"It seems right to me." Gentry gave Will's shoulder a supportive squeeze. He grinned. "One down, one to go."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Gentry only smiled. "You'll know when you know. Let's pray before you go in."
When they were done, Will remained quiet a moment. "Are you the special friend Uncle Bill prayed with concerning me coming back?"
Gentry's shoulders rolled in a non-committal shrug. His eyes betrayed him. "We prayed some about it."
"Can I ask you something else?"
"Sure."
"Did he ever mention having an agreement with anyone about selling the home place for a golf course?"
Gentry answered before Will drew another breath. "Never."
"How did he get along with Otis Spivey?"
"Like Cain and Abel. Take care. Thanks for the ride."
Will sat in silence several minutes, staring at Kincaid's office. Two years of surgical residency, accepting the position at Auburn would be sacrificed if he went in. Tangible reality would be traded for impressions, for whisperings. Sight traded for faith. For the long-held vision had fresh light shining upon it, revealing it as a mere foretaste pointing to a more magnificent truth.
Fifteen minutes later, he started the truck and drove off. He could always sign the papers another day.
There were facts and hunches that still needed to be attached to each other.
Chapter 35
Will tapped on the door as he wiped the bottom of his boots on the welcome mat.
"Come in." Liza huddled on the couch, cocooned in a quilt. She knew she didn't look attractive. Last time she looked in the mirror, her pallid face, squished under layers of frowns, resembled last week's biscuit dough.
Will nodded to her on his way to the kitchen. He returned with the thermometer, placed it in Liza's mouth. Did he notice she smelled like a Scope spill site? A minute later, he read it, shaking his head and grunting under his breath.
"Well?" She always felt nervous when medical people behaved so irresponsibly. It would be better if they shouted, 'You're fixin' to die!', instead of standing around clucking like a guinea laying a jagged egg.
"Down from earlier but still high." He slid it into its sleeve. "Have you had anything to eat?"
"No. Being on doggie drugs, I didn't know the best thing for me."
His grin was relaxed. "Stay here while I fix you some kibbles and bits."
Minutes later, Liza joined him in the kitchen, lured by the aromas. She leaned against the doorjamb, one bare foot atop the other, blanket draped over her shoulders. "Smells good."
He waved at the smoke. "Is there an exhaust fan somewhere?"
"No. Don't need one if you stick to cooking stuff that smells this good."
He laughed while sliding a cheese and mushroom omelet onto a plate. "I'm glad you're hungry." He motioned her back into the dining room and pulled her chair out.
Memories of her dad always extending that courtesy tugged at her heart. She sat down, rearranged the blanket. "Would you mind returning thanks for my food?" As she bowed her head, it retreated into the blanket, like a turtle retracting its head.
After he said grace, he surprised Liza by going to the kitchen and beginning to clean up.
Keeping her eyes off his strong shoulders proved hard. "Your mother trained you good."
"She was always scared procrastination might lead to food poisoning."
"This is really good." She watched him from her seat, frowning as she chewed. "Aren't you going to fix yourself any?"
"I figured on cleaning up my mess, then getting out of your hair so you can rest."
"I wouldn't mind some company while I eat." She stared at the seat across from her, blinked back a tear. The emptiness had grown larger since her dad died. She cleared her throat, hoping he didn't notice. "Sometimes the table seems a bit lonely."
He fixed a plate for himself and started a pot of coffee before joining her. Soon its warm aroma freshened the air, chasing some of the dampness away. They exchanged awkward smiles and ate quietly until Liza broke the silence.
"Sorry you had to miss church because of me."
"Sometimes there's an ox in the ditch."
Her fork paused between plate and mouth. "What a flattering way to put it."
"My bad." He puffed his cheeks, appeared to be thinking. "Sometimes there's a damsel in distress."
She smirked. "That's overkill."
"You're right. How about stuff happens?"
"Much better." She leaned back, rubbing one foot with the other. Would he invite her to go church sometime? If there was a polite bone in his body, he would. And if she was polite, well, she didn't know what she would say. She took a swig of orange juice, puckered her face at the sour taste. "Maybe you'll get to go next week. If you stay."
