Czytaj książkę: «A Doctor for Keeps»

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Desi wished she had a flashlight as she crept around the side of the ancient house in the dark. A thorn from an equally old and gnarly bush snagged her T-shirt, puncturing her skin.

“Ouch!” She immediately regretted her outburst since it was almost midnight. Where did Gerda say that painted rock is?

Her grandmother, a woman Desi had met only a few times in her twenty-eight years, had earlier instructed over the phone where the extra house key was hidden. Determined not to wake up Grandma Gerda, she tramped through the overgrown grass and shrubbery along the side of the house, searching for the mark.

Success! A brightly patterned rock nestled against the wooden gate stood out under the moonlight like fluorescent paint under black light. As she’d been told, she searched along the bottom for the small stick-on box holding the house key, hoping there weren’t any nighttime creepy crawlers around. Just as she retrieved the box and opened it, the assaulting aroma of night-blooming jasmine tickled her nose. Sneezing with gusto, she dropped the key and got on her hands and knees to search for it, grateful there was a full moon.

A few seconds later, with key in hand, she emerged out of the thick overgrowth between two houses, heading for the huge wraparound porch belonging to her maternal grandmother. But not before tripping on a brick along the walkway. She lurched forward, swatting at the night for nonexistent support and letting fly a few choice words.

A bright light blinded her just as she stopped teetering and regained her balance.

“Who’s there?” A distinctly deep and masculine voice came from the vicinity of the light.

She shielded her eyes with her forearms. “I’m Mrs. Rask’s granddaughter. Who’re you?”

The light lowered, allowing Desi to see a huge shadow, making her wish she’d kept up those kickboxing classes...just in case.

“I’m Kent, Gerda’s next-door neighbor.” The man stepped closer, studying her, as though he didn’t believe her story. “I’ve never heard about a granddaughter.”

Why would she expect otherwise? Wasn’t she supposed to be the secret granddaughter? Especially since a Scandinavian stronghold like Heartlandia along the Columbia River in Oregon probably wasn’t used to people like her.

“Are you saying you’re Ester’s daughter?” His voice, a moment ago deep and intriguing, had jumped an octave higher. He must have known who her mother was...or had been.

“Yes. Could you please turn off that light and not talk so loud? I don’t want to wake my grandmother. I had no idea how long the drive from Portland to Heartlandia would be.” On a whim, and for future reference, she’d taken a detour through the big city just to see it, suspecting her father might still live there. Determined not to spend extra money for a motel, she’d made a decision to drive straight through tonight. “Took me two and a half hours. And what’s Oregon got against streetlights, anyway?” she said in a raspy whisper. “Thought I’d driven into a black hole on Highway 30 for a while there.” She fussed with the leaves that had stuck to her shirt and her hair, and brushed off the dirt from her hands, then reached out. “I’m Desi Rask, by the way.”

Stepping closer, with her eyes having adjusted to the dark again, she realized how tall the man was. At five foot nine it was hard to find many men to look up to. He had to be at least six foot three. And blond. As in Nordic-god blond. “Kent Larson.” He accepted her hand and shook it; hers felt incredibly petite inside his grasp. “Your mother used to babysit me before—”

He stopped without completing the sentence. Before she ran away from home. Yeah, Desi knew the story. Her mother, the piano-bar queen of the Midwest, had finally cleared up most of the missing pieces before she’d passed.

“Desdemona? Is that you?” a reedy voice called out. “Kent?”

Succeeding at doing what she’d hoped to avoid—waking up her grandmother—Desi turned toward the porch to face her for the first time since her mother’s last days in the hospital.

“It’s me. Your greeting committee from next door decided to interrogate me before I could let myself in.”

“That’s not it,” Kent the Viking said. “With Mrs. Rask being the mayor, I look out for her is all.”

She’d seen the doubt on his face and the hesitation to swallow her story when she’d told him who she was. But being half-black, why should she expect otherwise when she didn’t look anything like the Norseman or her equally pale grandmother, the mayor of Heartlandia?

* * *

Kent worked quickly to put two and two together. Ester Rask had been a teenager when she’d run away from home. Being only eight at the time, the same age as his son Steven now, he’d never heard the whole story. He remembered the town searching high and low for Ester without success. He also remembered that Ester had never been declared dead, just missing, and eventually, his parents had quit talking about her disappearance altogether and he’d had a new babysitter. That had to be twenty-eight years ago. Hard to believe.

Now, having run into Desdemona in the dark of night, he understood why Ester had run away—she must have been pregnant.

