Betty stepped away from his hand and turned on him, her expression stern. “How could you give a business license to that Love woman?”
His mind blanked out for a moment. With a shift of mental gears, he remembered. “Do you mean the massage therapist?”
“If that’s what she wants to call herself.” Frieda sniffed. “And right on Main Street across from my shop. It’s indecent.”
For a moment all he could do was blink. “It’s a legitimate business. And Ms. Love bought the building.”
“It’s not an appropriate addition to our town,” Betty insisted. “Goose Creek is a wholesome, family-oriented community.”
Sandra, eyes round, edged a few inches backward. Out of the line of fire, maybe?
Jerry stood his ground. Obviously these two staunchly upright women had the wrong idea. “I fail to see anything unwholesome about massage therapy. There’s nothing more relaxing than a good massage. Works great for tension headaches, too.”
Her mouth a disapproving line, Frieda openly leveled a glare on him. “No good will come of it, you mark my words.”
She whirled and stomped away. Casting an apologetic but no less determined smile his way, Betty followed.
Speaking of tension headaches, pinpricks of pain stabbed inside Jerry’s skull.
“This sure is a small town,” Sandra commented when they’d disappeared around the corner of the diner.
“You have no idea.” He massaged his temples. “I’m sorry about that. I’ll do what I can to keep them at bay, but I can’t guarantee you won’t have more spectators as the painting progresses.”
“Everyone’s an art critic.” She snorted, and then shrugged. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but I guess I’ll have to go undercover.” Then she brightened. “Might work out for the best. We can have a big reveal when it’s done.”
With a promise to help any way he could, Jerry headed back to his office.
Hiding a wince at a stab of pain in her right shoulder, Susan lifted a forty-pound beagle off the metal exam table. Who would have thought that throwing a softball a couple of dozen times would leave her as stiff as if she’d spent the day hefting fifty-pound bags of dog food?
She set the beagle on the floor and gave her an extra rub behind her floppy ears.
“Apply that ointment once a day, and then give her ears a good rub to work it in,” she told the dog’s owner. “By tomorrow the itching should stop, but keep using the medicine for seven days.”
“I will.” The woman shoved the tube of ointment in her purse and took the leash. “Thank you, Dr. Susan.”
“You’re welcome. Call me if she isn’t better by tomorrow night.” After jotting a note on the diagnosis sheet, she handed it over. “Give this to Millie on the way out.”
The beagle disappeared through the swinging door, and Susan limped into her office. Softball and sandals did not mix. For tomorrow’s practice she’d be more prepared.
Millie appeared in the doorway. “Have time for a walk-in?”
Her first unscheduled appointment since buying the animal clinic. Susan glanced at the daily appointment sheet. The next patient wasn’t scheduled for a half-hour, but she would have fit in this appointment regardless.
“Of course. Anybody we know?”
“No, she just moved to town a few days ago.”
A new patient. Was that a sign that business was finally picking up? Her mood considerably lighter, Susan rounded the desk. “Let’s go meet her.”
They entered the reception area to find a woman seated Indian-style on the floor of the Kuddly Kitties room, a brightly colored skirt spread out around her and her lap full of kittens. An impressive quantity of blonde curls had been more-or-less contained beneath a red bandana, though rebellious locks escaped to dangle past the tanned shoulders. At their approach, she turned a wide grin upward.
“Look what I found in my building. Aren’t they absolutely ambrosial?” She picked up a squirming kitten in a hand with short fingernails painted bright green and held it up to her cheek. “Just so sweet I could eat them all up.”
Ambrosial? Susan exchanged a glance with Millie, whose smile looked the slightest bit forced.
“Dr. Susan Jeffries, this is Tuesday Love. She’s new to Goose Creek.”
Since the woman made no effort to stand, Susan bent to shake her hand. “What an interesting name.”
“Everybody says so.” A girlish giggle escaped her throat. From any other woman well into middle age that would sound odd, but it somehow felt entirely appropriate from this one. “The story behind it is even more interesting.”
