"She most definitely does. As a matter-of-fact, she’s expecting a shipment of books this week."
The doctor tipped his head and asked, "Until they arrive, am I correct to assume you might have the luxury to enjoy a lunch break?"
Maddie considered Dr. Reynolds' question, uncertain of his intentions. Was this a statement of fact or the posing of an invitation? "If Mr. Wilkinson can spare me, I would suppose I am at liberty." Finding coy behavior as repugnant as deception, she decided on a direct inquiry and asked, "Are you asking me to join you for lunch, Dr. Reynolds?"
"Yes, Miss Alexander, I believe I am." The smile returned, deepening his boyish dimples. "Would you care to accompany me to the cafe for lunch?" He pushed his hands into his coat pockets looking rather like a shy schoolboy.
From over her menu, Maddie stole furtive glances at the doctor seated across from her. He was definitely younger than she'd first thought. How young, she couldn't determine. Perhaps the serious nature of his job made him appear older. The dimpled smile she'd seen earlier and the bashful manner in which he'd asked her to join him didn't match the somber expressions she'd identified with her earlier impression of his character. Perhaps the loss of his fiancé had altered him or his struggles with health.
Dr. Reynolds closed his menu. "Dr. Thornton told me the potpies are excellent."
Maddie drew her eyes back to her own menu. "Jessie said that the cornbread is delicious."
She watched him make a face, his nose wrinkling. “Can’t abide the taste. I’ve always had the impression that I’m eating sawdust.”
Maddie laughed lightly and said, "Well, the potpie does sound nice. I'd be willing to try one if the serving isn't too large."
Neither of them spoke apart from placing their order with the waitress. She'd known bellhops with more to say than the stoic Dr. Reynolds. Fearing the awkwardness might persist throughout the meal, Maddie tried, "So, has Dr. Thornton turned over his practice to you now?"
"Yes, he left on Saturday. I think he was sad to leave. He’d been here for over a decade. One sees many changes in ten years. A doctor becomes attached to the families he serves." Dr. Reynolds wrapped his fingers around the glass before him, a graceful movement that drew Maddie's attention to his slender fingers. She wondered if all physicians had such hands or were his an indication of a particular giftedness.
He tapped one finger absent-mindedly against the glass. "Small town doctors tend to attach themselves to the communities they serve. Seeing both the births and deaths of their patients, they view them often as a family—a shared journey from the cradle to grave."
Maddie found herself leaning forward, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. She’d never considered this perspective. "I see." She hesitated. Curiosity loosened her tongue to ask, "Have you had such a practice?" Did she sound presumptuous or even callous? If he had known such community was that the reason for his somber demeanor?
He laughed. "I suppose I do look old enough to have had an established practice."
Maddie rushed to correct the misunderstanding. "Oh, I didn't mean to imply. . .I just. . . you seemed so familiar with the experience that you might have. . ." She grimaced. "I’m making it worse."
"No, you aren’t. I understand your meaning. "He relaxed against the back of his chair. His eyes, amused at first, turned serious. "It's that I've known a few doctors who did. My grandfather was one. And a doctor I knew on the other side of this range, in Snowberry. It was that kind of town for her."
She recognized that same wistful tone that she'd heard in his voice the first time he'd mentioned the town he'd recently left. What was it about the town? Or was it the people—or perhaps a single person?
"And you? Was it that kind of town for you?"
He dropped his gaze to his hand resting on the table. She watched his face; a shadow of some memory brought a frown to his brow. Again, she wondered at his relationship with the woman doctor.
The shadow passed. He met her eyes and said, "I was lived in the town for only a short time, less than a year."
Maddie held his eyes as she asked, "And do you think this town can become that for you? A family?"
For a moment, he said nothing, finger tapping a steady rhythm on the glass again. "I think that depends more on me than the residents here. Wouldn't you agree?"
Surprised by his response, Maddie offered no answer.
"If I come to care for them in that way, it will be obvious. I think most people respond well to honest emotion, don't you?"
