by Jeff High
“Then that means in about a year, Connie and Estelle will be the owners of the 928 acres.”
“Correct.”
"Why didn't the lawyers contact Connie and Estelle before now?"
“They were following Hiram’s instructions. But when I showed up and provided all the proof about Emily being Hiram’s great-granddaughter and us having owned the King's Street house, along with me now owning Society Hill, I guess they figured what the heck. The story was going to surface within a year anyway. To be honest, I think they were just as curious as I was. The guys I talked to were not part of the original deal. Hiram set this up with their grandfathers, and subsequently, I was able to fill in some blanks for them as well.”
I nodded, absorbing all that Matthew had said. “Amazing.”
"I also learned this. As a cover, Hiram was logging all of the timber on that land back in the twenties. It was probably so no one would think twice about seeing or hearing trucks making deliveries to the old spring house. In keeping with the syrup company façade, he had it replanted with nothing but sugar maples. That's why we saw so many of them."
“Have you told Connie and Estelle about all this?”
“I flew back in yesterday and met with both of them last night.”
“How’d that go?”
“Good. As you know, they’re already well off financially. So, Connie pretty much took it in stride. Estelle, however, got on a tangent about wanting to turn the spring house into a boutique dress shop.”
“Out there?”
“Remember, this is Estelle we’re talking about.”
“Never mind.”
Matthew smiled thinly and fell silent as if he were unsure of his next words. “Um, about tomorrow night. The rehearsal dinner will be over when? Nine-ish?”
“Sounds about right.”
“Well, why don’t you just bring a change of clothes and spend the night.”
I pondered this a moment. “Okay, you sure?”
“I’ve got eight bedrooms for you to choose from.”
“Fair enough. I don’t plan on getting snockered, but then again, it might be a long way back to Fleming Street on hands and knees.”
“Good,” he said. “That’s settled.”
I thought this would bring the meeting to a close but once again Matthew seemed distant, preoccupied. He leaned forward in his chair and was about to speak but hesitated, his face framed in an expression of strained uncertainty.
“Matthew? You okay?”
He looked at me and smiled briefly, seemingly caught in a generous fog. When he finally did speak, it was in a voice that was methodic and calculated.
“Luke, I have one other thing I’d like to talk about.”
“Sure.” Despite what I thought was now a second nature friendship, Matthew was treating me with polite caution. I began to feel a stir of trepidation in the pit of my stomach. Finally, he exhaled a deep sigh and began.
“I haven’t been completely forthcoming about my past.”
“Not sure that’s required.”
"Fair enough. But there's one detail, in particular, that might have some relevance. It's about what I did in the Navy."
“Whoa,” I injected. “I knew it. You were special ops, weren’t you? I bet you’ve killed people with your bare hands.” My question momentarily threw him, and he looked at me blankly.
"No, no. Nothing like that. It was quite the opposite. I worked in the infirmary of an aircraft carrier. I was an Advance Practice RN."
“Seriously?”
"Yeah, I started as a Corpsmen and worked my way up to Lieutenant. I did some civilian work after I got out but, with Emily being a doctor, we decided that one medical professional in the family was enough. I loved languages, so I went back to school and eventually got my doctorate in classical studies.”
I was genuinely impressed, if not a little stunned. How had I missed this? I was retracing moments from the past, things Matthew had said, and the expert bandaging of his burned hand. His admission made perfect sense.
"Well, dang,” I exclaimed lightheartedly. “Can’t say I saw that one coming.” I leaned forward in my chair. “So, an APRN and a doctorate. That’s quite impressive.” I paused again, contemplating for a few seconds. “But why are you telling me this?”
“Because here’s the thing. A moment ago, we both agreed that Connie can be pretty persuasive.”
“That, we did.”
“Well, somehow, Connie found out about my medical experience in the Navy.”
“God probably told her.”
Matthew shrugged. “Certainly a possibility. Anyway, she mentioned last night that you were pretty shaken up by the whole Polly Shropshire affair.”