Millie’s eyes went round, and she broke in hastily. “Tuesday is planning to open a business on Main Street.”
“Oh?” One of the kittens wobbled on her knee, and Susan bent to scoop the baby up before it tumbled off. “A shop of some sort?”
“Kind of. Not only that, but turns out we’re neighbors. I’m renting a house one street over that way.” She jerked her head toward the clinic’s rear wall and rescued another adventurous climber. “These critters have sharp little claws. I’ve never had a cat, so I didn’t know they had so many toes.”
“Most of them don’t.” Susan examined the one she held. Polydactyl, of course. Most of the cats she’d treated in Goose Creek were. “It’s a mu—” At Millie’s warning expression, she changed her phrase. “It’s a feature we see often here in Goose Creek. Cat owners here are extremely proud of their six-toed pets. The gene was introduced to town five years ago by a tomcat from Key West, Florida.”
“How fun.” Tuesday picked up another and rubbed noses with it. “How old are they?”
Eyes open, ears newly erect. Susan put her pinkie into the little mouth and felt a row of small but fully developed teeth. “Between three and four weeks, I’d say. You found them?”
Blonde curls waved in the air when Tuesday nodded. “I was cleaning out my building downtown and heard them crying. They were upstairs in a closet.” She chucked her finger under a kitten’s chin and spoke to it in baby tones. “Your mommy is taking care of you, though. She made you a nest out of a pile of old canvas. I’ll bet she’ll be upset when she comes back and finds you missing.” She looked up. “But I couldn’t just leave them there. I’m going to be painting soon, and the fumes might get to them.”
Yes, the kittens all looked well-fed.
Millie snapped her fingers. “I think I know where they came from. I heard Kate Farraway say at church last week that her cat had given birth and then hid her kittens somewhere. I’ll give her a call.”
While Millie returned to the reception desk to look up the number, Susan helped Tuesday gather the six kittens and return them to the towel-lined salad bowl she’d brought them in. She was about to suggest that she perform a quick exam when the door opened and Daddy entered.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Morning,” she mumbled while avoiding his gaze. Her feelings were still smarting from the lecture she’d endured after softball practice last night.
Tuesday’s eyes took on an admiring gleam. “And a good morning to you.” She somehow made the greeting sound like an invitation. Holding the bowl of kittens in both hands, she rose gracefully from her cross-legged position on the floor, gaze fixed on Daddy.
Daddy’s eyes moved as he inspected her from the top-down, ending on the salad bowl. One eyebrow cocked slightly, but instead of voicing a question, he nodded a polite greeting at Tuesday and focused instead on Susan.
“I was hoping we could continue our discussion. Do you have a moment?”
She bit back a quick explanation of the difference between discussing and chastising.
“We’re about finished here.” Tuesday stepped close to him. “She was helping me figure out where these babies came from.”
Again a look from Daddy, this one containing a touch of a chill. “Then you won’t mind if we excuse ourselves and go to Susan’s office.”
Irritation rubbed across Susan’s nerves. How
could he treat her customer with anything less than complete courtesy? Or someone who could be a customer, for all he knew.
She stepped forward and took the bowl. “Actually, I am about ready to conduct an examination on these kittens. We’ll have to talk later, Daddy.”
“This is your father?” Tuesday’s gaze bounced between the two of them. “You must take after your mama. I’m sure she’s a beauty too?”
Her tone ended in an unmistakable question, and the direct look she fixed on Susan left no doubt as to her query. Susan bit back a grin. Women found Daddy attractive, but he’d never shown the slightest interest in anyone as far back as she could remember. The often-repeated advice he gave his daughter apparently held true to him as well—romantic entanglements were a distraction best avoided.
Wouldn’t it be funny if…
“My mother died when I was little.” Susan paused, and then acted as though she’d just realized something. “Where are my manners? Ms. Love, this is my father, Thomas Jeffries.”
“Call me Tuesday.” She cut her eyes sideways and fluttered her eyelashes. “I hope we’ll be first-name friends.”
