Behind him, Scott chuckled. He tossed the paper plates and jerked a thumb at Roger. “You won’t get much work out of him tomorrow.”
“Why not?” Emily smiled and hoped it wasn’t too evident she’d been crying.
“He’ll be sleep-deprived. After five caffeine-laden sodas, he’ll be spending the night wide awake.”
“Don’t you worry about me. I’ll be fresh as a daisy.” Roger stuck his head in the fridge and brought out another soda, grinning until he saw Lauren’s face.
“If you’re not helping to clean the kitchen, get out of it.”
Roger glanced around. “I can’t tell that you’ve been working on it.”
Lauren glared and pointed over her shoulder toward the living room.
He stole a kiss. “I’m going. I’m going.”
****
At the end of the evening, Emily hugged Lauren good-bye, blew a kiss to Roger, and walked with Scott to her car. “You seem right at home with the Norrises.”
“Yeah, Lauren worries about me being a bachelor and all. Like it’s a violation of nature, and hiding under her wing will stave off evil spirits.”
“That sounds like Lauren.”
“She’s probably watching us now, you know.”
“Why?” Emily looked back at the house, and the living room curtain dropped.
“Like I said, being a bachelor is a violation of nature.”
“You mean she’s trying to fix us up?”
“Yep.” Scott opened the car door for her and leaned against its frame as she slid behind the wheel. “I know how we can ease her meddling heart.”
“How?”
“Come to church with me in the morning.”
Emily studied her keys, running her finger over their jagged edges. Maybe if Lauren hadn’t confronted her about Wade, she would’ve considered Scott’s offer. But the whole Houston experience was still raw, still just under the surface like an almost-healed wound that both itched and ached. Discussing it tonight reopened the wound—and she hadn’t even told Lauren everything. What remained locked in her heart was the very thing she couldn’t imagine Scott forgiving if he knew.
“Don’t tell me you’ve stopped going to church.” He crouched near her, leaning against the car. “You used to be the one insisting our group went every time the doors were opened.”
“I don’t go so much anymore.” After what happened in Houston, she couldn’t go back to church, not even here, almost two hundred miles away. She glimpsed Scott’s knitted brows, and with a forced smile, looked him in the eyes. “Maybe some other time. In the morning, I want to go back to the house and start planning.”
“Sure.” Confusion creased Scott’s forehead, and he rose. “Maybe I’ll see you around the clinic.”
“Of course.” This time her smile was genuine. “Next time Millie catches a cat.”
She started her engine and pulled from the drive. And waved at Lauren in the living room window.
****
Scott watched Emily’s taillights disappear before turning and stalking back to the house. He knocked and then poked his head in the door. “Mind if I come in?”
Lauren, still kneeling on the sofa cushion under the window, blushed blood red at getting caught spying. But she recovered quickly. Clambering off the couch, she confronted him. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“You know very well what.” She crossed her arms. “Did you ask her out or not?”
Roger dismissed her with a flick of his hand. “Leave him alone about that, you ol’ busybody. He’ll ask her when he’s ready.”
“Actually, I’ve been ready. I’ve asked her out several times, but she always says no.” He shoved his hands in his front pockets and rocked on his heels. “I just asked her if she’d go to church with me in the morning.”
Lauren clapped her hands. “What did she say?”
“No. She said no. But it’s the way she looked that’s getting me—like I’d invited her to her own execution.” He slumped on the sofa cushion Lauren had just vacated. “I don’t understand. Did she talk to you? I saw that she’d been crying when you two were in the kitchen. Did she tell you anything?”
“Yeah, we talked.”
Scott waited, but it was Roger who prompted her. “Well, what did she say?”
Lauren flipped her hands out. “You know I can’t tell you that. It’s the code among best friends that we don’t go telling each other’s secrets.”
Blowing out a breath, Scott dropped his elbows to his knees and his head into his hands.
