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The young moms and their children filtered out amid calls of “Happy Valentine’s Day,” and promises to see him before he left Nashville. Along the way, they collected plates of cookies and the Crock-Pot, and tossed disposable plates and cups into the trash receptacle. A tidy bunch, she thought with approval.
Karen felt Chris’s assessing gaze flick over her. He was clearly aware of her presence, although he made no sign of acknowledgment.
Finally, the outer door closed behind the last mother and child. Chris stood amid a jumble of balloons, his expression wary. A few leftover bubbles escaped one sleeve.
To break the silence, Karen asked, “How did you do that?”
He glanced down. “There’s a tube,” he said distractedly. “I ordered it on the Internet.” After an awkward pause: “Care to have a seat, or do you plan to challenge me to a duel? I’m afraid my sword arm’s rusty.”
“No duel.” Although her instincts urged her to stand and fight, Karen knew she would be wise to enlist the man’s cooperation, instead. Tucking her tweed skirt beneath her, she perched on a sofa. “Chris, the reason I’m here—”
He raised one hand to stop her. “First, are you speaking on behalf of someone else or on your own account?”
“Nobody put me up to it,” she assured him.
She had no idea how her brother would react if he learned she’d come here. He might find the gesture touching, or he might snarl that she should let him fight his own battles. Such anger was understandable, considering what he’d been through.
After a soul-searing stretch in prison for manslaughter, he’d struggled to complete a college degree and find work as a journalist, with only sporadic success. Then, nearly six years ago, their mother, Renée—publisher, editor and chief reporter for the Downhome Gazette since their father’s death—had suffered crippling injuries when a tractor hit her car.
Barry had returned to fill in for her at work and, when the permanence of her injuries became evident, he’d assumed the position full-time. While the town had more or less accepted him, he’d developed an obsession with clearing his name. And he’d never relinquished his dream of becoming a world-class international reporter.
“Well?” Chris interlaced his fingers.
“I’m sure you’re aware that I opposed hiring you,” she began.
“My grandmother keeps me current.”
“I don’t doubt that you’re a good doctor,” she added. “And I know you want to be close to Mae Anne…”
“But you still think I should have lied on the witness stand,” he finished, leaning forward intently.
She blinked, trying to figure out what he meant. “About what?”
“Don’t act coy. It doesn’t suit you.” Tension gave his voice a rough edge. “You wanted me to deny what I saw that night, and when I wouldn’t, you cut me off.”
How could he twist the situation so completely? Karen struggled to find the right words. “Maybe that’s what you’ve told yourself all these years. Maybe that’s what you’ve needed to believe.”
Anger burned in Chris’s gaze. “You and your family want to blame me for everything that went wrong. That’s unfair, although I’m willing to accept my share of the guilt.”
That was news to her. “You didn’t say so on the stand.”
“I never denied that I was at least half-responsible for the prank,” he answered grimly. “And it was my dispute in the first place. Do you think I don’t have sleepless nights over the fact that a man died and my best friend went to prison? But I’m not the one who—” He stopped abruptly. “This is futile. It’s just easier to make me out to be the villain because I wouldn’t get up on the witness stand and pretend I didn’t see your brother strike Norbert Anglin with a shovel.”
“Barry only hit him once, not three times like the police said,” Karen retorted. “You’re the one who sneaked back later. You’re the one who finished him off.”
“What?” He stared at her in disbelief. “What kind of nonsense is that?”
Barry says…The phrase died unspoken. Karen had heard her brother’s theories so often she’d almost forgotten how far they strayed from the account presented at the trial.
In the past few years, Barry had undertaken a personal investigation. After interviewing a couple of secondary witnesses, he’d pieced together an alternative scenario in which Chris must have struck the fatal blows after Barry had fled.
Karen hesitated. She wasn’t sure when she’d begun accepting her brother’s speculation as fact. How embarrassing to have relied on it, when she’d hoped to play the diplomat.
Chris forged ahead. “It just goes to prove what Mae Anne says—your family’s been blackening my name. That’s one of the reasons I decided to go back, so I could reestablish my reputation. But accusing me of murder? Give me a break, Karen. That’s a reach, even for you Lowells.”
