The Splendor of Ordinary Days Page 3

  “I came by to introduce myself. Actually, it’s Dr. Karen Davidson. I’m a veterinarian. I’ve bought out what was left of Dr. Ingram’s practice. I’m going to be here ­full-­time.”

  “Well, congratulations and welcome to Watervalley.” Charlie Ingram was Watervalley’s only veterinarian, but he lived in the neighboring county and held hours in a satellite office here only one day a week.

  Karen nodded, her lips still pressed in a slightly nervous smile. “Thanks.”

  “That was an incredible thing you did at the ballpark. I don’t believe I got a chance to thank you.”

  “Oh, I just did, you know, what I thought I had to do.”

  “I know Sarah McAnders wanted to get your name. She called some friends at the park during the ambulance ride, but no one could find you.”

  Karen looked down sheepishly. “I left right afterward. It just, I don’t know. It just felt sort of odd when it was over, like everyone was staring at me.”

  “I’m sure they were. What you did was rather heroic. . . . Pretty big news for a place like Watervalley. Matter of fact, you just missed Luther Whitmore, editor of the local newspaper. I bet he’d like to interview you.”

  A cringe twisted her face as she inhaled through clenched teeth, making a slight hissing sound. “Are you talking about the fellow in the black suit I just saw in the parking lot?”

  “Sounds right.”

  “Gee, I thought he was a mortician. Just as well I missed him. Anyway, I don’t much care for the spotlight.”

  “Yeah, that was Luther, all right. He’s not exactly Mr. Sunshine. But I’m sure the paper will want to do a write-up about having a new vet in town. I don’t think you will be able to avoid the spotlight completely.”

  She nodded. “I’m okay with that. How’s the fellow from the ballpark doing?”

  “Toy McAnders. He’s good. We took him to Regional Hospital. He’ll come home tomorrow.”

  I studied her for a moment and decided to pry further. “So, how long have you been in town?”

  “I actually just arrived yesterday morning. I’m staying over at the B and B till my stuff arrives.” She fell silent, seemingly unsure of what to say next. I spoke again in an accommodating voice.

  “I have to admit, Karen, I’m a little curious. I’m guessing vet school didn’t teach you how to do an emergency cricothy­rotomy?”

  She shrugged. “Hardly. I was in the military for fifteen years. Army medic. I went to veterinary school after I got out. I graduated this spring.”

  “Well, that explains a lot.” This news came as no big surprise. With her ramrod posture, crisp speech, and reserved manner, everything about Karen Davidson reflected the enamel of military service. I gauged her to be in her late thirties and, while she was a pleasant, modestly attractive woman, her short haircut and minimal, if any, makeup telegraphed that she was either uninterested or unpracticed in accentuating her feminine side. She was polite and plain and seemed content to remain so.

  “Well, I have a ­lethargic ­but ­lovable male golden retriever who will be excited to know that you’ve arrived in town.”

  “What’s his name?” There was a notable lift in her voice.

  “Rhett. He’s an adopted stray. But he’s turned out to be quite a character.”

  “They’re great hunting dogs, you know.”

  “I’m sure that’s true for the breed in general, but I’m not so sure Rhett could get vicious with a bird or a rabbit. He’d probably just ­trash-­talk it a little and let it go at that.”

  “Well,” she said warmly, “I look forward to meeting him.”

  “So, I take it you’ve introduced yourself around town some. Have you been by the Farmers’ Co-op?”

  “Yeah, I, um, I went by there earlier today and met a few of the guys. They were, well, polite.”

  The trepidation in her answer was obvious. “I take it you have some reservations about how that went?”

  She paused and scrutinized me for a moment, as if weighing what level of confidence she wanted to engage with me. “It was okay. I think they weren’t sure what to make of a woman my size taking on ­half-­ton cows and pulling calves. Nobody said anything, but I could read it in their eyes.”

  “They can be a little ­tight-­lipped at first, but they’re good people. Just give it some time.”

