A Family at Last

Including the matter of Karen and Barry Lowell, Chris reflected as he got into the car. He needed to tie up those strands as well.

If Karen didn’t like the results, she had only her brother’s obsessive antagonism to blame.

Chapter Two

On a sunny Saturday at the beginning of March, Chris drove his packed car into Downhome. Along the highway, the verdant open countryside and the well-kept dairy farms had reminded him of how much he’d enjoyed growing up here.

On the outskirts of town, construction had begun on a housing development. Closer in, along Tulip Tree Avenue, the windows of redbrick shops displayed colorful spring merchandise. To see the town prospering pleased Chris. He still felt he belonged here, although his family had moved to Boston during his college years.

His parents had felt the repercussions of Norbert Anglin’s tragic death keenly, despite the fact that Chris had escaped prosecution. George McRay, Chris’s father, had once been Fred Lowell’s best friend, but after the trial, the two men had barely spoken to each other. Then, after Fred died of a heart attack that some people attributed to the stress of the case, the McRays decided to move.

Chris had never completely cut his ties, however, thanks to his grandmother. Unfortunately, she no longer owned her fondly remembered clapboard house with its wraparound porch. Chris hadn’t given much thought to a rental until a few weeks ago, when he’d had difficulty in finding a place. But most of the town’s few apartments were located in a run-down area, and he didn’t relish the idea of renting an entire house.

Then Mae Anne had made a tantalizing suggestion, and he’d jumped at it. What starving bachelor could resist a unit located over an Italian restaurant? Newly vacated when the proprietor had married and moved into his wife’s home, it was situated next to the town’s central park, and within easy walking distance of City Hall, the library and the Tulip Tree Nursing Home. And, it was only one block from the Home Boulevard Medical Clinic. Which meant Chris could roll out of bed, grab breakfast and stroll across the Green to work. He’d clinched the deal by phone and had signed the month-to-month lease by fax.

Now, reaching the town center, he drove between Rockwell Farm Supply on his left and, on the right, the Rockwell Emporium, which carried dry goods. Both belonged to pharmacist Archie Rockwell, Downhome’s mayor.

Past the emporium, Chris swung into the driveway of Pepe’s Italian Diner. The owner, Pepe Otero, an Argentine of Italian descent, had married Rosie O’Bannon, the proprietor of the beauty salon, shortly before she’d given birth to their daughter. Rosie already owned a fully furnished house; Pepe had moved in, leaving his stuff at his old flat.

At two o’clock in the afternoon, the lot behind the building offered plenty of empty spaces. However, following Pepe’s instructions, Chris took one of two marked Reserved.

After getting out, he skirted the building and went into the diner. Amid the scents of garlic and fresh-baked bread, he surveyed the colorful decor.

The main attraction besides the food was the new murals, which he’d heard about from Mae Anne. Where once the walls had displayed faded images of grapes and wine bottles, they now bristled with fanciful paintings of Pepe and his three grown children from his first marriage, picking grapes and stomping them for wine.

The wail of a baby drew Chris from his art gazing. “Oh, there you are, Doctor!” Pepe, a compact man with dark coloring, made his way between the tables, which were mostly unoccupied at this hour. “Welcome, welcome! Rosie wants to ask you about Maria Wilhelmina’s rash.”

“Sure.” Chris had grown used to being peppered with child-rearing questions wherever he went.

“Pepe! Don’t give him the wrong impression!” chided his bride, a black-haired woman in her late forties with a tiny baby tucked against her shoulder. “Chris, he didn’t rent to you to have a pediatrician on the premises.”

Rosie hadn’t changed much since his youth, Chris mused, although of course in those days he’d considered anyone over twenty to be old. And she was old to have given birth. Fortunately, all had gone well.

“Who says?” Her husband punctuated the question by snapping a dish towel. “I like having a doctor live upstairs.”

“Well, you got one,” said Chris, grinning. He turned to the baby. “What a cutie! May I?” Maria Wilhemina’s mother yielded her without hesitation. In his arms, the little girl stopped crying and regarded him with wide, dark eyes.

She had good color and appeared to be a healthy weight for a two-month-old. Since he wasn’t about to peel off her diaper in a restaurant, he asked a few questions about the rash. It didn’t sound serious.

