The Fullness of Time--A Novel of Watervalley

by Jeff High

  “Have you told Christine about the letter?”

  "Well, to clarify. Which letter are we talking about? The research offer from Vanderbilt or the one I wrote to Santa?"

  “Cut the crap, sawbones. I’m talking about the one from Vanderbilt, the job you turned down.”

  I folded my arms and studied him for a moment. The letter had arrived over a month ago and was now a forgotten matter. Something was compelling John to bring it up again.

  “No. I haven’t told her. What would be the point? My life is here.”

  “Did you throw the letter away?”

  “No.”

  “I see. So, what’s that telling you?”

  “It’s telling me I haven’t thrown it away. Why are we having this conversation?”

  John stared out above the lights of Fleming Street and exhaled into the frozen air. “I may have screwed up.”

  “Screwed up how?”

  “I may have said something to Madeline about the letter.”

  "You may have, or you did?"

  “Fine. I did.”

  I was speechless. Instantly, a dozen panicked voices screamed for center stage. I gathered myself, speaking firmly, deliberately. “Hold it. You’re telling me that you told Madeline Chambers, Christine’s mother, that I had a job offer from Vanderbilt to do research. Something I chose not to tell Christine for reasons you fully understood.”

  John nodded gravely, breathing out his swallowed response. “Yeah.”

  I could feel the blood rush to my face. “Holy crap, John! Do you have any idea what kind of mess this puts me in?”

  He glanced at me briefly before looking away. “I know. I know. I’m sorry. I screwed up.”

  "I received that letter right after Christine was diagnosed. She was devastated. Did you forget that little detail?"

  John held up his hands in surrender, shaking his head. “I know. I know. I remember all of it.”

  My rant was quick and bitter. "Well, apparently you don't remember the part where I told you why. I love Christine, and she loves this town. After learning she had premature ovarian failure she was an emotional wreck. I wasn't about to burden her with the thought of leaving Watervalley, not on top of the torment that she may never be able to have kids. Between the heartbreak of going and the guilt for not going, the whole business would have been an emotional can of worms for her. I didn't want to put her through that. Now it's all going to come out anyway, and you just layered that happy cesspool of feelings with a healthy dose of ‘by the way honey, I don't trust you with the truth, either.'"

  John pressed his lips together tightly, saying nothing more. He despondently looked at me, accepting the full brunt of my admonishment. I knew he was a proud man who rarely miss-stepped. His clear remorse served to diffuse my angry state. The damage had been done. Further berating him would serve no purpose. I spoke strategically.

  “Okay, when did this happen?”

  “Right before the service tonight. I mean look, Madeline may not have said anything to Christine yet.”

  “Well, seeing how they stood right next to each other in the choir, I’d say Madeline had both motive and opportunity. Don’t you, professor?”

  John shrugged. “Yeah. Good point.”

  Utterly bewildered, I took a step back and pressed my hands to my head, still trying to assimilate all the pieces. John filled in the silence.

  "Look, just tell Christine that it was my idea and that I told you it would be best not to say anything."

  “Oh. There’s a great plan. Let’s cover the whole thing up with a lie.”

  He frowned, offering an acknowledging shrug. “Well, gee. When you put it that way, it doesn’t sound like such a great idea.”

  “No, John. Not telling her was my call. I’ll just have to work it out.”

  “Hey listen. It may not even be a problem. When I saw the look on Madeline’s face, I realized what I had done. So, I came up with a pretty quick response that may have diffused the whole thing.”

  This was a glimmer of hope. “Really? What did you say?”

  “I um, I gave her a confused look and said, ‘Or you know, maybe I just dreamed Luke got a letter.’”

  “Maybe I just dreamed Luke got a letter? Seriously? That’s the best you got?”

  “Look. It was tough to be creative on the spur of the moment. Madeline’s known me forever. She can see right through me just like her sister did.”

  “You’re not helping here, John.” I bent and looked through the front window, searching. “Have you been inside? Is Christine even here?”

