He wasn’t quite ready to head home. The freezer was full of dinners prepared by Mrs. Stouffer, Marie Callender, and half a dozen other lady brand names. Eating alone was just not appetizing. He spotted a quaint little pub not far from the parking garage, and decided he’d see what they had to offer. Maybe he’d still eat by himself; but in a crowded pub, it wouldn’t feel quite so lonely.
He’d been in the area for over a year, and had spent most of that time discouraging all advances from the opposite sex. He’d turned away nurses, women doctors, orderlies, lab techs, paramedics and more. Work was for work. It was hard enough without bringing personal relationships into the mix. He wanted a girlfriend who had nothing to do with the medical field. He wanted a girlfriend who didn’t even know he was a doctor – who wasn’t out shopping for a rich man to support her and her illegitimate children. He was probably asking for too much, and that’s why he was lonely.
The parking lot was crowded. He should have just left his BMW in the garage at the hospital and walked over, but he hadn’t known at the time he was going to be stopping here. He drove around the block before finding a spot to slide into. Maybe that was a sign that the food there was really good.
Most of the booths were taken. He found one, which was too near the bathrooms in his opinion, and sat down, shrugging off his jacket. The plastic-coated menu was pretty basic. Six different ways to have a hamburger. He wasn’t even sure he wanted a burger, but it was better than a frozen entree.
An acne-faced server asked to take his order. He bit his tongue before giving unwanted advice on how to clear that up. He indicated the burger on the menu, as it was a little loud and he wasn’t sure the server would hear him clearly. “And what’s on tap?” he asked, pointing to the picture of a pint of beer.
The server rattled off a dozen different names without stopping for air. Jonathan didn’t recognize any of them. He just wanted a beer, damn it! Kalamazoo prided itself on the number and quality of micro-breweries. The city was in constant competition with Grand Rapids to the north for the title of Best Beer City USA. He shook his head. A Miller Lite would have been okay. “Pick one. Surprise me,” he told the server.
Just then a gigantic dog plopped its head right on his table. It was hairy and drooling. A spot of drool landed on the checked oilcloth. Ew, he’d never be able to eat there now. “Nice doggy,” he said, moving deeper into the booth. “Shoo. Go on now. What are you doing here?”
Female laughter mocked him. “Afraid of dogs? A big hero like you?”
He looked up at a familiar face, trying to recall her name. It was the patient from the ER. He remembered her age, 24. He remembered her injury, and her address. But the name was a blank. He cursed under his breath.
“No, not afraid of dogs,” he said, clearing his throat. “Just startled. “I didn’t expect to see one here.”
“This is Tiny, the owner’s dog.”
“Ah. Funny,” he said, not really amused.
She slid into the booth opposite him, sloshing her pink-hued beer. It obviously wasn’t her first. The pooch licked the beer from the table. She patted it, then sent it away. Obediently, the dog trotted off behind the bar. Hopefully the bartender wouldn’t trip over the small mountain of a dog and break his neck.
“Doesn’t it violate some code to have a dog here?”
“Tiny doesn’t go in the kitchen,” she explained. “She is sort of a bouncer. Keeps the riff raff from causing problems. Apparently, tough drug dealers are afraid of her.”
He could empathize.
“I’m Kelly, by the way. You don’t remember me, but I was in your ER today. You’re Dr. Steele. Right?”
Kelly! That was it. Kelly, with the original last name Smith. He’d thought she was lying to conceal an abusive boyfriend, but then, there really were people named Smith. “I remember,” he said. “Sprained wrist. So why are you here, when you should be icing it?”
She shrugged. “I’ll ice it when I get home.”
“Elevate it now. Go on, put your hand up. Haven’t you heard of RICE? Rest, ice, compression and elevation. That’s how you treat soft tissue damage.”
“Aye aye, sir,” she said, with a mock salute. She plopped her left elbow on the table, waving the bandaged wrist in the air. “Better?”
“It would be better if you weren’t drinking,” he said sternly. Why was he being such an ass? He’d wanted to meet her, but he sure wasn’t making any brownie points this way.
