That Certain Spark by Cathy Marie Hake Page A

today to fetch it.”
    “You need not do that, Doctor.” Warmth radiated from the metal, reminding him of how closely she’d held it. “I will bring it back over to the surgery.”
    Just then the mayor rushed in. “I came in to ask a favor of you, Karl.”
    “What is that?”
    The mayor caught sight of the doctor and muttered something about physicians and confidentiality. He grimaced, furtively looked about, and leaned toward Karl. “I want to ask you not to, ah . . .” His voice died out as his hand came up to momentarily cover his eyes, then slid back as if to wipe a horrid thought from his mind. Again he looked at Karl. “You didn’t, did you?” he asked, hope quavering pathetically in his tone. “Not yet?”
    “What didn’t I do?”
    “Fix it—my wife brought in tha-tha-that—”
    “Are you talking about the swan?” The doctor shouldered right beside Karl.
    The mayor groaned and nodded.
    Karl clipped, “Ja. It’s fixed.”
    “I may as well take it home to her.” Staring down at the piece, then closing his eyes, the mayor said, “A lesser man could have been blinded by having to work on it.”
    “Please excuse me for the interruption, but you’ve missed the point, gentlemen. A lesser man did work on it. That is precisely why the piece exists.”
    Though flattered by her praise, Karl didn’t dwell on it. He simply named his price for the labor, and the mayor paid him.
    “I hope the two of you won’t ever mention what happens next. I am a very clumsy man, you know.” The mayor took two steps, dropped the wall sconce, and trampled on it. When he picked it up, every last segment was bent. Actually mangled—all except for the swan’s beak, which remained perfectly intact. Mayor Cutter lifted it and looked very satisfied. “My only problem tonight is going to be trying to paste on a sorrowful look, you know.”
    Eyes narrowed, the doctor stared at the mayor. “If you didn’t like it, why did you have it in your home?”
    “Edna Mae likes them.”
    “There is more than one,” the doctor stated in a calm tone.
    Karl marveled at her self-control. He’d almost blurted out the same words, but in a roaring question of disbelief.
    Glad to have a sympathetic audience, the mayor nodded. “My wife brought a pair of them into the marriage and is sentimental about some cockamamie story about what they represent.” He held up the mangled piece. “With one ruined, she’ll have to take the other down.”
    Karl and the doctor remained silent. They’d shared the same opinion of the sconce, but a man deceiving his wife rankled.
    “My wife likes symmetry, you know, and with just one wall sconce, the house won’t look right. Karl, show me something masculine, something you could make now that you’re doing this kind of work for the next few days.”
    “No. I’m only doing this till the end of the week, and I have far too much to do already.”
    “I’m sure you can find something simple . . . anything!” The mayor went to a sample book at once and flipped through it. Every other page, he’d nod his head and say, “Um-hm. Oh this, yeah, oh, very nice. Very nice.”
    The doctor slanted Karl a look. “You must not overdo, else the incision will open and you’ll begin to bleed. The work you have before you is the limit.”
    Karl wasn’t about to have a woman order him around. Caught between a bossy woman doctor and a conniving husband, he scowled at them both. “Nothing’s gotten done since the two of you got here.”
    “Come, Mayor Cutter. Like all the men in Gooding, he’s a gentleman and won’t sit in a lady’s presence; so he won’t ease back onto that stool until I leave.” Dr. Bestman closed the book on the mayor’s hand and pressed the sconce into his arms. Her voice dropped. “With the pain he’s enduring, it’s a wonder he’s not roaring like a wounded bear.”
    His leg hurt, but he didn’t want her announcing it. I’ll take that up with her later. Doctors supposedly take a