At Odds with the Midwife Read online

  Belatedly, she seemed to realize that Gemma hadn’t moved a muscle.

  Lisa leaned in and gave her a puzzled look. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Gemma responded with a big smile. “I’ll wait in the car.”

  “Are you crazy? You’ll roast!”

  “It’s not that hot.”

  “Come on. Aren’t you curious to see inside the Smiths’ house?”

  “Not really,” Gemma murmured as she joined her friend on the sidewalk.

  Lisa held up her cell phone and took a picture of the front of the house before they walked through the sagging wrought iron gate and up the cracked sidewalk. Grass poked through—brave little spikes of spring in an otherwise lifeless landscape.

  The general air of neglect was depressing. The front flowerbeds, which had once held Mrs. Smith’s prize roses, overflowed with dead plants.

  “Going to need a major cleanup before it goes on the market,” Lisa said, stepping up to knock on the door.

  A few seconds later, the door swung open. “Hello, Lisa. Thanks for coming, and...oh, Gemma.” Nate’s dark gaze swept over her, from her neon green toenails, to her cargo shorts and sleeveless Hawaiian-print camp shirt, to the loose swirl of hair she’d pinned atop her head.

  He was struggling to control his expression. “Hello,” he finally said, stepping back.

  She took off her sunglasses and perched them atop her head as she gave him a friendly nod.

  Lisa strolled inside, seeming not to notice the tension between the other two.

  “Gemma and I were on the way to the birthing center so she can show me around, but I knew you were expecting me to stop by this morning.” Lisa looked over the foyer as she set her binder and briefcase by the door. “Okay if I take some pictures?”

  She didn’t wait for an answer, but strolled away, drawn into the once-magnificent home and toward the dining room. “Kitchens and bathrooms,” she called over her shoulder. “That’s what sells houses. Kitchens and bathrooms.” She disappeared around the corner.

  Gemma and Nathan stood awkwardly for a moment before she pointed to his hand. “How is the cut this morning?”

  “Better. It’ll heal.”

  Since that topic of conversation had gone nowhere, she looked around at the nearly empty living room. A huge, clean rectangle of hardwood floor was bordered with scuffed dirt where a rug had obviously been rolled up and taken away.

  “Looks like you’re clearing things out.”

  “Yes. I sold all the furniture to a secondhand store over in Toncaville. Now I’m dealing with the smaller items—and the dirt.” He bent slightly to dust off the knees of the faded jeans he wore with an old blue T-shirt and battered sneakers. He reached up to smooth his mussed hair and came away with a cobweb. “And the spiders,” he added.

  “I ran in to a bunch of those at my place, too. I didn’t mind too much until they tried to join me in the shower.”

  “If I lived here, I’d have to pay rent to the spiders to even use the shower.”

  She smiled, feeling an easing of the tension, and walked over to examine a grouping of family pictures on the wall. Most of them were formal family portraits, everyone looking stiff and awkward. Gemma studied the faces of Nate’s parents, both of them serious, almost grim. She could see Nate reflected in each of their faces, but staring at his father, she wondered what was on the man’s mind. Was he even then siphoning money from an institution that was so vital to the community where he lived? She had no answer, so she turned her attention to the other photos. A few were snapshots of Nathan as a small boy, alone, or with an older girl. In one photo, he appeared to be about two and she held him on her hip with one arm and tickled him with her other hand. It was a happy, spontaneous contrast to the other pictures, but somehow it made her sad.

  Gemma frowned, trying to pinpoint the reason for her sudden melancholy. “That was your sister, Mandy, wasn’t it? I remember that she was very beautiful, and—”

  “And she died when I was twelve.” Nathan stepped forward and took the picture from the wall. He pulled a rag from his back pocket, wiped the picture clean and then placed it inside an open box on the floor.

  “I know. I’m very sorry. I remember she used to come to our place and hang out with my mother.”

  Nate frowned at her. “What? When?”