“Change her more often and clean carefully. You can use a little petroleum jelly to protect against moisture,” he told the parents. “I’d like to see her at the clinic on Monday to make sure everything’s okay. So tell me, how did you choose the name?”

“Maria for my mother and Wilhelmina for William Rankin, our obstetrician,” Rosie responded. “Have you met him yet?”

“Yes. He seems terrific.” As part of his application process, Chris had been introduced to the other two physicians during a visit to the clinic.

“Play your cards right and we’ll name the next kid after you,” Pepe said.

“Another one? At my age?” According to Mae Anne, the baby had been a surprise. From her first marriage, Rosie also had a grown son, Mark O’Bannon, a lieutenant on the police force.

“Okay, maybe the first grandkid,” Pepe conceded.

Chris handed Maria back to her mother. “I’ll look forward to seeing you and your daughter at the clinic. Now I was hoping to collect my key.”

“Of course!” Pepe fished it from his pocket. “I hope the guests don’t make too much noise tonight. The Cornishes are throwing a party in the rear dining room.”

“Jeremiah’s celebrating his company’s expansion,” Rosie added. “They have a beautiful house but Amelia prefers to entertain here when it’s a large group. Lucky for the restaurant!”

Amelia was Norbert Anglin’s widow. About a year and a half after his death, she’d married Jeremiah Cornish, the well-to-do owner of Antiques Anew, one of the town’s largest employers. The factory made antique-style furniture and shipped it to stores around the country, and there was also a shop on the premises.

Chris made a mental note to avoid the restaurant this evening. He had no wish to cause Mrs. Cornish any distress.

“Noise doesn’t usually bother me,” he said. “I learned to sleep through almost anything during my internship.”

“I doubt they’ll get rowdy,” Rosie responded. “But of course we’ll have our usual Saturday-night crowd, as well.”

“Anyone who acts up, I’ll spray ’em with seltzer water,” Pepe joked.

“See you later!” Key in hand, Chris made his way outside and retrieved a couple of bags from his car.

A long staircase led up to the apartment. When Chris opened the door, he was pleased to find the place filled with light and comfortably decorated. Overstuffed sofa. Bookshelves. Posters of Buenos Aires, Venice and Florence. In the kitchen, a table for two, along with a full-size refrigerator and stove. He opened the cupboards to find that Pepe had left a few dishes and basic cookware. Perfect.

From the kitchen window, Chris had a splendid view of the Green. The dogwood trees budding into early-spring glory helped compensate for his one regret about living in an apartment: it didn’t allow for a garden.

The Lowells used to plant a big vegetable patch behind their two-story house on Heritage Avenue. He’d enjoyed digging in the soil, an activity his own parents had apparently never contemplated.

One year, Barry had conned Chris into helping put in a pumpkin patch with the goal of selling their produce. After battling an astounding array of bugs and plant diseases through the season, they’d discovered that the local farmers sold pumpkins much too cheaply for them to compete. Instead, they’d donated the crop to the elementary school for Halloween jack-o’-lanterns.

Chris hadn’t minded the financial disappointment. His main pleasure that summer had been wandering over to help Karen tend the rosebushes. Since then, any whiff of roses reminded him of the way her unruly chestnut hair had haloed her face in the sunlight.

She hadn’t looked so angelic last month when she’d marched into the waiting room. Unless you counted avenging angels, of course. Yet maturity had given her an instinctive sensuality that, he reflected with a pang, probably drew plenty of masculine attention.

Chris made additional trips to the car, lugging in books, bedding and his entertainment system. More boxes contained car seats, along with other baby and child equipment received unsolicited from manufacturers.

He rarely recommended purchases to his patients, as the makers no doubt hoped he would, but he appreciated having items to donate to young mothers. In Nashville, he’d shared stuff with the Teen Mom Cooperative, and he felt certain there’d be a need for it in Downhome.

After he finished unloading, he washed his hands and mulled over what to do next. He had no desire to waste what remained of the sunny day by unpacking. Also, although he’d grabbed a hamburger en route, it had worn off long ago. Good thing he lived over a restaurant.

