Jacqueline Diamond - A Family at Last

But a man had died, leaving his widow with a farm to run. No matter how much Barry had gone through, Mrs. Anglin had suffered more.

In his office, Chris replaced his white coat with a corduroy jacket. He toured the clinic, making sure the medicine cabinets and examining rooms were locked. Then he clicked off the lights, set the alarm and exited through the back.

Silhouetted between buildings, stark trees raised bare arms to the night sky. He inhaled the chill winter air, in an effort to calm his agitated spirit.

Chris’s thoughts shifted to Downhome. He hadn’t harbored any illusions about the possibility of resuming old friendships. He only wanted to make peace, for everyone’s sake.

Apparently, that wasn’t going to happen.

Much as it galled him to dig up old hurts, he had to make sure he left no doubt in anyone’s mind about the events of that night. Karen had forced his hand.

As soon as he got settled, he resolved, he was going to ask to review the old police reports. The new chief, Ethan Forrest, had served on the physician-search committee and seemed like a reasonable fellow. Once Chris had all the facts in hand, he’d be armed with proof against Barry’s wild accusations.

As he tucked the balloons into his trunk, the breeze tugged at them. Chris wedged them firmly inside and shut the lid with a snap.

He’d learned long ago to keep his life under tight control. Medical cases, personal finances, relationships—anything could spin into chaos if you didn’t pay attention.

Including the matter of Karen and Barry Lowell, Chris reflected as he got into the car. He needed to tie up those strands as well.

If Karen didn’t like the results, she had only her brother’s obsessive antagonism to blame.

On a sunny Saturday at the beginning of March, Chris drove his packed car into Downhome. Along the highway, the verdant open countryside and the well-kept dairy farms had reminded him of how much he’d enjoyed growing up here.

On the outskirts of town, construction had begun on a housing development. Closer in, along Tulip Tree Avenue, the windows of redbrick shops displayed colorful spring merchandise. To see the town prospering pleased Chris. He still felt he belonged here, although his family had moved to Boston during his college years.

His parents had felt the repercussions of Norbert Anglin’s tragic death keenly, despite the fact that Chris had escaped prosecution. George McRay, Chris’s father, had once been Fred Lowell’s best friend, but after the trial, the two men had barely spoken to each other. Then, after Fred died of a heart attack that some people attributed to the stress of the case, the McRays decided to move.

Chris had never completely cut his ties, however, thanks to his grandmother. Unfortunately, she no longer owned her fondly remembered clapboard house with its wraparound porch. Chris hadn’t given much thought to a rental until a few weeks ago, when he’d had difficulty in finding a place. But most of the town’s few apartments were located in a run-down area, and he didn’t relish the idea of renting an entire house.

Then Mae Anne had made a tantalizing suggestion, and he’d jumped at it. What starving bachelor could resist a unit located over an Italian restaurant? Newly vacated when the proprietor had married and moved into his wife’s home, it was situated next to the town’s central park, and within easy walking distance of City Hall, the library and the Tulip Tree Nursing Home. And, it was only one block from the Home Boulevard Medical Clinic. Which meant Chris could roll out of bed, grab breakfast and stroll across the Green to work. He’d clinched the deal by phone and had signed the month-to-month lease by fax.

Now, reaching the town center, he drove between Rockwell Farm Supply on his left and, on the right, the Rockwell Emporium, which carried dry goods. Both belonged to pharmacist Archie Rockwell, Downhome’s mayor.

Past the emporium, Chris swung into the driveway of Pepe’s Italian Diner. The owner, Pepe Otero, an Argentine of Italian descent, had married Rosie O’Bannon, the proprietor of the beauty salon, shortly before she’d given birth to their daughter. Rosie already owned a fully furnished house; Pepe had moved in, leaving his stuff at his old flat.

At two o’clock in the afternoon, the lot behind the building offered plenty of empty spaces. However, following Pepe’s instructions, Chris took one of two marked Reserved.

After getting out, he skirted the building and went into the diner. Amid the scents of garlic and fresh-baked bread, he surveyed the colorful decor.

The main attraction besides the food was the new murals, which he’d heard about from Mae Anne. Where once the walls had displayed faded images of grapes and wine bottles, they now bristled with fanciful paintings of Pepe and his three grown children from his first marriage, picking grapes and stomping them for wine.

The wail of a baby drew Chris from his art gazing. “Oh, there you are, Doctor!” Pepe, a compact man with dark coloring, made his way between the tables, which were mostly unoccupied at this hour. “Welcome, welcome! Rosie wants to ask you about Maria Wilhelmina’s rash.”

“Sure.” Chris had grown used to being peppered with child-rearing questions wherever he went.

“Pepe! Don’t give him the wrong impression!” chided his bride, a black-haired woman in her late forties with a tiny baby tucked against her shoulder. “Chris, he didn’t rent to you to have a pediatrician on the premises.”

Rosie hadn’t changed much since his youth, Chris mused, although of course in those days he’d considered anyone over twenty to be old. And she was old to have given birth. Fortunately, all had gone well.

“Who says?” Her husband punctuated the question by snapping a dish towel. “I like having a doctor live upstairs.”

“Well, you got one,” said Chris, grinning. He turned to the baby. “What a cutie! May I?” Maria Wilhemina’s mother yielded her without hesitation. In his arms, the little girl stopped crying and regarded him with wide, dark eyes.

She had good color and appeared to be a healthy weight for a two-month-old. Since he wasn’t about to peel off her diaper in a restaurant, he asked a few questions about the rash. It didn’t sound serious.

“Change her more often and clean carefully. You can use a little petroleum jelly to protect against moisture,” he told the parents. “I’d like to see her at the clinic on Monday to make sure everything’s okay. So tell me, how did you choose the name?”

“Maria for my mother and Wilhelmina for William Rankin, our obstetrician,” Rosie responded. “Have you met him yet?”

“Yes. He seems terrific.” As part of his application process, Chris had been introduced to the other two physicians during a visit to the clinic.

“Play your cards right and we’ll name the next kid after you,” Pepe said.

“Another one? At my age?” According to Mae Anne, the baby had been a surprise. From her first marriage, Rosie also had a grown son, Mark O’Bannon, a lieutenant on the police force.

“Okay, maybe the first grandkid,” Pepe conceded.

Chris handed Maria back to her mother. “I’ll look forward to seeing you and your daughter at the clinic. Now I was hoping to collect my key.”

“Of course!” Pepe fished it from his pocket. “I hope the guests don’t make too much noise tonight. The Cornishes are throwing a party in the rear dining room.”

“Jeremiah’s celebrating his company’s expansion,” Rosie added. “They have a beautiful house but Amelia prefers to entertain here when it’s a large group. Lucky for the restaurant!”

Amelia was Norbert Anglin’s widow. About a year and a half after his death, she’d married Jeremiah Cornish, the well-to-do owner of Antiques Anew, one of the town’s largest employers. The factory made antique-style furniture and shipped it to stores around the country, and there was also a shop on the premises.