Maddie twisted the napkin in her lap into a tight knot. It was her turn to be evasive. She waited, hoping he meant it as a rhetorical question.
After a few uncomfortable heart beats, he continued. "But to become a family? That takes years, I think. I won't venture to speak to that. It would be nice to settle somewhere and put down roots." He lifted a shoulder, his gaze drifting to the view from the window.
Their food arrived, steaming and fragrant. With her mouth watering, she realized she was hungry. For a time, they focused on their meal. Maddie wondered how to keep the conversation directed toward the doctor and not to herself. "You mentioned that you had an interest in art as a young man. Have you never resumed that interest? Now that your schooling is complete, I would think you could find time to. . .dabble."
Dr. Reynolds sat back, the tension in his face easing, more like the younger version of himself she'd glimpsed. "Ah, yes. That's what sparked our disagreement. I apologize again for upsetting you."
Was he teasing? "I wouldn't say that I was upset, but I was confused that you could be persuaded to give up something for which you had a passion."
"Yes." He kept a level gaze on her this time. "But there is more I did not have time to share with you. Although I focused my attention whole-heartedly on my studies, I found a way to use my talents to assist my studies."
He must have read the bewildered expression on her face because he grinned. "You might consider it distasteful. I hope this won't disturb you." He glanced at her plate. "Are you finished with your meal?"
Puzzled by the question, Maddie answered, "Yes."
"It's just this. I found that making detailed drawings of our work with cadavers improved my understanding of the organ positions, the intricacies I would have missed had I not drawn them. To focus intently on what I was seeing gave me time to memorize the structures, the placements of muscle and sinew. It was fascinating, really. I learned more making those drawings than had I only read the text books."
Maddie nodded, imagining the young doctor bent over the exposed corpse, his hand rapidly sketching. She could see him so clearly, a lock of hair falling in his eye, a hand absently brushing it away. She was more intrigued than shocked. Dr. Reynolds possessed more depth than her first impression had led her to believe.
"At first, I kept my sketches to myself. I feared someone might think me a something of a ghoul, actually, a man obsessed with late night, surreptitious visits to the morgue." He chuckled, his mind’s eye reliving those years once more. "After a time, I was found out. One of my classmates saw the drawings and asked to borrow them. Before the end of the semester the entire class asked to study them." He rubbed his hand across his cheek, a grin tugging the corners of his mouth. "In fact, one of my professors asked if he could use them for his class. I think he planned to print and publish them. I never heard if he did."
When Maddie did not comment, Dr. Reynolds said, "So, you see, I didn't entirely abandon my gift. I used it."
Maddie picked up her fork again, pushing pieces of carrots into a small pile. Realizing this infringement of etiquette, she placed her fork carefully back on the plate. Meeting his eyes, she asked, "Do you still sketch?"
He pursed his lips. "A little, when I have the time."
"Do you sketch your patient's surgeries?"
He must have seen the teasing gleam in her eye because he answered in a way that told her he knew how to speak with his own tongue in cheek.
"Oh yes, I have an entire book of them."
He brought a finger to his lips, leaning forward. "But you must never tell anyone. Most of them are only partially clothed, you see?"
She covered her laugh with her hand. "But seriously, Dr. Reynolds, do you sketch for pleasure?"
"I do, a little. Seeing the landscape here, I hope to find the time to do more. I like sketching wildlife. Does that surprise you?"
She tipped her head to study him for a moment. "Not at all. I can imagine you sitting quietly under a tree, waiting for some woodland creature to scurry across your toe."
"Hmm. Yes. It's actually the larger wildlife that have captured my attention, the elk, the magnificent moose. It might be fascinating to meet up with a hunter and watch him skin one. I think my sketches would be far more realistic if I could."
Though a less pleasant picture to imagine, she could indeed see the doctor assisting the butcher, his sleeves rolled up, arms covered in blood. She gulped and took a sip of water.
