had; they didn’t go on and on about a single kiss no matter how good, how toe-curling it was.
Enough!
Bethany started up her car and headed toward the residential development where she lived. What she needed, she told herself, was some hot soup and a diverting program on TV.
That’s not what you need, a soft voice whispered in her head.
Maybe not, she countered, banking her thoughts down before they got any more out of hand. But hot soup and TV was what she was going to get.
Peter walked into his house and turned on the light. He stomped his feet on the small scatter rug just inside the threshold, trying to knock as much snow as possible off his shoes.
It had been a long evening. He’d put in another two hours at the E.R., but the teenager, Matthew Sayers, was going to be all right. His parents had all but flown to the hospital the second the police had called them about their son’s car accident. Both had expressed overwhelming gratitude to Peter for coming to Matthew’s aid and for “saving our boy,” as Matthew’s mother had sobbed.
It turned out that the Sayers were quite well-to-do. Matthew’s father was a top-level magazine executive and his mother was an heiress. They had only recently bought their house in Walnut River. They also owned a condo in Manhattan. The senior Sayers wanted to show his appreciation for having his son tended to.
After being enthusiastically pressed several times, Peter had finally made a suggestion to the man, which was how Walnut River General got its first donation toward the MRI machine.
A sense of satisfaction pervaded him.
All in all, it had been a very productive evening. He’d saved a boy and gotten Henry a sizable donation to kick-start the fund-raiser.
He’d also kissed an angel.
The stray thought made him smile. Memory of the kiss had been moved temporarily to the back of the line because of the urgent situation he’d had to deal with, but now it had reappeared at the front, swiftly growing in proportion.
Despite the time that had lapsed, he could still taste her on his lips. Still taste the subtle flavor of ripened strawberries.
The overhead light dimmed for a second, then returned full strength.
Probably the work of the storm, he thought. Outside, the wind was howling and the snow was falling harder. Perfect conditions for a power outage. It wouldn’t hurt to keep a flashlight handy, he decided. Just in case.
He kept a couple of flashlights on the bottom shelf of his anemically stocked pantry. Shrugging out of his overcoat, he left it draped over the first piece of furniture he came to—the sofa.
Bethany was right, he thought, glancing at the coat. It looked like something a homeless man would wear. One particularly down on his luck. He was going to have to see about buying another one. He certainly didn’t want the woman to be embarrassed to be seen with him.
The thought that had just floated through his head bemused him. When, other than at the gala, would that be happening? And why would her feelings about his appearance even come into play? Assuming she had any feelings about his appearance.
His thoughts were definitely going in strange, uncharted directions. Peter pushed the question and its accompanying thoughts away. He had no desire to get emotionally involved with anyone again. He was too weary and too wired at the same time to properly tackle anything right now.
As he walked through the room to reach the kitchen, his eyes were drawn to the envelope that was still lying on the mantelpiece. The envelope with his father’s handwriting on it.
The one he still hadn’t opened.
Haven’t had the time, Peter thought defensively.
Was that it? Was a lack of time the reason he hadn’t opened the envelope, or was it really more of a lack of nerve? Was he afraid of what he might read, what he might discover?
He shook off the thought.
This was ridiculous. He was a grown man, a doctor for God’s sake. He’d had his hand inside a patient’s stomach, dealing with a perforated ulcer, had to face a grieving wife to give her the gut-wrenching news that her husband was gone. Had had to summon the courage to step, at least partially, into his father’s shoes. Those kinds of actions weren’t the actions of a man who lacked nerve.
So why was an envelope causing perspiration to pop out all over his brow?
What was it that he was afraid of?
And then he knew. He was afraid of finding out that rather than a saint, his father had just been a man. Fallible.
Ridiculous. Stop stalling, Wilder.
With determination, Peter walked into his kitchen. Crossing to the pantry, he opened it. The flashlights were just where he’d left them, on the bottom shelf. The pantry contained very little else. A box of matches, a collection of napkins in the corner. Containers of salt, pepper and sugar and one opened box of stale cereal.
Taking the larger of the two flashlights, he checked to see if it worked—it did—and then walked back into the living room. To confront the monster hiding in the closet.
Or lying on the mantelpiece, as it were.
Peter set the flashlight facedown on the mantel and picked up the envelope. After taking a deep breath and then letting it out, he ripped open the envelope. His fingers felt ever so slightly icy.
Inside the envelope was a letter and another, thinner envelope. This one was addressed to Anna.
Was this some kind of a game? Like the little gaily painted wooden Russian dolls, the ones where when you opened one up, exposed another, smaller doll inside, and then another, and another until there were six or more lined up, each one smaller than the last?
Were there other envelopes, addressed to David and Ella, inside this one? Was this some strange inside joke from the grave?
There was only one way to find out.
Bracing himself even as he silently argued that there was no reason to feel this kind of apprehension, Peter decided it might be prudent to sit down before he began to read.
He perched rather than sat on the sofa, tension taking less than subtle possession of his body. The air felt almost brittle as he drew it in.
The letter was handwritten, and reading was slow going. While not illegible, his father’s handwriting was a challenge at times.
“To my son Peter,
From the first moment you drew breath, I have always thought of you as my successor. Not just at the hospital, but with the family as well. I am very proud of the man that you have become. You are so much more than I ever was or could hope to be.”
Peter frowned. What did that mean? An uneasiness continued to build within him. He forced himself to continue reading.
“I don’t want to burden you with this. But you are the only one I can ask to make this decision. You are the only one I can trust with