Gerda flipped on the porch light, and Kent got his first good look at the dark and enchanting one named Desdemona. Or Desi, as she’d introduced herself. Tall, sturdy in build, coffee-with-cream-colored skin with an extra dollop of milk, wide-set rich brown eyes, a smoothed out variation on the pointy Rask family nose, full lips and straight teeth. It had been a long time since he’d seen such an exotically beautiful woman in person and it threw him off-balance.

She wore a bright yellow top that hung off one shoulder, with the straps of a black tank top playing peekaboo from beneath. The midnight-blue jeans fit like second skin, and black flats countered her height. Wow, her outfit didn’t leave a whole lot to the imagination, and right now his was running wild. Loads of thick dark hair danced around her shoulders, long and full-bodied like how he’d remembered Ester’s, except Ester’s hair had been blond, nearly white-blond. Kent’s hands grew suddenly restless, his fingers itching and his mind wondering what it would be like to dig into those gorgeous waves and curls.

Even at eight he’d had a crush on his babysitter, and tonight a fresh rush of infatuation was springing up for another brand of Rask woman.

She’d introduced herself as Desi Rask, so Ester had probably never married. For some reason, maybe his general mood about marriage lately, that knowledge landed like a sad clunk in his chest.

“Are you going to come inside?” Mayor Rask asked, drawing him out of his rambling thoughts.

“Oh, no. Steven’s sleeping. I should be getting back.”

Desi didn’t hug her grandmother when she approached the porch. Instead they stood with a good three feet between them, offering polite smiles, seeming more like mere acquaintances than relatives. It didn’t feel right by a long shot, but who was he to figure out the way life should go?

“Let me get my stuff first,” Desi said, rushing back down the six porch steps toward the Ford Taurus station wagon from at least two decades back. That car had definitely seen better days.

“I’ll help you,” he said on impulse, waiting for her to open the back liftgate. There were two suitcases, a few boxes and assorted household items, including a potted plant or two. Was she moving in?

“All I need is my overnight case for now.”

Maybe she was just passing through.

“I can get whatever else I need in the morning,” she said, her alto voice already beginning to grow on him. Would she still be there by the time he got off work tomorrow?

“May as well bring this one inside, too.” Ignoring her wish, he grabbed both suitcases and carried them up the porch and inside his neighbor’s house. This one gave the impression of being flighty, and he wanted to make sure for Gerda’s sake that her long-lost granddaughter stuck around for more than one stinking night. Surreptitiously catching Gerda’s gaze on his way inside the dimly lit house, he inquired with a raised brow, “Everything okay?”

She nodded in her usual stiff-upper-lip way, clutching the thick blue bathrobe to her throat. “She’ll have Ester’s old room, upstairs and down the hall.” Gerda’s robe was the exact shade of blue as Desi’s painted-on jeans, and he wondered if either woman noticed their similar taste in color.

Kent carried the bags around the grand piano in the center of the living room—the piano he’d once taken lessons on and now Steven also took lessons on—and headed up the stairs. The third door on the left was the room where Ester had taught him how to play Go Fish. He knew this house like it was his own, having lived next door nearly his entire thirty-six years. Being so deeply rooted in Heartlandia when his parents moved to a retirement village in Bend, he’d bought their house.

As a doctor and part owner of the Heartlandia Urgent Care, he had an early shift tomorrow, so he excused himself. “Welcome to Heartlandia, Desdemona, but I’ve got to go.”

Desi sent a hesitant but thoughtful glance his way just before he headed for the door, her eyes filled with questions and suspicion. He nodded good-night, recognizing the mistrustful look, since he saw the same expression each morning when he shaved. When had he lost his natural trust in women? Oh, right, when his wife walked out.

“Gerda, I’ll check in tomorrow.”

“Tell Steven to be sure and practice,” Gerda said, reminding Kent that his son could come up with a hundred excuses when it came time to take his piano lesson.

* * *

A few minutes later, lying on his bed, hands behind his head on the pillow, Kent stared at the ceiling, wrenching his memory all the way back to when he’d been eight. Ester Rask had run away and had never come back. So much of the story had eluded him all these years. Now he understood it was because she was pregnant. He’d never known that part of the equation before. He’d heard she’d died last year, seen how distraught Gerda had been when she’d come home from her mysterious trip to California just before she’d been appointed mayor pro tem. Yet she’d barely spoken about it, just moped around for months. At least Gerda had been able to see her daughter one last time—a sad consolation to a lost life together.

