neglected.
Gramps looked neglected.
When the last bag had been hauled from the car, her childhood bedroom looked like a rummage sale, but enough was enough. She opened the windows, breathed in the fresh air then crashed on the peach bedspread. She was so tired she couldn’t think.
She was so anxious she was afraid of thinking.
In the past month, her entire life had fallen apart … which she had the bad, bad feeling she was entirely responsible for. She’d been bamboozled by a guy she’d lost her heart to, lost her job, shredded everything she owned to sublet her Chicago apartment, had a completely unexpected pregnancy that she had no way to afford or deal with … and then came the call for help from Gramps.
She’d fix it all.
She had to.
And Gramps came first because … well, because she loved him. There was no question about her priorities. It was just that she was getting the terrorizing feeling that her grandfather’s problems weren’t coming from without, but from within.
And if anyone was going to be able to give her a better picture of her grandfather’s situation, it was unfortunately—very, very, very unfortunately—his doctor.
Chapter Two
Still yawning, Ike lumbered downstairs barefoot with the dog at his heels. Pansy had woken him, wanted to be let out. He opened the back door, waited. Pansy stepped a foot outside, stopped dead, let out a howl and barreled back in the house.
Ike peered out. There happened to be a snake in the driveway. A big one. A rat snake, nothing interesting.
“You live in South Carolina,” he reminded Pansy. “You know about snakes. You just leave them alone. They don’t want to hurt you. Just don’t get in their way.”
Pansy had heard this horseradish before. It hadn’t worked then, either. She continued to dog his footsteps, closer than glue, all the way into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, peered in and had to shake his head.
He must have left the door unlocked again last night. The proof was in the white casserole on the top refrigerator shelf, tagged with a note from Maybelle Charles. The casserole was her mama’s famous Chicken Surprise recipe. On the counter there seemed to be a fancy pie—pecan—anchored on hot pads that he’d have to return. The pie would definitely be from the widow five doors down, Ms. Joelle Simmons. The basket on the front porch held a peck of late South Carolina peaches. Babs, he suspected.
This was possibly the best place for a single man to live in the entire known universe. The whole town seemed to think he was too thin and incapable of feeding himself. The unmarried female population all seemed convinced that he needed a woman to shape him up. The more bedraggled he looked, the more they chased him. No one seemed to worry that he was a natural slob. They’d all decided, independently, that the right woman could fix minor male problems like that.
The food thing had started a day after he’d moved to Sweet Valley—which was more than three years ago. It was the same day he’d taken over old Doc Brady’s country practice, the same day he’d found this fabulous ramshackle place just a couple blocks from the center of town. Come to think of it—it was even the same day his parents had expressed stunned horror that he’d failed to take a cardiac surgery option at Johns Hopkins, the way they had, the way any self-respecting MacKinnon was supposed to do. His two siblings had already failed their parents by choosing their own paths, but Ike had been the worst disappointment, because he’d actually decided to follow the family heritage of doctoring. Only he was never supposed to take a job here, in this bitsy town that could barely afford a doctor in the first place.
Everything about Sweet Water was perfect for him … except for the minor issue with all the food. The single ladies expected their plates returned. They cooked and baked and made everything on pretty little girly-type plates that invariably had their names on the bottom. Only when he returned them, he usually had to fight to leave.
He was bushwhacked into a chair, fed something else, made to drink something else, was expected to shell out some flirtation and interest.
Ike couldn’t summon the energy to be rude, but he lucked out when Pansy showed up at his door. She refused to leave him, insisted on being adopted and went with him everywhere. She really helped with shortening the visits from all the single ladies.
Upstairs was home. Downstairs was his office—as in open to any and everyone.
Old Doc Brady hadn’t run it that way, but Ike did. He’d inherited some help with the place. Bartholomew had some personality issues, but he cleaned the whole first floor at night and loved the part-time work. A retired nurse named Stephie still lived in the area, and always came in if he needed extra help. And the mainstay of the office was sixty-year-old Ruby, who was a wee bit bossy—but she could run a small country without breaking a sweat.
Right now, though, was his favorite time of day. He fetched a mug of coffee and the paper and ambled out to the screened-in back deck. Tuesday he had no scheduled patients until ten. Ruby would shout to let him know when she got there.
Pansy refused to come out. She was still worried about the snake.
Ike was worried about nothing. The morning was cool; he’d had to pull on a sweatshirt. Occasionally he heard the regular sounds of school buses going by, cars starting to congregate behind lights, stores opening and the occasional conversation as people headed for work or breakfast.
He’d finished the paper and started his second mug of coffee when he heard Ruby’s voice from the front desk—and then the brisk snap of her footsteps coming down the hall to the back door. Par for the course, her portly shape was draped in a wild flower print, accessorized—her word, not his—by bright pink earrings, shoes and lipstick.
“Lady here to see you, Doc. Ginger Gautier. Cashner Gautier’s granddaughter. You’ve got a ten o’clock—”
He glanced at his watch. It was only 9:10. “If you wouldn’t mind, ask her to come on back.”
“You mean in your office? Or in an examining room?” More than once, Ruby felt obligated to explain appropriate behavior to him, always tactfully and framed as a question. Still, her tone made it clear that patients shouldn’t be seen on the back porch.
But Ginger wasn’t a patient. And he knew what she’d come to talk about.
It was always a touchy situation when someone embarrassed themselves. It wasn’t tough on the person who’d been the victim—him. But it was usually difficult for the person who’d done the embarrassing thing. Her.
As quickly as Ruby disappeared, he heard Ginger’s lighter footstep, charging fast—Ike suspected she’d really, really like to get this meeting over with. From the open door, he could see her climb over the exhausted Pansy and step out onto the quiet back porch. She looked …
Delectable.
The hair was wild. Calling it red didn’t explain anything. The color wasn’t remotely ginger, like her name; it didn’t have any of that cinnamon or orange. It was more like dark auburn, with a mix of sun and chestnut, with some streaks of red shivering in the long, thick strands. She’d strapped it up with some kind of hair leash. In the meantime, she had silver shining in her ears, on her wrist. Today she was wearing greens.
