Barbara Gale - Finding His Way Home

“About as high as your cholesterol?”

“There’s nothing wrong with my cholesterol that would warrant a tofu burger!” he teased as he waved goodbye.

Jack’s step was light as he took the stairs, his early-morning energy always astonishing to Valetta. She was the total opposite, in that way. She would much rather stay in bed the extra hour or two and linger late at the end of the day to finish her chores. Jack preferred to call it an early night and crawl into bed with a good murder mystery. It came as no surprise when he began reading Patricia Cornwall last summer, for the second time . Patiently, Jack had explained to his wife that not only was Cornwall a fabulous read, but that as a doctor, he was dying—no pun intended—to catch the heroine- doctor in a medical mistake. That he probably never would was unimportant. It was the journey that counted.

Oh, Jack , she sighed, a wifely, loving sigh of pained tolerance as she eyed the overflowing stack of books on the floor and made a mental note to buy him a bookcase for Father’s Day.

“I love you!” she heard him call as he slammed shut the front door.

“Love you, too!”

Even though the bedroom windows were shut tight against the February cold, she could hear him start to warm up the car. The seven-year-old Ford needed the extra time. In her mind’s eye, she saw him put the car into reverse and carefully back out of the driveway. He was meticulous about that, knowing that kids didn’t always bother to watch as they raced down the road on their skateboards and bikes. Not that they’d be biking this cold April day, not after the snowstorm that had covered the area in four inches of white fluff, unexpected but not unheard of in the Adirondack region.

At seven in the morning, no one was about except the salt spreader. From the safety of her warm bed, she heard her husband shout out good morning to the driver, Ned Pickens, no doubt, the only person in Longacre who seemed to know how to attach the massive snowplow to the town pickup. Good old Ned Pickens, she thought as she fell back to sleep.

Valetta began her day pretty much as she had the last six months of a difficult pregnancy, but she hoped that since she’d made it this far, she and the baby could get through the rest without greater complications. One more month and they would be in the homestretch. It was her good fortune to be able to put her feet up, since Jack was a generous and caring husband. Not that they lived grandly or ever would. They had no aspirations that way. He was a country doctor, she was a country wife, and the arrangement suited them both. Even better, deeply in love, they were about to begin their family.

Valetta slept till almost ten and then enjoyed a leisurely bath. After a light breakfast, she booted up her PC. Unable to sit for long periods of time, but not wanting to feel a total slug, she had been determined to continue her freelance writing. Hence the article she had written the day before for a local newsy. Of necessity, she had cut down her hours drastically, but she was still proud of the money she was earning, even if it wasn’t much. She thought, too, that Jack was secretly pleased to introduce his wife, the writer , as if she were on the verge of winning the Pulitzer prize. Darling Jack, she thought, with a rueful shake of her head.

Hey, Mrs. Faraday, how about a little less time mooning over Jack, and a little bit more for this article , she laughed to herself. No one was going to pay her to daydream about her husband.

The afternoon flew by and before Valetta knew, it was six-thirty and time to make the short drive into town. Longacre was one of the many small towns clustered along a narrow ridge of the Adirondack Mountains, a range once as high as the Himalayas. They lived on a dirt road just outside of town, so the trip wasn’t all that far. Dragging on her boots, she slipped into her heavy sheepskin jacket and gathered up her belongings. The shiny new pickup parked on their driveway was Jack Faraday’s one big splurge, his gift to Valetta. Safe as houses, Jack had insisted when he campaigned for the purchase, even though Valetta insisted they couldn’t afford it. But Jack had argued—loudly—that she needed something trustworthy to drive. But what about him? He drove the mountains far more than she, on his rounds and during emergencies. But Jack had dug in his heels. This was one matter he wasn’t going to negotiate. He didn’t want to worry about his wife and child driving alone on the back roads. Valetta had capitulated, and given the way the roads were tonight, treacherous sheets of ice in spite of the morning’s salting, she was glad of the heavy wheels beneath her.

She made the drive with ease, pulling up in front of Crater’s Diner just in time to see her friends arrive. She slid from her truck and they entered the restaurant together, laughing and taking bets on how late Doc Jack would be.

Not tonight, Valetta grinned. He’d promised .

Oh, but hadn’t she heard? There’d been a spinout on Route 10, a three-car pileup on some black ice, and serious injuries. Very serious , according to the radio announcer. Jack would have been called to attend, no question. He was the closest doctor available. Perhaps they’d better go ahead and order, Patty suggested as they settled into a booth. Valetta could order some hot soup for Jack, maybe the corn chowder, hot and sweet and creamy, just the way he liked it. It would be cold work out there on the road, patching up the injured, and he would appreciate the thought.

Jerome Crater’s diner would have been a landmark restaurant in any other city. In Longacre, it was a combination restaurant, town hall and bully pulpit for anyone who had a mind to speak. Valetta enjoyed many dinners there, and many a conversation over a cup of coffee. Jerome Crater had a warm spot for the skinny redhead, as he liked to call Valetta, and treated her like the daughter he’d never had. The bottom line was Valetta was Phyla Imre’s niece. Since Phyla had lived in Longacre her entire ninety years, right up until the day she died, Valetta had been gathered into the fold, no questions asked, even though she had only moved there a few years ago. The fact that she had stayed on after Phyla died, and chose to remain living in Phyla’s house, also worked in her favor.

And then, marrying Jack Faraday, their favorite son! That was icing on the cake! The whole town had been invited to the wedding, and Jerome had even baked the cake, a frosted tower of lemon curd and vanilla icing that still had everyone talking. So, if the lady wanted to order an extra large serving of corn chowder for the absentee doctor, so be it. Jerome served it with nary a grumble in a covered tureen, to keep it warm until Jack arrived.

“Feeling the baby?” Jerome asked as he set the chowder down.

Valetta smiled patiently. Ever since Phyla died last summer, Jerome had been acting like a mother hen, and the pregnancy had doubled his concern. “Everything’s fine, Jerome,” she promised.

“Just checking. Hey, I came up with a name you might be interested in. Sort of like a song.”

Flicking his napkin onto his lap, Chuck Carmichael smiled. “You running a contest, Val?”

“Hush now, Chuck. Go on, Jerome, let’s hear it. You’ve had some good ideas.”

Sending Chuck a scornful look, Jerome made his announcement. “Mellie!” he said proudly.

“Mellie.” Patty Carmichael ran the name around her tongue. “Mellie. Hmm, you know, Val, I kind of like it. It has a certain ring to it. Odd, though. Where’d you dig it up, Jerome?”

Valetta only half listened as Jerome and Chuck and Patty discussed this latest suggestion, busy as she was spreading a slice of Jerome’s famous sourdough bread with half a pound of butter. These days, if she wasn’t nauseous, she was hungry, but Jack said not to mind the calories, she was too skinny as it was, and she cheerfully took him at his word. She was buttering her second slice when the door swung wide, as wide as her radiant smile when she spotted a familiar man enter the diner, his black wool hat covered with new-fallen snow.