“I don’t drink much,” she said softly, lowering her gaze as though confessing a sin. “I just needed a little something to take the edge off the pain.”
The server came back then, plopping a dark brew in front of him. Yuck. He should have been more specific. Surprise him with something that tasted like a Miller Lite. Now he’d have to swallow down the bitter lager before asking for a refill. Coming in here had been a mistake. “Would you mind wiping the dog drool off the table?” he said sourly.
The server wiped the oilcloth with a soggy rag, then left a stack of paper napkins behind. “Your burger will be right up,” he called over his retreating shoulder.
“They make the best burgers,” Kelly announced. “Although, they’re most known for their Italian cuisine.”
“That wasn’t on the menu,” he said. A good lasagna sounded heavenly.
“Oh, you have to ask for the upstairs menu. They own both businesses, so you can order anything from the restaurant upstairs and have it delivered down here. I do that all the time. I love the Italian food, but prefer the Irish Pub atmosphere. Not that I eat out a lot. I mean, I suppose I eat out more than I should. I know how to cook, but cooking for one is boring. And now, well, lifting a pot with one hand might be difficult. I guess I’ve got a good excuse for the next couple of days.”
“Actually, you shouldn’t eat here, if it tempts you to drink,” Jonathan said. “Mixing alcohol and pain killers can damage your liver.”
“I told you, I don’t drink that much,” she insisted. She started to rise, like maybe she’d had enough of his condescending ways.
Hell, he had too. He immediately apologized. “I’m sorry for being an ass,” he said. “I’m not usually this crabby. I guess I’m feeling a little melancholy.”
She settled into the booth again. “Yeah? Me too. I was best friends with a girl named Cheryl, but she moved. I know other people – I know a lot of people – but I haven’t found another best friend yet. You know?”
He nodded. “I know.”
The server plopped his burger down in front of him, along with a bottle of ketchup and the bill, then disappeared into the crowd. He picked up a French fry and waved it at her. “If I’d known about the lasagna, I would have ordered that.”
She grinned, snatching his French fry from him. “Perfect! I’ll eat your burger for you! I haven’t ordered yet.”
He slid the enormous burger across the table. Buying her dinner was the least he could do, and maybe it would convince her to stay and eat with him. Watching her try to lift the enormous sandwich was well worth the price of her meal. She twisted her bandaged hand this way and that, but the burger would have made a mess of it, as melted cheese, ketchup and hot grease dripped from the bun.
“Maybe you should have the lasagna too,” he suggested.
Still grinning, she shook her head. “Mom always said I was too determined for my own good.” She picked up just the top bun and stuffed it in her mouth. A girl with an appetite! He would have to get to know her better. Taking pseudo-models in their size 0 jeans out to eat was a waste of money.
She signaled for the server, washing her food down with a slug of beer so she could speak. “I’d like to order the lasagna platter for my friend here,” she said. “Extra garlic bread on the side. And, could you bring me a glass of water? I’ve had enough beer.”
Jonathan wondered if that last bit had been for his benefit. “So why dog sledding? How did you get into that?”
“I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t running dogs,” sh
e said. “My parents were mushers. I had my first ride in the sled when I was five months old. By the time I was three, I was mushing on my own. Just one dog at first. Then two, then four. I have run as many as eight dogs, but four is my favorite. Enough to get up a good speed and maintain it, but not too many to control.”
“I’d like to watch you some weekend.”
“Come out Saturday morning,” she said.
He scowled and shook his head. “You can’t mush until your wrist is better.”
She laughed, waving her bandaged wrist. “You said it wasn’t broken. It feels better already.”
“I said it probably wasn’t broken. A hairline fracture wouldn’t show up on film. And you need to let it rest and heal, or you could do some serious damage to it.”
“Well, someone’s got to run the dogs,” she insisted. “Who is going to do it? You?”
“Why? Why do they have to run on Saturday?”