  Karen smiled faintly. “I hope so. The cat and dog business will probably pay the light bill, but it will take a fair amount of ­large-­animal practice to cover rent and food. Eating may be optional for a while.”

  I liked Karen Davidson instantly, but she was an odd mix. Her skillful handling of the crisis the previous day attested to a ­self-­confidence that didn’t seem to translate to social settings. Nevertheless, she had an easy sense of humor, and I detected an inborn toughness. Her awkward mannerisms only added to her distinctive, albeit peculiar, charm. I was about to speak again, when there was a knock at the door. It was Christine.

  “Hi, am I interrupting? I can wait in the lobby.”

  “No, not at all. Come on in. I want you to meet someone.”

  A tall and athletic brunette, Christine Chambers had grown up in Watervalley, gone to college in Atlanta, and stayed there to teach in a private school for the last several years. She had returned to town the previous July, near the same time of my arrival. We had been dating since December, and what had started as a tenuous relationship had blossomed into a ­full-­blown romance. I loved her, profoundly. She was intelligent, independent, and strikingly beautiful.

  Neatly dressed in a summer top and white shorts, she smiled at me adoringly.

  “Karen, this is Christine Chambers. Christine, this is Dr. Karen Davidson. She’s a veterinarian and is setting up a ­full-­time practice in town.”

  Christine’s engaging response was warm and natural. “Oh, that’s wonderful. It’s so good to meet you.”

  Karen, however, responded awkwardly with only a swallowed “Hi.”

  She seemed off balance, saying nothing further and simply standing as if at attention, intently assessing Christine, who was a good five inches taller. When Karen spoke again, there was a childlike innocence to her unfiltered declaration. “Wow! You really are beautiful.”

  Christine shot a puzzled glance in my direction. “Well, thank you. It’s very sweet of you to say so.”

  Karen now realized the inappropriate bluntness of her statement. “Oh, I’m sorry. That probably seemed out of place. I was just going on what Luke said earlier.”

  Christine smiled graciously before slowly rotating her head in my direction. “Okay, seriously. You can find nothing better to talk about?”

  I started to raise my hands in a gesture of explanation, but Karen spoke first.

  “No, no. He didn’t say anything about you being beautiful. Actually, he called me beautiful, but he thought he was talking to you.”

  This didn’t help.

  Christine folded her arms, clearly trying to make sense of Karen’s words. But nothing was fitting. Finally she laughed out loud.

  “Okay. Good . . . I think.”

  Karen regarded me with a mortified face of apology. The misunderstanding was all quite laughable, and I offered her an obliging smile and a shrug of dismissal. But that did little to ease her embarrassment.

  She took a deep breath. “Well, I think I’ve done enough damage here for one visit, so I’m going to head along. I need to find a Laundromat and maybe a little bit of my dignity. Luke, good to meet you.” She regarded Christine sheepishly. “Christine, good to make your acquaintance. I hope to see you again soon.”

  Christine smiled sweetly. “Good to meet you as well. Welcome to Watervalley.”

  It looked for a moment like Karen might snap to attention before exiting, but she caught herself and walked briskly out the door, apparently eager to make a hasty retreat.

&nbs
p; I turned to Christine, prepared to explain in detail what had transpired before her arrival, but before I could say a word, she grabbed my shoulders and planted a delightful kiss on me. She spoke with affectionate resignation. “Bradford, just . . . don’t even try.”

  “Try what?”

  “To explain.”

  “You don’t want to hear the details?”

  “Seriously, it’s okay. Apparently you and Karen both have that socially inept doctor gene, so weird conversations are just bound to happen. I understand. I really do.”

  “Okay, I have a question. Why is it I get the third degree anytime that pharmaceutical rep, Michelle Herzenberg, visits me, yet you give this misunderstanding with Karen a pass?”

  “What, the blond Swedish meatball? You can’t be serious, Bradford.”

  “Karen is blond,” I added defiantly.

  “And a lovely person and apparently quite intelligent . . . although she could use a little coaching on her wardrobe.”

