Emily twisted off the bed and pulled the robe tightly around her and tied it. “What are you doing in here?!”
“Sorry, it’s just—”
She raised her hand firmly to stop him, then pulled earplugs out of her ears. “What are you doing in here?” she demanded again.
“You’re wearing earplugs?”
“Yes! I barely slept last night. Why are you in here?”
“I was worried. It’s one o’clock, I knocked, you didn’t answer."
“It’s one?”
He nodded. He whimpered nervously, “And I just finished reading that story.”
“Huh? What story?”
“About that doctor, Kevin Sykes, and the pills, and you’ve been acting strangely, and it was awful.”
As he spoke Emily’s face shed its startled look and took on a sallow appearance.
“—And it got my imagination running,” he finished.
Her face shot to red, and she clasped the robe tightly at her neck. “What?”
“Nothing. Sorry. Just worried.”
“You thought I might hurt myself?”
“Well, no, not—” He stumbled. “No. I—”
“Get out!”
His head tongue felt thick. “But I only—”
“Out!”
“Okay, okay. Sorry.” He walked out, shutting the door slowly. The latch closed with an all-too final-sounding snap.
As he trudged down the stairs, Mark wished he could redo the last five minutes. Collapsing onto the living room sofa, he lifted his trembling hand, the adrenaline only slowly receding.
Unable to shake his nerves, he got up and paced to the sitting room and back and then to the kitchen and back before walking outside. He drifted down Lake Street, all the while blaming his mother for putting all those stupid ideas about doctors and suicides into his head. He eventually ended up downtown, and having decided that a sandwich and a cold beer—especially the beer— might help ease his self-loathing mood, he landed at Jake’s Bar. He chatted with Mikey, trying to forget the whole embarrassing episode with Emily, except Mikey brought her up.
“The girl must be gone. What was her name?”
“Emily. No,” he answered. ”Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah, the guy who installs windshields is out hunting.”
“You must be talking about Carl. Yeah, he’s out turkey hunting.”
“Apparently there’s someone else who will do it tomorrow.”
Mikey shook his head. “I don’t think so—not if it’s the guy who helps out Carl.”
“Why not? Is he hunting too?”
“No. He broke his finger a couple days ago.”
“You serious?”
“Yeah.”
“Not Conrad?” Mark blurted.
Mikey’s eyes lit up. “You know him?”
Mark exhaled a laugh. Conrad hadn’t broken his finger, but it was a technicality he didn’t bother correcting. “Only because I drove him to the hospital. Emily’s the one who attended to him.”
“She a doctor?”
“Yeah.”
“I heard about a commotion in here a couple nights ago between Conrad and some woman doctor. That was her?”
“Yep, that would have been Emily. She’s going to flip when she finds out Conrad is the other installer. I think I’ll let her find out for herself. She’s already mad at me.”
“Why?”
Mark laughed, then went ahead and partially admitted, “I accidentally barged into her room.”
“Accidentally?”
Mark didn’t care to recite the entire recipe: Emily’s struggle with Nicholas’s death. Reading about the suicide of Dr. Sykes. Her strange reaction earlier that morning when she ran out of the house. And staying in her room quietly for a long time, not responding to his loud knocking. All of that mixed with his mother’s stories about doctors committing suicide. He briefly—only briefly—once again felt justified in doing what he did.
“She didn’t look well earlier, so I just thought something might be wrong.”
“So you barged in?”
“It wasn’t like that,” Mark replied defensively. “I knocked several times, loudly. It was one o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Why didn’t she answer?”
“She was napping and had earplugs in.”
“She was just napping?”
Mark nodded. “I scared her awake.” The scene flew through his head again, and he suddenly felt clammy.
“Oops.”
“I should have just said I was checking the walls.” He cupped one hand on the bar and tapped it with the other.
Mikey gave him a bemused smile and shook his head. “The walls? What’s wrong with the walls?”
“Never mind. It’s from a show, Fawlty Towers.” He drank some beer. “The hospitality industry just doesn’t suit me.”
Mark walked back to the house in better spirits, optimistic that Emily would be forgiving. He understood now the gravity of what he’d done, as well-intentioned as it had been—he’d abruptly awoken her from a dead sleep and accused her of trying to kill herself. All right, not great, but now he hoped she’d see it differently, realize he cared about her well-being, and that with another apology, awkward as it’d be, all would be forgiven and all would end well.
A familiar-sounding truck came down the street. Mark turned around to see Bear Foot driving in his direction. He stepped out into the street and raised his hand. He held it stiffly, as if taking an oath, and upon realizing that it could be taken another way, he immediately dropped his arm.
Bear Foot stopped, leaned over and rolled down the window, smiling. “I thought I’d drop by and tell you I got my answer.”
“Answer to what?”
“I was at the lighthouse this morning. Remember?”
“Oh right. What did you figure out?”
“I was about to leave when that lady who owns the lighthouse walked up.”
“Ellen?”
Bear Foot nodded. “Yeah. Ellen told me her husband bought it. She didn’t even know about it until after he died.”
“Yeah, she told us the story last night.”