“They’re athletes in training,” she explained. “I don’t run them in the summer because it’s too warm for them. But as soon as the early mornings cool off, I start. Just a few miles a day at first, then gradually more, so that by the time the snow falls, they’re in shape. We generally run ten miles a day, sometimes more. And if you knew anything about huskies, you’d know that they really, really need the exercise.”
The server brought the lasagna and it was as good as she’d claimed. Loaded with cheese and meat sauce, and just enough seasonings. Not too heavy on the salt. He’d have to come here again.
“A real athlete knows he must rest after an injury,” Jonathan said.
“Fine,” she said, dismissing his concern with a wave. “No mushing until it feels better.”
Something about the way she said it, he didn’t believe her.
She promptly changed the subject, though, asking him about how long he’d been here, where he’d grown up, what made him decide to be a doctor. The conversation flowed easily. She was attentive and pleasant, without being overly impressed. He had the distinct impression that she could have cared less about his profession, and in fact, might have been more interested if he’d been a veterinarian.
They continued to visit long after the food was gone and the dishes cleared away. True to her word, she didn’t drink any more alcohol, switching between soda and water the rest of the evening. At some point, though, the pain meds must have really kicked in. Her eyelids seemed a bit droopy, and she yawned repeatedly.
“Come, let me take you home,” he offered, laying down cash to cover their bill and a sizeable tip.
“It’s okay, I can drive,” she said, yawning again.
“Please. You’re tired, and maybe not entirely alert. I’ll even pick you up in the morning to come back for your car.”
He was surprised when she agreed. Maybe she was more tired than he’d realized. He tucked her small hand into the crook of his arm and escorted her outside. “So you don’t slip,” he said, patting her fingers when she would have pulled away.
“My hero,” she said with a sleepy grin.”
Turned out she didn’t live that far away. He would have guessed she’d live outside of town, since he knew she had multiple dogs. But she directed him to a less-than-savory part of town, to a crumbling old house sandwiched between a 24-hour gas station and a tiny playground. The gas station had plywood over some of the windows, and he recognized it from the morning news as a place that had been burglarized recently.
He hurried around to open her door for her, helping her up the worn front steps to her house. She stopped on the top step while he was still one step below, and turned to face him. Even with the added height, she still had to look up to him. He felt a strong surge of protectiveness that surprised him. He wanted to take her inside, and tuck her in bed… but they’d only just met. He was glad she’d thwarted that, even in her sleepy, drugged state.
“Goodnight,” she said. “And thank you for bringing me home.”
“What time should I come for you?”
She waved. “Don’t bother. It’s not that far to walk.”
“I want to come.”
“Well, buy me breakfast, then, and it’s a deal. How about Big Apple Bagels, around nine?”
“See you then,” he promised.
She gave him a chaste kiss on his cheek, then disappeared inside the old house amid a cacophony of barks and whines.
He tossed the car keys in the air and caught them, whistling happily all the way home.
Chapter 2
Breakfast had been fun. Kelly knew she should be offering to pay for some of the meals, or at least her portion, but she didn’t want to insult him. He seemed so old-fashioned, the way he tried to protect her. She didn’t think they were dating yet, they’d only just met! But they’d spent so many waking moments together that she wasn’t sure. They’d met for lunch, and then he took her out for supper as well, since she’d mentioned how difficult it would be to cook one-handed.
The next day she didn’t see him at all for breakfast or lunch, but he’d called. He’d gone to work and promised to take her anywhere she wanted to go for dinner. She chose the pancake house. It wasn’t the kind of place to go on a date, but she still wasn’t sure if they were actually dating yet, and it was cheaper. And it was much easier to cut a pancake than a steak.
When he asked where she’d like to go for breakfast on Saturday, she’d declined. She’d told him she had some work to do, and she’d see him for dinner. He grumbled, but let it go, which was just as well. She’d told him she wouldn’t run the dogs until her hand felt better. And it did feel better, mostly. But new snow had fallen, and the temperature held steady in the mid-twenties. The sun was out with a few fluffy white clouds, so the glare on the snow wasn’t too strong. She simply had to run the dogs.
