it all. I did order a mattress off the Internet. It’s supposed to ship next week.” He ripped out the check and handed it off to Troy. “When’s the baby due?”
“Not until mid-May. Bree’s barely two months along. She’s not even showing yet.”
Zach slapped his brother-in-law on the back. “But she still wants that room painted before sundown.”
“That she does. We’re going for a nice neutral color like mint green. That is, unless she hasn’t changed her mind by the time we get back home.”
“Which is a huge possibility,” Zach supplied with a grin. “Bree is my sister but lately she’s all over the place.”
“He’s not wrong,” Troy said, scratching his head. “Hormones, I guess. Come to think about it, with Doc retiring next week, you’ll probably be the one who delivers the baby.”
Quentin rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I haven’t delivered one since my third year of residency.” He threw Troy a grin. “But they tell me it’s like riding a bike. You never forget how. I’m just messing with you.”
Troy returned the beam with a chuckle. “When do you take over?”
“I’ll be around the office next week.”
Zach spread his arms out wide. “So all this goes on the back burner?”
“Probably,” Quentin said with a bob of his head. “That’s why I need to get the windows in.”
“Well, you enjoy your table. We’ll get to work on those matching chairs come Monday.”
“No, you won’t, not until you install the windows first,” Quentin repeated.
“Right. Let’s just hope they arrive on time and the order isn’t delayed,” Zach cited. “Tucker’s been having supply problems lately.”
“He didn’t mention it when I stopped in yesterday.”
“Maybe that’s good news then. How do you like living here so far? It has to be completely unlike anything in the Sierra Nevada.”
Quentin pointed at Zach. “Different isn’t a bad thing. At least here I’m starting from scratch.” He realized he’d carried that liability with him to Tahoma a time or two and dragged it across California. Tahoma would always be home but the area was no longer for him. He wanted to wake up and see the beach along the horizon instead of mountains. “Have you guys always lived here?”
“Yep. Troy and I’ve been here forever. But I tried Denver some years back. Didn’t like it very much and ended up coming back home. And I’m glad I did. There’s nowhere else like Pelican Pointe, especially when things go south, and you need your family and friends around you.”
“Frankly, I’m glad to hear that.” Quentin did miss his grandmother, though, more than he realized.
“You have family? I mean, I know Mr. Bradford was your uncle, but besides him is there anyone else?”
“My grandmother still lives back in Tahoma. I’m beginning to think coming out here without her might’ve been a mistake.”
“The answer to that is to bring her here,” Zach said with a wink. He looked around the empty shell. “I don’t know her age but as things stand now it’d be difficult for her to maneuver what amounts to little more than a gangplank outside. Unless she’s spry for her age.”
Quentin frowned. “Yeah, I’d already thought of that. Maybe there’s some way to do it, though. The thing is, she’s deeply-rooted back in Tahoma, always has been. She’s a descendant of the Plains Miwok tribe. I’m fairly certain she doesn’t want to leave a place she’s lived all her life.”
Zach shifted a shoulder. “That’s a shame, being older and all. Being around her grandson would probably cheer her up this winter. December to March it gets cold in your old neck of the woods. Maybe you could suggest she winter here and go back to Tahoma when it warms up in the spring.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Quentin said as he walked them across the dock and held out his hand. “Thanks for delivering the table. I know it’s a pain to get anything up and over this stretch of water, that’s why I added a delivery fee to the total, even though you guys said it was free, I appreciate th
e extra effort.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Troy admonished. “We’re the owners.”
“I know, but I wanted to do it. Good luck with painting the nursery. I’ll look forward to meeting Bree when she sets up her first prenatal visit.”
Troy bobbed his head and sent up a wave. “She’s already looking forward to it.”
After the men had gone, Quentin strolled back inside and headed straight to the coffee pot, filled a mug and laced it with his usual dose of half-and-half.
Peanut butter and jelly had always been his favorite as a kid. These days, he practically lived on the stuff. Since he didn’t own a toaster yet, he used regular wheat bread to make his sandwiches, a concoction he’d created himself back in his Johns Hopkins days.
After smearing the right amount of condiments together the way he liked, he took his coffee and headed outside on the back deck to enjoy the food.
Staring out over the tops of the giant cypress growing in a cluster near the bluff, he sat down on one of three old wooden crates he’d found stowed in the musty storage area on the lower level.
Kicking back, he hadn’t eaten half of his first sandwich before he heard a noise at the bottom of the steps. Leaning over the railing, he saw a scrawny kid, maybe thirteen, rummaging through the big green dumpster put there by the construction crew. They’d specifically placed it in that spot next to the side of the building so it would be convenient to dump whatever they ripped out while gutting the insides, like old insulation. It definitely wasn’t suitable for a kid to be digging in, too many old pieces of rotted wood with splinters and rusty nails.
“Hey, what are you doing down there? Be careful around that stuff.”
“It’s just junk!” the boy yelled back. “I’m not hurting anything.”
“Yeah, but some of it is dangerous junk,” Quentin pointed out. “There might be asbestos in there.” He knew that wasn’t true, but the kid didn’t. “Bad stuff for your lungs.” He could tell by the boy’s eyes the teen was thinking about hightailing it out of there. “It’s okay. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
Sandcastles Under the Christmas Moon Page 4