  “So, what’s the difference?”

  “Herzenberg does everything she can to come off as a woman of easy virtue.”

  “Should I be looking for a woman of difficult virtue?”

  “Not funny, Bradford.”

  “Let’s go back to the socially inept doctor gene comment. You know, if I thought about that statement long enough, I might take serious offense.”

  She mused over my words for a moment and then playfully began to straighten the collar of my lab coat. “Mmm, you could. But I bet you won’t.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because there are better things you could be doing than complaining.”

  I frowned, making a low noise of disapproval.

  She lifted an eyebrow and smiled impishly. “Give it up, Bradford. You’re not fooling anybody.”

  I responded in mock indignation. “That’s not true. I’m almost fooling myself.”

  She draped her hands around my neck. “Anyway, Karen seems nice, although . . . is it just me, or did she seem a little on the tomboy side?”

  “Yeah, she’s definitely ­that—­ex-military, a medic, no less.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. She’s the woman who saved Toy McAnders yesterday.”

  “Oh wow. Is that right?”

  “Seems odd, doesn’t it. Yesterday she saved Toy’s life, as cool as a cucumber, and today she gets flustered making introductions and small talk.”

  “I guess she’s more comfortable with animals. I can relate.”

  I was searching for a clever comeback to her obvious dig, but my mind was in a flutter. Christine did that to me. I shook my head and hummed her name softly. “Christine, Christine, Christine . . .”

  Suddenly, she stiffened and regarded me with surprise, as if my calling her name was magical to her ears. “Am I missing something here?” I asked.

  She seemed delighted, but offered only a dismissive smile. “No. No, it’s nothing.” She looked down, but her face was still radiant, animated, faintly amused.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “when we talked earlier today, you said you had come across something really big.”

  Her eyes twinkled with excitement. “Yes! It was something I found while helping Mom clear stuff out of our attic for the community charity yard sale.”

  “What was it?”

  “Guess.”

  “You finally found Waldo.”

  “Funny. Get serious.”

  “Well, give me a hint.”

  “It’s something from the past, very intimate and personal.”

  “I don’t know. Sounds like a training bra.”

  “Bradford, you need to rethink your definition of ‘get serious.’ Last chance. Make it count.”

  “All right. Let me think. Youuuu found . . . a box of VHS tapes, including all nine seasons of The X-Files.”

  “Okay, that was pretty random, and no.”

  “So, what was the big discovery?”

  Christine paused. Delighted, she searched my face for a moment, as if dreamily pondering some great secret. Her eyes grew soft, and there was an elated, almost triumphant quality to her voice. “I, Luke Bradford, found my old journal.”

  I smiled kindly, doing my best to hide that I had no idea why this was such a big deal.

  EXCERPT FROM THE JOURNAL OF CHRISTINE CHAMBERS

  My Journal, May 17, 1998

  Dear Mr. Wonderful:

  I dreamed of you today.

  Your voice floated on the wind from beyond the hills. It drifted down the high slope of Akin’s Ridge and found me on the rolling sweep of green on Bracken’s Knoll.

  I was there, in my favorite place . . . sitting in the soft clover beyond the crest, out of sight. The bees were there, too . . . buzzing, circling, busying themselves with spring. I sat with my arms around my knees, wondering, listening. But I wasn’t listening for you. I wanted to hear the music of the falling water; the sweet, soothing sound it makes echoing up the slow rise from Snow Creek.

  I closed my eyes and could hear the birds chattering. The breeze carried their notes across the tops of the grass. I shut my eyes even harder and waited, listening for the soft, delicate purr of the water and wanting the sound to wash over me like it always had.

  Instead, I heard you, pushing your words over the distant fortress of tall trees, intruding upon my secret world.

  You were calling my name.

  The bees heard you too. They stopped their endless buzzing and lingered, sleepily hanging on the small white crowns of clover. The birds in the trees quieted and cooed distantly, shying away from their constant piping. Everything in my world was waiting, watching . . . and changing.