  “Yeah, she’s here.”

  “Have you spoken to her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “She seemed fine.”

  I was deliberating, chasing my options, already rehearsing the words I would need to repair the wounded feelings. But it was all a cloud of uncertainty. I grasped for signs of what to expect. “Hmm, I don’t know. I don’t like it. She left the service without even speaking to me. That doesn’t bode well.”

  John pursed his lips. “Hard to say.”

  “So, what do you think?”

  "I think your guess is as good as mine," John smirked and looked away, returning to his derisive self. "Probably even better...considering, you know, you're sober and I'm not.

  “That’s comforting.”

  Having served his penance, John had regained some of his imposing stride. He slapped an authoritative hand on my shoulder, gripping me firmly.

  "Oh, come on, sport. Let's go face the music. This was my screw up. I'll go with you and draw fire, so maybe you won't get shot up too badly."

  "Thanks for the sentiment, John. But this conversation won't involve a wingman. I'll have to do it on my own."

  My stomach churned. I had no way of foretelling Christine's response. Perhaps she would see it as no big deal. Perhaps she would understand my reasons. But even if that were the case, the past would shadow the future. I feared that my previous silence would haunt her. The knowledge of the offer would linger at the edges of every conversation, every plan, every decision. There were many reasons for not taking the position. But now Christine would justifiably believe that she was standing between me and my dream job. This wasn't the end of the world, and I knew that any damage would eventually mend. Yet in the moment, I was consumed with a dreadful, sickening feeling, one that I wanted to put behind me as soon as possible.

  We were about to head inside when suddenly, the front door flew open and out stepped a very unhappy Connie Thompson. Penance would have to wait.

  Chapter 5

  SPARKS FLY

  WHY ARE YOU TWO HIDING out here? And look at you, Luke Bradford. Who are you trying to be... not showing up to your own party and all, The Great Gatsby?"

  John responded casually. "Merry Christmas to you too, Constance. Looks like you've already made your choice between naughty and nice."

  Connie's neck stiffened. She closed the door behind her and spoke in a breezy monotone. "My, my, John. I can see that you've entered full clown mode just for the occasion. Can I get you anything...a slice of cake, a glass of punch, a likable personality?"

  These two had known each other for decades, even graduating high school together where Connie had edged him out for Valedictorian. And while there was between them a long-standing one-ups-manship, beneath the surface, there was also a deep and abiding friendship, a lifetime of privately shared regard and respect.

  "Play nice, Constance. Tell you what. Meet me under the mistletoe, and you can demonstrate some of that Christmas goodwill towards men.”

  “Umm hmm,” responded Connie. “Personally, I favor the death penalty for whoever came up with that holiday tradition.”

  “Gee, no kiss? I’m heartbroken,” John replied teasingly. “Tell me what will change your mind?”

  “Probably a ransom note for one of my children.”

  John winked at me. “I’ve lost my touch, Luke. I’m going to need some more grog in my nog
.”

  Connie crossed her arms. “John Harris, I should have known that given your lack of maturity, you’d be getting a little pie-eyed.”

  “Now, now, Connie. Why should I solve my problems with maturity when alcohol is so readily available?”

  “John, the inherent lack of intelligence in that statement could be plumbed for decades. I’d love to deliberate this deranged logic of yours further, but I’d hate for you to burn up that thimble full of testosterone you carry so proudly.”

  Even John was hard pressed to hide his amusement. “Constance, don’t you need to go somewhere dark and hang upside down for a while?”

  Connie raised her chin, doing her best to feign indignation. “John Horatio Harris, it’s a good thing I’ve got the love of Jesus in me. Because otherwise, I would have already slapped your nose around to the back of your hairy head. You’d go to your grave looking like ‘Cousin It’ from the Adam’s Family.”

  John responded innocently. “Constance, why are you being so nice to me this evening?”

  “I’m just stalling while my cattle prod recharges.”

  “You know what I think, Connie?”

