or just wanted out.”
“I could assign some of my shares to Annette, let her assume those duties that way. Another husband and wife team. You’d have no grounds to oppose that.”
“You would have to give her the shares outright,” Thomas said. “No strings attached. And she would have to abide by the bylaws just like everyone else. No, I would not oppose that.” He sipped his water, then asked, “Why do you want to stay in, David? This is far removed from your field.”
“Exactly,” David said. “What I can see here is a surgical facility, neurosurgery, cardiovascular surgery. You have fifteen beds upstairs, and room for twenty more, room to expand, rooms to convert to surgery.” He leaned forward, and for the first time ever, Thomas saw a flare of passion in his eyes, heard it in his voice. “Thomas, I’m the best neurosurgeon on the West Coast. We would have people come here from all over the world. A specialist’s specialty, dedicated to those two areas. We could do it together, you and I.”
Thomas realized how seriously he had misjudged the young surgeon. He had thought David wanted control in order to sell out to one of the health organizations, or to change to a for profit facility. This had not occurred to him, that David had his own compelling vision. Time was on David’s side, he thought with a pang. At that moment David looked almost exactly the same as William McIvey had years ago, when he and Thomas first conceived of the idea of the rehabilitation clinic. They had been driven by the plight of their young patients ravaged by polio. After the vaccine came along, they had changed to a general rehabilitation clinic. But he remembered with startling clarity the fierce passion that had seized them both, remembered the determination William McIvey had demonstrated, the not-to-be-denied drive that had compelled them both. Now he was seeing that same determined look on David’s face, in his eyes.
David was still talking. “Rehab can happen anywhere. It doesn’t need a special clinic. You could rent space in a dozen different buildings tomorrow and be set to go. It’s insignificant compared to what surgery demands. That’s one thing. The other thing to consider is what you do here and what I propose. You see people in wheelchairs, people on crutches all the time. They don’t get special care. They learn to manage without all the trimmings you give them. You tinker with them, a little bit better is good enough, but I go in and fix them. I cure them. That’s the big difference.”
When Erica finished reading that day she found a group of people in the staff lounge: Greg Boardman, Naomi, Annie, Darren, another therapist, Stephanie…Naomi motioned her in. “We’re having a high tea,” she said. “Of sorts. Crackers and cheese and punch, at least. Have some.”
Her gaiety was forced, and Greg wasn’t even pretending this was a party. Stephanie held out a glass to Erica and said, “Now I’m off and running. Feeding time upstairs.”
She hurried out and a moment later David McIvey stood in the doorway. “Annette, let’s go.” He didn’t wait for any response, didn’t speak to anyone else, turned and left. With hardly a pause, Annie put down the glass she had lifted to her lips, picked up her purse and followed him without a word. Her cheeks flared with color, and she held her head unnaturally high.
Erica, facing Darren, was startled at the expression that crossed his face and vanished. Stricken, furious, but more, he had looked deeply hurt for that brief moment.
5
The week before Labor Day Darren moved into the apartment, and parked his truck in the newly cleared garage. His son, he said, would bring some things over during the Labor Day holiday.
“Usually we go camping or something when I have a couple of days off, but he’s excited about having his own room. He wants to pick out the color and paint it himself, hang his posters, make it his room.”
Erica straightened up from weeding a flagstone patio outside the kitchen door. Finding it had been another surprise, hidden as it had been under a layer of dirt, weeds and spreading grass. Sometimes she felt that a miracle had taken place: the house was in decent shape, and they were starting to tackle the job of taming the jungle in the yard. It was turning into a real home. She rubbed her back.
“You said he’s eleven?” she asked.
“Twelve in February. He has a half brother, who is six, and a creep, according to Todd. They share a room. And there’s a half sister, who is ten, and a spoiled brat, again according to Todd. He’s looking forward to his own room, his junk left wherever he puts it down.”
Erica laughed. “The mess on the floor will be his mess. That’s different.”
“Right. Anyway, we’ll be in and out, around, all weekend.” He took a step or two, then paused. “I heard that you asked Bernie to give a copy of the book you’ve been reading to Glory. That was good of you.”
Feeling awkward and even a little embarrassed, Erica said, “Just a cheap paperback, used. Glory mentioned that she would be leaving before we finished The Canterville Ghost and she’d never know how it came out. Sort of like following a serial for nine episodes and missing the tenth and final one.”
“Yeah. And I bet no one in her house has ever owned a book before. Anyway, that was good of you. We’re going to grill salmon tomorrow. Want to come?”
She caught her breath and nodded. “I’d love to. I can make a pretty good potato salad.”
“Deal,” he said, and moved on around to the side of the house and the stairs to the upper apartment.
Trembling, she returned to her weeding with renewed energy. She could finish before dark, tidy up for a cookout. Later she would make the potato salad; it was better if made a day ahead of time. Maybe a cake. She didn’t know if the oven worked; she had not tried it. If it worked, she would bake a cake. She would have to go shopping for ingredients; she knew she had no chocolate, little butter. Cake pans? No matter, the stores were open late. Her thoughts raced, making plans, making a mental list of what to buy. Napkins. Paper plates. Ice cream. They were having a cookout, she, Darren, his child. They were having a cookout on the patio. She was too self-conscious to sing out loud, but under her breath she was singing.
Years before, as a new teacher, she had learned to make a long-range school-year plan, nothing too specific, then a more detailed monthly plan and, finally, a very detailed weekly plan. Year after year the plans had served her well. She laughed to herself when she realized she was still doing it. She was now planning to bake a cake although she had never baked a cake in her life. No matter. She would buy a mix. Even her fifth graders had been able to make cakes with mixes.
Greg and Thomas were in Sid Blankenship’s office the Friday after the holiday. Sid was shorter than either of them, and rounder, fifty years old, with a pink face as smooth as an egg. He had gone to work for his father years ago, and when his father retired, he had inherited the office, furnishings and many of the clients, including Thomas Kelso, who to Sid’s eyes looked to be a hundred years old or older.
They had just concluded the transfer of Thomas’s shares to Greg, which left him out in the cold, Thomas thought morosely. But that was step one.
Sid had filed the petition for a change of the power of acceptance, and they had to wait for the court to get around to it. It was out of their hands, Sid told them.
Now Thomas leaned back in his chair and said, “I keep thinking that what I can’t afford to do is wait around very long. David will have his own attorney go over the bylaws and search for loopholes, of course. Sid, are all court orders open to public scrutiny? Is the
