The Return(10)

“Five years.”

“I’ve heard residencies are hard.”

“It’s no worse than being dragged by a car down the highway.”

For the first time, she laughed. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. But I do hope you find some time to enjoy our town while you’re here. It’s a beautiful place to live, and there are a lot of good people here.”

“Did you grow up in New Bern?”

“No,” she answered. “I grew up in a small town.”

“That’s funny.”

“But true,” she said. “Can I ask what you intend to do with the place? When you leave?”

“Why? Are you interested in buying?”

“No,” she said. “And I doubt I could afford it.” She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “Where are you from, by the way? Give me a quick sketch of who you are.”

Pleased that she was interested, I gave her a brief history: my youth in Alexandria, my parents, my regular summertime visits to New Bern when I was younger. High school, college, medical school and residency. My time with the Navy. All with a touch of the modest hyperbole men use when trying to impress an attractive woman. As she listened, her eyebrows twitched more than once, but I couldn’t tell whether she was fascinated or amused.

“So you’re a city boy.”

“I beg to differ,” I protested. “I’m from the suburbs.”

Her lips turned up slightly at the corners, but I couldn’t read the intent behind it.

“What I don’t understand is why you went to the Naval Academy. If you were such a brilliant student, I mean, and were accepted at Yale and Georgetown?”

Brilliant? Did I actually use that word earlier?

“I wanted to prove to myself that I could make it without my parents’ help. Financially, I mean.”

“But didn’t you say they were rich?”

Oh, yeah. I vaguely remember saying that, too.

“Well-to-do, I should have said.”

“So it was a pride thing?”

“And service to our country.”

She nodded slightly, her eyes never leaving mine. “Good.” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “There are a lot of active duty military in the area, as you probably know. Cherry Point, Camp Lejeune…many of them have spent time in Afghanistan and Iraq.”

I nodded. “When I was posted overseas, I worked with doctors and nurses from every region of the country, in all sorts of specialties, and I learned a ton from them. While it lasted, anyway. And we did a lot of good, too. Most of our work was with locals—many of them had never been seen by a doctor before the hospital opened.”

She seemed to consider my words. A chorus of crickets sounded in the silence before I heard her voice again.

“I don’t know that I could have done what you did.”

I tilted my head. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Experiencing the horrors of war every single day. And knowing there are some people who are beyond your power to help. I don’t think I would be able to handle something like that. Not in the long run, anyway.”

As she spoke, I had the impression she was sharing something personal, though I’d heard the same thing from others before, in regard to both the military and medicine in general. “I’m sure you’ve seen some terrible things as a deputy.”

“I have.”

“And yet you still do it.”

“Yes,” she said. “And sometimes I wonder how long I’ll be able to continue. There are times when I fantasize about opening a flower shop or something like that.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Who knows? Maybe one day I will.”

Again, she grew quiet. Sensing her distraction, I broke her reverie with a lighthearted prompt.

“Since you won’t give me a rundown of what’s new in town, at least tell me what your favorite place is?”

“Oh…I don’t go out that much,” she demurred. “Except for the farmers’ market downtown. It’s open Saturday mornings. But if you’re trying to find some excellent honey, you’ll probably be out of luck.”

“I’m sure my grandfather still has plenty.”

“You don’t know for sure?”

“There are a few jars in the cupboard, but I haven’t checked the honey shed yet. I’ve been too busy fixing up the place. I mean, a palace like this doesn’t just happen by accident.”

This time she smiled, if a tad reluctantly. She nodded toward the dock. “Have you gone out in the boat yet?”

I haven’t yet mentioned the boat, but suffice it to say that it was a lot like the house, only in worse condition. Even calling it a boat was somewhat generous, because it looked less like a boat than an outhouse and two vinyl recliners, all bolted to a floating platform. My grandfather built it using discarded oil drums and lumber of varying sizes—along with whatever else he could find—and when he wasn’t checking on the bees, he was always tinkering with it.

“Not yet. I’m not sure the engine even works.”

“I know it was working last summer, because Carl told me. It’s kind of a hard boat to miss and your grandfather loved to take it out. People take photos of it whenever they see it.”