  Gemma paused to think. “It must have been during her senior year in high school. You and I were in second grade. I remember seeing her and my mom out in the garden, and sometimes working in the kitchen. I think Mom taught her to bake bread.”

  Nate didn’t respond but stood looking down at the photo he’d placed in the box.

  “Is something wrong, Nate?”

  “No. No. It’s ancient history now.”

  Lisa called to him from the kitchen and he left Gemma standing where she was, gazing at the family pictures and thinking that even ancient history never really disappeared.

  * * *

  NATE STOOD BY the picture window in the living room and watched as Gemma and Lisa headed toward Lisa’s sporty little car. As they climbed in, Lisa said something that had Gemma throwing back her head and laughing as she tugged open the door and dropped into the seat. He tucked his hands into his back pockets and let his shoulders relax as he watched the curve of her neck and the way her ponytail bounced.

  Gemma was everything this house wasn’t—warm, inviting, happy. Somehow, having her here, if even for a short time, had made the place even more depressing.

  As they drove away, he turned back to the living room, his gaze going to the wall of family pictures—although, in his mind, family hardly described the people who had lived in this house, especially after Mandy’s death. He and his parents had been like three separate planets, each in their own orbit, never touching, rarely interacting. The Smiths had been the exact opposite of the Whitmires, whom he had often seen together in town—a tight, happy little unit of three. He remembered watching them with longing, wanting what they had, knowing he would never have it.

  Mandy must have wanted the same thing. He hadn’t known she was close to the Whitmires. It ate at his gut to know she’d had a whole life, areas of interest he hadn’t known about, but he’d only been a kid, so how could he have known? He wondered if his parents knew. Maybe, judging by the frequent negative comments his mother had made about the “hippie crazies.”

  Nate shook his head, pulling himself back from the past, where he’d been too often since returning home. Whatever happened now, it was up to him to create it. He had a huge job before him and it would be helped along by selling this mausoleum. Who knew? Maybe it would be purchased by a happy family with parents who didn’t mind how much noise a kid made running up the stairs, or building some crazy construction in the backyard.

  Cheered by the thought, he turned toward the staircase and the last of the stored items he needed to sort through. There were a few sealed boxes in his mother’s closet that he would have to look at someday. They probably contained nothing more than old business papers, but maybe there was some family history that might actually spark a sense of family in him. He snorted aloud, marveling at his need to be proud of people he’d made a point of not obsessing over.

  He would finish this task, have the place cleaned and painted, then sell it and move on with his life.

  * * *

  “I DON’T KNOW why I let you talk me into this,” Gemma groused as Carly Joslin took another bump in the road at warp speed. Her truck was headed back to Reston and the organizational meeting for the reopening of the hospital.

  “I’m wondering the same thing,” Lisa added, looking from one best friend to the other.

  The three of them were crowded into the front seat of Carly’s truck, as they’d been so many times before.

  “Oh, come on,” Carly answered, taking her eyes off the roa
d to tilt her head and grin at Gemma, who was hanging on to the door handle for all she was worth. “It’s like old times—taking my dad’s truck, although now it’s my truck, driving to Toncaville for lunch—”

  “Dragging you out of antique and junk shops,” Lisa broke in.

  “Arriving back late, getting in trouble,” Gemma added.

  “Only we won’t be getting in trouble this time. We’re no longer crazy teenage girls...”

  “We’re crazy thirty-two-year-old women, and at least two of us should know better than to go anywhere with you on the day the county is doing brush and bulky-trash pickup,” Lisa said.

  Gemma glanced over her shoulder at the “treasures” Carly had already collected along the highway and placed in the truck bed. Twice a year, May and November, the county sent big dump trucks around to collect yard clippings to be ground into mulch, and items too large to fit into trash bins. People put out a wide assortment of throwaway items, which Carly would gleefully collect and repurpose—or “upcycle,” as she called it. She hauled it all home, stored it in the barn and garage and worked her way through it until the next brush and bulky pickup. To her it was like getting two extra Christmases each year.