"How do you like your coffee? Or do you even want any?"
"Black as a witch's cat, please." He sat the cup before her moments later. His nails were cleaner than hers. "Do you hire out as a maid? You're spoiling me."
"You needed a hand. I was available. No big deal."
They drank their coffee in silence. Her rare conversations with men were often like that, bursting from the gate like a quarter horse, crossing the finish line like a spavined plow mule. Heavy drizzle tapped at the window before coursing down the glass in jerky rivulets.
Liza's arms became heavier than her eyelids. She hadn't slept much last night. A deep sigh lifted her shoulders. The cup clattered on the saucer as she placed it down, sloshing some over the side. She tossed a napkin in the puddle, smiling an apology.
"About time for me to get going." Will scooted his chair back and rose. "Do you want me to call someone to check in on you?"
Liza's shoulders shook as she felt the effect of a rising temperature. Or was it irritation? "Whatever you think is best." Her words were clipped shorter than a Marine haircut.
"You'll probably need some help for a few days."
Liza waited. Would he say anything else? When he didn't, she spoke in an overly formal tone. "I'll make it a priority to call somebody later. I'm sure you've got more important things to do than nurse me."
She tried to scoot her chair back, but one leg hung on the quilt. Recoiling against the resistance, upset with her foolish thoughts, she shoved again, much harder. The slow motion events would be one of those exquisite moments looked back on with fondness. But that it would be several decades from now, when one of the witnesses had either died or suffered some debilitating mental disorder resulting in amnesia.
In the battle to disentangle from the quilt, the chair began slowly tipping backwards, almost stalling out at the top of the arc, but mustering sufficient momentum to complete the trip. Like a butterfly struggling free from its chrysalis, her feet and arms wrestled the blanket. When the chair hit the floor, she rolled free from her wrappings, inelegantly sprawled on the floor in a Lady Vols basketball jersey and skimpy blue jean shorts.
Will bent over, stern-faced. "Let me help you."
His eyes scrambled to focus on anything but her, which would increase the difficulty of his being of assistance. Blind groping would not be helpful. The sight of bare thighs panicked her. "Stay away from me!"
She snatched at the blanket in an effort to cover herself. A corner of the quilt still being wrapped around one chair leg, the chair made the trip with the blanket. And arrived first.
A bottom rung smacked the bridge of her nose, releasing, in her estimation, at least two pints of tears mixing with several gallons of blood spurting from her nostrils. When she tried to speak, it seemed to flow faster, drowning her words in red bubbles. So much blood. So many brilliant lights. So much spinning.
Bells rang in the distance. Lips and ears grew numb. Darkness filled the room, shrouding Will in shadows. If there's any justice, I won't have to wake up. She whirled into a black hole aglitter with bright spots the size of salt grains.
She awoke, recognized her bed. She peeked beneath the bed covers. Still dressed
the same, except the jersey was damp where blood had been partially sponged off. What had that looked like? How much had he touched her? She wouldn't ask.
She felt her nose, thinking it must be the size of a melon since her hand found it quicker than usual. The slight touch enraged every one of its ten million nerves. Soreness would fade, but stupid lasts forever. The bed creaked as she pulled the covers over her head, hoping they muffled close-mouthed screams.
Footsteps sounding in the hallway caused her to fall silent, hoping he would go away. Slow, tortuous death by embarrassment wasn't pretty, was an activity better done in solitude.
"I know you're awake." She lowered the covers. Will stood in the doorway. "Your nose isn't bleeding again, is it?"
"No." Though her voice sounded swollen, she tried to sound casual. Soft fists clutched the covers lightly, afraid to snatch them lest they be attached to something bigger. If she yanked the footboard up, she would most certainly brain herself.
She studied his countenance. Overall, he was doing an admirable job of not laughing at her. He only needed to get the twitches at the corners of his mouth under control. "Good. It bled quite a bit, but I don't think it's broken."
