by Joan Kilby
Maybe not consciously, Jack thought, but he decided not to take offense. Instead, he said mildly, “We don’t play competitively. Renita’s not much more than a novice.”
“Thanks, but it’s the one day of the week I can spend time with Oliver. And I need to make sure he does his homework.”
“Is he a good student?”
“He could be a whole lot better,” she admitted. “He’s smart, but he doesn’t apply himself.”
“Fourteen is a tough age for school. I hated it.”
Sienna’s gaze flicked to his clearly expensive house and back to him. “You really don’t work at anything?”
“Life’s short,” he said flippantly. “I live for pleasure.”
Suspicion clouded her eyes. “Then how do you get money?”
“I’m not a drug dealer. Nothing illegal is going on.”
“But you must have worked at some time in the past.”
“The past is a foreign country. I lost my passport.”
“Mr. Mysterious, eh?” She leaned on the porch railing, studying him. “Are you really content with just hobbies?”
He sensed she wanted to like him. He wasn’t being egotistical to think that. And he was attracted to her. Yet it was clear she couldn’t help judging him. Self-indulgent. Lazy. Hedonistic. He could almost hear the pronouncements flowing through her mind. Those qualities weren’t what she, a doctor, stood for.
“I’m not a bad person,” he said, attempting to make a joke of it. “In fact, you and I operate by the same code—‘First, do no harm.’”
“You don’t do harm by having a job.”
“I had a job once. I ran a light-aircraft charter. I was a pilot. I also built and repaired engines and navigational systems.” He gave her a twisted smile. “A ‘Jack’ of all trades, you could say.”
“That sounds amazing,” she said. “Why did you stop?”
He shrugged. “I got tired of it.”
“Really?” she said, dubious. “Will you ever go back to it?”
“No. Never.” It had been a great job, one he loved. But he’d screwed up big-time. Leanne had paid the price. “Look, it’s best not to have expectations of me. I don’t like to disappoint.”
“Are you warning me off?” Sienna asked.
“No, that’s not it. Not exactly.” But he suspected she had a fairly rigid definition of success and he didn’t meet the criteria.
“It’s okay.” Her glance went past his shoulder. “There’s the taxi.” She bent to slip her shoes back on. From somewhere she found a hair tie and tamed the mass of auburn curls into a ponytail.
“Thanks so much for a wonderful evening, Jack. The food was marvelous. Your friends are lovely.” She was smiling as she circled around him, one foot on the next step down. “I really enjoyed myself.”
“Come again, anytime.”
“Love to.” Her tone was light.
The taxi’s headlights were behind her, so he couldn’t see her expression. Did she mean it, or were her cool gray-green eyes sending another message entirely?
In a way he supposed he had been warning her off. He’d built a comfortable life, one he could live with. His friends understood him—well, as much as anyone could understand someone who didn’t spill his guts at the drop of a hat—and enjoyed him for who he was.
The problem with women was they always thought they could change you. He was quite happy being himself, thank you very much. He didn’t want anyone, not even a redheaded Venus, rocking his carefully balanced boat.
CHAPTER FOUR
SIENNA APPLIED a sizzling drop of liquid nitrogen to the plantar wart on the sole of her forty-three-year-old female patient’s right foot. “This shouldn’t hurt…”
Penelope Brown reclined on the examining table with her pant leg rolled up over her calf. Her long dark bangs fell over eyes scrunched tightly shut. “Will this get rid of it? I’m on my feet for long hours in the classroom.”
“The wart will turn black and die within a few days. If it doesn’t, or if it gets hot and swollen, come back and see me.” Sienna returned the applicator to the stainless steel container and closed the lid on the clouds of vapor. “Keep your feet clean and dry,” she added, taping a bandage over the wart. “Don’t go barefoot in public swimming pools or showers.”
“Okay.” Penelope pushed herself to a sitting position and put her stocking back on. She slid off the examining table and reached for her purse.
When Sienna handed her an information sheet on foot hygiene, Penelope passed her a notice in return. “If you feel like a fun evening for a good cause, come to our Trivia Night.”
