With Dolly desperately straining at her leash, Chelsea walked toward the cottage. The west side held a door, two boarded-up windows, and little else. Farther along, there was a short flight of steps leading up to a long porch that lined most of the front side. Here too, every window was covered.
On the east side of the property there stood another building. Nearly the size of the cottage, it too was built of logs that had been stained red, and its windows were also covered. Part of it extended out over the water and rested on concrete pylons. This was the boathouse, Chelsea realized. Down at the shoreline, a long wooden dock extended into the water. Curiously, an old mailbox was attached to the far end of the dock by means of an upright two-by-four.
Chelsea had to admit that she was pleasantly surprised. As Allistaire had said, the place was old but in very good condition. Whoever Jacques and Margot were, they had done a wonderful job during their many decades of service.
Chelsea then walked Dolly down toward the lakeshore some fifty feet away, whereupon Dolly started thirstily lapping up lake water. To Chelsea’s amazement the shore was one of pure sand, rather than of rocks and mud like other New York lakes she had visited, and it stretched all the way from the water back to the cottage, its uniformity broken only by a few patches of defiant beach scrub. Reaching down, she took a handful of the sand to find that it was fine and soft, much like the saltwater beaches she had visited. She then cast her gaze about the shoreline. The lake appeared to be round, but the view from where she stood could be misleading.
After slipping off her sneakers, she rolled up her pant legs and led Dolly out into the water a bit. The lake was rather warm, the sand beneath her feet soft and forgiving as the short, restless waves pleasantly brushed up against her calves. Aside from the warmer water and the less aggressive waves, it was not unlike standing in the ocean. And also like the ocean, the gradient was very gentle. Clearly, the entire property was far more enticing than she had expected.
A few moments later, a phrase from her grandmother’s letter sprang to mind, causing her to smile. “Regardless of what you may have heard, be assured that Lake Evergreen is a wonderful place . . .”
Still standing in the water with Dolly, she again cast her eyes up and down the sandy shoreline. She saw no dwellings toward the east, but when she looked westward she discovered another lakeshore cottage, standing about forty yards away. Although a black Jeep Wrangler was parked nearby, no one seemed to be about. A long wooden dock extended into the lake, and tied up at the dock was an aluminum fishing boat, bobbing gently with the waves. Farther out on the lake a red and white, high-winged floatplane tugged gently at her moorings, her snub nose facing obediently into the wind.
I wonder who lives there, Chelsea found herself thinking. Then she looked at her watch. Two P.M. I got here early, it seems. Even so, I wish that Jacques and Margot would hurry up. I’m eager to see the inside of the cottage, and—
Suddenly Dolly let go a vicious growl, and she started straining at her leash again. To Chelsea’s horror, Dolly’s teeth were bared, and she was now pulling so hard at her leash that Chelsea could barely keep from being dragged.
“What’s the—” Chelsea said. And then she saw the problem.
Another dog was standing down the beach, near the cottage with the floatplane. It looked like an English setter, but Chelsea couldn’t be sure. What she could be sure of, though, was that Dolly and the other dog had suddenly discovered each other, and they clearly weren’t happy about it.
Before Chelsea could do anything, Dolly’s worn leash snapped and the two dogs charged one another. As Chelsea watched helplessly, they quickly became embroiled in a vicious dogfight. Still shoeless, Chelsea dropped the broken leash and ran toward the warring dogs. When at last she arrived, she unthinkingly tried to separate them. But as she did, the setter bit her hand. Chelsea yelped and backed away as the two dogs kept at it.
Just then she heard someone cry out, and a man rushed from the cottage. He was shirtless and holding a large plastic bucket in one hand, and a dog leash in his other. To Chelsea’s surprise he dashed right past her and the fighting dogs and then charged straight into the lake, quickly filled the bucket with lake water, and ran back.
As he passed Chelsea, he angrily shouted, “Get the hell out of the way!” While Chelsea quickly stepped aside, he threw the entire bucket of water onto the two entangled dogs.