"Awesome."
"I guess you know you fainted."
She rolled her eyes. "And I thought I'd had a Star Trek moment." She regretted snapping at once.
His face remained passive. Except for the corners of his mouth again. "Is there anything else I can do?"
"No."
"I'm going to check your critters. I'll check in on you before I leave."
She watched him disappear down the hallway. Seems that's always the way she saw him, walking away.
***
Hours later, the obvious chores were done. Checking the cow herd, feeding chickens, gathering eggs. Then he had wandered over the farm, praying for Liza.
He avoided the loose stone step that rocked, producing a telltale knocking sound, as he made his way onto the porch and entered.
Liza had come downstairs, lay asleep under her quilt on the couch. He tiptoed by her to the kitchen, closed the door. Cooking earlier in the day had whetted his appetite for more, but he wanted more than a glorified egg dish.
He grinned at the memory of his mom teaching him cooking skills during his teens, saying that if his looks and wit couldn't land him a wife, culinary skills might. And if he ended up with one of those modern girls who relied on microwaves, knowledge of how to fix the basics would be a form of self-defense worth knowing.
Since it might be a while until they ate, he prepared a batch of cornbread to augment the vegetables he'd found. Maybe they wouldn't compare to the best biscuit cook in three counties, as Pete described her, but the dog wouldn't bury it either.
The kitchen door squeaked as he slid them into the oven. He turned. Liza stood there, propped against the wall. She appeared paler than eggshells. And absolutely beautiful. What did the picture in his pocket really mean?
"Have you taken your temp lately?"
She shook her head. "Can't find my mouth for this big nose I grew. And my teeth chatter so bad, I'd probably bite a thermometer in two. Die of mercury poisoning."
Will laughed at her over-reaction. "It's a digital thermometer."
"Then I'd probably electrocute myself." She sniffed the air. "Smells good. Hope I can eat some."
"I fixed enough for you, too."
She grimaced at the poor attempt at humor. "You know what I meant."
He smiled, suggested she sit back down. When she argued, he steered her by the shoulders to the couch, sat her down, and stuck the thermometer in her mouth. That would keep her quiet ninety-seconds. He smiled when he read it. "Ninety-nine. I believe you might make it."
"Felt like I was going to die earlier." She fought with the blanket, trying to get it over her legs. She had sweat so much that it stuck to her like a moldy beaver pelt. "That's what I want to talk about."
"Dying?"
"You won't go blabbing things to Miss Effie? Or anyone else?"
"If I blabbed it to Miss Effie, I wouldn't have to blab it to anyone else." He excused himself, went to the kitchen to check one the progress of the meal. When he came back, he sprawled in the recliner across the room. "Now what's this about?"
"Can we wait until after supper?"
Thirty minutes later, Liza shoved her plate back. She had eaten full helpings of everything, plus the pieces of cornbread. She lumbered to the couch while Will cleaned up the kitchen.
"Sure was good." She looked up when he plopped into the chair next to the couch after cleaning up.
He stood, wiped hands on jeans. "I'm going to let you get some rest. And I need to settle a few things tonight. I've enjoyed it."
Her body shifted under the blanket. "I'm owing you for your help."
"Anytime."
Liza paused, mouth wrinkled in supplication. "I don't want to impose, but do you have time to pray with me about something? Mine don't work."
"Really? Why do you think that?"
"Because God is mad at me."
"Why is that?"
"Because I'm mad at Him. That's bound to make Him mad back."
Chapter 36
Monday
Bonnie's Square Meal hadn't changed much in the past ten years. Enough secondhand cholesterol loitered in the air to clog the community's combined arteries.
Narrow and deep, a center aisle of tables and chairs were flanked on the right by booths, on the left by a long counter and stools. In cynical imitation of celebrity picture displays adorning many Cracker Barrels, there was a Hall of Fame and a Hall of Shame. Glossy promo pictures of country music stars, past and present, who had never frequented Bonnie's plastered the paneling in the Hall of Shame section. Only two black and white pictures, one of Lester Flatt, one of Earl Scruggs, victims of a wrong turn in heavy fog in the mid-fifties, hung in the Hall of Fame.