“Is this to raise funds for the high school?” Sienna asked, scanning the notice. “My son, Oliver, hasn’t brought home any information about this.”
“It’s in the school newsletter going out today. The sporting facilities need upgrading, but the budget has blown out for this year,” Penelope said. “We’re trying to encourage the kids to get active instead of sitting in front of the computer all day.”
“That is a good cause. I’ll be there.”
“Oh, and we’re looking for items to raffle off if you’ve got anything to donate.”
“A free flu vaccination or tonsillectomy?” Sienna joked. “I’ll see what I can come up with.”
“I’d better scoot,” Penelope said, chuckling. “Thanks a lot.” She slipped on her shoes and went out the door, closing it behind her.
Sienna tacked the Trivia Night notice to the cork-board beside her desk and went out to greet her next patient, Steve Thatcher. Jack hadn’t said anything overt the other evening, but Sienna sensed he was worried about his dad.
In the waiting room, a teenage girl in a school uniform thumbed through a fashion magazine. A harried mother tried to stop her toddler from pulling all the magazines off the coffee table. The portly older man with gray hair and glasses had to be Steve.
In a calm, cheerful voice, Sienna said, “Mr. Thatcher? Come with me, please.”
Sienna led the way to her office and waited outside the door while Steve slowly followed. She used the time to make a preliminary medical assessment. His file stated he was sixty-three, although he moved more slowly than some men a decade older. Steve’s arms and legs were thin, but his bloated barrel-shaped torso set alarm bells ringing. She already had a suspicion what might be wrong with him.
Sienna gestured for him to take a seat. Balancing on the Swiss exercise ball that served as her desk chair, she brought up his details on the computer.
“I met your son,” she said as she typed in the date. To her discomfort her cheeks grew warm. It was a reasonable comment under the circumstances, but she was starting to feel like a schoolgirl who wanted to repeat the name of the guy she had a crush on to everyone she met.
“Whole damn town knows Jack,” Steve said gruffly but with a hint of pride.
“Oh, and I met Renita and Lexie, too,” she added belatedly. Sienna swiveled to face him, taking in his pale skin and pouchy brown eyes behind the old-fashioned steel-framed glasses. “What can I do for you, Mr. Thatcher?”
“I’m here for a checkup. The missus made me come.”
“How are you feeling?” Sienna asked, taking his wrist to check his pulse. A bit fast.
“Well, not that good. I’m tired all the time even though I don’t do what you’d call exercise.” Steve rubbed a sausage-fingered hand over his stubbly gray jaw. “Sometimes my feet go all tingly. Hurts to walk, like.”
“Hop up on the exam table. Undo the top buttons of your shirt so I can check your heart.” Sienna got up and nudged her exercise ball under the desk. Plugging her stethoscope into her ears, she slipped the chest piece inside Steve’s shirt and pressed it against his chest. His heartbeat was also erratic, but that could be due to any one of several things. “Are you hungry a lot? Excessively thirsty?”
“Yes.” He seemed surprised she’d know. “I’m guzzling water day and night. Must be why I’m always going to the toilet. Do you think it could
be my prostate?”
“It’s possible, but there could be other reasons.” Sienna moved the stethoscope to the center of his chest. “Cough for me.” Steve forced air out in a bark, repeating it as she moved the stethoscope around. “Your lungs are fine. Do you have a sweet tooth, Mr. Thatcher?”
“Afraid so.” Steve grinned, somewhat shamefaced. “My wife loves to bake—cookies, cakes, pies. She gives me heck, but her cakes are that good.” His smile faded and a troubled frown deepened the creases on his forehead. “She used to bake, that is, when we were living on the farm. Now that we’re retired she’s into yoga or Eastern mysticism or some such rubbish. She’s never home.”
“So you’re not eating sweets now?” Sienna asked, letting the stethoscope dangle around her neck.
“Oh, yeah, I still do. She made brownies the other day. First time in ages.” He rubbed a hand through his sparse gray hair. “But usually I make do with store-bought cakes. They aren’t as good, but I eat them anyway.”
