All He'll Ever Need

by Loree Lough

  “As a girl, she lived through some hard times. Hard enough that her father was forced to kill her pet goat. A piglet, too. One of the milk cows. She understood why he had to do it, but I don’t think she ever got over it. Giving names to things, in her mind anyway, only makes it harder to deal with things like that.”

  Emily couldn’t imagine a scenario in which Phillip would let things get so out of hand.

  “I’ve told her, over and over, that I’d never do anything like that.” He patted a goat’s head. “They give us milk, and after they’re sheared, my mother weaves the hair into yarn.”

  “And the sheep, too?”

  “Yep, the sheep, too.”

  “She’s very industrious.”

  “I’m lucky to have her.”

  “She’s lucky to have you, too. Don’t try to deny it. I won’t let you.”

  “Oh, you won’t, huh.”

  A statement, Emily noted, not a question. But this didn’t seem like the time or place to explain why she believed in him, admired him, cared about him . . . and for him.

  “The chickens,” he said, making his way toward the coop across the way, “have two purposes.”

  “Let me guess: eggs, and meat for soups, stews, and the roasting pan.”

  “You catch on fast.”

  “That surprises you?”

  “You’re a doctor. With who knows how many college degrees and awards. There’s no doubt in my mind that you’re smart. Book smart. People smart, too, to give credit where it’s due. But you’re a born ’n’ bred city girl. A place like this should seem as foreign to you as Egypt or Thailand.” He blew a two-note whistle. “Yet there you stand, your used-to-be pink sneakers covered in muck and mud and dung, looking like you don’t mind it a bit. Almost like you were born to this life.”

  That shouldn’t have stung, but it did. And as he had that day in the hospital hallway, Phillip tucked a curl behind her ear. She resisted the urge to grasp his hand, bring it to her lips, press a kiss to its calloused palm.

  “You’re not wearing a bonnet. Or an apron. If you’d been born here, you wouldn’t be wearing those blue jeans or that pretty pink blouse.” He wrapped a tendril of her hair around his forefinger, then gently tugged, and watched as it slowly slid free and once again dangled near her shoulder. “You’d look fine in a long, plain skirt, in high black boots and a white cap.” He took a step closer, then another step. “Ah, but Emily, what a shame it would be to hide that glorious, womanly figure beneath—”

  “Uh, hello?” Pete waved his free hand between their faces. “I’m. Still. He-e-re.”

  If disappointment made noise, it would probably sound a lot like Pete’s interruption. It took concentrated effort to end the intense eye contact that linked her and Phillip, just as surely as their embraces had connected them when . . .

  When you broke the rules and made a mess of everything for Phillip, for yourself.

  She looked at Pete. “Yes, you’re here, all right, aren’t you?”

  He scowled. “I’m beat. I need a shower and a good night’s sleep.” He stroked the cat’s head. “And so does little Clinger here. We want to go home.”

  “Clinger. I like it,” Phillip said. “It fits. I’m glad you chose a name while you were still here.”

  “Speaking of leaving . . .”

  “But Pete, we can’t go yet. I said I’d gather eggs for Phillip’s mom, remember?”

  “Aw, she knows you won’t.”

  “What! Why?”

  “For one thing,” Pete said, “you don’t have anything to put them in. For another, when was the last time you stuck your hand under a hen and, from her point of view, kidnapped her babies? You think she’s just gonna sit there and let you get away with that?”

  It wasn’t like Pete to behave this way. She chalked it up to being away from home for so many days, sleeping in a strange bed, spending countless hours in waiting rooms and behind the wheel, maneuvering the ambulance through highway traffic.

  “Ten minutes. I’ll make good on my promise, and we’ll leave. You have my word.”

  Pete’s shoulders slumped as Phillip said, “There’s a box in my workshop. We’ll wad up newspapers to soften the bottom. It’ll do. You’ll see.”

  “Good grief,” Pete said. “Well, you two have fun. Clinger and I will be over there, enjoying the breeze under that tree. If we doze off, don’t wake us.” Snickering under his breath, he started toward the big oak, then slowed and said over his shoulder, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, you two.”