  Lisa glanced back, too, and Carly met their skeptical looks with an unrepentant grin.

  “What are you going to do with an old bicycle frame, minus tires and handlebars?” Lisa asked.

  “Are you kidding? It’s beautiful. I’ll paint it—maybe fire-engine red—and spruce it up. Imagine how cute it’s going to look in someone’s front yard with live flowers in the basket...”

  “Conveniently placed for the next brush and bulky pickup,” Gemma said drily.

  “It’ll be a work of art.”

  “Yes,” Gemma said with a sigh. “When you’re finished with it, it probably will be. But some of that other stuff...the washing machine, for example.”

  “That wringer-type washing machine is in pretty good shape considering it probably saw its heyday when Herbert Hoover was president.”

  “But what on earth are you going to do with it?”

  Carly gave her a smug look. “Remove the rust, oil all the parts, polish it up. Believe it or not, there’s a whole society—mostly men—who collect washing machines. After I fix it up, I’ll sell it to one of them.”

  Lisa stared at her. “Men who collect washing machines? Someday you’re going to be struck by lightning for the fibs you make up.”

  “It’s true! They’ve got hundreds of members—all around the world.”

  “That’s crazy,” Gemma said.

  “Yup, but profitable, and besides, I’m a little crazy,” Carly answered. “I’m surprised you still let me take the lead on these things.”

  “You’re the one with the truck,” Gemma reminded her sweetly. “And I needed a new lawn mower, which, now that I think of it, could have fit in the back of my Land Rover.”

  “But we wouldn’t have been able to collect nearly as much useful stuff—”

  “Good!” her friends said in unison.

  “And I could have found you an old lawn mower, fixed it up and—”

  “No.”

  “Well, in any case, you don’t have to do your own mowing. You could hire someone to... What’s that?” Carly slammed on the brakes at the same time she whipped her head around so fast, Gemma could hear her neck crack.

  “It’s nothing,” Lisa said. “We need to keep going. We’ll be late for the meeting.”

  “That’s a chair.” Carly pulled over to the mound of discarded furniture someone had piled up at the end of the road that led into the Bordens’ place. “We’ve got plenty of time to get to the meeting. I don’t want to miss it since I hope to sell produce to the hospital kitchen.”

  “The chair is broken.” Gemma knew it wouldn’t do any good, but she had to try. She exchanged an exasperated look with Lisa. “You don’t need a broken chair, Carly.”

  But Carly had already turned on her hazard lights to alert approaching traffic, catapulted from the truck and freed the discarded piece of furniture from a tangle of wire and sheet metal, easy for her since she was tall. She was also strong from years of working outside. Her long black ponytail swung as she held up her find.

  Gemma wasn’t the least bit surprised to see Carly’s dark brown eyes shining in triumph as she examined it. No archaeologist unearthing a history-changing artifact could be more excited than Carly was at this moment.

  “It’s Duncan Phyfe style.” She turned it this way and that, checking it from all angles and testing the joints. “The arms are sturdy. I can make this into something useful.”

  “Yes,” Gemma said, joining her. “Kindling wood.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Only the legs are broken. This would make an adorable swing to hang from a tree limb, or a porch beam.”

  Gemma tilted her head back and looked at the clear blue sky. “Repurposing, thy name is Carly.”

  Thrilled with her new treasure, Carly placed it in the pickup bed beside the box holding Gemma’s yet-to-be assembled lawn mower. “If I attach a seat belt, it would even be suitable for little kids.”

  When she started to turn back to the junk pile to look for more gems, Lisa leapt from the truck. She and Gemma each grabbed an arm, marched their friend in a circle and then took her straight back to the driver’s side.

  “Wait!” Carly protested, straining to look over her shoulder. “There might be something—”

  “Yes,” Gemma answered. “Tetanus.”