She hadn’t even taken them for a walk for three days, and they were driving her nuts. Constantly wanting in and out, and in and out, and quarreling with each other, and running around her house like naughty toddlers. They’d knocked over a bookcase. She was used to chairs being tumbled aside, and the occasional lamp – but it took a lot to knock over a bookcase. She didn’t want to argue with Jonathan, so she thought she’d just avoid a confrontation.
Dressing for a day at the fort, she started with the special silk long johns she’d splurged on just for mushing. Dollar stores sold cotton-blend long underwear, but they were worthless. Cotton would absorb sweat, hold it next to your skin, and make you cold. Wool would work, but it irritated her skin. So, she wore silk. She wasn’t a girly-girl, she didn’t wear much jewelry, or makeup, or even nail polish. But she loved the feel of silk. She’d paid extra to get it in pretty pink, instead of the basic black.
Next, she wore sweatpants and a sweatshirt, for warmth, two layers of wool socks – her feet weren’t as irritated by wool as the rest of her – and finally, the arctic blue ski pants and jacket. The dogs barked like crazy while she dressed, jumping up on the bed and roughhousing with each other. They knew what her clothing meant. This was her mushing outfit, and they were finally going to go for a run. Their tails were wagging so hard, that small tufts of their fur came loose and floated in the sunbeams. She rubbed at her nose absently.
Her wrist twinged a bit as she wrestled the sled onto the roof of her SUV and tied it down. She better remember to swallow some pain pills before she left. So much to remember! The ganglines and halters were stored in a plastic bin by the front door. Also in the box were things she needed to bring but seldom used – like dog booties for every dog. The dogs hated to wear them, but if one got an injured pad, it would protect the paw for the rest of the run. She also had an assortment of leashes, an extra collar, carabiners, tug lines, a few thermo-packs if her hands got chilled, a tin of hot cocoa mix, a box of matches, flashlights, and more she couldn’t even remember. Lifting the bin was almost as hard as carrying one of the dogs. She unzipped her coat, careful not to work up a sweat. If she got sweaty, then she could get chilled before the morning run. Winter sports was about worki
ng smart, rather than working hard.
Finally, she opened the front door and let the troops out. Seven energetic Siberian Huskies bounded down the stairs and circled her SUV, tails wagging, as they continued the dull roar of barks and yips. It was a good thing she didn’t have any neighbors. Kalamazoo had a three dog rule, which they only enforced if there was a complaint. She opened the rear hatch and the dogs piled inside, all except for Blue, the senior of the pack. Blue got to ride up front. At twelve, Blue was too old to mush, but still loved to be a part of the activity. He’d run alongside the sled for a few hundred feet, then find his way back to the other old folks around the campfire.
Fort Custer was between Kalamazoo and Battle Creek, about a twenty minute drive for her. It had a network of trails within: some snowmobile trails, some cross country ski trails, and three that were designated specifically for dog sleds. Dogs had right-of-way, and snowmobiles were not allowed. The trails were three miles, five miles, and seven miles long. She’d run the seven mile route, then the three, to get her ten miles in. Sometimes, after resting around the campfire for a while, she would go out again and repeat the three mile run, but it depended on how the dogs were doing, and how many free rides she gave to visitors.
At the fort, she didn’t let the dogs run loose, except for Blue, that is. Too many other dogs meant there was the possibility of a territorial dispute. She strung the stakeout between two thick trees, fastening heavy-duty carabiners to hold them secure. Six snap lines were attached to the stakeout at regular intervals. One by one, she brought a dog from the SUV, slipped on his harness, then clipped him to the snap line. Her wrist was throbbing by then, and she decided not to wrangle the sled on her own. She wandered over to the campfire, which was at the closest campsite to the trailhead, where she knew it would be. Cara, one of the oldest, staunchest mushing supporters, was there every weekend all season long, with her two old Malamutes, her husband of 47 years and his harmonica. Their massive RV was backed into the campsite and lit up with festive Christmas lights.
12 Naughty Days of Christmas 2018 Page 49