  Phillip shook his head. “Something tells me that’s a short list.”

  Mimicking his grin, Emily said, “When you get to know him better, you’ll realize Pete personifies the ‘all bark, no bite’ cliché. Believe me, he’s the most straitlaced person I know.”

  He slid an arm over her shoulders as if he’d been doing it for years. “I like the sound of that.”

  It seemed the most natural thing to wrap her arm around his waist, and together, they walked toward his shop.

  Once inside, he gripped the side rails of a narrow ladder. “There should be a couple of boxes in the loft,” he said, one big booted foot on the first rung. Then, up he climbed, his movements upstairs causing miniscule granules to rain down from between the floorboards.

  “What do you keep up there, sand?” she teased.

  “Sort of. I use sawdust to soak up gasoline, oil, and grease spills.” He leaned over the wobbly railing, balancing a two-by-two-by-two-foot cardboard carton on one shoulder. “Stand back,” he said, and tossed it.

  It tumbled end over end and landed upside down at her feet, and as she righted it, she heard him say, “You’ll find some newspapers in the bottom drawer of my desk.”

  Not very many, as it turned out. “Are you saving these for any reason?”

  Beside her now, he said, “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, they’re so old, the paper is crisp and yellow.” She placed the editions onto the desktop, upsetting a two-inch-thick stack of bills. Crouching to pick them up, Emily groaned. “I’m such a klutz sometimes. Sorry, Phillip.” She pretended not to notice familiar return address labels . . . a credit card company, providers of electricity, propane, and telephone services. Two statements had skidded under his desk chair, and she didn’t recognize either. She reached for them, but he grabbed her wrist.

  “Emily. Just . . . stop. Please,” he ground out.

  His hand was trembling as he accepted the mail, and she decided that telling him not to feel embarrassed would only make this proud, independent man feel worse. If not for Gabe’s illness, he would have taken time to pay these bills. And then it struck her: It would take a while for the hospitals’ billing departments to charge Phillip for the room, for the boy’s surgery, medications, tests, lab results, and more. She made a mental note to look into ways to secretly help reduce those charges.

  She balled up a sheet of newsprint and tossed it into the box. “Have any advice for me? For when I gather up the eggs, I mean?”

  Phillip put his mail into the desk’s shallow center drawer and slammed it. “No quick moves,” he said, wadding up a ball. “Talk quietly.” The gruff tone had left his voice, but clearly, the incident wasn’t behind them yet. “And once you start, don’t stop or you’ll get pecked.”

  “Can their beaks break the skin?”

  “I suppose they could, but I’ve never seen it.”

  They continued in silence, crumpling sheets and tossing them, until the paper balls covered the box bottom.

  “That oughta do it,” he said. “My mother will be pleasantly surprised.”

  She noticed the ink on his palms. On hers, too. “Is there someplace I can wash up before I touch the eggs?”

  “No need for that. Eggs aren’t exactly, ah, pristine when they exit the hens.”

  Emily decided she’d find out soon enough what that meant.

  “There’s a bathroom back there,” he said with a jerk of his head. “Nothing fancy—nothing aro
und here is, because, well, Amish.” One shoulder lifted, dropped. “At least it’s clean.”

  Emily closed the door behind her and looked around. The room was tiny and, as her grandmother would have said, clean enough to eat from the floor. She glanced out the window and noted that his attention to detail, like a painter’s signature, was written on low-mowed hills and deeply shadowed valleys reminiscent of the Irish countryside. White triple-board fences that ran straight and true kept the livestock safe, and stately trees, planted at precise intervals, provided places for them to escape blistering sun, sideways rain, and the often-fierce Allegheny Mountains wind. The crimson barn beamed bright against the blue sky, and every corner of Sarah’s chicken coop had been perfectly mitered. None of this, she knew, had happened recently. And none of it was the result of nature’s hand. Phillip had preserved the parcel that had been home to four generations of Bakers. He had every right to feel pride in all he’d accomplished, in everything he’d protected.