  "No telling, John. A penny for your thoughts seems a bit pricey."

  “All this sauciness of yours just makes you all the sexier.”

  Connie shook her head, regarding her old friend with an odd mix of compassion and reprimand. She spoke bluntly. "John, you've got your beer goggles on, and you're just being foolish. There's plenty of sweets inside if you want some granulated sugar. But know this, as far as any lipulated sugar goes, if teasing turns to trying you'll be spending Christmas Eve with the paramedics."

  John grinned and turned to me. “I just love a girl who plays hard to get.”

  Connie ignored him. “I have a better idea. Why don’t you two get inside before I start to whap both of you on the head like a whack-a-mole game.”

  I finally intervened. “We’re just wrapping up, Connie. We’ll be in shortly.”

  She scrutinized us for a moment, apparently not satisfied with my response. "Well, hurry along, Moe, and bring Curly here with you. Christine’s been looking for you.”

  With that she stepped back inside, shutting the front door with an accentuated whump.

  "Well, you just walked right into that butt whooping, didn't you?"

  John was undaunted. “Eh, it’s nothing. She adores me. Women love it when I give them a hard time. It just endears me to them all the more.”

  “Remind me never to hire you as a life coach.”

  The evening had become surreal, taking on more drama than a Greek tragedy. Between all the theater with Matthew House, John's slip up, Connie's angst, and my looming chastisement from Christine, the night had turned into a blur. Furthermore, Connie's last words about Christine sent a menacing spike into my already convulsive stomach.

  I breathed a long, airy sigh. "Well, John. I think it's time to head in." He penitently nodded his agreement. With his empty tumbler in tow, John led the way; his expression wooden, detached. He knew my encounter with Christine was imminent and the impending dread in my manner was likely contagious.

  I followed him, my heart sick with apprehension. I had so looked forward to this evening, to a warm, cluttered house bursting at the seams with laughter and celebration. Yet now I crossed the threshold of my own home, anxiously scanning the faces before me and brooding uneasily over what was about to happen.

  Chapter 6

  EXPECTATIONS

  MY ENTRANCE SPARKED a spontaneous chorus of shouts and greetings that surged from room to room as word passed that the host had finally arrived. In truth, it was both odd and embarrassing to be so warmly greeted to my own party. Ironically, there was an unreserved acceptance of my ill-timed entrance. The erratic nature of a doctor’s work bred a tolerance for such delinquency, even when my tardiness had nothing to do with anything medical.

  Every inch of my crowded cottage home was bursting with high spirits; a festive roar of noise, chatter, and the occasional explosion of howling laughter. Voices fought to be heard above the rumbling thump and beat of the music. Children spilled into the hallway, gleefully dodging and chasing. The air was electric, filled with a pungent brew of baked goods, mulled cider, and the resinous, woody smell of pine wreaths.

  It seemed that the gathering had achieved a status of blissful chaos. In every direction was an ocean of smiles, a grand pageant of eager celebration. I responded warmly to the many handshakes and hellos, but all the while I was feverishly searching for Christine.

  After not seeing her in the entry hall, living, or dining room, I began to edge my way toward the oversized kitchen in the back. The path was crowded and the conversations were many, delaying my progress and intensifying the spastic knot in my stomach. I had to practically shout to be heard above the den. When I finally shouldered my way into the packed kitchen, Christine was not to be seen. My spirits sunk even lower. "Surely, she wouldn't just leave," I thought. I moved to the rear entry to see if she might be part of a small gathering on the back porch. There was no sign of her.

  I was about to work my way toward the front of the house when there she was, across the room descending the back stairs into the kitchen. Her mother, Madeline was with her. They were thick in conversation and had slipped upstairs for a private discussion. I felt confirmed in my darkest forebodings. But when Christine spotted me across the room, her expression was completely unexpected.

