“It’s not the house, it’s me gettin’ up at four in the morning to ride clear to Fort Seward with my mama and auntie to work at that flower hothouse up there. That’s what’s wearin’ me down, but I can’t do nothin’ about it. We need the money.”
“And where does Gary work?” June asked.
“He works timber…when he works. He’s off right now.”
June frowned. Off? He must have gotten fired, because logging was good at the moment. It was during the rainy winter months that loggers, construction workers and fishermen had trouble staying employed. In spring, everybody went to work.
“He do anything else?” June asked. “Besides logging?”
“Framing. Sometimes.”
New construction was up, too. People were flooding to small, out-of-the-way coastal, valley and mountain areas, giving up on the big, dirty cities in search of the quiet, clean country life. How else could Grace Valley account for almost doubling its population in ten years?
“That is quite a drive you have to take. I’m more than happy to see you through this pregnancy, Christina, but did you know Dr. Lowe is right on your way to Fort Seward? You could probably make appointments on the way to or from work.”
“I know. But I heard you was real good.”
“Oh really,” June said, smiling in spite of herself. How stupid to smile at that, she thought. This girl didn’t know what good was. Still, it gave June enormous pleasure to know she was liked. “That’s nice.” And she looked back at the chart. Christina was not healthy and should see a specialist. June had high hopes of hiring John Stone, which would resolve so many similar problems.
“I’m going to see that you leave here with an extra supply of vitamins, Christina. I want you to double up and try to put on a little weight.”
“Gary don’t much like chubby girls,” she said.
“Well, if Gary wants to be a daddy, he’d better develop a taste for them. That baby needs nourishment.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know it.”
This was the part of country doctoring that was so hard. Grace Valley was a quaint village with some special shops and a few restaurants that drew people from other towns—people who drove nice cars. Most merchants did well here, and relocated yuppies who didn’t seem to need money had moved in and raised the standard of living even more. Their taxes were welcomed by the schoolboard and roads department. Plus there were some successful farms, orchards, vineyards and ranches around the valley. But there was plentiful abject poverty, as well. Poor people who might not be seen in the Vine & Ivy, a quaint restaurant and gift shop at the edge of town. But June saw them. They didn’t shop at The Crack’d Door—an upscale gallery that had opened six years before—but she could run into them anywhere, even her own living room at dawn. You could look at the houses in town, the bed-and-breakfasts that had opened since the late eighties, the local tasting rooms, some of the new architecture, and begin to think of this place as upscale country. An affluent village. But there was an underside here, not visible to the casual eye, that concerned only the police, medical and social welfare people: battered women living in isolation on rundown farms; a roadhouse called Dandies that was not quaint and did not welcome tourists.
And any new doctor June brought into this clinic had better understand the two faces of this town.
When she took Christina’s chart to the front of the clinic, she saw that the young girl had been her last patient for the morning. The waiting room was blessedly empty.
“You have plans for lunch?” Charlotte asked.
“Just to avoid George Fuller.”
“I heard he sent some people out by your house at six in the morning and they caught you naked, just gettin’ out of the shower,” Charlotte said.
“My God! This town is amazing! Why do we bother with a newspaper?”
Charlotte shrugged. “For good fiction, I imagine. Bet you wished you’d plugged that cordless phone in for once, don’t you.”
“Has my father been here?” June demanded, shocked.
“No, but your aunt Myrna called…and asked could you come out to lunch today, and if you can, would you bring her some more of that blood pressure medicine.”
It was remarkable to June that, living in a town where everyone knew everyone’s business, her aunt didn’t realize that her blood pressure pills were placebos. Myrna was in astonishingly good health.
June had been out to Myrna’s a lot lately, evidence that her aunt was bored or lonely or restless. Myrna, aged eighty-four, was hardly housebound. She drove a 1967 Cadillac all over the place, including to weekly poker with Elmer, Judge Forrest, Burt Crandall and Sam Cussler. Myrna was the oldest player and most frequent winner.
“Call her and tell her I’ll be right out,” June told Charlotte. “I need a change of scenery. And tell her I’ll bring scones from the bakery.” June began to walk away.
“Didn’t you already have a bear claw today?” Charlotte asked.
June stopped, looked back over her shoulder and peered at her nurse. Charlotte was past pleasantly plump, and June had never known her to be slender. She, on the other hand, was whip thin, one of those pathetic creatures who’d drunk supplements to put on weight in high school. Yet Charlotte kept track of June’s food intake as though she had an eating disorder. June lifted her eyebrows questioningly.
“You won’t always be young,” Charlotte said, and turned her back on June.
June sat in her Jeep behind the clinic, door open, and wrote down in a little notebook she kept in her bag a few questions she wanted to ask John Stone, a few things she wanted to remember to tell him.
“My heavens above,” she heard a man say, and she jumped in surprise. There, leaning against her opened door, was Jonathan Wickham. He pounded his fist against his chest. “Look at you! What’s the occasion?”
She didn’t know what he was talking about at first, but then remembered she had dressed up just a little. Gaberdine slacks with creases as opposed to jeans and boots. Skirts and dresses were fine for city docs, but out here, when a call might come from a logging site or farm, it was more sensible to be prepared than to slip in the mud wearing a thin-soled slipper and end up with your skirt over your head.