  He hadn’t come right out and said it, but painful events of the past led him to believe he’d find happiness and contentment far from this place, these people, this life. But nothing could be further from the truth. She’d liked and respected the almost shy, doting father and son she’d met at the hospital. But here, his steps were surer, his back straighter, his words more confident, and she loved the man he’d become.

  “Thought I’d have to pick the lock,” he said when she returned to the workshop. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m more than okay,” she said, walking to the open door. “I’m fine, really fine.”

  The words made a strange, tinny echo in her head, because she’d said almost the same thing in Gabe’s hospital room . . . in Alex’s presence. Was the faraway look on Phillip’s face proof that he remembered that moment, too?

  She’d made him uncomfortable, yet again, and didn’t like the feeling one bit. So she wiggled her fingers and sent him a wide, silly grin. “Ready when you are, Mr. Baker.”

  Moments later, they stood, shoulders touching in the chicken coop, a space not much larger than the workshop’s bathroom.

  “Did you build this yourself ?”

  He gave her a look that said, Who else?

  “It’s a construction marvel. Places for them to roost and nest, an enclosed space to keep foxes and raccoons out while they run around, special feeders and watering pans . . .”

  “The wire mesh keeps out the crows and hawks, but I have to check the caulking every few weeks, make sure there aren’t gaps where snakes and rodents can get in.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work. Who fed and watered the chickens while you were away?”

  “Hannah. She brings the boys over twice a day and lets them help. Eli wants to build a coop just like this one, and they’ll need to know how to take care of things. How to clean up the poop and feathers and shells.”

  “Twice a day?”

  “Eggs are fragile. Even a slight crack in the shells can allow bacteria inside. And as a doctor, you know what that means.”

  “Salmonella, for one thing.”

  “Yup.” He mimicked her earlier gesture and wiggled his fingers. “Watch,” he said, “and learn.”

  The hen flapped her wings and cackled quietly as he slid a hand beneath it. Seconds later, he withdrew the hand, and after placing the egg into the box, said, “Your turn.”

  “There are more under there?”

  “Just one. And once you have it, you’ll move on down the line. And when we’re finished, I’ll show you how we wash them, and where we store them.”

  She took a step closer to the nesting box.

  “Remember now,” he said softly, “slow and steady, but sure and quick, even if she sets up a fuss. And just so you know, it’ll be warm under there, and the egg will feel a little wet. That’s the bloom. It helps keep bacteria from getting in.”

  Twenty minutes later, the box held nine eggs . . . eggs she’d gathered and washed herself.

  “You’re a fast learner.”

  Together, they entered his enclosed back porch.

  “A good thing, I suppose, since there’s so much to learn around here!”

  “Does that mean you want to come back?”

  “You bet!”

  He was smiling as together, they transferred the clean eggs to a small refrigerator.

  “Hannah will come by later and get them.”

  “To sell in her shop . . .”

  “And we’ll take these last two inside.”

  “For cooking and baking.”

  “Yep, you catch on quick, all right.”

  She was proud of herself. More important than that, he was proud of her, and it showed.

  “Want to come upstairs with me, check on Gabe?”

  “You bet,” she said again, and followed him up the steps.

  “Oh, just look at him,” she whispered from the foot of Gabe’s bed. “He looks like a sleeping angel.”

  “Sleeping like a baby, thanks to you. And Dr. Williams, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  They walked softly all the way to the kitchen.

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “She could be any one of a dozen places. With her goats. In the basement doing laundry. Out back hanging clothes. In the parlor, sewing . . .” He took her hands in his. “Disappointed that she isn’t here, are you?”

  Emily couldn’t help but feel impressed. He’d read her mood and recognized that she wanted Sarah’s approval.

  “I should go.”

  He kissed her fingertips, one at a time. “I wish you didn’t have to.”

  “Pete’s waiting.”

  He kissed her right palm. And the left. “Let him.”

  “But he’s anxious to leave, so we can stop on the way home, to buy supplies for Clinger.”