“So we spoke for a while, and I explained to her why I was there.” He slapped the seat. “She decided to give it to me!”
“For how much?”
“That’s the best part. Free!” A big grin lifted his face.
“What?”
“Yeah. Can you believe it? Just like that, for nothing. I’m going to own Manistique’s lighthouse.”
“But how about the maintenance?” Mark asked.
Bear Foot blinked several times and looked back at Mark. “I can do most of the work myself. People will help pay for parts and paint and stuff. I know it.”
Mark put up a smile. “Well I’m happy for you.”
Bear Foot grinned. “Since you’re leaving tomorrow, I wanted to make sure I said goodbye.” He stuck out his hand.
They shook. “And thank you for all your help,” Mark said. “And thanks for fixing the electrical problem. That reminds me—I never paid you. How much do I owe you?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. My last job for Vivian.”
“Thanks.”
“Have you decided to keep the house?” Bear Foot asked.
Mark shrugged. “Not sure yet. But do you mind if I call you if something comes up?”
“Please do.” They shook hands again, and Bear Foot drove off.
The house was quiet when Mark walked inside. He figured Emily was still in her room. He was about to head to the basement when his eye caught an envelope on the fireplace mantel, where Vivian’s urn had been. He walked over to it. His name was written on the front. He immediately guessed what it was.
Mark ripped it open and found a letter and cash inside. He fanned out the money, five twenty dollar bills. He shook his head as he unfolded the letter: “Mark, I thought I should just go now. Since my car will be ready tomorrow and you have to head out anyw
ay, I thought it would work out best this way. I apologize for my reaction earlier. I’m not upset with you, really I’m not. I’ll just leave it at that. It was great to meet you. Take care of yourself and thanks for taking me in for so many days. Good luck to you, Emily.”
He sighed, tossing the letter and cash on the mantel. He suddenly felt exhaustion, a deep emptiness. He plopped down on the sofa, thinking about how upset she was going to be when she found out she wasn’t leaving tomorrow. An idea popped into his head. Good or bad? He mulled it over for a couple minutes before getting up and going into the library. He sat at the desk, grabbed a pen and a piece of paper and started writing.
Emily dragged the gold, diamond-patterned bed cover—unwashed, she was certain—off the bed and let it slump on the dark red carpet that concealed things she had to force herself not to imagine. She sat on the queen bed, slipped off her shoes and fell back onto the stiff white sheets, laying her head apprehensively on the pillow, slightly comforted by the bleachy odor the pillowcase gave off.
She lay on her back, rigidly, thinking how much more at ease she’d felt at the Manistique Victorian—well, until Mark broke into her room and accused her of attempting to kill herself.
Staring at the popcorn ceiling, Emily tried to switch off. But it wasn’t easy. That hectic scene kept replaying in her mind. Her reaction. His belief that she was capable of that. How could he think that of me? How? How could he know?
The thought infected her from time to time. In a perverted way, it comforted her. Not that she’d ever do it, but the distraction provided a relief. At the very least, Mark was right to think that her burdens might overcome her. That she would succumb to the voice tucked in the back of her mind saying, You are a fraud! She could no longer blame John or Dr. Olsen for Nicholas’s death. No matter how many people she had helped or would ever help, she’d never be able to put it behind her. You are a fraud! A better intern would have intervened; a better intern would not have gotten involved with the attending; a better intern would have been brave enough to page him. You are a fraud! Especially now that her selection to a great residency program had been rigged. You are a fraud!
The dismal feeling she’d felt in the pit of her stomach after leaving the Manistique Victorian returned. Did she blow it by leaving? She put her hands over her face. They had something, she and Mark, a connection. The odds of their meeting the way they had bordered on impossible. And she had thrown it away. . . . Fate is cruel to deer. Maybe not. Maybe fate had only intended for them to meet.
Emily heard a tap on her door. Listlessly, she sat up and slipped into her shoes. She moved toward the door, mostly convinced that no one was there. Maybe it was one of those pesky, pranking neighborhood kids, she thought, and laughed to herself. Stupid Mark.
When she found and flipped the light switch to the dark entryway, she saw an envelope on the ground that had been slipped under the door. She picked it up and saw it was addressed to Room 137. She looked through the peephole, saw that no one was there, then opened the door. The heavy door pushed against her back as she looked up and down the hallway. No one. She ripped open the envelope, suspicious but curious. Inside she found twenty-five dollars cash and a small note written in print: “Em, you only stayed three nights, so I’m refunding one night’s worth ☺ I postponed my flight, so I hope you’ll come back. Don’t you miss the fantastic hospitality of the Manistique Victorian? Call me, and I’ll come and get you. Mark.”
Emily let out an unrestrained laugh that echoed down the hall. An energetic hope spread within her, and though she couldn’t say why, she knew everything would be all right. She went back into the room, grabbing back the door as it rushed to slam, letting it close softly.
Chapter Thirty-One
Mark flinched when the doorbell rang. He tripped running up the basement stairs, barely catching himself by the rail. Running through the kitchen, he brushed off the emergent thought that it might be another guest—after all, he had left a message for everyone in the calendar through June. Instead he wondered how Emily had gotten there. He had expected a call.