A purplish stain colored Daddy’s forehead, and Susan rushed to speak before he said something rude. “Tuesday just bought a building here in Goose Creek to open her new business.”
“Well, the business isn’t new, just the location.” She inched closer so that her bare arm nearly touched his. “I’ve been a massage therapist for more years than I like to claim.”
His eyes widened and he stared down the length of his nose at her. “Massage therapist?”
“You bet, honey. The best there is. Why, spend an hour on my table and you’ll be so relaxed your legs won’t be able to hold you up.”
Susan had to struggle not to laugh at the shocked expression on her father’s face. Rarely had she seen Daddy rendered speechless.
Tuesday appeared to take the silence for acceptance. “Here. Let me give you a sample.”
Before Susan knew what the woman intended, she stepped behind Daddy, placed her hands on both his shoulders, and began kneading. Obviously surprised, Daddy didn’t move and his face drained of color.
“Would you feel that?” Tuesday exclaimed. “Shew, honey, your muscles are so tight it’s like massaging a wall.”
Daddy stepped forward like a horse out of the starting gate, leaving her standing with her hands in the air. “My muscles are fine.”
Tuesday came around to face him. “Honey, you need me in the worst way.” A smile curved her full lips. “I can help you get rid of some of that stress.”
Susan found herself thoroughly enjoying Daddy’s discomfort. A little stress reduction was exactly what he needed.
“Susan, I see you’re busy. I’ll come back later.” He edged toward the door, gaze fixed on Tuesday as though ready to make a dash for it if she moved toward him. “Nice to meet you, Ms. … ” He appeared to choke over her name.
“Just Tuesday, honey.” She awarded him an inviting grin. “But as I like to tell my clients, I’m available any day of the week.”
He gulped, and the door shut firmly behind him.
Behind the reception desk, Millie’s mouth hung open. She fixed Tuesday with a scandalized stare. Between Millie’s and Daddy’s reactions, Susan fought the urge to laugh. She could not remember ever seeing her father so uncomfortable.
In the next moment, guilt settled over her. Poor Daddy. He really did have a lot of stress, no doubt mostly caused by her.
Tuesday wilted against the door and fanned her face with an exaggerated gesture. “Girl, your daddy is one nice-looking man.” Then she hefted herself upright and gestured toward the bowl. “So should I leave those kitties with you, or what?”
Susan looked at Millie, who jerked upright. “Oh. Kate said Bulah’s been coming home to eat every morning, but she was afraid to confine her in the house because she knew she was nursing those kittens somewhere. Today Bulah seems fretful, just wandering around the yard. She’ll bring her over in an hour or so.”
Susan rescued an inquisitive kitty who had climbed on his brothers’ backs and was about to launch himself over the side of the bowl. “Sounds like that’s our missing mother cat.”
Tuesday said to Millie, “Would you tell your friend I’d like to have one if they’re not all promised? I couldn’t have a pet in my apartment in Indianapolis.” Millie nodded, and Tuesday opened the door. Before she disappeared through it, she turned a grin on Susan. “And tell your daddy I hope to see him again. Toodles, girls!”
The last thing Susan saw was a set of green fingernails waving in the air.
Goose Creek Softball Team
Chapter Six
The regular contingent of Creekers crowded the soda fountain when Al entered Cardwell’s on Saturday morning. A chorus of greetings were called out to him as he scanned the room for an empty chair.
“Over here, Bert. I saved you a seat.”
A waving hand caught his eye as Thacker’s voice grated on his nerves. Since there was no other option, Al made his way to one of the tables beyond the counter and claimed the vacant seat. Paul and Woody, the other two at the table, were engaged in a conversation with Fred and Jerry at the next table over.
Lucy set a steaming mug in front of Al. He opened his mouth, but before he could voice the request, she pulled the bear-shaped bottle from a deep pocket of her apron and plunked it down.
“You’re welcome,” she said before he could thank her.
