The Sparrow Sisters by Ellen Herrick Page B

how I hurt my leg?” he asked.
    â€œOnly if you want to tell me.”
    â€œI don’t,” Henry said. He sighed and looked at the porch ceiling. “I was overseeing a vaccination program at a school near Mosul, northwest of Baghdad. There was an IED in the damn school. I’m told it could have been much worse.” Henry’s voice had dropped lower and lower so that by the end Patience had to lean forward to hear him.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said.
    â€œSo.” Henry looked at Patience. “You can imagine the appeal of small-town medicine. I tried the ER again, but . . .”
    â€œIt still hurts,” she murmured.
    â€œIt’s been a while now.”
    â€œBut your leg still hurts.”
    â€œNot so much.”
    Patience reached to touch Henry’s thigh, but he grabbed her hand.
    â€œDon’t,” he said.
    â€œAre you afraid I’ll put a spell on you?” Patience tried to keep the hurt out of her voice.
    â€œNo, I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. You’ve no idea how emasculating it is to be the object of pity.” Henry stood. “I came to Granite Point to be around people who didn’t know me before. I’d like to keep it that way, the not knowing me before part.”
    Patience understood that. She nodded at Henry, and he thought that he saw her soften a bit. She closed her eyes and turned her face away from him.
    â€œSometimes I think this whole town is be-spelled,” she said. “Sometimes it feels like it’s one of those enchanted villages the hardware store puts up in the windows at Christmas.”
    Henry waited quietly.
    â€œI can see how you’d want to fit in here,” Patience said. “If you go around in a little slot, doing your thing, day in, day out, then you’re safe.”
    â€œIs that what you do?” Henry asked.
    â€œOh, God,” Patience sounded almost sorry. “There is no slot for me. Don’t you know? I’m not safe at all.”
    P ATIENCE REFUSED HIS offer of another drink, but she left the gin and lime. After she’d tried to touch him, the pleasure had gone out of the air, replaced by an edgy chill. They were both relieved when she stood to go home. Henry agreed to come to Ivy House to get Patience for the party the next evening, then he watched her leave without moving, even when she turned for a last look. Henry wondered if she’d left the gin because she was coming back or giving up.
    Henry poured himself another drink, but the tonic had gone flat, making it nothing more than a too-sweet punch. He tried to understand why he hadn’t let Patience touch him. The pity thing did haunt him, but something told him that Patience didn’t feel that way. And so, why hadn’t he taken his chance when he had it? Why hadn’t he let her take his leg in her hands? He could so easily have turned that exploring touch into something much better. But then he thought of the first woman he’d been with after he was back. She had actually started to cry when she saw the wound. It was still raw, the network of ugly shrapnel scars, the staple marks like tiny tracks, the deep divot over his reconstructed femur still a livid pink. The look on her face told Henry that she had crowned him some kind of tragic champion. If he hadn’t been so desperate, he’d have sent her home there and then. But he hadn’t. He’d closed his eyes and pulled her into his bed.
    The thought of Patience reacting the same way, a mixture of pity and fascination, made Henry feel sick. Although, from what he’d seen of her, it seemed unlikely that Patience would cry over him. She’d be more likely to examine him, turning him toward the light as she probed his leg. Henry shuddered. Enough, he thought, and went inside to scare up some dinner.
    Patience walked home so slowly that her stomach was growling audibly by the time she reached Sorrel waiting for her on the