Now, like a prodigal granddaughter, the woman named Desdemona had shown up.

The downright sadness of all the lost family years hit him where it hurt most—in the gaping wound his wife had ripped open when she’d left him. As he clearly didn’t need to be reminded, Gerda wasn’t the only one moping around for months on end.

He shook off the negative memories, choosing to focus on the stars outside his window instead of the ache in his heart.

The strangest thing of all was, tonight he’d immediately reacted to Desi’s exotic beauty when he saw her under the soft glow of the porch lamp. But that was such a shallow response. He should ignore it. Yet, in the still of the night, under the gentle beams of moonlight, he couldn’t get her or those questioning, mistrustful brown eyes out of his mind.

Tall and well proportioned, with extra-fine hips, she was a woman who’d fit with his big, overgrown frame. He grimaced. Why torture himself and think about women? After seven years of marriage, he couldn’t make his wife stick around. Not even for Steven’s sake. Why fall for their beauty when their motives cut like blades? He ground his teeth and rolled over, willing the young mysterious woman out of his thoughts and demanding his mind go blank so he could finally fall asleep.

* * *

The next morning, Desi threw on an old sweatshirt and baggy jeans and made her way down the creaky staircase of the ancient house. Gerda was already up and reading the newspaper, and jumped up from the table the moment Desi set foot inside the kitchen. They tipped their heads to each other in a silent greeting. Like strangers.

“I don’t drink coffee, but I’ve got some if you’d like,” Gerda said, sounding eager to please.

“Thanks, but if you show me where you keep it, I’ll be glad to make it myself. Sit down.”

The thin and almost ghost-white woman pointed to the cupboards near the back door before sitting again. “Your mother always loved coffee, even when she was young. I used to worry it would stunt her growth, and she was only five foot three when she left.” Silence dropped like a forgotten net. But Gerda quickly recovered. “I know it’s silly, but I’ve always kept her favorite brand on hand, even now when I know she’ll never come—” The sentence broke in half as Gerda lost her voice.

Desi rushed to her grandmother and put her hands on those bony shoulders, her own throat thickening with loss and memories of a family she’d never gotten to know.

Gerda reached up and tentatively patted one of Desi’s hands with icy-cold knobby fingers. “I’d asked your mother to come home so many times.”

“I know you did. Mom finally told me.” Mom had felt fragile like Gerda the last few months of her life. Desi could only imagine how hard it must have been for a mother to lose her daughter when they’d been estranged all those years. As for why her mother had never returned, well, that mystery wasn’t likely to be resolved.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about coffee stunting my growth,” Desi said, deciding to change the subject. “I’m five foot nine.”

Gerda offered a wan smile and Desi waited for her face to brighten, even if only a little, then she went back to making the coffee. Gerda sipped hot tea and ate a piece of toast with marmalade, putting the taste for toast and jam in her mind. Mom loved orange marmalade, too.

Since Gerda seemed engrossed in the morning paper, and Desi wasn’t sure what to talk about anyway, she filled her coffee cup and wandered into the living room, to the gorgeous grand piano in the center of the room. She took a sip of coffee and carefully placed the cup on an adjacent TV tray containing a bowl of candy and a pile of colorful stickers.

Lifting the keyboard cover, she explored the keys, enjoying the feel of the cool ivory beneath her fingers. She’d had to sell her mom’s piano when she’d sold the house in L.A. to pay for the medical costs. She’d put the remaining contents of that house of memories into storage, the piano and everything it represented in their lives being the biggest memory of all. Music, and her mother’s talent, had been their bread and butter, keeping them afloat through all the tough times. And there had been many.

When Desi became old enough to work and was able to contribute toward house payments, they’d finally settled into their own home. Though she’d never been sure where the large down payment had come from, Desi had a sneaking suspicion her grandmother had something to do with it. Then her mother got sick. All those years in smoke-filled lounges had finally caught up with her. Four years of lung-cancer treatment and suffering for naught. Even after Mom had died, Desi was hit with huge medical bills.

As she so often did when she felt sad or moody, like right now, Desi turned to music. Soon her fingers danced along the keys, as if having memories in their tips. Beethoven’s “Für Elise” filled the room with the rich tone of the grand piano. When she’d finished, she moved on to a Chopin nocturne. On and on she played, forgetting all her worries, losses and fears, until her fingers and hands were tired. She hadn’t played perfectly, far from it, but what could she expect for not having touched a piano in months, since she’d sold theirs? Still, it felt good. Invigorating.