The man apparently knew about dogs, because the effect was immediate. Shocked by the water, Dolly and the setter quickly backed off from their fight. The man then dropped the bucket to the beach, quickly snapped a leather leash onto the setter’s collar, and dragged him aside. Not knowing what else to do, Chelsea grabbed Dolly’s wet collar and did the same. After taking a couple of deep breaths, the stranger looked straight into Chelsea’s eyes.
“Chelsea Enright, I presume?” he asked.
“Yes,” she finally answered. “But how did you know?”
“Jacques and Margot told me that you were coming today,” he answered. “But I didn’t think your arrival would be so dramatic.”
Chelsea was mortified. She had meant to replace Dolly’s leash for some time but hadn’t. Clearly, this was not how she had wished to meet her new neighbor.
“I’m so sorry!” she said. “I didn’t know this would happen! Dolly usually isn’t like that!”
To her great relief, the man finally smiled. “That’s okay,” he said. “But right after we sequester the dogs, we’ve got to tend to you.”
“Huh?” she asked.
He pointed at Chelsea’s right hand. “You’re bleeding,” he said.
Amid all the excitement, Chelsea had forgotten all about being bitten. There was a jagged gash at the base of her right thumb, and blood was running from it. Now that things were calmer, the pain suddenly set in.
“Come with me,” the man ordered as he beckoned toward his cottage. “We’ve got to get you fixed up.”
“What about the dogs?” Chelsea asked. “We can’t let them go at it again.”
“I know,” he answered as he began leading the black and white spotted English setter forward. “Come on, Jeeves,” he said. “You’ve eaten enough people for one day.”
Before reaching his cottage, he turned and looked back at Chelsea. “Bring your retriever in after me,” he ordered, “but keep your distance. Dogs are a lot like kids. Until they learn to play nicely, they belong in separate rooms. And by the way, has your retriever been spayed?”
“Yes,” Chelsea answered.
She watched as he mounted the porch steps with his dog and started opening the screen door.
“Excuse me,” Chelsea said, “but I didn’t get your name.”
The shirtless man turned and looked back at her. “It’s Yale,” he answered. “Brandon Yale.”
Chelsea nodded as she began leading Dolly toward the cottage.
Okay, then, she thought. Brandon Yale it is. . .
Chapter 5
While keeping a safe distance behind, Chelsea led Dolly up the steps, across Brandon’s porch, and into his kitchen. As Chelsea looked around the inside of his cottage, what she saw of it appeared quaint and nicely decorated.
“Put your hand over the sink,” Brandon said as he sequestered his wet English setter in a bedroom down the hall. “You’re bleeding all over my floor.”
While Chelsea did as he ordered, he walked back and approached Dolly carefully. Chelsea still had hold of Dolly’s collar with her good hand, but she doubted that she could fully control her if she acted up again.
“Now, be a good girl,” Brandon said quietly as he squatted down and looked into Dolly’s wary eyes. Still soaking wet, she showed her teeth again and let go a soft but meaningful growl. Brandon smiled at her and stood up.
“A hard case, huh?” he asked. “We’ll fix that.”
He went to the refrigerator and rummaged around for a few moments. When he returned, he held a piece of leftover fried bacon in one hand. He carefully held the bacon out towar
d Dolly.
“Here’s a peace offering,” he said to her. “I never met a dog yet that didn’t love bacon, and I’ll bet that you’re no different.”
Dolly growled a bit more, sniffed warily at the bacon, and then snatched it from Brandon’s grasp. While she chomped on it, Brandon said to Chelsea, “You can let me have her now.”
“Are you sure?” Chelsea asked.
“No,” Brandon answered. “But it’s my guess that the bacon tastes better to her than I would.”
As Brandon took Dolly’s collar, Chelsea let go. To Chelsea’s surprise, Dolly acquiesced.
“Atta girl,” Brandon said to Dolly. “Now, come with me.”
To Chelsea’s even greater amazement, Dolly obeyed straightaway. After Brandon placed her in another room and shut the door, he walked back again.