Lauren perched on the sofa arm and rubbed his shoulders. “I will tell you this. She didn’t do anything wrong, but knowing her, she’s feeling like she committed some unpardonable sin. Maybe she’s just not ready for church yet. Why don’t you take her somewhere else?”
“Yeah. Seems like I read something...” Roger retrieved the newspaper from beside his recliner and flipped it open. “Here. This is it.”
He folded it to the place and handed it to Scott, jabbing at the page. “Try this.”
Scott read the ad in the Entertainment section and bolted upright. “This is perfect!”
12
Think of anything other than elephants. Try not to picture a purple elephant. No pink and purple elephants should cross your mind. Why would you even want to see pink and purple polka-dotted elephants? Just don’t think about them.
But you did, didn’t you?
Same thing happens to me every time I tell myself not to look down.
Concentrate on that mewing kitten just one more limb out of reach. Try to stretch to that terrified orange-splotched Manx and get her out of the tree.
Don’t look down!
Just because there’s a hiatus on using the charities account doesn’t mean there’s a hiatus on cat-catching. Folks are always looking for a cuddly pet—two more were adopted just last week. All I have to do is catch ’em and love on ’em until they’re cuddly again. No one wants a feral cat.
Right now, I can’t tell whether that Manx is wild or just scared—like I am.
My legs clamp around the limb I’m straddling, and I wrap an arm around a sturdy branch while my other hand keeps a firm clasp on my net, which I’m too chicken to extend to the cat. And that’s all it would take. Just stretch out and drape the net over her. Then she’d go berserk, and I’d fall out of the tree and land on my keister right smack in the middle of the fire ant mound beneath me.
A whiff of smoke tickles my nose, and the urge to sneeze hits. I let out a whoppin’ Ah-choo! and the kitten gets a bolt of courage, leaps from the tree, and darts away in a colorful blur. Now I’m stuck on this limb with a net and no prey. At least I’m in a good place to find the source of the smoke.
I wrap both arms around the branch and swivel a bit to peek over my shoulder. Sirens are blaring. The whole sky over the downtown area is covered in a billowing gray cloud.
Dear Father in Heaven, not the diner!
My pounding heart drives me into action. I toss my net beyond the fire ants and scoot backward on the limb until I’m up against the tree trunk. After one huge stabilizing breath, I swing down to the ground. I don’t land on my keister and nothing’s broken, so I grab my tote and net and hightail it up the street to town. “Hightail” being relative, of course. Turtles would giggle at my hobbling gait.
The street changes from dun concrete to red brick, marking the entry to the town square, and I rest against the pale pink stucco of the Jarrott’s Pharmacy building. Always liked that pink building. Looks great against the red street.
Says the woman dressed in green and blue.
I catch my breath, walk to the front of the pharmacy, and turn the corner. There’s the diner, its white storefront and blue canopy hazy under the smoke, but it’s all right. The fire seems to be beyond it. At the corner opposite mine, Annie is standing with her arm around Clara, the diner’s owner. Some of the other merchants hover nearby. They have their backs to me, watching the fire trucks screechi
ng to a halt on the street behind the diner. I limp over and prop a hand on Annie’s shoulder for support.
“Any idea who’s house it is?” I ask.
“Homer and Eloise’s place.”
Clara’s fingers are splayed across her mouth, and deep creases etch in her ancient face. Homer Peritte is her brother.
“I don’t know what they’ll do,” she says from behind her fingers. “They’re on a fixed income, and with Eloise’s condition...”
Several years ago, when Eloise’s hands were paining her something awful, she finally went to the doctor. Rheumatoid arthritis, he’d said, and put her on steroids for a good while. The medicine caused her bones to become so fragile, she broke a hip a few years ago and has been in a wheelchair since. Last winter, she cracked a rib just by coughing.
The city of Dogwood suffered when she lost the use of her hands. She could no longer crochet baby blankets to donate to the maternity ward or lap quilts for the nursing home. The police and fire departments still keep her afghan throws in their vehicles for when they find someone in shock or just plain cold, but the comforters will never be replaced unless someone else takes up the challenge.