“I apologize.” Although it irked her to utter those words, she had to focus on her goal. “I didn’t intend to make accusations.”
“You came to tell me to stay away from Downhome.” A trace of pain showed on Chris’s face. “Do you think I didn’t figure that out the minute I saw you?”
Although she wondered at his reaction, Karen focused on making her case. “You’ve built a reputation and a patient base in Nashville. And made a lot of friends, I’m sure. If you want to be closer to your grandmother, we can find other ways to arrange that.”
“I don’t want to ‘arrange’ anything. I love Mae Anne more than anyone else in the world.” The statement emerged ragged with emotion.
Karen found the remark odd, considering that Chris had a mother and sister living in Boston. Still, she understood how much he cared about the feisty old lady.
The truth was, Mae Anne and Karen had become friends, too. The whole nursing-home clientele was like family to her, in addition to her own mother’s decision to live there. The out-spoken Mrs. McRay had become such a favorite that Karen often accompanied her to council meetings and other activities.
They’d grown apart these past few months, ever since Chris had applied for an opening at the town clinic. Karen missed their closeness.
Doggedly, she resumed her argument. “I know you’ve made a habit of visiting on the weekends when I’m off duty.” Her mother had mentioned it several times. “There’s no reason to be so discreet. I’m happy for you to drop by whenever you like. I could also arrange for her to travel to Nashville more often.” Plenty of people would be happy to give the popular lady a ride on their business and shopping trips to the city.
Chris waved away the offer. “Thanks, but no. Besides, that isn’t the only issue.”
“You don’t need to clear your name,” Karen said desperately. “Nobody believes Barry.”
“You do,” he pointed out. “Now I gather he’s gone so far as to suggest I’m the killer. Apparently, my grandmother’s protestations haven’t been enough to safeguard my name.”
“Oh, yes, they have!” she insisted. “The other two search-committee members supported you, and the city council followed their recommendation. You can’t be uprooting your career because you care whether a few people listen to my brother’s grumbling!”
“Your brother runs the newspaper.”
“He’s printed nothing about this. Nothing!”
In the stillness, Karen found herself intensely conscious of Chris’s rapid breathing and the sheen of perspiration on his brow. She waited, hoping he’d rethink this cruel plan to impose his presence on her town.
“I have other reasons for why I choose to return.” All the light in the room seemed focused on his face. “I left a couple of things…unfinished, and I want to finish them. Frankly, I don’t know what I expect to happen or how long I’ll stay. At least a year—I owe the town that much for hiring me.”
She tried to muster an argument. No words came.
“I’m not going to hang my head or keep a low profile, either.” Chris picked up momentum as he went. “I didn’t do anything wrong, but some people I cared about turned against me. Believe me, I’ve paid for it in ways you can’t imagine. Well, I’m sorry if my presence inconveniences you and Barry, but you’re going to have to deal with it.”
Karen flushed with anger. How embarrassing that she’d nearly let this man win her over with a few parlor tricks and a smile. She’d been an idiot to expect him to cooperate.
“You’re sorry if you inconvenienced Barry by sending him to prison?” she repeated. “I wish you’d look a little harder at why those issues trouble you. Maybe it has something to do with a guilty conscience!”
Chris folded his arms. “I’m sorry you wasted your time driving to Nashville. If anything, you’ve only affirmed my decision.”
Karen gathered her purse and headed for the door. She wished she could utter some zinger—a grand finale of her own—if only to ease her sense of failure, but nothing sprang to mind.
All she managed to say was, “Don’t worry, I didn’t travel all this way for your sake. I had to attend a seminar.”
Out the door she went. It closed with a bang and a loud jangle, as if she’d childishly slammed it.
Cheeks flaming, Karen hurried to her car. Not only hadn’t she succeeded, but she’d given Chris ammunition to use against her family.
And she ached in a way she hadn’t in a long time. She recognized the feeling as grief for lost dreams and lost trust.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, she lifted her chin with resolve. Maybe Chris’s return wasn’t entirely a bad thing. At least it would force Karen to face her own unfinished business.