Sienna sensed that despite Steve Thatcher’s gruff demeanor he was feeling lost and lonely. If so, he wouldn’t be the first person to turn to food for comfort. Especially if he had too much time on his hands. “Do you have hobbies?”
“I’ve never had time for hobbies. Wouldn’t know where to start now.”
Sienna strapped the blood pressure cuff to his upper arm. “Have you thought about joining a seniors’ activity group?”
“I’m not gonna knit lace doilies,” Steve grumbled.
“Gardening?” she asked, pumping up the cuff.
“Too much work,” Steve said, shaking his head. “I spent my whole life running a dairy farm. I’ve earned a rest.”
“Some people find it therapeutic to grow their own flowers and vegetables,” Sienna suggested. “You can meet people through gardening clubs—”
“Hell, no! Pardon my language,” Steve replied. “Hetty used to belong to a gardening club. You wouldn’t believe the backbiting that went on. Whose roses smell the sweetest, whose compost don’t stink.”
“Okay, no gardening,” Sienna said, chuckling as she slowly allowed the pressure to bleed off. “At least you’ve got family. Do you have grandchildren? I know Jack doesn’t, but Renita and Lexie didn’t mention if they had children.”
“None of them are married or have children,” Steve replied. “I see the kids a fair bit, but they all have busy lives. Smedley’s ’bout the only one who’s got time for me.”
“Smedley?”
“My Jack Russell terrier.” Steve’s face brightened. “He’s just a pup, but he’s a little ripper.”
“Dogs are wonderful companions.” Sienna checked the digital readout. “Your blood pressure’s high. When did you last have your sugar levels tested?”
Steve shrugged, his expression blank. “Can’t say as I’ve ever had that done.”
Sienna stripped the cuff off his arm and stepped back. “You can do up your shirt and get down now.” Dropping back onto her ball, she tapped at the computer keys. “I’m ordering some blood tests. It’s possible you have type 2 diabetes. We won’t know for certain until I see the results.”
“Diabetes? That can’t be.” Agitated, he rubbed his hands on his thighs, pushing his brown pants back and forth. “Our neighbor’s kid has diabetes. Poor mite is real sickly. Gets jabbed with needles day and night.”
“He most likely has type 1 diabetes. There’s no need for you to be alarmed,” Sienna assured him. “Untreated, type 2 can have serious consequences but it’s a manageable condition. A person doesn’t necessarily need to take insulin. There are other medications, and diet and exercise can help a lot. First we need to find out if you have it.”
“I can’t have diabetes,” Steve repeated stubbornly. “I’ve always been as healthy as a horse. It’s probably just a touch of flu.”
“We’ll see.” The lab request printed out and she ripped it from the machine. “Take this to the pathology lab next door first thing Monday morning. The full instructions are on this sheet. Don’t eat or drink anything for at least twelve hours beforehand. I recommend you cut back on the sweets until we find out the results.”
Sienna studied Steve’s downcast face as he scanned the instruction sheet. He wasn’t her only patient who had trouble adjusting to retirement. Men especially, it seemed, often had no idea what to do with themselves once they stopped working. In Steve’s case, add a move to a new community and a wife whose interests differed from his. She wouldn’t be surprised if Steve was suffering from mild depression as well as diabetes.
“Would you be interested in joining a Men’s Shed?” she asked, suddenly recalling a recent magazine article extolling the virtues of the not-for-profit organization. Men’s Sheds tackled men’s physical and emotional health issues by providing them with a place to go to socialize and engage in productive activities.
“I’ve heard of them.” Steve looked up with a faint gleam of interest. “Is there a Men’s Shed in Summerside?”
“I’ll find out. Hang on just a tick.” Sienna reached for the phone and dialed her local fount of knowledge. “Bev, do you know where the closest Men’s Shed is? Okay, thanks.” She hung up and turned to Steve. “Rosebud. That’s only what, half an hour down the highway?”
“We sold the second car when we moved to Summerside and the missus is always off somewhere in the one we’ve got left. Anyway, my eyesight isn’t the greatest lately.”
“Diabetes can affect your vision. You should get your eyes checked, too.”