Such a sweet, giving lady...and now this.
The police have blocked the street and are doing their best to avert the curious, but we wander up to the yellow sawhorse barriers just the same. We’re not the only ones. Folks line both sides of the street as if some parade was featuring zebras instead of cop cars.
One young man wanders away, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He wasn't wearing the hood—kids call a jacket like that a hoodie—but why he’s wearing it in August beats me. Even the coldest of cold-natured folks don’t need a jacket in August.
Down the street, Homer and Eloise are a safe distance from their home, thank the Lord. From beside her, Homer leans into his wife’s wheelchair, holding her the best he can. Both of their crinkled faces contort as they watch the beast devour a lifetime of memories. Eloise’s bent, gnarled hands cover her face, and she slumps in her chair, her narrow shoulders shaking.
My own tears fall as I watch the flames licking the sky.
I can’t take it anymore. In spite of the hiatus, I need to do something.
****
Distant sirens made Scott look over his shoulder as he climbed from his truck in front of the clinic. A black, roiling cloud rose from the downtown area. His chest clamped around his heart. The smoke looked awfully close to The Litter Box—and Emily. Could her apartment be on fire?
He raised a foot to the running board of his truck, ready to climb back in and speed to town, but a sedan pulled in beside him. From the passenger side, a blue-eyed blonde, about twelve years old, gave him a tearful glance. Her mother got out, her own face red with signs of crying. “Barkley was attacked by another dog. Please, please see if you can help him.”
Scott turned and watched the smoke trail toward them on the wings of a high-altitude breeze. He traced the line back to its source, and again his heart clutched as he pictured how near the fire seemed to Emily’s place.
“Please?” The child’s plea wrenched him in two.
With another glance over his shoulder, he closed his truck door and opened the car door for the young girl. “Let’s see what I can do.”
A rat terrier wrapped in a bloody green towel panted on the girl’s lap, its eyes dull with pain. “So this is Barkley, huh? What’s your name?”
“Ashley.” She sniffed, and fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. “Can you fix him?”
“I can sure try.” He lifted the towel-wrapped package from her lap and motioned for them to follow him into the clinic and to an examination room, where he laid the whimpering bundle on a stainless table and called for his nurse.
Gently uncovering his patient from the towel, Scott examined the extent of its wounds—several lacerations, one of which was a four inch gash at the dog’s throat.
His nurse, Tammy Gaston, appeared through the side door and smiled at Ashley and her mother, who had introduced herself as Janet Morrison. Tammy looked at the injured dog. "Poor thing."
Scott took Tammy aside. "Start an IV, okay? Let's see if we can eliminate some of his pain."
He motioned for Janet and Ashley to join him at the door to the exam room. “It’d be best if you wait outside for a bit.” He ushered them into the lobby. “Dani will take care of you.”
He glanced out the clinic’s glass-paneled entry doors toward town and clenched his jaw. The smoke hadn’t diminished, it rose and curled and traveled the high wind as if led by some winged devil. If only he knew Emily was safe. But a tearful child sniffing from a waiting-room chair spurred him to return to work.
On his way back to the examination room, he stopped by Dani’s desk. “Call The Litter Box for me, would you?”
“You don’t think—”
“I don’t know yet.”
A few minutes later, as he examined Barkley more closely—discovering the dog also had a disjointed hip—Dani poked her head into the room. “No response.”
His stomach twisted. Where was Emily?
“Do you want me to try again?”
“Yes—no.” Once he got involved with the dog, he wouldn’t be able to take the phone. “I’ll call when I’m through here.”
After ninety minutes of intensive work on the dog’s wounds, Scott summoned Ashley and her mother. He rested a hand on Ashley’s thin shoulder. “He’s going to be fine. He lost a bit of blood and his hip is going to be sore for a while, but he’s going to be all right. He’s unconscious right now, and I’d like to keep him overnight, but when we release him, he’ll have to wear a cone around his neck.” Tammy lifted a translucent plastic cone to show them. “This will keep him from chewing on the stitches.”