Desi sipped her tepid coffee then smiled, her mood elevated. She glanced up and found Gerda leaning against the kitchen door, tears brimming in her pale eyes.

“Your mother taught you well,” Gerda said.

Desi nodded. “She did. She loved music. All kinds. But you probably knew that.”

“I taught her how to play, you know.” Gerda stood straighter. “She was such a natural.”

The questions swimming in Desi’s head almost poured out of her mouth: Why did mom need to run away? Why did she rarely talk about you? Why did Mom insist it was just the two of us? What could have been so horrible for her mother to run away and sever all ties? But seeing her grandmother’s fragile state, the emotion she wore on the shabby midnight-blue bathrobe sleeve, Desi kept her questions silent.

“Do you still play?” Desi asked.

Gerda’s eyes brightened, and she proudly walked toward the piano. “I’ll have you know, besides being mayor pro tem of Heartlandia, I’m also the most sought-after piano teacher in town.” A mischievous smile stretched her sallow and lined cheeks as she sat on the other half of the bench. “For anyone under the age of twelve, that is.” That explained the candy and stickers.

Gerda chuckled and it sent a chill down Desi’s center. Her mother had laughed exactly like that. Up close, though Gerda’s eyes were milky blue, they were shaped like her mother’s, and though Gerda’s hair was all white now, she could tell that it used to be blond, also like her mother’s. The two women fit together like misplaced puzzle pieces, and why wouldn’t they, since they were mother and daughter?

Yet Mom had said very little about her family over the years. That was until her last days. All Desi knew growing up was the road and hotels and Mom. No strings. Just the two of them. Deep down Desi had always suspected it was because she was of mixed race that they’d kept to themselves. Though her mother had not once hinted at that being the reason. Being constantly on the road, with her mother working for a big Midwest hotel chain as the lounge entertainment, playing one month here, six weeks there, made it impossible to make friends or, evidently, keep in touch with relatives. Only on her mother’s deathbed had she asked for Gerda to come. And Desi had finally learned about the man named Victor Brown, the father she never knew.

Gerda had started playing a song meant as a duet. Desi had been taught the same song by her mother when she was a kid. Without being asked, she jumped in and played her part in the higher octaves, and if that sparkle in Gerda’s glance meant anything, Grandma was pleased.

They smiled tentatively at each other, then sat companionably for several minutes playing the piano together, and Desi was grateful that at least through music, they had a way to open up their communication. Otherwise, she felt like a stranger in a strange land in this place called Heartlandia.

“So you’re the mayor?” she asked at the end of the piano piece.

Gerda nodded. “Not by my choice, but the town likes to choose its mayor from people long invested in Heartlandia.” She looked straight ahead as she spoke. “I can trace my people almost back to the beginning. The only problem with that method is we get stuck in history, and these days we have a lot of new residents moving in because we have so much to offer families.”

“Not keeping up with the times?”

Gerda glanced at her. “Something like that. I’m only temporary, though, and we’ll have our general election next year. They promised the job wouldn’t be hard, but I’m clearly in over my head.”

“And then I show up.”

Gerda hung her head. “Desdemona, I wish we could have one huge do-over where you are concerned. Your mother ran away because she was ashamed of being pregnant. We found her when you were born, and I am deeply sorry to say Edvard and I were surprised when we saw you. Ester was such a touchy one. Always had been. I didn’t mean her to think what she did... You were my granddaughter. I loved you. But Edvard—”

“—couldn’t accept that I was half-black?”

“It’s not that simple, Desdemona. Please don’t think that.”

What was she supposed to think?

“I wanted to bring Ester and you home. She insisted she could take care of herself. I admit, I didn’t fight hard enough and gave in to Edvard.” Now Gerda connected head-on with Desi’s eyes. “I kept watch over the two of you as best I could, though from a long distance. And I sent money whenever Ester was especially hard up.”

Her mom must have kept those times to herself because in Desi’s memory they lived hand to mouth most of their years on the road. But then, out of the blue five years ago when Ester first got sick, they were able to buy a small house. The home they’d always dreamed and talked about. The timing was perfect, since her mother couldn’t keep up with traveling and chemo. Had her mom been saving Gerda’s money, or had Gerda helped out, as she’d previously suspected?

There was a reprieve from the cancer and Ester was able to take a few playing jobs here and there, but the cancer came back. Even then, Ester stayed away from Heartlandia.

