toilet tissue cozies, driftwood accents here and there, a fishing net strung on the kitchen wall with hooks in it for oven mitts, dish towels and other paraphernalia. There were also family pictures on tables and walls, baskets holding shells and lots of seaside-themed throw pillows. But the furniture was attractive and comfortable. The place would have a welcoming air about it, once the crafty doodahs and family pictures had been removed. It was only a few blocks from the clinic—a few more to the marina and beach.
“This will do nicely,” she said to Ray Anne. “I told Dr. Grant I could give him three months. Can you check with the owners about that time frame?”
“Sure. Do you have a lot of stuff to move?”
“I’m not going to move furniture for just a few months, especially since this place is nicely furnished. I have a few things I want to fetch from my brother’s house where they’re stored—my own linens, a couple of rugs, a few kitchen items I’m attached to. You know—creature comforts. Can we poke around closets and drawers and see what kind of things were left behind that have to be packed up?”
Peyton would buy new before admitting she had left her last address with practically nothing. She had a turntable and valuable vinyl record collection, her grandmother’s lace dresser scarf that she’d tatted herself, linen placemats and matching napkins, her other grandmother’s antique hand-tooled serving platters, things she wouldn’t invite her sisters or sisters-in-law to use or she might not see them again. There were some old crystal wineglasses and a decanter. And she had some carefully chosen art that she’d had boxed at a gallery for storage because there had been no place for them in Ted’s house.
In fact, that’s about all that was left. When she’d moved in with Ted, she stored most of her furniture with George—he had room in the basement of his house. Little by little they’d gone the way of family members who needed them. Her four-poster bed was “loaned” to a niece who needed a bed; the dresser eventually made its way to the same bedroom. Her mother’s antique pie safe and dry sink was being used by Ginny. “It looks so perfect in my house!” Ginny had said. Her sofa, love seat and accent tables had gone into Ted’s game room where they were beaten to death by his kids. She no longer liked them and had left them behind. Her antique rolltop desk was in Adele’s little apartment in San Francisco where it was being loved. Her kitchen table and chairs were with Ellie and her family; it would never be the same. She wouldn’t loan the art—she knew how that worked. Although things were always “borrowed,” they seemed to never be returned. They weren’t thieves by any means. They were merely presumptuous relatives. And passive-aggressively forgetful.
Many of Peyton’s favorite things had made their way into Ted’s house—her Crock-Pot, a set of dishes and glassware, toaster oven, stainless-steel flatware, some very nice bath towels. Most of it wasn’t worth packing up when it had been time to leave. In fact, she’d been on the verge of leaving, trying to make herself do it, when something that simply crushed her happened. She’d told the kids never to touch her turntable or the original vinyl record collection she kept stored in their bedroom. But then she came home from an errand, heard the sound of the original Beatles album she’d had for years coming from her bedroom. She heard it skipping. It was marred with a deep scratch, as were several other records...and she fell into tears. Twelve-year-old Pam had screeched, “You’re just plain stupid! It’s just a stupid record! We don’t even have records anymore!” When Ted had gotten home that night, Peyton was packing a couple of suitcases and some boxes. She’d explained it was the last straw, and he’d said, “I have to agree with Pam to an extent. Leaving over a broken record is pretty stupid. I’ll buy you another. I’m sure it wasn’t malicious.”
“It was completely malicious!” she’d said. “Everything is malicious! And there isn’t another—it’s a collector’s item!”
“What is it you want, Peyton? Do you want me to go drag her out of her room and force her to apologize?”
“Yes!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he had said. “Grow up.”
“How can you, the most sensitive doctor I’ve ever worked with, be so insensitive?” she had asked.
She had packed everything she could and went to the farm. There had been things missing from her closet that she knew she’d never see again—boots, shirts, sweaters, blazers. If she could have summoned the energy, she would have searched Krissy’s and Pam’s rooms. She hadn’t had the strength. She’d stuffed her car with everything she could and told Ted she’d be at the farm for a couple of weeks. She had a lot of vacation coming. “I’ll commute to work from the farm after I take a little time to think things through, to recuperate.”
“Maybe we should just make a clean break,” Ted had said. “You’re through with me, that’s obvious. I don’t see how we can work closely together after this.”
“Who will do my job? Take my patients?” Peyton had asked.
He’d given her a shrug, hands in his pockets. “I’ll find someone. Maybe I should just give Lindsey a chance, see what she can do.”
“She’s an RN,” Peyton had said. “She’s twenty-five. Inexperienced.”
“She’s ambitious. Resourceful.”
And suddenly Peyton had known. How had she never guessed? She slowly turned to him. “How long?” she’d asked.
“How long?” he’d echoed.
“You’re seeing her, I can tell. How long have you been involved with her?”
“Involved is too strong a word. We’ve developed a...well, I guess it’s a close friendship. You’ve been pushing me away. You’ve been hell to live with the last year. Be honest, Peyton, you know it’s true. You hate it here. You don’t want me anymore. I don’t think we can go forward from this point. I’ll give you a good recommendation.”
“You bastard,” she’d whispered. “I don’t need your recommendation. I’m very well known in the medical community in Portland. Lindsey will need your recommendation!”
“I’ll give you a generous severance,” he’d said.
“Mail it to the farm,” she’d said, lifting a box and carrying it out to her car.
Peyton shook herself back to the present. She smiled at Ray Anne. “I’ll just get together a few things and move in, if that’s all right,” she said. “I’ll visit with my parents overnight while I load up.”
“Let’s call the owner’s daughter and figure out this lease right now,” Ray Anne said, getting comfortable at the kitchen table and opening up her briefcase.
And it was done. Forty-eight hours later she was packing the left-behind linens and clothing and some of the owner’s kitchen wares into boxes. She would store them in the second bedroom until they could be picked up. She went through the canned goods and spices and checked dates, thinning out that supply. There wasn’t much for her to deal with. She got out some of her own things to use in the kitchen, hung one of her paintings and put out a few of her own family pictures. The fishnet came down. She put her precious turntable and record collection on its small display case—the only piece of furniture she’d brought—and placed it against the living room wall. And she played Johnny Mathis, Funny Girl and Yentl. She had great speakers and blasted the music, singing along with it. Singing was a Basque tradition, except mostly the men sang the folk songs. Just as well—Peyton wanted to sing with Etta James or Barbra.
Alone,
