Page 66 of Doctorshipped
“Done.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
A strange silence settles on the line. Neither of us seems willing to say anything else. I stare at the bulletin board across the hall from where I’m standing, unable to focus on the details of any of the flyers. My heart races just the slightest and my palms feel sweaty.
“Okay then,” Grant finally says.
“Okay. We’ll see you when this is all over.”
21
GRANT
Another day, another gathering of townspeople in the waiting room of my home. Murmurs of conversation drift through the paneled doors of my office, and I gird myself to deal with the variety of concerns they’ll bring to me. Thankfully, Hazel showed up today to cover any overflow and to work on some patient charts. She always buffers situations with her capacity for being patient and pleasant even when it’s completely unwarranted.
The doors to my office slide open like a curtain on the opening night of a play. My audience consists of a mother with a toddler, an elderly man I don’t recognize, and a younger woman who stands up and says, “Hi, Doc. I’m Meg.”
Hazel looks at me. “Meg is your first patient. And I’ll remind you, I’m not your receptionist.”
“Understood,” I say. “I’ll get on that soon.”
I did get the CLOSED sign shipped to me through Amazon last week. Not OPEN/CLOSED, just CLOSED. It’s unfortunately not blinking neon, or equipped with tasers, so people still traipse into my home at non-office hours, even when the sign hangs at eye level on our front door. Bordeaux, Ohio, the land of zero boundaries and infinite mystery casseroles.
When I inform Hazel of my intention to hire a receptionist, her expression morphs into a smile. It’s far too early for smiles, especially after the night I spent picturing Jayme ogling Brooks without his shirt on, as she memorized every nuance of his physique.
Why do I care? That’s the most unnerving piece of all this. For some reason, Jayme has burrowed into my life and mind ever since that first moment I saw her fuming at the airport. And I’ve never had such a hard time containing the direction of my thoughts. I spent half the night nearly crazed with images of her and Brooks making eyes at one another while he sat there in his half-robed glory, secretly flexing for her when no one else was looking.
“Follow me,” I tell Meg.
She walks behind me and I shut the doors once she’s in the office. Meg looks to be around the same age as Jayme.
Jayme.
Always Jayme.
“What brings you to my office today?”
Meg hops up onto the exam table near the windows.
“I’ve got a pain in my wrist.”
“Did you do anything that may have sprained or strained it?”
“Nothing exactly. I work at the accounting firm.”
“So you spend a lot of time on your computer?”
“Some. We’re not exactly H & R Block. It’s Bordeaux. But, I do type throughout the day.”
“Let me take a look.”
I walk toward Meg.
Meg holds out her arm and looks up through her lashes at me. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
I stop in my tracks. Another Cherry Blanchard, Ella Mae type? Of course. I’m finding there are three types of women in this town. The seniors, who can be frisky and out of line in their own endearing way. The married women, who keep to themselves and are the real glue of this community. And women like Meg, who are stuck in this corn-bordered oasis without many prospects for finding a husband. They aren’t subtle or shy when it comes to making advances.