Softly whistling a tune that reminded him of Italy, he went out. When he was back inside the restaurant, he discovered he was whistling the same song playing over the sound system, although he hadn’t been aware of hearing it upstairs.

At the counter, he ordered spaghetti with clam sauce. Pepe refused to let him pay. “You answered our questions about the baby,” the proprietor told him as he brought the plate. “You didn’t charge me and I won’t charge you!”

“There’s nothing seriously wrong with your daughter.” Chris doused the pasta with Parmesan.

“To a parent, everything is serious,” Pepe retorted.

“All right, I accept, with thanks. But just this once.” Chris preferred to pay his own way. He didn’t want to feel obligated to restrain his appetite to avoid bankrupting his landlord.

He was just finishing when a mild draft from the front door whispered across his neck. A slim, familiar figure in a white sweater and blue slacks hurried past him to the cash register.

Karen’s cheeks were pink from exertion. Specks of white glitter clung to the hair she’d tucked behind her ears.

Perfect timing, Chris mused. He’d landed in town a little over an hour ago and already they were bumping into each other. Either fate intended them to be together or the cosmos enjoyed provoking quarrels.

“I’m here to pick up some pastries,” she told the hostess, a young woman whose name tag read Nola. “One of our residents ordered them for our Winter Theme party.”

“I’ll go check.” Nola disappeared into the back.

Catching Karen’s eye, Chris gave her a friendly nod.

“Just get into town?” Judging by her conversational tone, she’d decided to try to get along with him, at least in public.

“Yup.” To keep the conversation going, he added, “Did I hear you say you’re having a party?”

“We’re in the middle of it!” She gestured in frustration. “I thought I had everything under control. Then Junior Ferguson—he’s our social butterfly—announces that he ordered pastries from Pepe’s and forgot to tell anyone. I decided the simplest thing was to trot over here and pick them up.”

Pleased that she was willing to chat with him, Chris pursued the subject. “What’s a Winter Theme party and why are you having one in March?”

“Some of our residents were sad that it barely snowed this year, so we’re making up for it. Also, it’s an excuse for games, crafts and refreshments,” was the frank response. “Folks get depressed and many lose their appetites as they age. I like to keep them active and tempt them to eat. However, I try to stick to healthier foods than—what on earth is that?”

Chris followed her gaze as Nola emerged from the kitchen, carrying a large rectangular box. Behind her, Pepe brought a second one.

“I’m glad you’re picking these up,” remarked the owner. “We need the space in the refrigerators.”

Karen’s mouth hung open for a few seconds before she found her voice. “What exactly are those?”

“Ice-cream sheet cakes.” Pepe set his burden on the counter. “Mr. Ferguson paid for them by credit card.”

“What’s in them?” Although Chris had felt full a few moments before, he always had room for dessert.

“Pistachio ice cream between layers of vanilla cake, with strawberry icing,” Pepe explained. “It’s my own invention.”

It sounded weird but delicious, Chris decided.

Karen regarded the large boxes in dismay. “I’ll have to go get my car.”

Seeing an opportunity, Chris jumped in. “Why bother? I can carry them.”

She appeared less than thrilled at the prospect of his company, but apparently, convenience won out. “Thanks. You probably planned to stop by and let your grandmother know you’d arrived anyway, right?”

“Exactly.” He’d intended to wait until evening, when Mae Anne was less likely to be busy, but a party sounded like fun.

It felt incredibly natural to walk out beside Karen, the top of her head barely reaching his chest as she held the door for him and the boxes. Chris shortened his stride to match hers as they strolled past the Green.

Tiny flowers showed here and there in the grass. “Planting a garden this year?” he asked.

“I always do.” Karen glanced toward him and immediately away.

“Tell me what you’re going to plant.”

She frowned. “Why?”

“Because I’d like to hear about it,” Chris admitted. “Working in your family’s garden is one of my favorite memories.”

Startled, she stopped at the intersection of Tulip Tree Avenue and Home Boulevard. “I thought Barry had to nag you into helping.”

“I let him think so.” Chris decided not to mention how much he’d looked forward to working beside her. “What’ll it be? Tomatoes and zucchini and…?”

