Jacqueline Diamond - Dad by Default

What a zany notion. Connor spread his hands to stem the flow of words. “I prefer to live alone. And frankly, I’m already scheduled for as much on-call duty as I can handle.”

His patient ignored the objection. “If you step out the front door of this clinic and look to your left, you’ll see my house right past the Café Montreal. Can’t get any more convenient than that!”

This discussion must stop. “Mr. Johnson, I’m not going to replace your aide.”

“You mixed up my meaning.” Beau cleared his throat. “I ain’t asking you to help unless I fall down or something. Truth is, I could use the rent, and having you around would make me feel a whole lot safer. My third floor’s big enough to practice your golf swing. There’s a bedroom and bath, and you can use the kitchen much as you like. Don’t have to cook for me, neither, though I bet you wouldn’t burn any bacon.”

Ms. Baker managed to break into the stream of words. “Are you really firing me?”

“Not till the end of the day,” Beau retorted.

Near tears, she let fly. “Well, I hate working for you! And any fool can tell the doctor doesn’t want to rent your attic. It’s hot as Hades up there.” To Connor, she added, “Somebody put in a skylight. What’s the use of that?”

“The temperature’s fine if you open the windows,” Beau countered.

Connor couldn’t believe the coincidence. “A skylight?” A flood of natural light was exactly what an artist required.

“My sister-in-law, Virginie—” Beau pronounced the name Ver-Ginny “—put it in so she could dabble in watercolors. She and my brother Manley used to live there when they was alive.” He eased to his feet, leaning on the doctor briefly. “Kitty, you going to earn the rest of your day’s pay or what?”

Unhappily, she went to his assistance. Connor took one more stab at changing his mind. “Mr. Johnson, if you’re having trouble getting down from an examining table, you can’t dispense with Ms. Baker’s services.”

“Normal furniture ain’t this high,” came the prompt rejoinder. “I can get in and out of bed and I can walk to the store just fine. Speaking of walking, stroll over to my house after work, doc. The doors ain’t locked, so if I’m not home, let yourself in and go on up.”

Judging by the old fellow’s stare, he’d keep badgering till he got his way. “If I get a chance.”

“It’s private and quiet except when that bohemian woman hires some annoying folksinger at the café,” Beau assured him. “Well, missy, you going to open the door or stand around with your finger in your nose?”

Connor’s sympathies went to the about-to-be-jobless Ms. Baker. “I didn’t mean to get you fired.”

She made a face. “I only accepted the job because my folks said it was my Christian duty. I used to feel sorry for Mr. Johnson. Not anymore!”

The elderly man scowled. “I ain’t no charity case.” To Connor, he added, “Don’t forget to stop by.”

“I’ll do my best.” Connor moved back to let his patient pass. Without meaning to, he added, “How interesting that there’s a studio. Painting’s my hobby.”

“Being an old crank is my hobby,” Beau replied in a surprisingly cheerful tone.

Connor felt a twinge of appreciation for the curmudgeon. Renting was out of the question, though.

He’d pay a visit to keep the peace, and that would be the end of it.

AT THE NURSES’ STATION, Winifred was shaking her head. “That great-uncle of yours fired his aide,” she told Yvonne. “Don’t know what he’s going to do now.”

Great. More family problems. “Sometimes I think we Johnsons are genetically programmed to tick people off.”

“He seems to like Dr. Hardison, though. I heard that old man cackling to beat the band.”

“Well, of course,” Yvonne grumbled. “They have a lot in common. Disliking me, for one thing.”

The older nurse tapped her fingers on the counter. “I’m not so sure, girl. Doc Connor’s got a way of following you with his eyes.”

The disclosure gave Yvonne an odd, shivery sensation. “You’re probably misinterpreting it.”

“I never misinterpret the way a man looks at a woman.” Winifred promptly changed the subject. “You know, my daughter Freda and her crew clean for Mr. Johnson. She thinks he’s lonely.”

“Then why’d he fire his aide?”

“I don’t imagine he’s lonely for her sort of company.” With that enigmatic comment, the other woman got busy calling in a prescription over the phone.

Yvonne put her great-uncle promptly out of her thoughts. Dismissing Connor was a lot harder.

But she managed.

ALTHOUGH HE FELT almost guilty about going over to Beau’s house without telling Yvonne, Connor couldn’t find a casual way to raise the subject. Besides, he didn’t expect anything to result.

As Beau had indicated, he strolled out the front of the clinic after work, made a left and crossed Home Boulevard toward the park called the Green. In the weak poststorm sunshine, the three-story farmhouse wore its plainness with pride.

No one answered the bell. After ringing again and knocking, Connor decided to take Beau at his word and enter. Otherwise, he’d have to pay another visit.

The whirr of a ceiling fan greeted him in the hall. It kept the temperature pleasant despite the August heat outside.

In the living room at right, a tapestry carpet set off a wealth of antique furnishings. Connor’s ex-wife, Margo, had preferred stark modern designs, but he liked the décor.

Straight ahead lay a curving staircase. Beau kept the steps in good repair and the railing buffed, Connor saw approvingly. Proper maintenance was vital to help protect older people from falling.

He called out a few times in case the homeowner had failed to hear the door. Receiving no answer, he went upstairs, as Mr. Johnson had instructed.

On the second floor, a southern window faced Grandpap Johnson Way to the south. Beyond lay the elementary and junior-senior high schools, at opposite ends of a campus. Apparently, noisy football games didn’t bother Beau as much as folksingers at the café.

Curiosity drove Connor to peek into a nearby room. Clear plastic sheeting covered a dollhouse and an electric-train set in what had obviously once served as a playroom.

He felt a twinge of nostalgia for the all-too-brief boyhood he and his brother, Ryan, had enjoyed before their alcoholic mother deserted them and their stern father. It saddened him, in a way, that he’d probably never have kids of his own. Margo hadn’t wanted any, and as the years went by Connor had begun to doubt he possessed the right fatherly instincts.

That Beau had preserved these toys seemed odd, since he had no direct descendants. Perhaps he, too, nursed a few regrets.

Curious about the rest of the house, Connor peered into a bedroom. The furnishings included more antiques, and botanical prints on the wall. Beside the quilt-covered bed, an old-fashioned record player sat atop a shelf filled with LPs.

Embarrassed about prying, he located the attic staircase, a straight shoot into darkness. What had happened to the third-floor skylight? he wondered in disappointment.

Only as he approached the top did Connor notice the closed door. That explained the gloom.

The door opened inward, releasing a wash of golden clarity. Pent-up heat blasted him in the face.

Connor stood at the edge of an enormous, empty room in which Leonardo da Vinci could have staged the entire Last Supper without crowding. To one side, a large industrial sink was perfect for washing out brushes.

Despite the advent of dusk, the lingering illumination made Connor long to grab a brush and set to work. He scarcely noticed the wooden floor’s roughness or the accumulation of spiderwebs festooning the rafters.