Bonnie and her husband, a squat lump of man referred to as Sarge in deference to his rank as an army chow cook, ran the establishment which served breakfast and lunch to a collection of farmers, businessmen, secretaries, courthouse workers, and retired men.
The patrons assumed the same seats every morning. Conversations picked up where they had ended yesterday or last week, were either completed or left dangling in the air until next time.
The cowbell over the door rang as Will stepped in. He often ate breakfast here, missing only several mornings after last Monday's debacle of death. A Hank Williams Jr. song vied with scattered conversations and the clatter of eating utensils on plates. A group of three, gathered around the self-serve coffee pot in the rear, looked up.
Since his arrival, he had established a nodding relationship with a few folks, but hadn't broken conversational ground. He took his customary seat at the counter, a place designated for newcomers and introverts, his demographic. It would take time to ascend the informal pecking order and gain a seat at a table or booth.
He picked up a menu, gave it the attention others did the morning paper. And more attention than Sarge ever had. The Baptists and Methodists thought they exercised free will when ordering, but the stray Calvinist realized it was Sarge's sovereignty that determined what you got. Eggs could be ordered cooked however you wanted them, but you took what Sarge gave you.
This morning Bonnie, Miss Effie's cousin on her mother's side, took his order, including the superfluous question of how he wanted his eggs cooked. She tarried a moment, wiping the counter. "How are things going? Decided whether you're staying?"
"Not sure."
"Cousin Effie fixed you up with a wife yet?"
"She's working on it."
Bonnie snorted a laugh, then moved down the counter, chatting along the way. Ten minutes later Katie, a thirty something blond, slid his plate before him, a mischievous smile irradiating a dumpling face frescoed beneath several layers of makeup. "Bonnie says you're in the wife market. I've got a cousin that's looking. I'll give you her number if you want it."
Will stared at her
while those seated close enough to overhear laughed. "Just phone Miss Effie."
The cowbell clanged. In a display of group reflex, heads went up to see who had joined them. Instead of the usual call out of greetings, a strained silence hushed the room.
"If it ain't Judge Roy Bean." Will turned. Who had spoken so rudely? Grover Qualls, one of the two pharmacists in the Springs. Normally mild-mannered. "What brings you to our fair city? Suing somebody's granny?"
The man's florid face sloped into a tolerant grin as his eyes cruised the room. Thick folds of flesh drooped over his shirt collar, like rising dough overflowing a bowl. "Only if Sarge there is a granny. I thought I might sue him for false advertising. I noticed the sign on the window says fine home cooking."
"I allow that it is home cooking if you were raised that way." Grover's drawl dripped with contempt.
The man seated two stools from Will leaned over and whispered. "That's C. T. Cutter, shyster lawyer from Alpine. The C.T. stands for 'Cut Throat.' Ruthless. A perfect example of what higher education can do to a mind. Worse than drugs. No offense."
An amiable laugh rumbled from Cutter's thick chest. "Unlike you folks raised in the head of some hollow, I was raised inside."
"Your folks were trying not to scare the neighbor's dogs." Several companions at Grover's table snickered.
"Grover, you're a bitter man." Cutter stood three steps inside the door. The morning sun glinted against his slick gray suit. "You'd do well to put on your big boy pants and get over it."
"Who's going to forget you running off Dr. Logan?" Grover jumped to his feet, knocking over a chair as he moved toward Cutter. Two burly farmers rose, each grabbing one of his arms.
"He ain't worth it, Grover." One of the men tried to return him to his table. "Now calm down before you get yourself in trouble."
"Excellent idea." Cutter's laugh soiled the air. "I charge two hundred dollars an hour for that sort of advice."
"You ran him off with those frivolous lawsuits. He hadn't done anything wrong and you knew it."
X's and O's (Will Kilpatrick, DVM Mystery Series Book 1) Page 26