would I say?”
“I don’t know, but she should have some help withher dilemma. If only she’d talk about it with someone besides just me.”
June fought shock again. “She talks to you about the situation?”
“Of course. She doesn’t really have anyone else. When you have time, June, will you check on her?”
“I’ve known Blythe and Daniel for years, Sarah, but until a couple of weeks ago when I was called out to the stable on an emergency, neither of them has ever been my patient. It might be out of line for me to say anything at all to her.”
“Isn’t it appropriate to speak to Daniel’s family? He’s obviously your patient now.”
“I don’t know. Let me think about it for a while.”
“Okay,” Sarah said. “Then I’ll get back to Daniel. I wouldn’t be surprised if the stress of all his trouble with women gave him his chest pains.”
While June was driving back to Grace Valley, she thought about nothing else. These domestic crises, romantic triangles and the like, could be extremely volatile. For all the joking the town did about Daniel’s butt full of buckshot, real tragedy could erupt out of a situation like that. She didn’t want to talk to Blythe. She didn’t want to be in the middle. On the other hand, she’d never forgive herself if something terrible happened that she could prevent. She thought she might have to ask her dad’s advice on this one.
Sunday morning at the Forrest house, Birdie was up frying bacon and listening to her favorite spiritualstation. It got her in the mood for church, and now that there was a new pastor in town, they could all go back to the Presbyterian at the center of town.
Judge, already in his starched white shirt and tie, brought the paper from the porch to the table. “Don’t expect much,” he told his wife. “That pastor doesn’t know any of us yet, so it isn’t likely he’s going to have a sermon that caters to the town.”
“He doesn’t need to,” Birdie said. “In fact, it doesn’t matter what he has to say today. All that matters is that the church is open and people can gather there again. How do you want your eggs?”
“Any old way. Scrambled,” he said, snapping the paper open.
She cracked a couple of eggs into a bowl and said, “Where are those boys? I called them fifteen minutes ago.”
“I heard a shower. Someone’s up,” Judge said.
The Forrest house had a master bedroom on one side of a kitchen-dining-living area that they’d added a master bath to about seven years back. It saved steps, especially in the morning. On the other side of the living room were two bedrooms separated by a bathroom. That was where she’d put her son and grandsons.
When she knocked on her grandsons’ door, Chris opened his door. He was wearing a terry robe and toweling his hair. “Let ’em sleep, Ma,” he said. “They don’t want to go this morning.”
“But we always go, Chris,” she said. “It’s a family thing.”
“They’ve been through a lot. With Nancy and me and all that. Give ’em another week or two, huh?”
“Well, all right. You know best, I suppose. How would you like your eggs?”
“Any old way,” he said, grinning. “Scrambled.”
She patted his cheek, so happy to have him around. “I think you should have them up, dressed and eating, but you know best.”
Routine was important to Birdie, and at her age one didn’t change easily. She liked to get up early on a Sunday morning, have the one big breakfast of the week, clean up the kitchen, appoint the dining table and put in a pot roast or chicken and vegetables. She’d set the timer on the oven, dress for church, have a little time with the Sunday paper and go off to church, leaving the radio on. They would come home to soft spiritual music, a tidy and welcoming home and the savory smells of their Sunday meal.
Pastor Shipton did all right for his first Sunday. The church wasn’t half-full; it would take time for people to get back into
“I don’t know, but she should have some help withher dilemma. If only she’d talk about it with someone besides just me.”
June fought shock again. “She talks to you about the situation?”
“Of course. She doesn’t really have anyone else. When you have time, June, will you check on her?”
“I’ve known Blythe and Daniel for years, Sarah, but until a couple of weeks ago when I was called out to the stable on an emergency, neither of them has ever been my patient. It might be out of line for me to say anything at all to her.”
“Isn’t it appropriate to speak to Daniel’s family? He’s obviously your patient now.”
“I don’t know. Let me think about it for a while.”
“Okay,” Sarah said. “Then I’ll get back to Daniel. I wouldn’t be surprised if the stress of all his trouble with women gave him his chest pains.”
While June was driving back to Grace Valley, she thought about nothing else. These domestic crises, romantic triangles and the like, could be extremely volatile. For all the joking the town did about Daniel’s butt full of buckshot, real tragedy could erupt out of a situation like that. She didn’t want to talk to Blythe. She didn’t want to be in the middle. On the other hand, she’d never forgive herself if something terrible happened that she could prevent. She thought she might have to ask her dad’s advice on this one.
Sunday morning at the Forrest house, Birdie was up frying bacon and listening to her favorite spiritualstation. It got her in the mood for church, and now that there was a new pastor in town, they could all go back to the Presbyterian at the center of town.
Judge, already in his starched white shirt and tie, brought the paper from the porch to the table. “Don’t expect much,” he told his wife. “That pastor doesn’t know any of us yet, so it isn’t likely he’s going to have a sermon that caters to the town.”
“He doesn’t need to,” Birdie said. “In fact, it doesn’t matter what he has to say today. All that matters is that the church is open and people can gather there again. How do you want your eggs?”
“Any old way. Scrambled,” he said, snapping the paper open.
She cracked a couple of eggs into a bowl and said, “Where are those boys? I called them fifteen minutes ago.”
“I heard a shower. Someone’s up,” Judge said.
The Forrest house had a master bedroom on one side of a kitchen-dining-living area that they’d added a master bath to about seven years back. It saved steps, especially in the morning. On the other side of the living room were two bedrooms separated by a bathroom. That was where she’d put her son and grandsons.
When she knocked on her grandsons’ door, Chris opened his door. He was wearing a terry robe and toweling his hair. “Let ’em sleep, Ma,” he said. “They don’t want to go this morning.”
“But we always go, Chris,” she said. “It’s a family thing.”
“They’ve been through a lot. With Nancy and me and all that. Give ’em another week or two, huh?”
“Well, all right. You know best, I suppose. How would you like your eggs?”
“Any old way,” he said, grinning. “Scrambled.”
She patted his cheek, so happy to have him around. “I think you should have them up, dressed and eating, but you know best.”
Routine was important to Birdie, and at her age one didn’t change easily. She liked to get up early on a Sunday morning, have the one big breakfast of the week, clean up the kitchen, appoint the dining table and put in a pot roast or chicken and vegetables. She’d set the timer on the oven, dress for church, have a little time with the Sunday paper and go off to church, leaving the radio on. They would come home to soft spiritual music, a tidy and welcoming home and the savory smells of their Sunday meal.
Pastor Shipton did all right for his first Sunday. The church wasn’t half-full; it would take time for people to get back into
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