him.
On Tuesday morning, June drove into town and was forced to slow down for the traffic. There was no fair or festival that she could think of, no farmer’s market or bazaar or homecoming game, but there were cars parked everywhere. The clinic lot was full, the lot at the Presbyterian Church had a couple of dozen cars parked there and the café spaces were full. June paused in front of the clinic, stupefied.
While she watched, Laura Robertson jumped out of her truck and dragged her son, Matt, by the wrist while she balanced a plastic container on the palm of her other hand. She walked briskly to the clinic. When she opened the door, June could see that the waiting room was overflowing with people.
Two middle-aged women exited the clinic while she watched. They stopped in the middle of the street, leaned on each other and tittered and giggled like teenagers.
June slowly drove to the café, and double parked and went inside, still in a state of shock. Most of the regulars had moved to tables in front of the café, where they could watch the rush at the clinic.
George had her coffee ready and a bag of blueberry muffins. Tom leaned against the pastry counter with his steaming cup.
“I see Dr. Stone is taking appointments,” Tom said.
“I warned him that small towns are funny—friendly on the one hand, but slow to draw in newcomers on the other.”
“Hmm, you must have been talking about some other small town,” Tom said.
Eight
T hat first week the handsome Dr. Stone practiced in the valley, June thought she’d have to install a revolving door, but things soon calmed. Even so, his popularity was established as phenomenal. Spring melted into summer and John had a full appointment register. And he seemed oblivious.
“Do you have to put up with this everywhere you go?” she asked him.
“With what?”
“Hordes of crazed fans, begging a moment of your time to bask in the radiance of your handsome smile…”
“Oh June, you’re hilarious! I’m just the new doctor in town, that’s all.”
“I have to tell you, John, I didn’t get a single cake when I came back to town.”
“Probably because you grew up here. Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you, about the angels….”
“Yes?”
“Well, are there really angels here?”
“Tough question.”
“Well,” he said, “do you believe in it? Them? Whatever?”
“I don’t not believe it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means—I grew up hearing stories about angels. There are several. Another favorite version is the sheriff’s deputy who got shot by a fugitive out on 101 and some woodsman-type fellow stopped the bleeding and stayed with him right up until help came. Then he disappeared into the forest without a trace. The deputy was convinced he was Wyatt, the angel. I think the Good Samaritan actually gave that as his name.”
“That’s pretty convincing,” John said. “I mean, a wounded deputy…”
“I know. Except that if I were growing pot back in the Trinity Alps and I saw a shot deputy and wanted to help him, but didn’t want anyone to know who I was or why I was around, I’d say my name was Wyatt and disappear back into the trees.”
“Oh.” John was clearly deflated.
“By the way, they’re real, you know. Marijuana farmers. Don’t go back in the hills. Stick to parks, forestry approved trails, that sort of thing. Some of those old paths could be booby-trapped. Plus the growers have their own little wars. Drug farming is very territorial.”
“You ever see a real marijuana farmer?” John asked.
“That I know of? No. We don’t seem to have any trouble related to that business in town, but back in the hills it’s open season. There are dozens if not hundreds of old abandoned logging roads out there. People who don’t know where they’re going have gotten hurt.”
“Okay, fine. Tom and your dad both already warned me about that. But what about the angels? I guess you’ve never seen one.”
“No, I
On Tuesday morning, June drove into town and was forced to slow down for the traffic. There was no fair or festival that she could think of, no farmer’s market or bazaar or homecoming game, but there were cars parked everywhere. The clinic lot was full, the lot at the Presbyterian Church had a couple of dozen cars parked there and the café spaces were full. June paused in front of the clinic, stupefied.
While she watched, Laura Robertson jumped out of her truck and dragged her son, Matt, by the wrist while she balanced a plastic container on the palm of her other hand. She walked briskly to the clinic. When she opened the door, June could see that the waiting room was overflowing with people.
Two middle-aged women exited the clinic while she watched. They stopped in the middle of the street, leaned on each other and tittered and giggled like teenagers.
June slowly drove to the café, and double parked and went inside, still in a state of shock. Most of the regulars had moved to tables in front of the café, where they could watch the rush at the clinic.
George had her coffee ready and a bag of blueberry muffins. Tom leaned against the pastry counter with his steaming cup.
“I see Dr. Stone is taking appointments,” Tom said.
“I warned him that small towns are funny—friendly on the one hand, but slow to draw in newcomers on the other.”
“Hmm, you must have been talking about some other small town,” Tom said.
Eight
T hat first week the handsome Dr. Stone practiced in the valley, June thought she’d have to install a revolving door, but things soon calmed. Even so, his popularity was established as phenomenal. Spring melted into summer and John had a full appointment register. And he seemed oblivious.
“Do you have to put up with this everywhere you go?” she asked him.
“With what?”
“Hordes of crazed fans, begging a moment of your time to bask in the radiance of your handsome smile…”
“Oh June, you’re hilarious! I’m just the new doctor in town, that’s all.”
“I have to tell you, John, I didn’t get a single cake when I came back to town.”
“Probably because you grew up here. Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you, about the angels….”
“Yes?”
“Well, are there really angels here?”
“Tough question.”
“Well,” he said, “do you believe in it? Them? Whatever?”
“I don’t not believe it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means—I grew up hearing stories about angels. There are several. Another favorite version is the sheriff’s deputy who got shot by a fugitive out on 101 and some woodsman-type fellow stopped the bleeding and stayed with him right up until help came. Then he disappeared into the forest without a trace. The deputy was convinced he was Wyatt, the angel. I think the Good Samaritan actually gave that as his name.”
“That’s pretty convincing,” John said. “I mean, a wounded deputy…”
“I know. Except that if I were growing pot back in the Trinity Alps and I saw a shot deputy and wanted to help him, but didn’t want anyone to know who I was or why I was around, I’d say my name was Wyatt and disappear back into the trees.”
“Oh.” John was clearly deflated.
“By the way, they’re real, you know. Marijuana farmers. Don’t go back in the hills. Stick to parks, forestry approved trails, that sort of thing. Some of those old paths could be booby-trapped. Plus the growers have their own little wars. Drug farming is very territorial.”
“You ever see a real marijuana farmer?” John asked.
“That I know of? No. We don’t seem to have any trouble related to that business in town, but back in the hills it’s open season. There are dozens if not hundreds of old abandoned logging roads out there. People who don’t know where they’re going have gotten hurt.”
“Okay, fine. Tom and your dad both already warned me about that. But what about the angels? I guess you’ve never seen one.”
“No, I
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