This is the truest, most honest thing I’ve said since this meeting began.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to make eye contact with each sibling. James, Sean, Jonathan, Mark, Bree. One by one, I pray they can’t see the panic in my eyes.
That they’ll never learn how much I’ve misled them.
Or how quickly time is running out.
Chapter 2
Bradley
“Here’s your specimen cup, Mr. Fulghum.” I hand the plastic container to the man perched on the edge of a chair in exam room three. “It’s for urine,” I add, recalling the last time I failed to specify and ended up with the wrong kind of sample. “The restroom is straight across the hall.”
“Thanks, Doc.” He trudges out the door, cup clenched in his fist like a lifeline. It might be, considering we’re checking for bacterial STDs and that he’d very much like to keep that information from his wife.
I head for the sink and wash up, making a mental note to order more pamphlets on partner notification services. This could be an issue for Mr. Fulghum. A glance at my watch tells me it’s almost five, which is awesome. One more patient to see before I duck out for poker night at Ponderosa Resort.
“Mrs. Sampson, lovely to see you again.” Slipping into exam room two, I close the door behind me and consult her chart. “How long have you been having earaches?”
Her salt-and-pepper brows knit together as she considers the question. “Let’s see….it was after Chelsea rolled out the new fall flavors at the cupcake shop, but before James Bracelyn’s wedding. Probably the week Sergeant Dugan was on the news talking about pedestrian safety?”
Welcome to the timeline of small-town life. I love it, which is one reason I moved back to Central Oregon to open my own practice. Not the only reason, but it’s the most pleasant one.
“Let’s take a look.” I flick on my otoscope, and Mrs. Sampson turns her head obligingly. There’s a little redness around the tympanic membrane, but nothing alarming. “How about the left ear?”
Before I can roll my stool to the other side, she grabs the lapel of my lab coat and beams. “You have such lovely blue eyes, sweetheart,” she says. “You remind me of my second husband.”
I frown, wondering if I missed something in the years I was away for med school, Army obligations, and a tour in Iraq. “How many husbands have you had?”
Her grin widens as she fluffs her salt and pepper hair. “Only the one. Rumor has it you’re looking for a wife?”
Welcome to the downside of small-town life. “Your left ear, Mrs. Sampson?”
Heaving a sigh, she turns to grant me access to her other ear. Like the right, it’s in near perfect condition. Why do I suspect today’s visit has less to do with medical concerns and more to do with gathering gossip?
“Everything looks good from here.” I flip off the otoscope and set it aside. “If you’d like, I can prescribe some mild ear drops.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’m feeling better already.”
“You’re feeling my leg, actually.” I glance at her fingers clenched around my knee. “We have a strict no groping policy in this office.”
She flutters her lashes. “Since when?”
“Since you patted my posterior at your last physical.”
With a huff of indignation, she gets up and locates her purse. “You take away all my fun.”
“I highly doubt that.” Last I heard, she and her merry band of senior citizens started a petition to bring a touring troupe of male strippers to a nearby retirement village. She has plenty of fun without me. “Take care, Mrs. Sampson.”
“You, too, dear.” She turns in the doorway. “Tell your mother hello. And tell your sister I made a new sweater for Jordan.”
“Will do.” My chest tightens. Maybe it’s hearing my father’s name, or maybe it’s knowing he didn’t live to meet the granddaughter who shares it. “Julia loved the last sweater you made,” I say. “The one with the little tadpoles on it?”
“Those are sperm,” she announces proudly. “To honor the process that brought that sweet little baby into the world.”
“Wonderful.” I make a mental note never to share this with my sister. She has enough to worry about without fearing she’ll scar her daughter by dressing her in male reproductive cells.
By the time Mrs. Sampson is checked out, and Trevor Fulghum is assured we’ll contact his private cell with the results of his urinalysis, it’s five-thirty. Not enough time to run home and change, so I swing by the store for beer and Pringles on my way to the resort.
The winter air is crisp and heavy with the promise of snow. It’s not due until tomorrow, but the pine trees sparkle in the moonlight like they’re dusted with glitter, and the distant peaks of the Cascade Mountains cut the darkened horizon like a snow-capped sawblade. I drive the winding road to the resort with my heater cranked, singing along with cheesy Christmas carols on the stereo.
It’s ten minutes to six when I park in front of Mark Bracelyn’s cabin. The fact that he’s hosting means plenty of cupcakes from his wife’s shop. Lemon blueberry is my favorite, which Chelsea always remembers.
Grabbing my six pack, I swing open the truck door and freeze.
Izzy.
Curled in the porch light beside her cabin’s front door is Lady Isabella Blankenship. Her dark hair is loose around her shoulders, and she’s wrapped burrito-like in a bright red and yellow Pendleton blanket. She’s got a paperback in one gloved hand but looks up and waves when she sees me.
My chest floods with something I can’t identify, but I swallow it back as I grab the chips and carefully close the truck door. The pounding of my heart has nothing to do with how pretty she is and everything to do with a genuine concern for her health.
Right.
But seriously, I’m a doctor. Though she wasn’t my patient, I was there when she fell ill with acute kidney failure. I feel a kinship, that’s all. Empathy for someone who experienced recent medical trauma.
That’s not empathy. It’s increased cortical responsiveness to sensory stimulation.
I hate when my subconscious gets literal.
“Hello, Bradley.”
“Izzy.” It’s taken a year of casual hellos to convince her to call me by my first name. I’m so thrilled that I find myself ambling across the grass to greet her instead of heading into Mark’s place. “Nice setup you’ve got here.”
“Isn’t it?” She smiles at the freestanding propane heater blazing at the edge of the patio. “Mark bought it for me so I wouldn’t have to give up this spot when the weather turned.”
I love how warmly her siblings have welcomed her. Literally, I mean. “Puts out a lot of heat.” The propane thing, not Isabella. I should probably clarify so she doesn’t think I’m hitting on her, but she smiles again, and I forget what I was about to say.
“I just love the fresh air here, don’t you?”
“It’s one of the biggest reasons I came back to Oregon to practice medicine.” Speaking of which, I should probably make sure she’s feeling okay. Her face looks flushed, but that might be the heater. “How are you doing?”