  Her eyes softened, and her yielding smile conveyed a sense of complete and total affection, full of secret warmth and joy. Her momentary gaze held the affirming intimacy shared by two in love, an understanding that went past words or spoken vows. Unfortunately, she was immediately engaged by one of the guests, drawing her attention away. But she seemed flushed with a happy energy. This was not someone fresh with the disappointment of upsetting news.

  I began to breath new air. As the strangling anxiety of the previous minutes vanished, the pendulum of my emotions swung decidedly, leaving me euphorically floating on a wave of relief and deliverance. But I sobered quickly and resolved to tell Christine about the letter at the earliest possible moment.

  I began to move in her direction when a broad, pudgy hand grabbed me on the shoulder.

  “Hey doc, got a minute?”

  It was Walt Hickman, the mayor of Watervalley. While everyone else at the party was dressed in casual holiday style, Walt was wearing his suit, as if he had no other life to change into. In his early fifties, he had a bald spot and more than a suggestion of a paunch around his waist. But he seemed to be cheerfully unconcerned with either. Collectively, I liked Walt. He had an all-embracing affection for the town and approached his job with the zeal of a missionary.

  “I heard tell you had a conversation this evening with the new innkeeper, Dr. House?”

  “Wow. That news travelled fast. But yeah. We spoke for a few minutes after the service tonight. I saw you there. Did you not meet him?”

  "Only long enough to make introductions. I told Matthew I would love to have lunch with him sometime, but I didn't get a really good vibe in return. Seemed evasive. What do you think of him?"

  “Not much to tell. It was a short conversation. But, he’s a likeable fellow. Kind of quiet.”

  “You think he’s up to something?”

  I was slightly taken aback. “What do you mean?”

  Walt shrugged and scratched the back of his head. "Honestly, doc, I'm not sure what I mean. I can't quite figure him out."

  “Walt, I think you’re looking for answers to questions that don’t exist.”

  He nodded, perplexed. "Yeah, you may be right. But then again, there's been a lot of rumors floating around about him. I'm willing to give the guy the benefit of the doubt, but it seems awfully strange for him not to be out and meeting people...you know, engage with the community."

  “It also seems unfair to put him on trial by innuendo. You do know he lost his wife earlier this year?”

  “Yeah. That’s gotta
be tough. They say it was cancer.”

  I caught a faint hint of skepticism in his tone. “Have you heard otherwise?”

  Walt held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. "Hey, again. It's just a rumor. But when a guy comes to town to be in the hospitality business and all he does is keep to himself...people start to wonder."

  “Wonder what?”

  “He’s a smart guy. Maybe he knows how to poison somebody and make it cause cancer. I’m just saying.”

  "Oh, good grief, Walt! Are you serious? You saw him tonight. He was Mr. Vanilla from Vanilla Land. There wasn't the first thing cold or calculated about him. He's a widower with two kids to raise. Cut him some slack. Besides, he's been busy settling in. He said there were a lot of renovations he needed to do to the place."

  “Oh, really? Did he say when?”

  “Well. Not exactly. He was a little vague on the point.”

  Walt fell silent. He tucked one arm under the other and rubbed his chin, thinking. He grunted a low “hmm.”

  “What?” I inquired. “Seems to me that adds yet another layer of pressure on the guy. He’s probably going to be in hock up to his ears before he makes the first dollar.”

  Walt’s face tightened into a doubting wince. “Eh, I don’t think that’s going to be the case, doc.”

  “How so?”

  Walt looked from side to side before shouldering next to me, signaling that his next words were confidential. "I heard tell Lida sold the place for a chunk of change. Your boy paid cash. I don't think he's too worried about money."

  “So, what does that prove?”

  “Not a thing. But, his wife was a doctor, like you. The rumor is that she came from a lot of money to boot. And I imagine she was covered with a ton of life insurance.”

  I understood Walt's insinuation, but candidly, I was mildly indignant to it. I knew he meant no harm and that to him this was idle chatter. But it embodied one of the failings of small-town life, the presumptive need to assume the worst of those who didn't fit the norm. I responded with a notable level of sternness. "Well, for Matthew's sake, I hope she did."