  “Snakes,” Lisa added. “Copperheads, cottonmouths, timber rattlers.” She pointed to the pools of water in the bar ditch beside the road, evidence of the recent rains. “Remember they like moist places.”

  Carly grimaced. “Oh, yeah, right.” With a slight shudder, she climbed behind the wheel. Gemma and Lisa hurried around the front of the truck and climbed in. After they fastened their seat belts, they resumed their drive to Reston.

  “You wait and see,” Carly said smugly. “I’ll make that chair into something adorable and useful.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” Gemma answered. “But has it occurred to you that it might be a good idea to begin getting rid of some of the chairs you’ve refurbished over the years? You’ve got enough for a symphony orchestra.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Not by much,” Lisa added. “You’ve made each chair into a unique collector’s item. If you wanted to, you could open a shop in Reston or Toncaville, or somewhere else nearby.”

  “But I don’t want to. I don’t want to be tied down. I wouldn’t be able to work on refinishing furniture at my own pace or go out looking for new pieces. Owning a shop means having to deal with the public. The way it is now, I advertise the items I’ve got for sale online and people come find me, or call me up and place an order over the phone. Besides, what about my farm? My organic produce won’t plant and harvest itself.”

  Lisa threw her hands in the air. “But with a shop your sales would go through the roof. People like to come in and browse. I know you’re the ultimate do-it-yourselfer, but you could work on the farm in the mornings, then have a place in town with a back room. You could work on your projects, hire someone to work the front, arrange your merchandise. You’d be providing a job for someone. Maybe two people. A shop like that would be another way to attract tourists here. The kinds of projects you do? People from Dallas would eat that up with a spoon. They’d gladly drive up here to shop, enjoy the rustic experience, eat lunch, spend money.”

  Carly sent her a sidelong glance. “You planning to run for mayor, Lis?”

  “I might. Someday. There’s a lot that could be done in Reston if people would get their heads out of the past and think about the future.” Lisa had the bit between her teeth now and was going to run with it, doing her best to convince Carly of the rightness of this
idea.

  “The Smiths’ house, for example. It’s been sitting empty all this time, but it’s sound, only needs upgrading. The place has six bedrooms. It would make a perfect bed-and-breakfast.”

  Gemma raised an eyebrow. “I’ve had two encounters with Nathan Smith since I’ve been back. Neither one of them gave any indication he was interested in running a B and B. Besides, didn’t you say he’s anxious to sell?”

  Lisa gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “It was only a suggestion of what could be done with that property. And furthermore, if you reopened your family’s campground, you could attract tons of visitors. And the pavilion would be perfect for weddings and receptions.”

  “If nobody minds the giant hole in the roof,” Gemma added.

  Lisa didn’t even pause for breath. “Your lake has hardly been fished in years. The trout are practically begging to be caught. Fishermen would be buying tackle at Wilson’s Hardware, fuel and groceries at Crossroads Gas ’n’ Stuff...”

  “Not gonna happen,” Gemma responded with a firm shake of her head. “I’ve got my hands full with opening the birthing center. I can’t take on anything else.”

  “Well, keep it in mind for the future. That’s exactly what I’ve been talking about—planning for Reston’s future. This could be a prosperous little town if people would get behind a few of these projects.”

  “Which you’ll think up and organize,” Carly said.

  “Of course. Somebody has to be in charge.”

  “You did do a good job of convincing the mayor to find a buyer to renovate and reopen the Mustang Supermarket,” Carly said.

  “Having three grocery stores in town benefits everyone. Competition is a good thing.”

  “Having three retailers to buy my produce is also a good thing.”

  Smiling, Gemma settled back and only half listened to her friends. This was one of the reasons she had been so happy to move home to Reston. Besides providing a useful service to women in this rural area, she was getting to reconnect with her two best friends. Even though neither of them had anything to do with the medical field, they would be her staunchest supporters as she opened the birthing center.