Read Online Family Practice by Marisa Carroll - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marisa Carroll
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Mac—”
“I heard!” the older woman hollered from her station behind the grill, where a trio of steaks sizzled and flared. “Orange sherbets and chocolate cookies coming up,” she said, never taking her eyes off the steaks as she moved them off the heat for a short rest before plating.
“Thanks, Mac.” Callie whisked across the kitchen and planted a kiss on her old friend’s cheek. “It’s good to be home.”
Mac brushed off the sentiment with a wave of her spatula. “It’s good to have you home, too, Callie. Really good. The town needs you and so does your dad.” She moved away and began berating the hapless college student who was serving as her sous-chef before Callie could ask her what she meant by that last part of her statement.
“C’mon, Callie,” her dad said, sticking his head around the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the rear of the dining room. “Brandon says there’s a two-top open on the porch. It’ll be a squeeze but we’d better snag it while we can.”
“Coming.” Callie called goodbye to Mac and headed toward the door. She wished they had had a chance to talk before this, but no opportunity had presented itself. Soon, though, she would get her friend’s insights on how things were going between J.R. and Ginger.
“I’ll grab an extra chair,” J.R. said, “and when we’re settled you can fill us in on how you’re getting clinic schedules worked out with Zach.”
* * *
T HE SUN WAS GONE , the long midsummer twilight fading into night along the eastern shore of the lake. Zach heard the call of the little pond frogs start up along the marshy strip of shoreline just outside the business district. Music spilled out of the open doors of the White Pine, filtered by some quirk of atmospherics over the rooftops of the motel and cottages on the water’s edge out to where he was fishing. A country song, all guitars and bass. He couldn’t make out the words; it was more sensation than sound, anyway, far less of a disturbance than the trio of Jet Skis returning to the marina dock a quarter mile away.
He shut the lid on his tackle box, secured the hook on his pole, laid it across the seats and unshipped the oars. The bluegills had quit biting and the mosquitoes had started up. Time to call it a night, Zach decided as he freed the anchor of weeds and started rowing toward the dock. He’d been fishing the secret hole J.R. had told him about in the spring. Formed by an underground spring bubbling up from the sandy bottom of the lake, it attracted bluegills and pumpkinseeds of truly awesome size, but he hadn’t kept any fish this time. Too late to start cleaning them tonight.
He could have used the motor on his boat, too, but the exertion and the pull of the oars through the dark water felt good. He hadn’t been getting enough exercise lately. Maybe that was why he wasn’t sleeping as well as he usually did. If he was smart he’d row the full length of the lake, work out the kinks and make himself good and tired, but he didn’t have lights on the little boat, so that option wasn’t going to work tonight.
Instead, he figured he’d better get himself home to the cottage and into the shower before Callie returned from dinner with her family. He knew that was where she was because Brandon had tracked him down a couple of hours earlier with a message from Mac. The cook had been running short of bluegill fillets and had been willing to pay fifteen bucks a pound if he had any in the freezer of his refrigerator. He did have a couple of bags and he’d told Brandon he’d trade them for a steak dinner or a couple of burgers some night when he didn’t feel like being by himself. Or when the duplex walls seemed to be closing in on him.
That seemed to be happening more often lately, and it wasn’t because of the PTSD. It was because of Callie. He’d thought the soundproofing was pretty good. The two or three short-term renters earlier in the summer hadn’t disturbed his
“I heard!” the older woman hollered from her station behind the grill, where a trio of steaks sizzled and flared. “Orange sherbets and chocolate cookies coming up,” she said, never taking her eyes off the steaks as she moved them off the heat for a short rest before plating.
“Thanks, Mac.” Callie whisked across the kitchen and planted a kiss on her old friend’s cheek. “It’s good to be home.”
Mac brushed off the sentiment with a wave of her spatula. “It’s good to have you home, too, Callie. Really good. The town needs you and so does your dad.” She moved away and began berating the hapless college student who was serving as her sous-chef before Callie could ask her what she meant by that last part of her statement.
“C’mon, Callie,” her dad said, sticking his head around the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the rear of the dining room. “Brandon says there’s a two-top open on the porch. It’ll be a squeeze but we’d better snag it while we can.”
“Coming.” Callie called goodbye to Mac and headed toward the door. She wished they had had a chance to talk before this, but no opportunity had presented itself. Soon, though, she would get her friend’s insights on how things were going between J.R. and Ginger.
“I’ll grab an extra chair,” J.R. said, “and when we’re settled you can fill us in on how you’re getting clinic schedules worked out with Zach.”
* * *
T HE SUN WAS GONE , the long midsummer twilight fading into night along the eastern shore of the lake. Zach heard the call of the little pond frogs start up along the marshy strip of shoreline just outside the business district. Music spilled out of the open doors of the White Pine, filtered by some quirk of atmospherics over the rooftops of the motel and cottages on the water’s edge out to where he was fishing. A country song, all guitars and bass. He couldn’t make out the words; it was more sensation than sound, anyway, far less of a disturbance than the trio of Jet Skis returning to the marina dock a quarter mile away.
He shut the lid on his tackle box, secured the hook on his pole, laid it across the seats and unshipped the oars. The bluegills had quit biting and the mosquitoes had started up. Time to call it a night, Zach decided as he freed the anchor of weeds and started rowing toward the dock. He’d been fishing the secret hole J.R. had told him about in the spring. Formed by an underground spring bubbling up from the sandy bottom of the lake, it attracted bluegills and pumpkinseeds of truly awesome size, but he hadn’t kept any fish this time. Too late to start cleaning them tonight.
He could have used the motor on his boat, too, but the exertion and the pull of the oars through the dark water felt good. He hadn’t been getting enough exercise lately. Maybe that was why he wasn’t sleeping as well as he usually did. If he was smart he’d row the full length of the lake, work out the kinks and make himself good and tired, but he didn’t have lights on the little boat, so that option wasn’t going to work tonight.
Instead, he figured he’d better get himself home to the cottage and into the shower before Callie returned from dinner with her family. He knew that was where she was because Brandon had tracked him down a couple of hours earlier with a message from Mac. The cook had been running short of bluegill fillets and had been willing to pay fifteen bucks a pound if he had any in the freezer of his refrigerator. He did have a couple of bags and he’d told Brandon he’d trade them for a steak dinner or a couple of burgers some night when he didn’t feel like being by himself. Or when the duplex walls seemed to be closing in on him.
That seemed to be happening more often lately, and it wasn’t because of the PTSD. It was because of Callie. He’d thought the soundproofing was pretty good. The two or three short-term renters earlier in the summer hadn’t disturbed his
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