One Perfect Year. Melinda Curtis
not healthy for her.” Gage caught sight of the stacks of books and magazines in Doc’s living room. “What’s all this?”
“My research. I’d like to discuss it with you.” The old vet dished a plate of scrambled eggs mixed with bite-size chunks of potato, red pepper, cheese and bacon, and handed it to Gage.
After the night he’d had, the hearty meal was a welcome sight. Gage took a seat at the table. Whereas his abandoned home looked like a candidate for demolition, Doc’s was bright and lived-in. It was on the tip of Gage’s tongue to ask if Shelby knew about the clutter, when she came through the front door, looking haggard.
“Shoot. I forgot this was here and I’m too tired to go around.” Shelby wended her way carefully through the tall stacks. Her blue eyes were dark-rimmed, betraying her exhaustion. They stayed firmly trained on the path in front of her. “But I’m relieved Grandpa didn’t knock anything over.”
“Hey!” Doc protested.
Gage held his breath, prepared to leap up if she misstepped and knocked over anything.
She didn’t. Instead, her gaze stumbled into his as she entered the kitchen. “You didn’t come in this way, did you?”
Gage shook his head, grateful that he wasn’t being given the silent treatment, grateful that her effect on him wasn’t as strong as when he’d first seen her last night. “I came in the back.”
“Which is the door I told you to use, Shelby,” Dr. Wentworth scolded, filling another plate for his granddaughter. “What’s your schedule today, hotshot?”
“This hotshot is taking a nap, first thing.” Looking just as tired as Gage felt, she sank into a kitchen chair opposite him, accepting the food and glass of milk her grandfather put in front of her with heartfelt thanks. “I’m meeting Christine downtown after lunch. We’re going to choose a site for the temporary wine cellar.”
“Aren’t wine cellars underground?” Gage had the strongest urge to put an arm around her shoulders and tuck her close. Instead, he made a mental list of the salt-and-pepper shakers on the table—a pair of Mallard ducks, a pair of kissing geese, brown spotted cocker spaniels, bumble bees and Siamese cats. “I didn’t think anything downtown had a big enough basement.”
“There isn’t. But we have to make do.” Shelby’s response was all business. “The wine cellar was left out of the original winery plans, made before they hired Christine. The grapes we picked will ferment at the winery’s main facility in steel tanks. Then they’ll be put into oak casks, which require climate controlled storage while they age enough for bottling. The sooner we get a wine cellar cobbled together, the better off we are in terms of wine quality.”
“You plan to use one of the vacant stores downtown?” Gage had overheard some volunteers discussing it while taking a coffee break during the night.
She nodded.
Doc turned off the burner and moved the pan to the rear of the stove. “You can shower if you want to, Gage, before we check out the clinic.” He joined them at the table with a loaded plate for himself. “I could wash your clothes while you nap in the guest room.”
“That’s very domestic of you,” Gage said with a straight face. No offense, but he didn’t want Doc anywhere near his skivvies. It violated the Man Code.
“Grandpa, you’re embarrassing him.” Shelby grazed Gage with a sideways glance. “And me.”
“I’m being hospitable.” Doc’s rumble filled every corner of the kitchen. “Gage is here to talk details on reopening my practice.”
Gage swallowed quickly, nearly choking on his eggs. “About that—”
“You’re not seriously considering moving back?” Shelby blurted, her gaze intense. “I thought you didn’t want to live here.”
“Well, I—”
“The boy needs a job.” Dr. Wentworth shook his fork in Shelby’s direction.
Shelby shook hers right back. “I’m sure the boy has dreams that don’t involve treating overweight cocker spaniels and aging dachshunds with back problems.”
The familiar way they argued had Gage hiding a smile.
“Are you implying the challenges in practicing here aren’t good enough for him?” Doc squinted at Shelby over the top of his eye-glasses.
“Yes.” She popped a bite of potato in her mouth.
Dr. Wentworth pounded a fist on the table, rattling shakers. “Why don’t we wait to hear what the boy has to say?”
They both turned to him expectantly.
Gage chose a bumblebee from the collection of shakers at the center of the table, and peppered his food, wisely keeping his mouth shut.
“You see,” Shelby said at the same time her grandfather said, “I told you so.”
They each stabbed a bite of food.
Gage couldn’t prolong disappointing Doc any longer. “I have a job. Starting in January, I’m going to be the veterinarian for a group of racing stables in Lexington, Kentucky.”
They both stared at him with equal parts dismay and pride.
“So far,” Shelby murmured, while her grandfather muttered, “Dogs, all mighty. I should have called you sooner.”
Had Nick been alive, the ensuing silence would have been filled with a supportive comment. Instead, Gage found himself stepping in. “Shelby’s right. I wouldn’t be happy here. It’s my dream to work with racehorses.”
More silence.
Gaipan appeared at the back door, announcing her presence with the distinctive complaint only a Siamese could give.
“Two months.” Dr. Wentworth stared at Gage through thick, smudged lenses. “I’ll take you for two months. In that time, we can have the practice up and running again. It’ll look attractive for some other vet to come in. Or maybe you’ll decide to stay.”
In his mind’s eye, Gage could see himself shaking his head, his neck twisting to and fro. But his view had stuck on Shelby, on her fringe of mussed up hair beneath her cap and the weary set to her shoulders. She wasn’t just tired. She was unhappy.
I could make her happy.
As a friend. Only as a friend.
He should have ended Doc’s hopes. Instead, Gage kept them alive with a nod and a curt, “We’ll see.”
* * *
“MAE, HOW ABOUT YOU? When can you work the gift shop? Saturday afternoon is still open.” Agnes had a way of looking at you and smiling that almost made you forget she was putting you on the spot. Almost.
“I won’t be working at the shop.” Mae Gardner sat in her chair at El Rosal, her full lunch plate lying untouched in front of her.
The first Saturday of the month used to be the widows meeting. They talked about gossip and meal planning and men.
Agnes had increased the frequency and changed the focus of their gatherings to opening a gift shop downtown. “How many pot holders can I put you down for, Mae?”
Mae squished a piece of cold enchilada with her fork. “None.”
The rest of the room gave a collective gasp. Mae always made quilted pot holders for town fund-raisers, had been for more than five decades. Her refusal was like saying there would be no Christmas this year.
Mae’s breath hitched. She turned to Rose Cascia. “Did Emma’s wedding dress come in yet?”
Rose shushed her.
“Okay, how about Lila?” Agnes shifted her attention elsewhere. “Can we rely on you for