As he stirred honey into his coffee, Thacker made a show of inspecting his wristwatch.
“Slept in today, huh Bert?”
Al set his teeth and continued stirring. He’d learned over the years that responding to Thacker’s playful but irritating jabs only encouraged him.
Instead, he glanced around and asked a question of the room at large. “I thought Norman would be here. Anybody heard how he’s doing?”
Chuck swiveled on his stool to answer. “He’s fine. Planted in his recliner with his foot propped up on pillows, and Little Norm says he’s gonna have a sprained finger to match his ankle if he doesn’t put down the remote control and give it a rest every now and then.”
Jerry turned in his chair. “Hey Al, can you stop by my office before you head home? I want to go over the positions before practice this afternoon.”
“I’m free,” Thacker answered before Al could do more than open his mouth. “And I’ve got some 411 you might want to consider.”
Jerry turned a polite expression on Thacker. “How’s your program coming?”
“Great. I finished it last night and stayed up late running the algorithms. Want to see?” He pulled an oversized cell phone from his breast pocket and tapped on the screen. “I can access the report from here.”
Curious in spite of himself, Al waited for Thacker to pull up his report. Across the table, Paul craned his neck to get a better view.
“Okey-dokey, here we are.” Thacker turned the phone toward Jerry. “Of course the accuracy will improve when I input more data.”
Jerry’s forehead wrinkled. “I’m not sure what I’m looking at.”
Paul traced a finger in an arc across the screen. “Do those lines represent players?”
“Sort of. They’re performance projections. This one right here”—Thacker pointed—“says you need to spiff up your batting average.”
Confusion settled on Paul’s face. “How do you figure that? I only batted twice Thursday night, and I got two hits.”
Thacker threw back his head and laughed. “Not much of an analyst are you, old boy?”
Paul bristled, and Al spared a sympathetic thought for the man. He’d been on the receiving end of Thacker’s careless joking often enough.
Thacker went on. “See, both of those pitches were high, but when you were catching, you fumbled whenever the ball approached at a twenty degree angle. The Morleyville pitcher isn’t going to take it as easy on you as Little Norm.” He turned his attention to Fred. “And you’d better
work on those pop-ups, buddy. Don’t want to give any runs away, do we? In fact, my data indicates you might do better on third base.”
Angry red splotches appeared on Fred’s cheeks. “I’ve been playing catcher since I was a kid in Little League.”
“Yeah, that’s been a few years and a few pounds ago, huh?” One of Thacker’s obnoxious laughs rang in the sudden silence of the drugstore while Fred stiffened.
For a moment Al, who sat between the two, considered edging out of the way. How Thacker could laugh in the face of the half-dozen or so hostile stares was beyond him.
On the other hand, this was Franklin Thacker, Mr. Oblivious.
Ever the diplomat, Jerry’s calm voice broke the silence. “I’m sure Fred will do fine as our catcher.”
Thacker shrugged, clearly in disagreement. “You’re the coach. But you might think about replacing your shortstop. According to my program—”
“I’ll tell you what.” Jerry rushed to cut him off. “Why don’t we go over your report in my office? I’m interested in hearing what you have to say.”
“Great. I’ll run home and print off a copy.” Thacker dug in his pocket for a couple of dollars, which he tossed on the table. “See you in twenty or so?”
Jerry nodded, and Thacker hurried out the door. Al watched through the front window as he paced down the sidewalk with a purposeful stride. When Al turned back to his coffee he found himself the object of several glares.
“He’s not my fault,” he said defensively.
Paul leaned across the table. “He’s your friend.”
Al opened his mouth to voice a hot protest, but guilt stilled his tongue. Though he certainly didn’t list Thacker among his friends, it was his fault the man had moved to Goose Creek. Rather, Millie was at fault, but a man couldn’t throw his wife under the bus, Thacker or not.
Chuck tapped the table with a soda straw. “If he brings those reports to practice tonight and tells my wife what she needs to work on, she’ll snap his head off.”
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