The smell of cookies replaced the chamomile, and Henry figured that the little store down the street, Baker’s Way Bakers, was probably just closing, the last of the stock set aside for discount sale in the morning. Henry coughed, certain he could feel the flour on the back of his throat. He gave in to fatigue, a very different kind than that of his residency in Boston. There he’d felt hollowed out by exhaustion, a dark place inside waiting to be filled by the desperation and panic of a city hospital. Remembering that, Henry understood, again, why he’d left and why he’d come to Granite Point. He dozed off, slightly hungry for cake, the ache in his leg a nervy hum.
When Henry woke it, was full dark, and a small circle of lamplight puddled on his desk. Sitting up, he had a renewed sense of purpose; maybe it was the half hour of oblivion. Henry had trained himself to sleep quickly and deeply. He grabbed the charts and made his way upstairs, opened a beer, swallowed three aspirin, considered a Vicodin, and sat at the kitchen counter to work. There weren’t too many patients yet: Dr. Higgins’s practice had begun to wind down before he did, but Henry had high hopes. Already word of his kind manner and good looks had filtered down to the young mothers, their babies swaddled tight even into June, their toddlers already in bathing suits. News traveled fast, no doubt about it; rumors even faster. The women speculated that he’d left heartbreak behind in Boston, and their husbands figured he’d seen too much death in Iraq, too many sick people, accidents, and car wrecks at the hospital. Both were right, although his heart had broken far from Boston.
Hunger drove Henry back outside. He set aside his papers and slipped on the blue sweater. He was more susceptible to the cold since his return. The tree peepers seemed to echo the insistent buzz of pain in his leg. He walked slowly, trying to make his gait as even as possible. He was used to the way people’s eyes flicked to his leg when he walked through the hospital or into his own waiting room. But, he realized now, Patience hadn’t lowered her gaze, not even for an instant, as she stood with her arms full of damp flowers. Henry stuck his hands in his pockets as he rounded Main Street, glad that the lights of Doyle’s were bright.
He took a seat at the bar. Frank Redmond approached, drying his hands on a stained white cloth.
“What’ll you have, Doc?” he asked, and Henry snorted.
Frank looked at him, eyebrows raised.
“It’s just that you’re so welcoming and I just had a run in with . . . I have no idea what.” Henry laughed. “Pretty tight, this town.”
“Well, now,” Frank said, already pulling a pint for Henry. “There’s some who might take offense at that, coming from an inlander.”
“Oh, I’m sorry”—Henry raised his hand—“I only meant that nearly everyone I’ve met is . . .” He stopped. “Just, I’m sorry.”
Frank was chuckling as he watched Henry fumble. “Shit, Henry, I’m just messing with you. Inlander, like that’s even a word.” He handed Henry a menu and moved off, still smiling.
Henry looked at the menu, not really seeing any of it. He’d have a grilled cheese and leave it at that. What Henry was seeing was Patience: the way her hair stuck to the dampness at her neck, the smudge of dirt over her eyebrow, the spark of anger he’d drawn from her even as he suspected that the last thing he wanted to make her was angry. Henry thought that making her smile would be wonderful and he felt his own lips twitch.
“So?” Frank was back. “See something you like?”
“Oh yes,” said Henry and shook his head to clear it of the springy green scent that seemed to cling to Patience, even in memory.
When his sandwich came, he ate it in silence, listening to the chatter of the locals who were Frank’s bread and butter until the summer season got underway. He wiped his mouth and reached for his wallet, shifting on the stool until he had to slide off to keep his balance. He landed harder than he meant to on his bad leg and grimaced, dropping the wallet.
“A quart of the chowder, Frank.” Patience stood at the end of the bar, an old hoodie over her tee shirt. The stretched hem came to the middle of her thighs; she looked naked beneath it, but her dirty boots and slouchy socks dismissed that image with an oddly childish look.
Henry paused, his head just below the bar, his wallet halfway to his hip pocket. Damn it, he thought. It felt as if his little reverie had called Patience to Doyle’s long before he was ready to see her again.
“How’s Nettie?” Frank asked.
“She’s better,” Patience said shortly.
Frank lowered his voice, and Henry had to strain to hear him.
“She went to the new guy, didn’t she?”
“Yeah,” Patience said. “She gets nervous, you know.” She shuffled through some bills as Frank brought the soup.
“No charge, P,” Frank said. “I still owe you for Claire’s migraines.”
“Thanks.” Patience shoved all but a couple dollars back into her pocket. “See ya.”
“Yup.” Frank turned back and Henry stood up slowly, careful not to look toward the front door, as it swung shut behind Patience.
“Where’d you go, there?” Frank asked.
“I dropped my wallet,” Henry answered and opened it to pay for his dinner. Frank took the money, and Henry asked, “Not on the house for me?”
“When you cure my wife’s headaches in the time it takes to make a martini, I’ll tear up your bill too.”
Henry felt the heat rise up his throat. He put a hand on the bar to stop Frank. “You seriously think her stuff works?”
“I seriously think it does, and so do most of the people in this town.” Frank looked at Henry. “What do you know about the Sparrow Sisters?”
“There are three of them,” Henry said. He took a last swallow of his beer. “That’s all.”
“That’s true,” Frank said and let the name Marigold flit through his head. “And you were hiding from Patience because, what? She doesn’t like you?”
That was a question; she sure didn’t seem to like him. “I wasn’t hiding,” Henry said. “How long am I going to be the new guy?” he asked.
“A while,” Frank said.
Henry stepped back, preparing to leave, but Frank stopped him.
“You should know that the Sparrow Sisters are something of a legend in Granite Point. Their family history, hell their own story, it’s as much a part of this place as the harbor.” Frank closed the register. “I’m surprised you’ve seen one in your office. They aren’t much for doctors after Marigold. Dr. Higgins was one thing, but the rest of the medical world, let’s just say the Sisters aren’t exactly fans.” Henry faked a shudder. “I wouldn’t want any of them pissed off at me.”
“I’ll remember that,” Henry said. Too late, he thought as he walked out and right into Simon Mayo.
“Whoa, there,” Simon said as both men grabbed each other’s elbows.
As Henry apologized, he gave a slight hop to take the weight off his leg. He watched Simon’s eyes travel down.
“So, the city doctor meets the country lawyer,” Simon said as he stuck out his hand. “I’m Simon Mayo.”
“Henry Carlyle,” Henry said as he shook. “The new guy. How do you know me?”
Simon gestured to Henry’s face and leg and smiled. “I’m afraid you’re already famous.”
“Oh” was all Henry could come up with.
“Can I buy you a beer?” Simon asked.
“I’ve got work to do,” Henry replied.
“Another house call to the Sisters?” Simon’s voice thinned and Henry heard the shift.