Ruth Langan - Cover-Up

“Well, well.” Hannah Brennan, in ragged jeans and T-shirt, looked up from the salad she was tossing to grin at her sister, Emily. “I see you always manage to get rid of your patients just in time for lunch, Doctor. Do you just leave them waiting in the sick room?”

“Too easy. I drug them and leave them locked in the examining room. They’ll never even miss me.” Emily plucked a tomato wedge from the bowl and popped it in her mouth. “I see by the conditions of those jeans that you’ve been digging in the dirt again, baby sis.”

“Comes with the territory. I’m finishing up Dr. Applegate’s flower beds. Lucky for you, I scrubbed my fingernails before tackling this salad.”

“Thank heaven for small favors.”

“You’re welcome. I know what a fanatic you doctors can be about clean hands.”

Emily paused a moment to study the scene of controlled chaos on the patio. Her grandfather muttering as he wrestled with a foot-long salmon he was about to grill. Her grandmother untangling the fasteners on the patio umbrella. Her mother parceling out chores like a general, while her sisters made themselves useful. And underfoot an array of pets left over from Emily’s childhood passion for strays. An ancient gray-and-white tabby with a missing ear dozing in a pool of sunlight. A brown mutt with oversize paws that Emily had rescued from a Dumpster during her internship at University Hospital. A pair of white rabbits that had been found on the Brennan porch a few weeks after Easter, presumably left there by parents who had made a hasty purchase and knew which bleeding hearts would be willing to give them shelter.

It was a scene Emily had been enjoying since she was born. The Brennan family had lived in this big house for three generations. Their home, The Willows, was part of a wonderful collection of turn-of-the-century mansions that sat along the shore of Lake Michigan, hugging the water’s edge like faded dowagers.

Emily’s grandparents had bought the house more than fifty years ago, and had immersed themselves in the life of the community. Her grandfather, Frank Brennan, was a retired judge and gentleman farmer, though his gardens now contained flowers instead of vegetables. He spent every spare moment working on his inventions, though no one could recall one that served any particular purpose other than to amuse him.

His wife, Alberta, an English teacher whom the family affectionately called Bert, had been a fixture at the local high school for four decades. Her announcement that she was retiring had left the community, and her family, stunned.

Bert was a sea of calm in this stormy, volatile family of achievers. Emily glanced at her with affection. If the world were coming to an end, her grandmother would find something soothing to say about it.

When her son Christopher had returned from a medical internship in Chicago with his bride Charlotte, called Charley by all who knew her, a wing had been added to The Willows for the newlyweds. Chris and his beautiful Charley had quickly been absorbed into the house, and into the community as well. Chris established himself as town doctor, and had built a clinic in the rear of the house. Charley raised their four daughters while starting her own real estate firm, which now routinely handled the sale of million-dollar houses being built on the few remaining parcels of waterfront land.

“I’m glad you could get away to join us for lunch, Em.” Charley was wrapping vegetables in foil, crimping the edges to hold the moisture before placing them on the grill.

“I wouldn’t miss it. Especially today.” Emily crossed the brick-paved patio furnished with a mix of contemporary wrought-iron furniture and comfortable heirloom wicker pieces that her sister Courtney had found for her grandparents on her last buying trip to Europe. Courtney owned a gift shop in town, and lived in the tiny apartment above it. Her impeccable taste was reflected in the pots of geraniums and ivy offering bright islands of color on the terraced lawn that sloped to the water’s edge.

Emily smiled at the sight of her sister Sidney arranging pale-pink roses and baby’s breath in a vase. To an artist like Sid, the color, the symmetry, the beauty of the presentation, were as essential as the food they would eat. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise Emily to learn that her sister simply forgot to eat for days at a time. How else did she explain that tiny figure?

“It’s a grand day, isn’t it?” Bert continued setting the table with colorful napkins and pretty crystal plates.

All that was missing to complete this cozy picture, Emily thought with a quick flash of pain, was her father. When she’d left Devil’s Cove to pursue a medical career at University Hospital, he’d been so proud that one of his children was following in his footsteps. It had never occurred to her that he wouldn’t be around for years to offer sage advice.

Emily had thought her days in her grandparents’ house, like those of her three sisters, would consist mainly of occasional visits. Yet here she was keeping a deathbed promise to her father to carry on his practice until a replacement could be found, and living once again in her childhood home.

It hadn’t been easy giving up her hard-won independence. Still, her family seemed to understand, and worked hard at giving her the space she needed to make the adjustment.

Her grandfather looked up from the grill. “Emily, we could use those fine surgeon’s hands to fillet this salmon.”

That brought a round of laughter from the others.

Though Frank Brennan had traded in his judicial robes for a golf shirt and casual slacks more than a dozen years ago, he still had a commanding courtroom presence, which he used to his advantage whenever it suited him.

Emily joined in the laughter. “I always knew my medical training would come in handy for something, Poppie.” Her childhood nickname for him rolled easily off her tongue.

“That’s my girl.” He brushed a kiss over Emily’s cheek as she picked up a knife and neatly sliced through the fish.

He arranged the fillets on the grill and was rewarded by the hiss and snap of the fire as they began to cook.

“Trudy,” he bellowed, and turned to find their housekeeper standing right behind him. “Why do you always sneak up on me like that?”

“I don’t sneak.” Trudy Carpenter was as wide as she was tall, with big capable hands and a voice, after a lifetime of smoking three packs a day, that sounded like a rusty hinge. Her face was deeply lined, her hair the color and texture of cotton balls.

His tone was accusing. “You blindsided me.”

“Easy enough to do, since you never look before hollering.” The old woman sniffed and held out a tray of glasses. “Judge, Miss Bert says you’re to drink a tall glass of water before lunch.”

“Let Bert drink the water.” He picked up a tumbler of his favorite Scotch and winked at his granddaughter before lifting it to his lips.

“Beats me why you always try to fight it.” Emily gave him a quick nudge with her elbow. This was an argument these old people had been waging for a lifetime. One they seemed to thoroughly enjoy. “You’ll just have to drink the water later.”

“Later is better than now.” He grinned. “I’ll have food in my stomach later.”

Overhearing him, Hannah gave a throaty laugh. “You’d better hope you never have to give Poppie any medicine, Em. If you think he’s finicky about water, wait till you see him try to swallow something nasty.”

Emily grinned. “I’ll make sure it’s cherry-flavored, like the medicine we give the children.”

“That’ll work,” his wife called from across the patio. “Since he’s just a big kid at heart.”

“And you like me that way, Bert.” He blew her a kiss before turning the salmon, all the while muttering that he needed to invent a better spatula.