“How’d you do that?” Chelsea asked. “She’s never that good with strangers.” Suddenly the pain from her hand struck again, and she winced.
“Simple,” Brandon answered. “Dogs and bacon is a match made in heaven. Now then, let’s have a look at you.”
After washing his hands, Brandon carefully examined Chelsea’s wound.
“This won’t need surgery,” he said, “but you’re in for some stitches. First, though, we’ve got to get it clean.” He turned on the faucet, waited until the water ran cold, and then looked into her eyes. “Sorry,” he said, “but this is going to hurt.”
He quickly placed Chelsea’s wound directly under the running water and held it there, causing her to yelp. When he had finished cleaning the wound, he wound a clean towel around her hand.
“Do you drink alcohol?” he asked unexpectedly.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Is bourbon okay?” he asked.
Chelsea nodded eagerly. “Right now, anything will do!”
Brandon walked across the kitchen, where he opened a cupboard door and produced a bottle of Canadian bourbon. He poured some into a glass and put it before her.
“Don’t go away,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
While taking a welcome sip of the bourbon, Chelsea took another moment to examine Brandon’s country-style kitchen. Although it was clearly more functional than beautiful, it managed to exude its own sort of appeal. Her mind racing, she shook her head.
What have I gotten myself into? she wondered. And who is this Brandon Yale person who’s trying to patch me up? Should I let him? I should probably be on my way to a hospital. Do they even have one in Serendipity? And who names his dog “Jeeves”?
Brandon soon returned with a squat, black leather bag. While he was gone, he had slipped on a black T-shirt to go with his faded jeans and thong sandals. When he placed the bag on the kitchen counter, Chelsea saw that it bore a gold-plated identification plaque that read BRANDON YALE, MD.
“So you’re a doctor?” she asked.
Brandon nodded. “Thus the letters MD,” he said teasingly. “Now, tell me—when was your last tetanus shot?”
“Two Thanksgivings ago. I sliced myself, rather than the turkey.”
Brandon laughed a little. “Okay,” he said. “Allergic to anything?”
“No,” she answered.
As Brandon opened his bag, a thought struck Chelsea. “What about rabies?” she asked anxiously.
Brandon shook his head. “Jeeves was the one that bit you, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s okay,” Brandon answered. “Jeeves doesn’t have rabies any more than I do. But if it’d been anybody else’s mutt, I’d make you take the shots.”
He soon produced a hypodermic and began filling it from a small bottle.
“What’s that?” Chelsea asked warily.
“A local anesthetic,” he answered. “Unless, of course, you’d rather do this au naturel.”
Chelsea quickly shook her head.
Brandon nodded and administered the shot. Almost at once, Chelsea’s pain began to subside.
“Thank you,” she said.
Brandon smiled. “No need,” he answered. “I’d do the same for any shoeless city slicker.”
Beginning to feel more at ease, Chelsea again sipped some bourbon. “So tell me,” she said, “what kind of doctor still carries a medical kit around with him?”
“The kind who still makes house calls,” he answered while searching his bag again.
He soon produced a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, which he opened. Brandon poured some directly into her wound. To Chelsea’s relief, it didn’t hurt. Using her free hand, she again tasted the very good bourbon.
“So, now what?” she asked.
Brandon snorted. “You certainly ask a lot of questions,” he answered.
“Well, it’s my hand, isn’t it?” she asked back. Then she laughed a little. “And besides,” she added jokingly, “how do I know that you’re not some sort of country-fried quack?”
Brandon rummaged around inside his bag again. “Oh, I think you’re safe enough,” he answered. “To the best of my knowledge, Harvard Medical School doesn’t produce many quacks.”
“Harvard?” she asked. “Really?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“I can’t begin to imagine how many jokes you must have suffered.”
“You mean about the ‘Yale’ guy who went to Harvard?” he asked back. “Yeah, you can say that again.”
He soon closed her wound with seven precise stitches. When he finished, he dressed her hand with a fresh bandage.