“Oh, that’s right,” she said. “I’m interviewing a potential new doctor this afternoon. What’s that on your cheek, Jonathan? Looks like you got slapped.”
He frowned, touched his palm to his cheek, then realized she was probably kidding, and smiled at her.
Jonathan was one of those men who had a shot at being handsome, and spoiled it with ridiculousness. He was tall and slim, a bit over six feet. His labors were spiritual as opposed to physical, so his body was not muscular, but neither was he frail. He had a strong chin, square jaw and slightly rosy cheeks. His teeth were strong and straight, but unfortunately for him, his smile always seemed forced. And then there was that little problem with baldness. As was typical, if he’d just let it go, it would be so much better. But no, he had to try hair pieces, wigs, and now these foolish plugs.
“Well, you look ravishing,” he said to June. “You would tempt the very saints.”
“That’s great, Jonathan, so long as I don’t tempt you.” She turned the key and started the ignition.
“Ah, June, I am but a mortal—”
“Didn’t I see Mary Lou Granger storm out of the church this morning…right after Clarice stormed in? It almost seemed as though they might’ve had a disagreement.”
He had to think about this for a moment, and June realized that Tom was right. It was hard to look at those silly plugs and keep a straight face. Jonathan was such a notorious flirt, and so bad at it, too. But there was something about June’s demeanor, she knew, that held him at bay, as though he knew, instinctively, that if he ever touched her, she’d break his arm.
“I can’t recall what that might’ve been about,” he said. “Probably some misunderstanding.”
“Probably,” she said, putting the Jeep in reverse. “Jonathan, I have t
o get going. I’m running late. Was there something special you needed, or are you just casting out compliments to see if you catch anything?”
He laughed, backed away from the car and said, “You know me too well, don’t you? I was on my way to the clinic to ask for a handout. I’m all out of that cream you gave me for the dry skin.”
She pulled her door closed and draped an elbow out the open window. “You can go in and ask Charlotte, or you can come back later. I have errands.”
At that moment Charlotte came out of the clinic, her purse hanging from her arm, and caught the tail end of what June said.
“Come back later,” she told the pastor.
“I could…ah…maybe little Jessie could—”
“Jessie isn’t allowed to hand out medicines, Pastor. Better not—”
“I’ll just go see how she’s doing…haven’t seen her in—”
“No!” both women barked, and his palms went up as if to ward off their protests. He slowly turned and made his way back across the street. June and Charlotte made eye contact briefly, but neither moved out of the clinic parking lot until he was all the way across the street, safely ensconced in his church. And then Charlotte did something rare. She turned around and locked the back door. Anyone who walked in the front door of the clinic, where Jessica would probably be sitting at the reception desk, would be in full view of the street, the café and the church.
June and the nurse made eye contact again and both nodded in agreement.
Pastor Wickham and his family had been in the valley less than a year, and his reputation was getting worse by the day. This seemed to greatly amuse the old men at the café, but June thought that several women, and she for one, were getting just a little tired of it.
Charlotte routinely went home for lunch, where she could eat with Bud, and they could both smoke in peace. If June was gone, which she almost always was, that left Jessica alone in the clinic to answer phones and eat her packed lunch.
This was very much to her liking. If anyone knew how she occupied herself, they might think more than her hair was strange. She would go into June’s office and find a medical book, usually Gray’s Anatomy but sometimes Disease and Microbiology. She spent about forty-five minutes reading and looking at pictures while she slowly nibbled away at her peanut butter and pickle sandwich.
No one knew. Since Jessica had dropped out of high school and had no diploma, she was sure the fact that she read complicated science textbooks with lunch would only make people laugh. Her father understood that it wasn’t a dislike of school, per se, that had caused her to drop out, but feeling so out of place.
Here, in June’s clinic, Jessica felt at home.
The bakery was operated by Burt Crandall and his wife, Syl. When Burt had returned to Grace Valley after the Korean War, he’d wanted a business of his own so he could stay. Since he didn’t farm or fish, he knew he’d have to be a merchant of some kind or else leave for a town with some industry. He’d wanted the gas station, but it wasn’t for sale, so he opened a bakery, without having the first idea how to bake. But you’d never know it from tasting. Burt supplied everyone in town, including the café and the Vine & Ivy, and a good many eateries in surrounding towns.
The bell jangled as she walked in.
“Hey there, June. I heard you flashed some little old mountain people this morning,” Burt remarked, a wide grin on his face.
“You know me,” she said wearily. “Just can’t keep my clothes on.”
He laughed happily, a high-pitched giggle, really. His teeth were too big for his mouth and his good nature brought them into frequent prominence. He was thin all over except for his round paunch, like a barrel on legs.
His wife, however, was built like a little beach ball—five feet tall and round as an apple. Right on cue, Syl came through the swinging door from the back. She carried a large tray full of fresh cookies. “Burt, leave that girl alone. June, you just pay him no attention. And take some cookies while they’re warm.” That said, Syl went back to the ovens.