Reynolds sat back in his chair and said, "I hope you are comforted knowing this. Maybe you’ll see that we agree more than disagree, because I agree with you that a person should use their natural gifts to the best of their abilities. I think I have."
Maddie, still skeptical that they might agree, hesitated before saying, "I think you were very clever to find a way to honor both your mother's request and your own desires." She hesitated, then asked, "But are you happy as a physician? Do you feel fulfilled?"
She watched as his expression drifted from surprise to amusement. That shift puzzled her. A moment passed before he met her gaze with a broad smile that touched his eyes.
"You are a very perceptive young woman, but I’m afraid I must disappoint your line of thinking. As much as I enjoy the arts, I’ve recognized my true calling as a physician. And, yes, I feel very satisfied with what I’m able to do for my patients. It gives me pleasure to see a rosy-cheeked child playing again after influenza nearly took her life or a man returning to work his field after an accident with an axe that nearly took his leg. It can be a thankless job and difficult, but ultimately it is rewarding."
“And when you lose a patient? Is it satisfying then?" Maddie immediately regretted the question.
He dropped his gaze to the table. His next words were soft but without hesitation. "No, of course not. But I’ve come to terms with the knowledge that my ability to heal is only as good as God grants me. Often times, a patient comes to me too late, or it’s simply his time to pass out of this life." He sat forward, lifting his hands to the table again, folding them before him, his body and forearms forming a precise triangle. "Such was the case of the unfortunate man I tried to help at the station in Shoshone. It was his time and nothing remained for me to do for him."
Maddie’s chest compressed, tears stinging her eyes. She bit her cheek hard and dug nails into her palms. “Yes, I can see how that would have been hard for you." She took in a steadying breath, organizing her silverware before her in straight lines.
The doctor coughed and took a sip of water. A moment passed before he asked, "And what of your gifts? Have you found time to pursue your writing since you've arrived? Evan told me he found a desk for your room."
This was an acceptable topic. At least it dealt with the safe reality of the present. "I have," she said.
"You mentioned that you were interested in writing literature. That's a broad field. What area of literature interests you?"
"Are you familiar with the works of Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle?"
Dr. Reynolds cocked his head, his eyebrows elevated. "The author of the Sherlock Holmes mystery?"
Maddie took heart from his response. Might the doctor be someone with whom to share her passion? "Mrs. Caldwell brought back a copy of A Study in Scarlet after a summer trip to England." She stopped herself short. She'd almost said the name of her school.
"I did hear of him. He was a doctor I believe."
She nodded.
He went on, "I believe that his father drew the illustrations for the book. Is that correct?"
"Yes, I believe so." She chewed the inside of her lip, her hands strangling the innocent napkin on her lap.
Dr. Reynolds took a sip of coffee, then slowly lowered the cup to the saucer. "A mystery."
"Yes."
She could almost hear the sentences being forming in his mind, deconstructed and reformed before he spoke again. "I thought that writers wrote of things with which they had experience. You don’t strike me as someone who's come near to any criminal activity." He looked up then, earnest eyes veiled in caution and—naiveté.
This was irony in its best form. She could not tell him just how well acquainted she was with deceit, scams and criminal activity, not without exposing her past. Swallowing down the knot of frustration, she gave him a suggestion of a smile. "I suppose you're right."
It was the correct answer for Madison Alexander—a bold-faced lie for Madison Jennings.
Chapter 16
Within Maddie's limited experience, gardens were mysterious things, formal places to admire while strolling with a friend. She could appreciate the artistry of a perfect tulip, or the pastel peach of a rose, or the amazing variety of foliage that framed each flower, but she had no appreciation for the work involved for the gardener—until today. Walking through a manicured garden such as those on the grounds of her school or in the city arboretum had not prepared her for the labor needed to produce those perfect feasts for the eye. Neither had it prepared her for the intimate knowledge of dirt required.
Pulling back a layer of moldy hay, she gave a cry of delight. Peering up at her, the infant green shoot of a daffodil delivered what Jessie sought—a promise of spring. “Jessie, come see!”