“That depends.” When the light turned green, they crossed toward City Hall. “I let the residents choose what to plant. I also invite anyone who’s interested to come help in the garden, although a hired man handles the heavy work. Marquis Lyons, my director of food services, does marvelous things with the produce.”

Chris was impressed. “What a great idea. I’m surprised Mae Anne never mentioned it.”

“She’s got other things on her mind,” Karen said. “Serving on the town council is practically a full-time job.”

Chris supposed so. On his visits with her, he’d heard quite a bit about the controversy regarding the construction of a shopping center, which, after months of hearings, had won approval the past December.

There’d also been some discussion of opening a satellite medical office to serve the new businesses and homes, she’d told him; when he’d inquired about the possibility of building a local hospital, she’d regretfully informed him there was none yet. The doctors would have to continue admitting their patients and delivering babies in Mill Valley, a dozen miles away.

On the far side of Home Boulevard, he and Karen reached the one-story white brick nursing home. After entering through a rear door, they followed a short hallway to the kitchen.

Staff members whisked away the cake, freeing them to repair to the recreation room. He admired the way silver and blue garlands and shimmering tablecloths carried out the wintry theme.

At one side, a group of seniors were holding a snowball competition, tossing foam balls into buckets. In the center, residents at a crafts table applied glitter to white mittens, while several women appeared to be crocheting small squares.

“We make comforters and mittens for any residents who need them. Old people tend to chill easily,” Karen explained. “If there are extras, we give them to the poor.” Catching a signal from one of the aides, she excused herself to go help.

A little apart from the bustle, Chris spotted his grandmother sitting in her wheelchair. While others played, he saw, she was reading what appeared to be some kind of report. Probably council business, he thought.

He sneaked up to plant a kiss on her cheek. Chuckling, she responded with a hug. “I saw you come in,” Mae Anne said. “Getting along better with Karen?”

“We’ve sort of struck a truce,” he admitted. “Besides, I figured if I helped carry the ice-cream cakes, I might get to eat some.”

“I’m delighted you’re here. I mean here to live, not just to visit.” After she questioned him about his apartment, they made plans to attend church together the following day. At last, regretfully, his grandmother rattled the report. “Afraid I’ve got work to do. Go make yourself useful.”

“Glad to,” Chris said.

Karen had vanished. He hoped the staff was going to set up for dessert, because he couldn’t wait to sample it.

In the meantime, Chris used his cell-phone camera to take pictures of the residents. From each, he requested the e-mail address of a friend or relative. “I’m sure they’ll enjoy seeing what you’re up to,” he told them.

Most supplied their own e-mail address, as well, which they could access from the half-dozen computers along one wall. “I’d like a copy of all the photos to put in a collage,” one woman requested.

“I’ll burn them onto a CD for you. And I’ll e-mail the other photos as soon as I get my computer set up at my apartment,” he promised.

In Nashville, Chris had learned from the teen moms that many had never sent out pictures of their children. After he’d assisted them in doing so, the gratifying result had been to help to bridge gaps. Several had reunited with their estranged families, and one girl, abandoned by the baby’s father, had received unexpected support from his parents.

As he tucked the cell phone into his pocket, Chris realized another woman in a wheelchair was watching him. When he started to take out the camera again, she waved it away politely.

With a start, he identified the thin, graying lady as Renée Lowell—Barry and Karen’s mother. He remembered her as a vital, active woman, but obviously the traffic accident had taken a cruel toll. Still, it hadn’t dimmed her alert expression.

As he was debating whether to approach her, a staffer began serving the cake. He decided to leave Mrs. Lowell to enjoy hers in peace. At least she hadn’t reacted angrily to his presence, which he took as a good sign.

As for what was going to happen when, inevitably, he ran across Barry, he tried not to worry about it. He had so many fond memories of their younger years that he held out hope of becoming friends again.

Now, he reflected ruefully, he’d be lucky if they didn’t come to blows.

HAD IT NOT BEEN FOR her mother’s accident, Karen might still be focused on a career handling the dry details of business administration. Even after returning to school to earn a master’s degree in public health and landing the job running the nursing home, she’d believed she was best suited to dealing with budgets and personnel matters.

Gradually, however, she’d discovered the satisfaction of getting close to older folks. Becoming directly involved in their care had enriched her life.