I pressed my lips together and nodded. “It brought home the fact that any way you slice it, I’m leaving my patients in the lurch.”
“Well, what if you didn’t have to?”
“I don’t understand.”
“What if I took over the day to day running of the clinic? I’m an Advance Practice RN with a Family Nurse Practitioner certification. I know how to do assessments, I’ve handled plenty of burns, broken bones, trauma, and even delivered a baby or two. In Tennessee, I can write prescriptions as long as I have physician oversight.”
“That would be great. But who would be the physician?”
“You would.”
“But I won’t be here.”
"Doesn't matter. I could send you a daily e-mail, or we could talk on the phone once or twice a week. You already know all the patients, and I've got your medical records to go by. I think we could make it work...at least for a year or so while you're on the research grant.”
I'm quite sure that by now I was staring at Matthew with my mouth completely unlatched. The idea seemed impractical at first brush. But with each passing second, it gained more and more plausibility. “Matthew, I don’t know what to say. I mean, I guess this could work. How in the world did you come up with the idea?”
“In truth, I didn’t. Connie did. Like I said, somehow, she found out about my medical past. The more I’ve thought about it, the more I like the idea. But in the end, it’s up to you.”
I recalled my conversation with Connie on the night of the party. She had mentioned that Matthew was a man of many secrets, but naturally, I thought she was talking about the bootlegging and Al Capone connections. I was dumbfounded and ecstatic all in the same breath. Then, a hard realization hit me.
“Matthew, I think this would be incredible. But I’m not so sure Dr. Bray will get on board. He’s a good man, but this may be a stretch.”
“Actually, I think that matter has already been handled.”
“Handled? How?”
“Turns out, Estelle can be pretty persuasive as well. Apparently, she and Dr. Bray are old chums. My understanding is that she called him today and he agreed.
“You’re joking.”
“Nope. Estelle Pillow worked her mojo on your old professor. He’s on board.”
I collapsed back in my chair and tucked my hands under my arms, stunned. “It can’t be this simple.”
“Well, you do realize that you’re the one taking the risk here.”
“How is that?”
“I’ll be working under your license.”
I almost laughed outright. “Matthew, you may be the most detailed and meticulous person I know. I can’t imagine you being anything short of thorough and dogmatic regarding patient care. Besides, an aircraft carrier holds what? About six thousand people?”
“Pretty close.”
“That’s more than the town’s population.”
“And, for what it’s worth. Walt is good with this idea as well. I ran it by him earlier today at the Memorial Building.”
I slumped in my chair. “Oh, great. Now, half the town already knows about it.’
Matthew was casually looking out the window and spoke with quiet authority. “Mmm, I doubt it.”
“What makes you so sure?”
He squared his shoulders and absently rubbed his chin. The self-assured, military side of him was sieving through. “Because I have a carry permit. Just so happens that I was showing Walt my Glock while we were talking. I mentioned to him how disappointed I would be if he even told his shadow about our conversation.” Having said this, Matthew leaned forward in his chair, winked at me, and spoke in an amused whisper. “Walt's an easy read. He's still a little intimidated by me, and according to the rumors, he still thinks I might have killed my wife. I figured I’d keep him guessing.”
We both laughed spontaneously, wrapped in the jubilant, conspiratorial air of thick comradery. “Matthew, this is...well, this is incredible. Are you sure?”
"Yeah, I am. Watervalley is my town, now. I've got medical training, and I can help out. It’s a good fit.” He pressed his lips together in a gesture of quiet assurance. Then he added, “besides, remember when you came to my rescue on Christmas Eve? I told you that night that I'd like to return the favor. I know it’s not quite the same, but maybe this can rescue your peace of mind.”
I nodded thoughtfully. “More than you know.”
Matthew fell back in his chair, clearly happier than I had ever seen him. Filled with an irrepressible smile, he lifted his chin and looked at me appraisingly. “Well, Luke. Looks like the ball’s in your court. What do you think?”