Jessie scurried over, following Maddie’s gaze she said, "Oh, there she is! In just a few weeks, we’ll have a blaze of color all around the house. Exciting, isn't it? I love daffodils!" She took Maddie’s hands in hers and swung her in a circle. "I love spring!" She released her and wrapped her arms about herself. "Winters are great for cuddling up before a fire, but spring just makes life look grand. If I had a toothache, I'd rather have it in spring than any other season, wouldn't you?"
Maddie studied Jessie for a moment, as usual, not sure if the woman was teasing or simply making an honest Jessie-style observation. In response, she said, "Well, if I had my choice, I'd say, I'd rather not have one at all."
Jessie patted her arm. "You're funny."
Lena called out to them from the side of the house, "I do believe this lilac has some life left in it! I thought it was dead for sure."
"I love lilacs!" Jessie's voice lilted, dreamy.
Lena laughed that bell-tinkling laugh that Maddie had come to recognize as hers alone. "Jessie, you're just plain in love with everything you set your eyes on, this spring more than ever. I declare, one would think you’d been drinking some witch’s love potion."
Jessie patted her stomach. "Can't be anything wrong in the world when you have such joy to look forward to. Just think! I’ll be holding this baby in my arms come summer! How else could a person feel?"
Lena grinned, but Maddie detected a shade of wistfulness in her eyes. Wistfulness seemed an epidemic in Ketchum.
"'If people did not love one another, I really don't see what use there would be having any spring.' The quote sprung to Maddie’s lips before she could stop herself. Lena stared at her, eyes wide. She’d slipped again into Madison Jennings’ head. Maddie shrugged her shoulders, returning to her digging. "I seem to remember someone saying that."
Lena’s face wore an expression of delight, her eyes studying Maddie far too intently. "I believe that's a quote from Victor Hugo's, Les Misérables."
Maddie dug into the dirt with the zeal of a dog burying a bone. "Really? I guess the author must have known something about spring."
An uncomfortable moment passed before Lena resumed her pruning. Maddie let out a breath.
Lena said, "You've received a fine education, Madison. I'm very keen to read some of your stories."
"
Oh yes!" Jessie said, "You should read to us!"
Lena asked, "Are you working on anything now that you could read aloud to us in the evenings? I’m sure you’d find us an interested audience."
With her head down, Maddie mumbled, "I'm not sure it's ready." What she didn't want to confess were the doubts that had recently besieged her. She was beginning to think no one would take her writing seriously.
"I think it's wonderful that you're not allowing your gender to keep you from pursuing what you love." Lena waved her pruning knife in Maddie's direction. "And don't allow anyone to tell you women can’t be writers. There are far too many who have become successful, published authors. True, some disguised the fact that they were women by using initials or even a man's name, but, the point is, they found a way."
Maddie remembered her own list of successful women authors. She risked a glance up at Lena who had turned back to her cutting. A few moments later Lena stood with her hands on her hips, staring off into the distance. Picking up her skirts, she trotted across the lawn to the back porch. "I'll be right back," she called over her shoulder.
Maddie looked to Jessie for explanation.
"She's got something on her mind. Lena is nothing if not determined. You'll see." Jessie returned to her furrow, digging energetically through the soil.
"Here they are!" Lena stood on the back porch a stack of magazines in her hands and a triumphant look painting a smug smile on her face. "Maddie, come look at these."
Settled together on the steps, Jessie and Maddie wiped dirt-smeared hands on their aprons before each taking a magazine in her hands. The Century Magazine
Lena handed Maddie an open page, pointing to an article. "I knew I'd saved these for a reason. It must have been for you."
Maddie scanned the short story which filled two pages. Along the margins were detailed drawings of miners bent to their work. She found the author’s name beneath the title—Mary Hallock Foote.
Lena pointed to a beautiful illustration at the bottom of the page. "See? She even illustrates her writing. She's a talented writer living here in the west who writes about the western experience with the eyes of an eastern born and highly educated woman."
Redeeming Lies Page 11