When he was close enough to the front door, he saw her profile, the shoulder-length brown hair through the sheer curtain. He yanked open the door, ready to further whatever—
It wasn’t Emily. It was a woman with similar hair and about the same height. “Hello,” she said. “I’m looking for Mark.”
“Um, I’m Mark.”
She placed her fingertips on her breastbone. “I’m Laura, George’s niece.”
“Oh, right!”
“I’m so sorry for showing up like this. I should have called first.”
“No, it’s all right. I was just expecting someone,” he said, imagining that his startled, apprehensive reaction had fazed her.
She smiled gently. “I won’t stay long.”
“No, no. It’s totally fine.” He stepped aside. “Please come on in.”
“Thank you.”
“Have a seat,” Mark said, gesturing to the living room sofa. As he sat down across from her, he asked, “Did you drive all the way up or fly part-way?”
“I drove the whole way.”
Laura had a more mature face, compared to Emily. He figured she was fairly close to his age. Dark brown hair, slightly darker than Emily’s. Laura had softer features—her eyes, her cheeks. He suddenly realized what he was doing, measuring her against Emily. He didn’t know why, and he stopped.
His eyes darted to her ring finger and then back. No ring.
“Let’s see, I left at eleven this morning. I stopped for about an hour in Green Bay. What time is it now?”
“It’s a little after five.”
“So six hours, about five hours of driving I guess.”
Mark explained how he had flown to Traverse City and then driven north to Petoskey and stopped for the night before heading north and west to Manistique.
“When are you heading back home?” she asked.
“Wednesday,” he said, summarily pushing away the anxiety of having to cross the bridge again.
“And you said you lived in Oak Park, right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
She nodded, smiled a little. “We’re practically neighbors. It’s a crazy coincidence.”
“Yeah, crazy,” he said agreeably, thinking that out of all the long-odds occurrences over the last few days, the fact that he and Laura lived twenty miles apart was the least crazy. Emily popped into his head, and he had a real longing for her to call. Realizing that he hadn’t yet offered condolences, he said, “I’m very sorry about your uncle George.”
“Thank you.”
“I really liked him. I got to know him a little bit over the couple days he was here.”
“Thank you for taking him in.”
“Of course.” He felt guilty, thinking how he had tried to throw the old man out when he first arrived.
She frowned. “I’m really upset with that tour company.”
Mark nodded. “I don’t blame you. They left for the next town without him.”
“I’m going to file a formal complaint when I get back.”
Mark nodded. “You should. So what are your plans? How long are you staying?”
“A day or two, just to collect Uncle George’s things and then visit the funeral home.” She shrugged. “Haven’t thought it all the way through yet.”
“He lived in a Milwaukee suburb, right?”
“Yeah, Brookfield. So I’ll stop by there on my way back and go through all his things.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“That’s right, you said your aunt died. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.”
“And this is her house?”
“Yes. It’s a bed and breakfast.”
“It’s nice. Are you going to take it over?”
“As a bed and breakfast? No. I’m the worst innkeeper imaginable. Have you ever seen Fawlty Towers?”
She nodded and laughed. “Yes, Uncle George introduced me.”
>
“Well over the last four days, I’ve re-enacted about half the episodes.”
Her bright smile created soft wrinkles near her eyes. “You have to tell me about it.” There was a certain twinkle in her eye that gave Mark the impression she might be interested in him.
“Do you have dinner plans?”
She shook her head. “No, I was just going to find a quick bite to eat.”
“Any interest in going out to Diner 37? It’s nothing fancy.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Sure. Sounds great.”
He stood up. “Great. Excuse me one second.” He went to the door, and through the sheer he saw who it was—for certain this time. He opened the door.
Emily stood there with sad eyes and even a sadder frown. Her suitcase was next to her. She was holding her medical bag with her left hand.
“Welcome back,” he said buoyantly.
She pointed back toward the street. “Whose car is that?”
“Laura, George’s niece. Remember? She was coming today.”
She nodded, picking up her suitcase. She walked inside.
“Here, let me take that.”
She let him, and handed him her medical bag as well.
“Laura, this is Emily, Dr. Davis. Emily, this is George’s niece, Laura.”
Laura got up.
“I’m so sorry about your loss,” Emily said.
“Thank you. You knew my uncle?”
Mark jumped in. “Emily is a guest here. Actually, she’s the one who found George yesterday morning.”
Emily turned to Mark. “I thought you found him,” she mumbled.
He gave her a sidelong glance. “I’ll just run this up to your room.”
Emily said, “Is George from your father’s side or you mother’s side?”
“He’s my mother’s brother. They were actually very close for a long time.” Mark reached the top of the stairs and set the suitcase on the bed in Emily’s room. As he headed out of the room, he heard a thunderous, “No way!” from Emily.
Mark rushed to the staircase wondering what had prompted her to shriek. “Mark, we were wrong,” she called out as he headed down.
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he asked, “Wrong about what?”
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