After so many years, she might finally free herself to love someone else.
CHRIS MOVED AROUND THE waiting room, picking up a dropped pacifier and a toddler’s shoe. After putting them on the counter to be reclaimed, he tied the balloon strings together to take for the children in his apartment building.
With her bright hazel eyes and fiery spirit, Karen still had the power to make his heart beat faster. And to infuriate him like no one else.
Years ago, she’d awakened something in him that refused to die, although she’d done her best to kill it. As had he.
When he saw her today, he’d been tempted to touch her soft, red-brown hair. But just when he’d hoped they could reach a new, mature understanding, she’d outraged him and given him a shock.
Chris hadn’t imagined the Lowells would stoop to claiming he’d slain Norbert Anglin. Couldn’t they see that he’d tried to protect Barry on the witness stand? He’d testified that his friend had acted in self-defense after Anglin attacked them with a pitchfork. They’d only been two foolish eighteen-year-olds releasing a few chickens, nothing that merited getting stabbed.
But a man had died, leaving his widow with a farm to run. No matter how much Barry had gone through, Mrs. Anglin had suffered more.
In his office, Chris replaced his white coat with a corduroy jacket. He toured the clinic, making sure the medicine cabinets and examining rooms were locked. Then he clicked off the lights, set the alarm and exited through the back.
Silhouetted between buildings, stark trees raised bare arms to the night sky. He inhaled the chill winter air, in an effort to calm his agitated spirit.
Chris’s thoughts shifted to Downhome. He hadn’t harbored any illusions about the possibility of resuming old friendships. He only wanted to make peace, for everyone’s sake.
Apparently, that wasn’t going to happen.
Much as it galled him to dig up old hurts, he had to make sure he left no doubt in anyone’s mind about the events of that night. Karen had forced his hand.
As soon as he got settled, he resolved, he was going to ask to review the old police reports. The new chief, Ethan Forrest, had served on the physician-search committee and seemed like a reasonable fellow. Once Chris had all the facts in hand, he’d be armed with proof against Barry’s wild accusations.
As he tucked the balloons into his trunk, the breeze tugged at them. Chris wedged them firmly inside and shut the lid with a snap.
He’d learned long ago to keep his life under tight control. Medical cases, personal finances, relationships—anything could spin into chaos if you didn’t pay attention.
Including the matter of Karen and Barry Lowell, Chris reflected as he got into the car. He needed to tie up those strands as well.
If Karen didn’t like the results, she had only her brother’s obsessive antagonism to blame.
Chapter Two
On a sunny Saturday at the beginning of March, Chris drove his packed car into Downhome. Along the highway, the verdant open countryside and the well-kept dairy farms had reminded him of how much he’d enjoyed growing up here.
On the outskirts of town, construction had begun on a housing development. Closer in, along Tulip Tree Avenue, the windows of redbrick shops displayed colorful spring merchandise. To see the town prospering pleased Chris. He still felt he belonged here, although his family had moved to Boston during his college years.
His parents had felt the repercussions of Norbert Anglin’s tragic death keenly, despite the fact that Chris had escaped prosecution. George McRay, Chris’s father, had once been Fred Lowell’s best friend, but after the trial, the two men had barely spoken to each other. Then, after Fred died of a heart attack that some people attributed to the stress of the case, the McRays decided to move.
Chris had never completely cut his ties, however, thanks to his grandmother. Unfortunately, she no longer owned her fondly remembered clapboard house with its wraparound porch. Chris hadn’t given much thought to a rental until a few weeks ago, when he’d had difficulty in finding a place. But most of the town’s few apartments were located in a run-down area, and he didn’t relish the idea of renting an entire house.
Then Mae Anne had made a tantalizing suggestion, and he’d jumped at it. What starving bachelor could resist a unit located over an Italian restaurant? Newly vacated when the proprietor had married and moved into his wife’s home, it was situated next to the town’s central park, and within easy walking distance of City Hall, the library and the Tulip Tree Nursing Home. And, it was only one block from the Home Boulevard Medical Clinic. Which meant Chris could roll out of bed, grab breakfast and stroll across the Green to work. He’d clinched the deal by phone and had signed the month-to-month lease by fax.
