Fools Rush in(86)

Once, I’d been so sure that Joe would be a huge part of my future. The truth was, I never really imagined myself with anyone else. My thirties suddenly yawned in front of me, and I pictured myself with only Digger and his irritable bowel syndrome to greet me each night, no person to interrupt the relentless quiet of my house.

Only when I was seeing patients was I remotely normal, but the clinic’s business was slowing down, and I had too much time on my hands even there. The new wing at the senior center was nearly finished, and I took to visiting patients twice a week, sometimes just dropping in for a visit. If Joe’s truck wasn’t in the parking lot, that was. The folks there all knew me by now, and it was comforting to be in my Dr. Barnes persona rather than full of self-beratement. I’d stay as long as possible in my patients’ rooms, reading to them, asking them questions about their lives before creeping through the halls, praying that I wouldn’t run into Joe.

SEPTEMBER BROUGHT IN EARLIER evenings and chillier days. The ocean seemed to have less green in it and more gray, and the wind was cool enough that I brought a hat when I went to the beach at night. The poison ivy was edged with red, the tourists left and the kids went back to school, and in the quiet of my home, I couldn’t avoid the thought that had started to ring the loudest in my head.

For years, I’d thought that Joe was a wonderful amalgamation of kindness, decency and dependability. But I only knew one man that terrific, and it wasn’t Joe.

Joe Carpenter was no Sam.

For the past several weekends, Sam and Danny had been visiting colleges throughout the Northeast—Williams, Wesleyan, Colby and Penn—and I hadn’t seen much of them lately. It was just as well. My head was muddled enough without me dwelling on the fact that my sister’s ex-husband embodied all the qualities I’d wished on Joe.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

DR. WHITAKER GAVE ME the chance to snap out of my funk.

“Millie,” he said over the phone one day toward the end of September, “I’d like to discuss the partnership with you, now that the clinic will be closing…when exactly is that?”

My breath caught. “We close the week after Columbus Day,” I answered calmly.

“Right. At any rate, you’ve done very well at the senior center, and I’m very pleased with your work at the clinic. If you’re still interested in joining me, we should work out the details, don’t you agree?”

I bolted upright. At last. At last! “I’m absolutely still interested, Dr.—George. Thank you. I’m honored,” I smiled.

“Excellent. Why don’t we meet next Thursday for dinner here at my house?”

“That would be lovely,” I answered.

“There’s something else I’d like you to do, more of a favor, actually,” the doctor went on.

“Of course! What is it?”

“The high school has a career day for the seniors. Professionals from the community come in and talk about what they do, how they got interested in their work and the like. I’ve been doing it for years, and I thought it would be beneficial for you to tag along.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’d love to come. My nephew’s a senior this year.”

“That’s right,” Dr. Whitaker replied. “Such a fine boy, young Daniel. We’ll attend Career Day, I’ll give my little presentation, and then later in the week we can nail out the details of our partnership. How does that sound?”

“It sounds wonderful.”

The night before Career Day, I laid out my seldom-used suit and polished my shoes. Then I took an hour or so to jot a few notes on index cards, just in case Dr. Whitaker asked me to add anything to his little spiel. He was a formal, precise man, and I didn’t want to be caught unaware. Katie, too, would be speaking, representing the world of restaurant management, and several other people I knew. It might turn out to be a really fun event.

The next morning as I drove into the high-school parking lot, my heart sank. Joe’s truck was there…apparently he’d been asked to speak at Career Day, too. I hadn’t seen or spoken to him since our breakup.

“Go down to the teachers’ lounge. You remember the way, don’t you, Millie?” asked the secretary, who had been at Nauset High for decades.

As I walked down the hallway, I heard an undeniably angry (if somewhat muffled) voice coming from the janitor’s supply room. The door was closed, but I could recognize the voice easily. It was Katie. My footsteps slowed.

“…in the first place!” my friend was saying. Having been on the receiving end of that iron tone, I cringed for the recipient, freezing in the horrible thrill of someone else’s reaming.

“For God’s sake,” Katie continued, “you sit there night after night, crying into your beer, and for what? You make a good living, have a lot of people who like you, Joe—”

Joe!

“—but you’re wasting your life. You screw anything with a pulse, break hearts all over the place, just float through life without thinking of anyone but yourself. I’m not surprised Millie dumped you. She’s way out of your league.”

Oh, my God.

“So there you have it, okay? You asked, I answered. Now stop whining, grow up and act your age.”

Realizing their conversation, for lack of a better word, was ending, I leaped down the hall to the teachers’ lounge and yanked open the door. Several people were already assembled: Dr. Whitaker, Maeve McFarland, an attorney; Bobby and Sue Schultz, who ran the Atlantic Winds Motel; and my dad, sultan of sewage. I scampered over to the coffeepot and smiled breathlessly.