She wished everyone could recognize the beautiful souls beneath the wrinkled faces. Too often, however, visitors marched through the halls as if wearing blinders. Even worse were the people who abandoned their parents or grandparents altogether.

From time to time, Karen called a neglectful loved one to suggest a holiday visit. Often, she received a response such as, “I can’t bear to see her this way,” or “It’s too depressing.” Or sometimes false reassurances, such as, “Sure, just as soon as I find the time.”

This puzzled her, since the intermediate-care facility took only patients in comparatively good condition. Although many had physical handicaps, they were capable of dressing and feeding themselves with minimal help.

She’d expected Chris to be accepting, of course, given his closeness to Mae Anne and his experience as a physician. But Karen hadn’t expected the sight of him cheerily snapping pictures, talking to the residents and leaving them wreathed in smiles.

He was charming all the ladies in the room and most of the men. Even Chita Hernandez, the solemn nurse who anchored the weekend and evening shifts, ruffled his hair as he scooted past her with plates of cake. Karen hadn’t seen Chita so taken with anyone since…well, ever.

Avoiding him would be hard, considering that he lived and worked within a block of here and had hit it off with the residents. Firmly, Karen reminded herself of what lay beneath that pleasing surface.

He’d betrayed her at the deepest level, in a way she’d never discussed with anyone, not her mother and certainly not Barry. This captivating side of Chris was simply evidence of what a skilled manipulator he could be.

She had to make sure to keep that in mind. But given what she’d seen today, it wouldn’t be easy.

Chapter Three

“You mean nobody told you?” Dr. Jenni Forrest asked. “Don’t worry, it won’t be too bad—I hope.”

Chris nearly groaned out loud. His first day on the job had been busier than expected, and now, halfway through the day, he’d been handed a shocker.

The family practitioner, a forthright blonde to whom he’d taken an immediate liking, planned to leave next Saturday for a belated two-week honeymoon in Europe with her husband of six months, the police chief, Ethan Forrest. Estelle Fellows, the nurse practitioner, would cover nonurgent matters, while regular checkups had been postponed. In addition, a doctor in Mill Valley served as backup.

However, it would fall to Chris and, to a lesser extent, obstetrician Will Rankin to pick up the slack. One of the unusual requirements of working in Downhome was that specialists had to handle some general on-call duties. Chris didn’t mind, but neither had he expected to take over so many nonpediatric functions so soon—including consulting at the Tulip Tree Nursing Home.

“I generally drop by at least two afternoons a week to check on medications and make sure there are no unreported problems,” Jenni explained as they sipped coffee in the lunchroom. “Some of the old folks don’t like to complain, but it’s best to nip problems in the bud, as I’m sure you appreciate.”

“I don’t mind consulting. It’s just that, well, you can see what a zoo it’s been this morning. If this continues, I’m not sure how I’ll find time.”

“It’s not usually this busy,” Jenni assured him. “Mondays are always the worst.”

Maria Wilhelmina hadn’t been the only baby to visit the clinic first thing today. To the amazement of the staff, a line of parents and kids had been waiting outside the building when they’d arrived.

Most of the children weren’t sick. They needed well-child exams and vaccinations, which could easily be conducted in the coming days and weeks. However, most preferred to wait rather than return later.

One mother had told Chris while he examined her daughter’s ears, “I wanted her to get to know you before anything serious happens. Besides, I heard you might have to limit the number of patients you take, and we intend to make sure she’s one of them.”

“Who told you that?” Chris had no such policy. If the workload occasionally proved too heavy, he might have to ask Jenni to assist with routine cases, which she’d been handling before his arrival, anyway. But that would only be a temporary measure.

“Word gets around,” the woman responded.

“Please tell your friends it’s not true,” he’d requested. “I don’t plan to turn anyone away.”

He’d done his best to track down the rumor, asking the nurses and receptionist if they’d heard anything. Winifred Waters, the nurse who worked with Dr. Rankin, admitted she’d advised her daughter to bring in her two grandsons first thing, in case Chris became overbooked.

“I guess she told somebody and the story got bent out of shape,” Winifred said. “Sorry about that. But to make up for it, I’ll do double duty until you find a nurse of your own.”