Irene Hannon - The Doctor's Perfect Match

The compact unit was well-equipped, too, Marci noted. A queen-size bed stood in the far corner, while closer to the door a small couch upholstered in hydrangea-print fabric and an old chest that served as a coffee table formed a sitting area. To the right of the front door a wooden café-sized table for two was tucked beside a window in a tiny kitchenette.

The whole place looked like a display in a designer showroom.

In other words, it was a far cry from her tiny, decrepit apartment in Chicago, with its chipped avocado fixtures, burn-damaged Formica countertops and stained linoleum. The same apartment she’d be returning to in a month, when this magical sojourn was over.

“Did you notice the pumpkin bread?”

J.C.’s question distracted her from that depressing thought.

Looking in the direction he indicated, she noted the plastic-wrap-covered plate on the café table.

“Edith left some for me, too, my first day here. And trust me, there will be more. She’ll take good care of you.”

Marci shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans. “I can take care of myself.”

Shaking his head, J.C. pulled her into a bear hug. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Love me.” The words came out muffled against his shirt as she hugged him back.

“Always.”

Giving her one more squeeze, he stepped back. “Don’t forget that Heather and I are taking you to dinner tomorrow.” He held up his hand as she started to protest. “No arguments. You’ve been outvoted.” A yawn caught him off guard, and he grinned. “The jet lag is catching up with me.”

“Go home. You guys must be dead on your feet after flying all day. I need to settle in anyway.”

“Okay. Want to join us for church tomorrow?”

She folded her arms across her chest and arched an eyebrow.

“Hey, you can’t blame a guy for trying. We’ll see you later, then. Sleep well.”

As he exited and shut the door, Marci once more surveyed her new digs. Though she still felt guilty about the expense, she couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at her lips. Maybe all this would disappear in a month, as Cinderella’s coach had vanished at the stroke of midnight. But in the meantime, she felt like a princess. The only thing missing was the handsome prince.

An image of Christopher Morgan suddenly flashed through her mind. He certainly fit that description, she conceded. Tall. Handsome. Confident. Charming.

Looks and manners could be deceiving though. A practiced rake could hide a callous, selfish heart until he got what he wanted. And princes could turn out to be scoundrels—leaving broken hearts, shattered dreams and wrenching regrets in their wake.

Her instincts told her Christopher wasn’t like that. But those same instincts had led her astray once.

And no way did she intend to trust them a second time.

Three days after the honeymooners returned—and two days into her vacation—Marci kept the promise she’d made to Henry two weeks before. After a morning spent soaking up rays on the beach, she’d headed for ’Sconset. True to his word, the older man had given her a tour of the area and invited her back to his home for refreshments.

“That was great banana-nut bread, Henry.”

He topped off Marci’s coffee mug as they sat on his back porch. “Glad you liked it.”

“The tour was fabulous, too. I can’t believe they actually moved Sankaty Light.”

“Yep. It was quite a feat. Made the national news, even. Cost a bundle of money, but that was the only way to save it from tumbling into the sea, what with all the erosion over there. Moved it inch by inch. Slow and steady.”

“Slow and steady is a good thing. With lighthouses—and life.” Marci took a sip of her coffee as she gazed at the sea, separated from Henry’s backyard by only a white picket fence and a stretch of beach.

“I expect that’s true, most of the time. I know my Marjorie felt that way about her garden. She had the patience of Job with all these plants.” Henry gestured toward the curving, overgrown flower beds that hugged much of the picket fence and porch, leaving only a small bit of lush green grass in the center and back of the yard.

“She tucked them into the ground, nurtured them, gave them time to flourish. Started most everything from seeds and cuttings. I often told her it would be a whole lot faster to buy established plants, but she claimed things grew better if they had a stable home from the beginning.”

A sudden film of moisture clouded her vision, and Marci blinked to clear it away. “Your wife was a wise woman.” Sensing Henry’s scrutiny, she shifted in her seat. She’d already learned that the older man was an astute observer; she didn’t want him delving into her life. “Did she spend a lot of time in her garden?”

“Practically lived out here in the summer. Not that you’d know it now.” He inspected the weed-choked beds and sighed. “I tried to keep up with things for the first few years after she died, not that I was ever much of a gardener. But arthritis finally did me in. Bending isn’t as easy as it used to be. Makes me sad, how much it’s deteriorated.”

“How long has your wife been gone?”

“An eternity.” He drew in a slow breath, then let it out. “Feels that long, anyway, after more than half a century of marriage. But to be exact, ten years and two months.”

It was nice to know some relationships lasted, Marci reflected with a pang as she studied the garden in which Marjorie Calhoun had invested so much labor and love. Despite the neglect, hints of its former beauty remained. Here and there, hardy flowers poked through the rampant weeds. Although out-of-control ivy was attempting to choke a circle of hydrangeas in one corner, the bushes were sporting buds. And a climbing rose in desperate need of pruning competed for fence space with a tangle of morning-glory vines behind an oversized birdbath.

“What was over there, Henry?” Marci indicated the hydrangeas, which rimmed a spot bare except for some low-growing foliage she assumed was weeds.

“Used to be a gazebo. I built it for Marjorie years ago. She loved to sit out there with a glass of lemonade after she worked in the garden and enjoy the fruits of her labors. Lost it in a storm winter before last.”

Marci rubbed a finger over the peeling white paint on the arm of her wicker rocker and mulled over all Henry had told her during their sightseeing outing. About Nantucket—and his life. He hadn’t dwelt on his problems, focusing instead on all the good things he’d experienced in his eighty-five years.

But she’d learned about the bad, too, through offhand comments or in response to questions she’d asked. Henry had watched friends die in battle. Nursed his wife through a cancer scare. And now he struggled to maintain the life he loved as his vigor and strength ebbed and the cost of living on the island soared.

Long life, she supposed, was both a blessing and a curse.

As if he’d read her mind, Henry looked over at her, the afternoon sunlight highlighting the crevices on his face. “I’ll tell you something, Marci. Growing old isn’t for sissies.”

Her throat constricted, and she leaned over to place a hand on his gnarled fingers. “Your body may be old, but your spirit is young. And I suspect it always will be.”

He patted her hand. “Thank you, my dear.”

Looking the garden over again, she set her empty mug aside and rose as an idea began to take shape in her mind. “Can you distinguish between the weeds and flowers, Henry?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t we clean this place up? You can point out the weeds until I learn which is which, and I can pull them up.”

“But I didn’t invite you here today to work.”

She gave an impatient shrug. “I’ve worked my whole life. I can’t just lie around on a beach every day for the next month. I’ll go stir-crazy. I need to do something productive, too. This would be a challenge. And it would be fun.” She scanned the garden again. “I bet we could whip this place into shape in no time.”