I stared at him for a moment, puzzled that he would even ask the question. “I think we need to go tell the staff!”
Chapter 50
BACHELOR PARTY
MY PLAN ON FRIDAY WAS to work until noon and take the balance of the day off. The wedding rehearsal was at four that afternoon. But the day was one of continuous and delightful interruptions. Throughout the morning a stream of well-wishers stopped by to congratulate, tease, and offer advice. More than I realized, the people I served...especially the elderly, had taken a certain custodial ownership of me and felt compelled to connect, to counsel, and perhaps to seek closure. Despite the smiles, I could see a sense of loss in their eyes. I had sworn the staff to secrecy about the pending arrangement with Matthew until all the details were finalized; practically making them spit in their hand and shake on the matter.
At three o’clock I was still seeing patients, but it mattered little. All I had to do was stop by the house to shower and change clothes before driving the seven blocks to First Presbyterian.
I arrived at the church with time to spare.
The next hour was a comical blend of attempted order and instruction against a backdrop of spontaneous mischief and laughter. Charged with instinctive and contagious happiness, everyone easily slid into moments of joking and folly despite Joe Dawson’s patient and smiling efforts to guide us through the steps of the ceremony. Curiously, no one seemed more caught on the wave of celebration than John Harris. It seemed that for this evening, he had cast off his usual cloak of cynical commentary. He exuded an almost explosive friendliness, engaging everyone with openness and enthusiasm. Combined with his well-timed and insightful wit, his normal command presence loomed large over the gathering, filling everyone with an infectious, festive mood.
The rehearsal dinner was held at the Depot Diner and jointly catered by its owner, Lida Wilkins and Estelle and her Sweet Life Bakery. Lida had graciously allowed me to book the entire restaurant for the event and the two of them together had magically decorated the place and prepared an incredible meal. The entire evening was a triumph of food, toasts, and speeches; a perfect prelude to the grand day that was to follow.
Despite the cacophonous laughter and all the excitement and euphoria that surrounded me that evening, it seemed I only had eyes for Christine. Often, words and sounds fell away as I watched her, caught in the entrancing web of her smile. Something in the splendor of her dark hair, her deep brown eyes, and her full and luxurious red lips went drunkenly to my brain. With her buoyant health, quick intellect, and spirited character, she was radiant and beautiful; at the flawless summit of her mortal enchantment. I heard the voices around me, but I was lost to her every gesture and movement; alluring, sensual, full of seductive grace.
The dinner came to a close, and I stood and offered a final thank-you to everyone. Just as I had suspected, my groomsmen, all of whom were older and married, gathered their wives and made a beeline for the door as if a fire alarm had gone off. John lingered a minute longer, but soon enough, he kissed his niece on the cheek, shook my hand in congratulations and left with Ann. Christine and I looked at each other and laughed.
“Well,” she said. “You and Matthew go have fun. Behave and try not to talk shop too much.”
“I imagine it will be pretty tame. The twins are having a sleep-over at Connie’s. Matthew and I will probably drink a couple of beers and be snoring before the news comes on.”
After giving me a kiss, Christine and several of her bridesmaids left for her place to engage in whatever frivolities they had planned. I found Lida and Estelle in the kitchen, chatting nonstop and putting away the last of the pots and pans. I thanked them, gave them both a hug, then walked to the Austin-Healey and headed for home. Will Fox had agreed to keep Rhett and Casper for the night. So, after a quick change into some jeans, I grabbed my overnight bag and headed up to Matthew’s. The day had been good; great even. Closing it out with a beer, a few laughs with a friend around a fire, and a long night’s sleep seemed like a perfect end.
When I arrived at Matthew’s front entry, the porch light was on. He met me at the door with a grand handshake and a cold beer. “Come in, bachelor boy. Let’s get this two-man party started.”
I chuckled lightly. “Well, we’ll try to make up in enthusiasm what we lack in numbers.”