“There you are,” he said. “All set and ready for company. I used dissolving stitches, so they won’t have to be removed. Come tomorrow, I’ll check it again. But I don’t have any oral antibiotics here, so I’ll have to give you a shot.”
“Oh, god,” she answered. “Do you have to?”
“Yep,” he answered. “Jeeves doesn’t have rabies, but he’s still a dog. I don’t even want to think about where his mouth has been.”
Smiling, Brandon produced another clean hypodermic. “So where would you like it?” he asked. “In your arm or your backside?”
One corner of Chelsea’s mouth turned up wryly. “My arm will do nicely,” she answered.
Brandon gave her the shot and then closed his bag. For a moment or two afterward they simply stood there, each unsure of what to say next. At last Brandon washed his hands again, and he casually shoved them into the back pockets of his jeans.
He was good-looking, she decided, in a craggy sort of way. Not what one would call classically handsome, but striking nonetheless. Despite his scholarly profession, there was something of a wild and untamed quality about him. He appeared to be about her age, and he was tall and muscular. His dark hair was a bit on the wavy side, his eyes were blue, and his jaw was strong. A mysterious hint of an old scar lay on his right cheek, and adding to his rugged good looks was his rather short, aquiline nose. A discreet glance at his left hand told her that he wore no wedding ring.
“Well, I think you’ll live,” he finally said to her as he poured a bourbon for himself. “By the way, when are Jacques and Margot due to arrive?”
Suddenly remembering, Chelsea checked her watch. It was a bit before three P.M.
“They’ll be here any minute now,” she said. “I should probably go back to my place and wait for them.”
Brandon shook his head. “There’s no need,” he answered. “We can see them drive up from my porch.”
They went to Brandon’s long, screened-in veranda and sat down on two old rocking chairs. Chelsea had a nice view of the lake and of the red and white floatplane moored offshore. She pointed at the plane.
“Is that yours?” she asked.
Brandon nodded. “I’ve been flying for about ten years now. Aside from it being fun as hell, I also use the plane to make house calls. And sometimes, I land in a lake and drop a fishing line out the pilot’s window.”
Chelsea looked around again. “So this house is also your office?” she asked.
Brandon laughed. “Lord, no,” he answered. “I do
n’t really have an office. I’m an ER doc at the Serendipity hospital. But sometimes, people call me here and ask if I can come to see them. I usually drive, but if it’s some distance away and they’re on the water, I use the plane. The idea started out small, then word got out and it grew to the point where I could now probably do that full-time, if I wanted. But I’d likely starve to death! Many of the folks that I visit have no insurance and can’t afford to pay me, so I let them slide. Or sometimes, they give me whatever they have. Last week I returned home with several chickens in the back of the plane. They were crated up, of course, but they still made a helluva mess.”
Chelsea’s eyes widened. “Chickens, really?” she asked. “What did you do with them?”
Brandon looked at her and smiled. She was starting to like his smile, she realized.
“I’m pretty good with a scalpel,” he answered. “If you don’t believe me, go look in the freezer.”
“Okay, I get it,” Chelsea answered. “So, do you live here all year ’round?”
Brandon shook his head. “No one does. There are eighty-some cottages on this lake, but so far as I know, not one of them is winterized. Besides, living out here in the winter would be impossible. They don’t plow the roads, and the mail service is by boat, which of course stops when the lake freezes over. During the winter, Jeeves and I live in my house in Serendipity.”
Chelsea took another sip of bourbon, thinking. No winterization, the local doctor sometimes gets paid in chickens, they don’t plow the roads in the wintertime, and the mail is delivered by boat. Lake Evergreen was starting to make Serendipity sound like a major metropolis.
Brandon causally propped his feet up on an old, wooden coffee table that sat before them.
“So tell me about yourself,” he said. “It isn’t every day that I get a visitor.”
Chelsea provided him with a quick thumbnail sketch. She then also explained about her grandmother’s death and how she had inherited the cottage.
More Than Words Can Say Page 4