  Now, he kissed the inside of her wrist, let his lips linger there, as if counting her pulse beats. “Have you ever been driving along the highway and passed one of those billboards that says, ‘If you lived here, you’d be home now.’?”

  She had, but Emily didn’t trust herself to admit it.

  He gathered her close, inhaled deeply. “Emily, Emily, Emily,” he breathed into her hair. “What are you thinking?”

  That there are so many reasons I can’t stay, so many reasons this . . . this thing between us is a bad idea.

  “That any minute now,” she fibbed, “Pete will burst in here and say, ‘Let’s hit the road!’”

  “Let him.”

  She felt his lips graze her cheek, press against her temples and chin.

  Earlier, she’d acknowledged that he behaved differently here. Emily felt different here, too.

  Because right or wrong, she’d given her heart to Phillip Baker, Amishman.

  * * *

  Doug Becker seemed to love his position as chairman of the Ethics Committee, and as if to prove his clout, he’d worn a three-piece suit and silk tie today.

  The conference room could easily accommodate all thirty members, each representing the hospital’s various departments, from nursing to social work to clergy. The number of empty chairs surprised her. Not even Garrett Regional’s legal representative had shown up. A good thing or a bad thing? Emily wondered. Just as surprising was the grand display of pastry trays that ran the length of the table. There would be leftovers, lots of them, and Emily intended to commandeer as many as possible for the lab techs, nurses, and aides whose dedication made her life and the lives of patients so much easier. Even Barbara’s coworkers would receive some treats, because they couldn’t be held accountable for the petty jealousy that had inspired this meeting.

  The chairman stood, cleared his throat, and knocked on the tabletop to silence the quiet murmuring of those present. Barbara, seated across from Mike, smiled sweetly at Doug, while Phillip, in the chair beside Pete’s, stared at his hands, folded tightly on the table.

  “As you’re all no doubt aware,” Doug began, “the purpose of this hearing is to consider, debate, and possib
ly take action on the issues revolving around Dr. White and her alleged relationship with her patient’s father, Phillip Baker.”

  He returned to his seat and scribbled a quick note on the tablet in front of him.

  “Let me begin by thanking Ms. Barbara Evans for the wide array of refreshments.”

  Nods of approval and quiet thank-yous floated around the room, and Doug knocked on the table again.

  “Let me state for the record that this is not a legal proceeding. It’s a hearing, the sole purpose of which is to determine whether or not Dr. White’s actions toward Mr. Baker caused harm to her patient . . . Mr. Baker’s son.”

  The woman beside him, who’d been typing notes into a laptop, stopped when he paused.

  “Are you getting all of this, Myra?”

  She answered in a dull monotone. “Yes, Doug. I’m getting all of this.”

  “All right then. Let’s begin with Ms. Evans.” He swiveled his chair to face her. “Barbara, is it your contention that Dr. White initiated a sexual relationship with Mr. Baker?”

  “I, well, I saw them kissing. Twice. And both times, it was pretty passionate. If they’d do that in a hallway, outside his little boy’s hospital room, where any Tom, Dick, or Harry could see them, I can only imagine what goes on in private.”

  “Do you have reason to believe the relationship is sexual in nature?”

  “Well, I can’t be sure, but—”

  “What harm came to the patient as a result of this . . . kissing?”

  “Well, I’m, I, I’m just as concerned about Mr. Baker’s well-being. He’s Amish. And the Amish are innocent of things like this. Plus, he’s naturally lonely, what with being a widower and all. That makes him vulnerable, as well. And Dr. White knew all that, but she took advantage of his innocence and vulnerability.”

  Emily couldn’t bear to look at Phillip. Barbara had forgotten to say that the Amish were private people, too. He’d probably hate her when this was over, for putting him on display, like one of those fancy pastries!

  “Thank you, Ms. Evans.” Turning to Pete, Doug said, “Mr. White, you are Dr. White’s brother, is that right?”

  Pete sat up straighter, shot a wink in her direction. “Yes, and I’m proud of it.”