I followed Matthew into the massive living room where from high above, the melodic, sultry voice of Violet Jamison was wafting down the broad staircase. “Matthew, tell me that’s a recording. Because if it isn’t, I’m getting in my car and leaving. Good chance I may never come back up here, ever.”
He laughed as we passed through and into the kitchen. “I had a studio in Nashville remaster the vinyl records to a digital format. Pretty sweet, huh?”
“Just checking. Whether out front, in the basement, or up in the attic, every time I come to this place, there seems to be a little something—something that frightens the crap out of me.”
Matthew took my bag and smiled. "I guess that makes the backyard new territory. But, for what it's worth, I got a fire going in the pit just before you came. Didn't see a single ghost...not that I was checking too closely."
“Comforting.”
"Here, let me put your bag in a room. Head on out back, and I'll grab a beer and join you shortly."
“Sure. Deal.”
I exited the rear door of the mansion and walked to the stone fire pit some fifty feet away. None of the back porch or outside lights were on, but the blaze was several feet high, illuminating two Adirondack chairs that Matthew had placed nearby. I took a seat, drank a swallow of the beer, and peered into the long lawn behind the house. Despite its robustness, the light of the fire faded after twenty feet or so, leaving everything beyond in a swallowing darkness. As I waited for Matthew, my eyes began to acclimate, and I stared into the dim night of the rear yard.
That’s when I noticed the movement.
At first, it seemed like a play of shadows created by the flames, but I was beginning to catch glimpses of images moving toward me from the deep, black well of the backyard. It struck me as no small coincidence that the forms were coming from the direction of the small cemetery that lay in the gloom only a few hundred feet beyond. The irregular flicker of the fire made the images appear and disappear. Instinctively, I rose and strained into the darkness. My worst apprehensions were confirmed. Without question, there was a silent moving mass heading straight toward me. The primal, autonomic system took over, and my pulse quickened. In my rattled state of mind, the closer they came, I imagined the specters of a dozen or so men. I was about to call out when a massive hand grabbed my shoulder, and its ow
ner bellowed a hearty "Boo!"
I jerked reflexively, recoiling away and turning toward the intruder.
It was John Harris.
By the time I had regained my composure, the group of men approaching from the rear yard had arrived, and I recognized many of my groomsmen and a few other close friends. I turned back to John who was now staring at me impassively. He reached out, clinked my beer bottle with his, and spoke in a low, deadpan voice. “Surprise.”
I gushed a half-laugh of relief. “Holy crap. That was just cold. You could have told me everyone was going to be here.”
“Eh, what’s the fun in that? Besides, sport. I’m lousy at lying and probably blunter than I should be when telling the truth. The best thing for me to do was say nothing.” He took an appeasing swig of his beer and continued. “I knew you were too polite to ask me directly. So, looks like my plan worked.”
“What’s with the ghost riders coming up from the back forty?”
“That’s where everybody parked to stay out of sight. But then some of the guys wanted to check out the old cemetery. So, they all went. The appearance of the walking dead wasn’t intentional. But, from my viewpoint, it worked out perfectly.” John grinned and took another drink of his beer, clearly quite pleased with himself.
By now Matthew had joined the group, and all the men had gathered and focused in my direction. John held up his hand to collect their attention. “Gentlemen, we are here this evening to celebrate and offer some friendly marital advice to our friend and town physician, Dr. Luke Bradford. We do this time-honored tradition because a man should be allowed to make his own mistakes. And, he should have the company of good friends while he does it. Our host, Matthew House has an array of munchies available, and there's plenty of beer. So, enjoy yourselves and don’t track dirt into the house.”
As if on cue, John's short speech was followed by a chorus of "here-here," and a raising of beer bottles. An explosion of laughter and conversation followed. Despite the ready humor that permeated the group, I doubted that a more dissimilar congress of personalities had ever been gathered together in the history of Watervalley.