“Why didn’t we ever visit?” Desi asked. It was an honest question that her mom had always evaded.

“It wasn’t because I didn’t invite you. Please know that. Your mother—” Gerda hung her head again. “She just didn’t want anything more to do with her home, I guess.”

Desi’s heart tightened. It must have been hard for Gerda to be rejected time and again by her daughter. Deciding they’d shared enough heartache for one morning, she went back to playing another simple song and soon Gerda, accepting the quiet reprieve, joined her.

After a few more duets and small talk, they went their separate ways, Gerda to spend some time at city hall and Desi to shower and dress.

She did some laundry and took a walk around the backyard, trying to figure out why her mother had been so stubborn, insisting on keeping her to herself despite the invitations to come home.

An abundance of rosebushes in assorted colors filled the air with a strong fragrance. A huge white hibiscus bush in the far corner seemed no less than twelve feet high. The Victorian-style house hadn’t looked nearly as bright yellow in the dark of night. Trimmed in green, with a pitched roof and a third-story dormer with a fanlight window, the house looked like something out of an old movie. Desi circled the perimeter of the house and noticed a partially covered balcony at the front and a second balcony on the side. What a gorgeous place...the home her mother had run away from.

Returning to the scene of the crime of last night—the gated side yard with overgrown bushes and shrubs—she glanced next door at another Victorian. It was painted completely white with a small bay window at the front, the only color in sight an aqua-blue door at the side entrance. Kent’s house almost looked medicinal. Churchlike. She wandered toward his house, noticing the artful subtleties of the architecture. But white? Really? It seemed such a waste.

Soon growing bored with trying to figure out why the big guy had the blandest house on the block, Desi’s gaze drifted to the imposing Columbia River several blocks away, down by the railroad tracks and the docks. The water twinkled beneath the strengthening sun. In the distance, the longest bridge she’d ever seen arched from this side of Oregon far across to what she assumed must be Washington State.

Though June, the brisk air brought gooseflesh to her arms even through her light sweater. She turned to go back inside. On the hillsides behind her stood dozens and dozens of more modest but brightly painted Victorians overlooking the jagged riverbank. Scattered among the Victorians were dwellings of half timber wood–half brick foundations with tall sloping roofs, reminding her of her Scandinavian heritage.

Her surname, Rask, was Danish, but according to her mother, she’d come from a place filled with Norwegians, Swedes, Finns and Icelanders along with the original Chinook peoples. When Ester rarely did talk about “home,” to Desi’s ears it sounded like a mythical place, perhaps a figment of her mother’s dreams, someplace she embellished to feed the imagination of her young daughter. This vista seemed to prove the point. It did almost look mythical.

Her mother had run away from an idyllic, lost-in-time town called Heartlandia. Or Hjartalanda, as the welcome sign at the edge of town said. She’d scoffed when she’d read the slogan beneath: Find Your Home in Heartlandia.

Was it possible? Could a quaint town fill up that huge hole inside her?

She headed up the stairs to her room. Seeing her grandmother again was only half of the reason for this trip to Oregon. The other half was her father.

A couple of hours later, after doing research on her laptop, Desi’s stomach growled. She wandered down to the kitchen, searching for food, but instead found Gerda home and fumbling with a rubber opener and a stubborn jar.

“Let me get that for you,” she said.

With a look of defeat in her eyes, Gerda handed over the jar. “My arthritis is giving me fits today.” She rubbed her hands and grimaced. “Guess I better start making phone calls and cancel tomorrow’s piano lessons.”

“How many students do you have lined up?”

“Four. I give lessons from two to six on Tuesdays and Thursdays since I do the part-time mayoral work on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.”

“All kids?”

Gerda nodded while searching the cupboard, looking at medicine bottles one by one until she found what she wanted.

“Any advanced students?”

“Oh, heavens, no. They’re all beginners in book one or two.” She shook out a couple of pills into the palm of her hand. “The next generation of great talent, as I tell their parents.”

“Why don’t you let me take over for you?”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” she said, filling a small glass with water and popping the pills into her mouth.

“I’m offering. It’s the least I can do since you’re letting me stay here as long as I want.”

Gerda folded her arms, her eyes nearly twinkling. “That would be wonderful.”

* * *

At five o’clock the next afternoon, a timid tap at the front door let Desi know the last student had shown up. Gerda had been so impressed with Desi’s teaching style, she’d dropped out of sight after the beginning of the four-o’clock lesson. Desi suspected it was to take a nap, as she’d been yawning throughout most of the last lesson.