  I told you to stop it. I didn’t want to hear you right now. . . . Wasn’t ready to hear you. . . . Wasn’t prepared for my world to change. I wanted to hear the hum of the bees, the songs of the birds, the endless pouring of the water. I wanted to feel the fresh, clean warmth of the sunlight, to be lost in the sweet, fragrant smell of the clover. I wanted everything to be like it had always been.

  Then I heard your voice again . . . and it was beautiful. It fell softly like a lullaby. There was magic in it of things unfelt, things unimagined, things yet to come that were tender and sweet and delightful, and I began to dream of you. It was wonderful . . . so that’s the name I will give you.

  I knew then and there, sitting in the clover of Bracken’s Knoll, that someday I would hear your voice and I would know you. Someday I would see you, maybe in a crowd or standing in a doorway. And you would be the one who whispered my name, the one I heard, the one I would always love.

  Who are you, Mr. Wonderful? What will you look like? Where will we meet? I listened, but you wouldn’t say. You only called my name, telling me you were there.

  And so I dreamed of you for the first time.

  I dreamed of you today.

  The sun grew hot, making me thirsty. But I didn’t cup my hand and drink out of Snow Creek like I used to do when I was younger. I’m changing. Everything about me is changing. I’m older now and know better. Next month I’ll be thirteen. So, I waited.

  I will wait for you too, Mr. Wonderful. I will wait.

  Twilight came and I started for home. But as I made my way across the open fields, I could still hear you, your voice, sweetly, magically calling my name . . . “Christine, Christine, Christine.”

  CAC

  CHAPTER 4

  Memories and Memoirs

  “Can I make a confession?” I asked Christine.

  “Sure.”

  “I’m glad you’re happy to have found your old journal, but I’m not getting the significance.”

  Christine continued to regard me incandescently, with an odd mixture of fondness and curiosity, but her thoughts seemed miles away.

  “Okay, Chambers, why all of a sudden ha
ve you invoked the cone of silence?”

  My question brought her back. She sat in one of the wingback chairs, still absorbed with a tender, ruminating smile. “I was just thinking about something. It was fun to find my old journal and read what I wrote in my early teens.”

  I slouched in my chair, gazing idly at the ceiling. “Hmm. Let me guess. Probably a lot of stuff about hating braces and boys ­being dumb.”

  “Well, I never wore braces, so you’re ­half-­right.”

  “And when do I get to read this ­tell-­all of your enchanted youth?”

  “Bradford, you are not getting anywhere near my journal.”

  “Ouch, definitely hit a nerve there. Now I really want to read it.”

  “No chance, Buckhead boy.”

  “Hey, speaking of which, I have to run down to Atlanta sometime. All of my family furniture is in storage, and I want to get a few pieces moved up here.”

  I was an only child. When I was twelve, my parents died in an auto accident, after which I lived with Aunt Grace in her stately Buckhead home until she too died, the summer before I started med school. After I graduated, I signed a ­three-­year contract with Watervalley. In return for my services as the sole doctor, the town would pay off my med school debts. I was also provided with a furnished house only a few blocks from the clinic. But some of the furnishings were rather dated, and I had a huge inventory of heirloom furniture in storage, left from my parents’ estate and Aunt Grace’s house.

  “While I’m there,” I said, “I’ll try to locate my old journal. If I find it, we can swap.”

  Christine appeared unenthused. “I seriously doubt that would be a fair trade. What did you write about?”

  “Hmm, mostly sports and girls.” I paused briefly and added, “And girls who were good sports.”

  “Shocker.”

  “So, did you and your mom find many things for the yard sale?” Every year around the Fourth of July, several of the churches and civic clubs in Watervalley sponsored a huge charity yard sale to help out some benevolent organization.

  “Yes. A ton of things. I don’t think anyone has been up there in the five years since Daddy died. Lamps, an old sewing machine, tennis racquets, camping gear, and a bunch of my grandmother Cavanaugh’s vases and china that were packed away back in the sixties.”