“Give me four scones and hold the bullshit,” June said to Burt.
“Oh, you going out to Myrna’s? Tell her I baked these special for her. You know, June, you ought to have a dog, warn you if someone’s letting themselves in your house.”
That was a dead giveaway.
“My father used to be the most discreet person in the valley. And now I think he has just about the biggest mouth.”
“He’s been fishing too much. Fishermen—big-mouthed liars, that’s what they are. Plus I think keeping all those secrets he had to as a doctor ate a hole straight through him and now he just can’t shut up. That’s what I think.” Burt put the scones in a box while June dug out her money. “He still has a poker face, though, old coot.”
“Says the pot.”
“Tonight’s meat loaf night, isn’t it? Why don’t you take some dinner rolls with you. Elmer likes these potato rolls.”
“Burt, don’t you think there’s something wrong with living in a place where people know what you’re eating for dinner?”
Burt grinned and popped four dinner rolls into a white bag. “Naw, honey, I don’t worry about that. I take comfort in it.” He handed her the bag and she reluctantly smiled, but she did not go for her purse. Damned if she’d take his bull and pay him for it, too. “What I think is worrisome is running around naked in front of strangers,” he stated. Then he laughed so hard a little tear gathered at the corner of his right eye.
June snatched the bag out his hand. She gave him a warning glare as she left, but she could hear his laughter long after the bakery door closed behind her. She got into her Jeep. “Serve him right if he popped a vessel,” she said to herself, and headed for the gas station.
The garage door was down and the shade on the window at half-mast. June pumped the gas herself, and while her tank filled, she thought about the situation. This was going to change. People were moving to the valley and they didn’t understand these old ways. The station was Sam Cussler’s and he worked when it suited him and fished when he wanted to. He might have locked the station, but then again, it might be open. Since people were driving more foreign cars, Sam was doing less mechanical work. The pumps were left running, and if you needed gas, you pumped it yourself, then scribbled the amount you took on a slip of paper and stuffed it in a box with a slot that hung on the post by the pump. Once in a while, probably when he needed bait, Sam would go around and collect.
“Hey, young woman,” he called, coming out the side door with a tackle box and fishing pole. “You caught me. I was just slipping away.”
“I didn’t see your truck,” June said.
“I gave it to George’s boy to run some errands.”
“You want a lift to the river?” she asked.
“Naw. I’m gonna worry Windle Stream, right back of Fuller’s Café. I don’t know if I’ll catch anything, but I’ll avoid work, which is my main occupation. Heard you got yourself caught naked by some family from back in Shell Mountain. Some people George sent out to your place.”
Sam Cussler was a good-natured man, with a deep tan, pink cheeks and twinkling eyes, a full head of lush white hair and a thick white beard. If he were round, he’d resemble Santa, but though he was probably seventy, he had the physique of a much younger man—tall frame, muscled arms, flat stomach. All those years of hefting auto parts and casting fishing line, no doubt. He was vigorous and healthy and his blue eyes shamed Paul Newman.
“That’s pretty much the story,” June said.
“What would we do without old George?” Sam asked.
“We almost had a chance to find out. I gave serious thought to killing him.” She reached into the truck and got out her purse while Sam stopped the pump for her. She pulled out a twenty and handed it to him. The price on the pump was 16.78. He removed a wad the size of a large orange from his pocket and peeled off four ones. She saw him pass by twenties, fifties, tens, fives.
“It’s your lucky day…I’m
running a special,” he said, giving her more change than she had coming. He obviously didn’t want to count out silver.
“Sam, you shouldn’t carry around all that money,” she said. “At least, don’t pull it out and count it off for customers. What if someone robs you?”
“I don’t worry about that much,” he said.
“You should,” she said, getting into her Jeep. “This town is growing. And changing.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, June. In fact, I’ll think about that while I’m fishing. I was just looking for a subject to think about today.”
Myrna lived in what Grace Valley residents considered the Hudson family home. Grandpa Hudson had made his money in mining and banking, married a young woman late in life and migrated up to Grace Valley when his baby daughter, Myrna Mae, was born. Twelve years later Elmer came along, and by then Grandpa Hudson was well into his sixties. Yet it was his young wife who died, at only thirty-four. That left Myrna, aged fourteen, and Elmer, aged two, and their daddy, facing his seventieth birthday. But he didn’t quite make it.
As things often went back then, Myrna raised her brother in the house that was their parents’, even though she was a mere girl herself. She was completely devoted to Elmer, saw to his education, judiciously guarded the money that was left to them, invested with caution, kept the house clean and in good repair, and never gave a thought to herself or her own needs until Elmer was a certified doctor and married to June’s mother—all of which came when Elmer was in his thirties and Myrna in her forties.
Remarkably, Myrna let go of Elmer with grace and pride. It wasn’t until then that she married Morton Claypool, a traveling salesman, with whom she had seventeen good years before she “misplaced” him. Her word. The whole story of that was yet to be revealed, but town gossip ranged from him having another family somewhere, to whom he returned, to him lying stiff and cold under Hudson House. Myrna, June believed, relished the mysteriousness this part of her life presented to the town. And in her own way, she encouraged the rumors.