He blinked at her, unwavering and stolid. “I don’t have diabetes.”
“Well, hopefully not. But we need to find out.”
“You go by that doctor-patient confidentiality thing don’t you, Doc?” Steve asked. “You won’t tell Jack about this.”
“I don’t know your son that well. But why don’t you want him to know? Your family could be a support.”
“No,” he said firmly as he rose and went to the door. “I don’t want anyone fussing over me.”
Or was it that he didn’t want anyone bugging him to eat right and exercise? Jack could run a Men’s Shed. The thought leaped into Sienna’s mind as she was seeing Steve out. He has the space, the time, the personality
and the practical skills.
The idea grew on her over the course of the afternoon. She found a few minutes to look up Men’s Sheds on the Internet and make a phone call to the national association. The more she found out, the more excited she became about the possibilities, not just for Steve, but all the men in the community with too much time on their hands.
Including Jack. Running a Men’s Shed might be just what he needed to give him renewed purpose. Despite his happy-go-lucky attitude, she sensed an undercurrent of restlessness, even dissatisfaction. To her, it seemed a perfect fit.
She started to reach for the phone book, then changed her mind. She would go over to his place after work. That way he wouldn’t find it as easy to say no. True, he’d made it clear he had no ambition. But surely he would consider taking on the Men’s Shed if it meant helping his father.
“OLIVER!” SHE CALLED, coming through her front door later that afternoon. “Are you home?”
“In the kitchen.” He shambled into view with a sandwich in hand. Taking a big bite, he mumbled around the food, “What’s up?”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Sienna dropped her purse and folder of papers on the counter to get herself a drink of water. “I have to go see Jack Thatcher about something. I won’t be long.”
“Okay,” Oliver said without much interest. Then he glanced up, eyes widening. “Hang on. I think Jack Thatcher is the guy who gave the robotics presentation to my class.”
“That’s right. I need to speak to him about starting a Men’s Shed in Summerside.”
“Can I come? I want him to show me how to install a gear in my robot so it’ll go in reverse.”
“I don’t know about that,” she said. “He might not want to be bothered at home with school s
tuff.”
“He won’t mind, honest,” Oliver said. “He told the class we could come around to his place anytime and he’d answer any questions or help us with projects.”
“Speaking of projects, how was school today?”
“Crappy, as usual.”
“Define crappy.”
“Mum, we’re wasting time!”
“Okay, let’s go. But this conversation isn’t over.”
JACK LAY IN BED, arms outstretched, staring at the ceiling, trying to think of a reason he should get up. Most days he could cope, even enjoy life. But today was Leanne’s birthday. She would have been thirty-three. Jack would have baked her a cake. There might have been a little boy or girl to help her blow the candles out on her birthday cake.
He had no tears left. That at least would have meant he felt something. Instead, an all-pervading numbness spread from his heart outward, paralyzing him. He wasn’t sure he could move if he tried. It felt like work to turn his head to glance at the clock. Ten-thirty.
He thought about the week ahead and wondered how he would fill it. When he described his life to others, he made it sound jam-packed, but it wasn’t, not really. Evenings, when his friends were available to hang out, he could handle, but too often the days stretched without incident, empty squares on the calendar.
A warm tongue lapped at his fingers dangling over the side of the bed. Bogie.
Jack roused himself. “Hey, buddy. Do you want to go out?”
He let the dog out, forced himself to eat breakfast even though he had no appetite. An hour later he was walking up the gravel driveway breathing in the warm spring air scented by the towering pines. His big plan for the day was to come up with a prototype of a more advanced robot high-school students might enjoy building.
He hoped the activity would drive Sienna out of his thoughts. She’d deflated his ego. Without any false modesty it had been a while since a woman hadn’t succumbed to the Jack Thatcher charm. Well, so what? He didn’t need a judgmental female in his life.
He unlocked the shed and pulled back the creaking corrugated iron door. His hand found the light switch and he illuminated the cavernous shed. To the immediate left was a long workbench, tools neatly hung from a board on the wall. The far left wall was covered in open shelving crammed with spare parts for just about anything electronic or mechanical.