you’re having a minor panic attack.”
“Minor? This ain’t minor. Plus, I lived through three husbands, I don’t do panic.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, smiling. “Now close your eyes and try to relax.”
Peg closed her eyes, and after a few minutes, her breathing returned to normal as well as her heart rate. The woman was even smiling. “Where are you?”
“Fishing. Watching the water and enjoying the absence of arguing,” Peg said in the same tone she used when retelling how she scared small children every Halloween. But Glory had never been scared of Peg. She’d always felt sorry for her, living that far out of town all alone.
“How does your chest feel now?”
“Better. Much better.” She opened her eyes; they were dazed and sleepy. “So I’m not dying?”
“No, I think you’re suffering from panic attacks, which can seem a lot like having a heart attack,” Glory explained, proud of her quick assessment. “Have you been under a lot of stress lately?”
“It’s that damned Harvest Fest,” Peg said and— whoa —the mere mention of the annual festival sent Peg’s heart rate bordering on dangerous and her breathing became jerky. “I tried to retire from the Harvest Council last year, and the year before that, but every time I do, Ms. Kitty and that Hattie McGraw start flapping their gums and scare off anyone thinking about running. No council means no festival.”
Which would mean a lot of lost income for the people of Sugar.
Between the Miss Peach Pageant and the tractor pull, the festival usually generated enough money to float the town’s economy until the next harvest. That it was hosted by the Harvest Council, a board constructed of the ever so entitled Sugar Peaches and other social-climbing ladies of peach country, meant finding a willing participant to take over as committee chair would be impossible.
Glory was the least involved woman in town with regard to the harvest—peaches gave her hives—but even she knew how much time, patience, and referee skills it took to organize the town’s biggest event. Peg was the only person in Sugar who had brass peaches big enough to put themselves in the middle of one of the longest-standing feuds in Sugar. And since she’d been doing it for over two decades, the woman deserved a break.
“You know what I think you need,” Glory asked.
“One of those fighting cages to lock Kitty and Hattie in?”
“Nope. You need to go fishing.”
Confident that the situation was not life threatening, Glory helped Mrs. Brass get comfortable on the exam table and left her with the latest edition of the Saltwater Sportsman and a promise that the doctor would be in momentarily. Grabbing the bulb syringe, she hurried back to Exam Room 9 and little Cole Andrew’s obstructed left nostril.
Twenty minutes and a successful retrieval later, Cole was on his way home with his Lego toys safely stored in a plastic bag and an “Unencumbered Sniffer Is a Happy Sniffer” pamphlet in his backpack, and Glory made her way to the break room. She grabbed her snack from the fridge and was about to take a seat when she noticed the big, pink box of doughnuts on the counter. Convincing herself that it would be empty by now, she took a long detour on her way to the table and—
Damn it!
She looked at her yogurt parfait, healthy and sensible, then at the maple doughnut with pink sprinkles looking ever so lonely in the near empty box. Glory leaned down and took a big sniff, closing her eyes as the sweet scent drifted past, then remembered the old-fashioned doughnut she’d inhaled before her shift and the fact that she’d hadn’t run since last week, and plopped down at a table with her yogurt.
“Nasal obstruction and Mrs. Brass all before noon?” Mouthful of yogurt and granola, Glory looked up to find the woman she’d spent her morning avoiding. “I would have gone for something stronger.”
“Dr. Holden.” Glory forced an innocent smile.
Poised, sophisticated,
“Minor? This ain’t minor. Plus, I lived through three husbands, I don’t do panic.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, smiling. “Now close your eyes and try to relax.”
Peg closed her eyes, and after a few minutes, her breathing returned to normal as well as her heart rate. The woman was even smiling. “Where are you?”
“Fishing. Watching the water and enjoying the absence of arguing,” Peg said in the same tone she used when retelling how she scared small children every Halloween. But Glory had never been scared of Peg. She’d always felt sorry for her, living that far out of town all alone.
“How does your chest feel now?”
“Better. Much better.” She opened her eyes; they were dazed and sleepy. “So I’m not dying?”
“No, I think you’re suffering from panic attacks, which can seem a lot like having a heart attack,” Glory explained, proud of her quick assessment. “Have you been under a lot of stress lately?”
“It’s that damned Harvest Fest,” Peg said and— whoa —the mere mention of the annual festival sent Peg’s heart rate bordering on dangerous and her breathing became jerky. “I tried to retire from the Harvest Council last year, and the year before that, but every time I do, Ms. Kitty and that Hattie McGraw start flapping their gums and scare off anyone thinking about running. No council means no festival.”
Which would mean a lot of lost income for the people of Sugar.
Between the Miss Peach Pageant and the tractor pull, the festival usually generated enough money to float the town’s economy until the next harvest. That it was hosted by the Harvest Council, a board constructed of the ever so entitled Sugar Peaches and other social-climbing ladies of peach country, meant finding a willing participant to take over as committee chair would be impossible.
Glory was the least involved woman in town with regard to the harvest—peaches gave her hives—but even she knew how much time, patience, and referee skills it took to organize the town’s biggest event. Peg was the only person in Sugar who had brass peaches big enough to put themselves in the middle of one of the longest-standing feuds in Sugar. And since she’d been doing it for over two decades, the woman deserved a break.
“You know what I think you need,” Glory asked.
“One of those fighting cages to lock Kitty and Hattie in?”
“Nope. You need to go fishing.”
Confident that the situation was not life threatening, Glory helped Mrs. Brass get comfortable on the exam table and left her with the latest edition of the Saltwater Sportsman and a promise that the doctor would be in momentarily. Grabbing the bulb syringe, she hurried back to Exam Room 9 and little Cole Andrew’s obstructed left nostril.
Twenty minutes and a successful retrieval later, Cole was on his way home with his Lego toys safely stored in a plastic bag and an “Unencumbered Sniffer Is a Happy Sniffer” pamphlet in his backpack, and Glory made her way to the break room. She grabbed her snack from the fridge and was about to take a seat when she noticed the big, pink box of doughnuts on the counter. Convincing herself that it would be empty by now, she took a long detour on her way to the table and—
Damn it!
She looked at her yogurt parfait, healthy and sensible, then at the maple doughnut with pink sprinkles looking ever so lonely in the near empty box. Glory leaned down and took a big sniff, closing her eyes as the sweet scent drifted past, then remembered the old-fashioned doughnut she’d inhaled before her shift and the fact that she’d hadn’t run since last week, and plopped down at a table with her yogurt.
“Nasal obstruction and Mrs. Brass all before noon?” Mouthful of yogurt and granola, Glory looked up to find the woman she’d spent her morning avoiding. “I would have gone for something stronger.”
“Dr. Holden.” Glory forced an innocent smile.
Poised, sophisticated,
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