Jacqueline Diamond - Dad by Default

The problem, Margo had told Connor, was that anyone viewing his paintings recognized instantly that art wasn’t merely a sideline. Painting not only excited him, it brought out an entirely different personality—a reckless, sensual side that would have horrified his father.

Connor loved medicine and cared about his patients. Yet sometimes his longing to be alone with canvas and paints became an almost physical torment.

Which brought him back to Yvonne. That tantalizing mixture of the ethereal and the earthly made him long to paint her.

In the nude.

He didn’t realize he’d groaned aloud until the noise rang in his ears. Hoping no one had overheard, he straightened the nametag on his white coat and squared his shoulders.

So much for the whacko who spent his free hours so immersed in composition and brushes and color that he sometimes forgot to eat. With a feat of mental control familiar from long use, he transformed back into the sturdy, capable and always reliable Dr. Connor Hardison.

Speaking of which, it was time to get this show on the road. The first patient should be prepped by now.

Connor went out the door. His alter ego stayed behind.

After hours, it would be waiting.

The twelve-mile stretch of highway between Mill Valley and Downhome traversed thick stands of pine trees and stretches of aromatic dairy farms. In summer, a motorist could enjoy the soothing sight of cattle grazing in the fields and, in the woods, glimpse the occasional deer or flash of a blue jay.

Except in the rain. Then thick sheets of gray obscured the landscape and fallen branches transformed the road into an obstacle course.

Day after day, it rained. On Wednesday, Connor destroyed a tire in a sinkhole and arrived so late he threw the entire day’s schedule off.

By Friday—Jenni’s last full day on the job—he was desperate to move closer to the clinic. She’d promised to cover the half-day office hours on Saturday. After that, Connor would take over the whole shebang. In addition to treating patients, he’d be responsible for weekly visits to the nursing home and frequent on-call duty, which meant driving twenty-four miles round trip at a moment’s notice.

One of the requirements at the Home Boulevard Medical Clinic was that all doctors, regardless of specialty, handle urgent-care cases in rotation. Although the fire department transported emergency patients to Mill Valley Medical Center or arranged an airlift to Nashville, that left plenty of cuts, infections and other problems that couldn’t wait for regular hours.

Several evenings that first week, Connor had stayed late in Downhome to check out residential prospects. Most of the apartments, he discovered, lay in a run-down area in the southeast sector of town that included Garden Street. Yvonne’s description had, if anything, been understated.

The vacancies turned out to be small and noisy places. In one, a noxious odor had permeated the walls. To reach another, he’d had to sidestep broken beer bottles on the front walk. Chickens had run in the yard, and on the north side of the road, a ramshackle barnyard had echoed with the bleating and grunting of penned animals.

Against his preferences, Connor had toured three rental houses. One lay four miles outside town along a dirt road, another suffered from mold and the third was a rabbit warren of tiny, dark rooms. While he didn’t demand architectural distinction, he required a space suitable for a studio.

That Friday, the boom of thunder and steady thrum of rain made the mood at the clinic unusually melancholy. A banner reading Farewell Jenni added a wistful note.

Connor’s schedule included a number of patients with chronic problems, several of whom had tactlessly demanded second opinions from Dr. Forrest. Although he understood that change was particularly stressful for older folks, by midday Connor’s geniality began to fray.

As she’d done all week, Yvonne took care of business briskly and efficiently. Perhaps a bit too briskly. Her ironic tone while saying “Yes, Doctor” and “Right away, Doctor” grew irksome.

“Don’t worry,” Chris McRay confided over sandwiches in the lunchroom. “She treated me like a case of chicken pox for the first few months I was here.”

“What changed her mind?”

“My sunny personality, I guess,” his companion joked. That might be true. Everyone liked the outgoing pediatrician, who played the kazoo and blew soap bubbles at his young patients to put them at ease.

“I’m not exactly a sunny personality,” Connor admitted.

“You do seem on the serious side.” Chris downed a handful of peanuts before continuing. “Maybe you intimidate her. You might try relaxing your shoulders.”

“My shoulders?” They didn’t feel particularly stiff.

“You tend to hunch them when she’s around,” the pediatrician noted. “I thought maybe you were expecting a karate chop.”

“More or less.” Ruefully, he added, “I wouldn’t say she finds me intimidating. Annoying, possibly.”

“It’ll pass.” Chris peered into his lunch sack and happily drew out a brownie that his new wife, Karen, the director of the local nursing home, had probably baked. Lucky guy.

Connor couldn’t picture Yvonne taking such pains to please a man. Especially not with a young daughter to care for.

Idly, he wondered if she were dating anyone. With her vivacious, if explosive, temperament and unusual beauty, she ought to have a swarm of admirers.

Well, they weren’t going to include him. He and his nurse shared about as much in common as a volcano and a sheet of ice. Which of them might be in danger of melting Connor didn’t care to speculate on.

After lunch, he went to see if the part-time radiologist had readied a report. While passing the nurses’ lounge, he heard Yvonne’s tense voice from inside, where she was obviously talking on the phone.

“Mom, you shouldn’t be home alone. No, I am not late getting back from school. For heaven’s sake, you called me at work. I’m twenty-six years old, remember?”

Her mother must suffer from memory loss. Ashamed of eavesdropping, Connor hurried along.

In the lab, the report showed no sign of the problem he’d feared. Pleased, he notified the patient of the good news.

Passing the lounge on the way back, he heard Yvonne say, “Dad, surely there must be another adult-care service…don’t start on me!”

She must have hung up. The next thing Connor knew, she came charging into the hall. Barreling about the premises seemed to be a habit with her. She stopped inches from a collision.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

“It’s my fault. I ought to have known better than to block your path.”

Outside, lightning flared, making the illumination flicker.

Yvonne glared at the fixtures. “If we lose the electricity, I’m going to scream!”

Thanks to falling branches and, sometimes, entire trees, storms presented an ongoing threat of power failure. Perhaps one of these days the town would spring for a generator at the clinic or, better yet, bury the lines. Today, luckily, the lights stayed on.

“I hope your mom’s okay.” Realizing he ought to explain, Connor added, “I couldn’t avoid overhearing.”

Yvonne didn’t seem to mind. “Everybody knows, anyway. My mom has early-onset Alzheimer’s. She’s cranky and so is Dad. When he decides to vent, I’m the designated target.”

“Who takes care of her?”

“He does except when he’s at work. Unfortunately, the service they use hasn’t been terribly reliable. He claims I ought to help more, but I can’t leave my job to run over there. For Pete’s sake, they live in Mill Valley.”

Connor could only guess at the strain on an already over-burdened single mom. No wonder faint shadows showed beneath those unusual eyes.