With a nod, Scott left the rest of the instructions for Tammy to give and slipped out of the room.
Dani called to him. “Porki’s next. Room two.”
Scott groaned. The Vietnamese pot-bellied pig had a tendency to eat things that caused gas. He was undoubtedly there for some gastro-intestinal ailment, and his effluvia would make examination a challenge. The room itself would be out of commission for the rest of the day so it could air out. “Be there in a minute.”
He landed in his worn leather desk chair and dialed The Litter Box. Five rings, no answer. After another five, just in case Emily was in the refuge instead of her apartment, he tried her cell. Still no answer. With a huff, he rocked the chair, making it squeal. No answer didn’t mean no problem. But it didn’t mean something was wrong either. Lord, please don’t let anything be wrong.
****
“You can’t do anything about it this time, Emily.” Connor rested his forearms on his polished mahogany desk and interlocked his beefy fingers. “Aside from your basic living expenses, you have a mortgage now. Renovations to finance. The Sawyer boy’s hospital bills. You can’t do all that and help the Perittes—not to the extent you have in mind.”
He was right. With all her plans, her funds would be tighter than the lid on a pickle jar until her next installment. And his list of her expenses didn’t include the mortgage on The Litter Box. But there had to be a way. “I know I haven’t gone through the entire down payment on Deck the Walls. Surely I can spare some of it.”
“It’s invested. You can’t touch it without hefty penalties and taxes.”
She rose from the padded client’s chair to gaze out the dingy windows. The office occupied a corner in the top floor of the tallest building in town which, in a city of just over thirty thousand, stood only six stories high. Still, from the corner windows, she could see much of the town below, sprawled like a lazy snake sunning along the railroad tracks. Not a block away, the charred sacrilege that was once a beautiful old Georgian home profaned the town’s serenity. Wisps of smoke from still-glowing embers whispered of violence.
Homer Peritte had been her high school history teacher. Eloise had been her grandmother’s closest friend. The thought of being unable to he
lp them scorched Emily’s throat as surely as the tongues of that fiery monster had scorched the Perittes’ possessions. There had to be something she could do.
She turned to face Connor. “What about the CDs? Won’t a few come due soon?”
“Those are a minor asset—personal emergencies only. Besides, the Perittes are going to need more than you have in those CDs.” He joined her, his brows lifted, giving his bulldog face a sympathetic countenance. “Skateboards are one thing, Em, but you simply don’t have enough to help the Perittes.”
Emily slumped against the credenza under the window, her strength sapped as if she’d spent the day rebuilding the house herself.
“You’re acting as if it’s all on your shoulders. They have insurance. They have more friends in this town than they realize. Everyone will want to help them—” His face brightened. “That’s what you could do. Organize a fundraiser. You’re good at it. Then we’ll see what funds are available and maybe you could supplement some of what’s needed.”
“I can do that. I know of several ways to raise money.” She snatched her purse off the chair, planted a kiss on his plump, ruddy cheek, and headed for the door. “I can’t wait to get started.”
“Hang on. Don’t go yet.” Connor lifted his briefcase and opened it on his desk. “Did you see today’s paper?”
“No, not yet. Why?”
He withdrew a newspaper, found the page he wanted, and creased it to a quarter of its size. His face was grim as he handed it to her. “Look at this.”
On page three, on the inside column above the fold, a personal ad glared in bold print from its flowery border.
The Sawyer family would like to extend their heartfelt appreciation to the benevolent person who made our son’s surgery possible. Due to your generosity, Mitchell will have a fighting chance to beat this cancer. No words can express how deeply grateful we are.
“Oh, that’s sweet. But why are you worried about it?”
“I just thought you should see it. I know how you like to keep your activities a secret.”
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