Now, reaching the town center, he drove between Rockwell Farm Supply on his left and, on the right, the Rockwell Emporium, which carried dry goods. Both belonged to pharmacist Archie Rockwell, Downhome’s mayor.
Past the emporium, Chris swung into the driveway of Pepe’s Italian Diner. The owner, Pepe Otero, an Argentine of Italian descent, had married Rosie O’Bannon, the proprietor of the beauty salon, shortly before she’d given birth to their daughter. Rosie already owned a fully furnished house; Pepe had moved in, leaving his stuff at his old flat.
At two o’clock in the afternoon, the lot behind the building offered plenty of empty spaces. However, following Pepe’s instructions, Chris took one of two marked Reserved.
After getting out, he skirted the building and went into the diner. Amid the scents of garlic and fresh-baked bread, he surveyed the colorful decor.
The main attraction besides the food was the new murals, which he’d heard about from Mae Anne. Where once the walls had displayed faded images of grapes and wine bottles, they now bristled with fanciful paintings of Pepe and his three grown children from his first marriage, picking grapes and stomping them for wine.
The wail of a baby drew Chris from his art gazing. “Oh, there you are, Doctor!” Pepe, a compact man with dark coloring, made his way between the tables, which were mostly unoccupied at this hour. “Welcome, welcome! Rosie wants to ask you about Maria Wilhelmina’s rash.”
“Sure.” Chris had grown used to being peppered with child-rearing questions wherever he went.
“Pepe! Don’t give him the wrong impression!” chided his bride, a black-haired woman in her late forties with a tiny baby tucked against her shoulder. “Chris, he didn’t rent to you to have a pediatrician on the premises.”
Rosie hadn’t changed much since his youth, Chris mused, although of course in those days he’d considered anyone over twenty to be old. And she was old to have given birth. Fortunately, all had gone well.
“Who says?” Her husband punctuated the question by snapping a dish towel. “I like having a doctor live upstairs.”
“Well, you got one,” said Chris, grinning. He turned to the baby. “What a cutie! May I?” Maria Wilhemina’s mother yielded her without hesitation. In his arms, the little girl stopped crying and regarded him with wide, dark eyes.
She had good color and appeared to be a healthy weight for a two-month-old. Since he wasn’t about to peel off her diaper in a restaurant, he asked a few questions about the rash. It didn’t sound serious.
“Change her more often and clean carefully. You can use a little petroleum jelly to protect against moisture,” he told the parents. “I’d like to see her at the clinic on Monday to make sure everything’s okay. So tell me, how did you choose the name?”
“Maria for my mother and Wilhelmina for William Rankin, our obstetrician,” Rosie responded. “Have you met him yet?”
“Yes. He seems terrific.” As part of his application process, Chris had been introduced to the other two physicians during a visit to the clinic.
“Play your cards right and we’ll name the next kid after you,” Pepe said.
“Another one? At my age?” According to Mae Anne, the baby had been a surprise. From her first marriage, Rosie also had a grown son, Mark O’Bannon, a lieutenant on the police force.
“Okay, maybe the first grandkid,” Pepe conceded.
Chris handed Maria back to her mother. “I’ll look forward to seeing you and your daughter at the clinic. Now I was hoping to collect my key.”
“Of course!” Pepe fished it from his pocket. “I hope the guests don’t make too much noise tonight. The Cornishes are throwing a party in the rear dining room.”
“Jeremiah’s celebrating his company’s expansion,” Rosie added. “They have a beautiful house but Amelia prefers to entertain here when it’s a large group. Lucky for the restaurant!”
Amelia was Norbert Anglin’s widow. About a year and a half after his death, she’d married Jeremiah Cornish, the well-to-do owner of Antiques Anew, one of the town’s largest employers. The factory made antique-style furniture and shipped it to stores around the country, and there was also a shop on the premises.
