being
together, that neither of us meddled in the other's finances.
We just knew we'd have given each other the
world, no strings attached.
"Still," he went on, "I'll bet it galls you. Having it
a lot more at risk than you planned."
"Right. And that's an understatement."
Wade understood that I was a little crazy about my
financial security. Well, maybe a lot crazy: even aside
from Sam's feelings and Victor's innocence, if there
was anything I could do to avoid losing that money, I
was going to.
"And the only way for me not to lose it," I said, "is
for Victor to get back to his project. Otherwise the
whole idea goes off the rails and my investment goes
with it, because without a surgeon a trauma center is
pretty pointless, wouldn't you say?"
Wade took another meditative sip of his ale. "You
can't just find another surgeon, maybe advertise in the
city papers? Hire on someone else to fill in for Victor?"
It was a good thought, but not practical. "Downeast
Maine is too remote. Victor wants to be up here;
the rest follows from that. To anyone else this area
would look like a career dead end, but he's willing to
let it develop."
With Victor heading it, a local trauma center could
attract whatever it needed, given time and patience:
more money, a rising reputation, other staff.
But without him, its chances were zippo.
"Uh-huh," Wade said quietly when I'd finished,
which for him was unusual; ordinarily, his energy
could charge a truck battery.
"Sam all right?"
I peered at him. "Hanging in there. What about
you?'
"Oh, fine." He frowned at the ale bottle. "I guess.
But this just makes me realize again that I shouldn't
have left Victor in the bar last night. I knew Reuben
was after him but I walked away. So in a way this is--"
All my fault, he was about to say, and I just stared
at him. Self-flagellation was not exactly his usual habit.
"Wade, there was nothing you could have--"
He got up, his face severe. "Done? Yes, there was.
A long time ago. But I didn't do it."
He rubbed a big hand over his wiry hair. "I could
have, but I didn't. Just like last night. And now ...
look, one thing I know from working on the water is,
no one's going to do it for you. If you want something
a certain way, you've got to make it that way. And
when push came to shove last night, I did nothing."
Looking around the kitchen, he shook his head angrily.
"Ah, hell. Got a nice old Remington shotgun in
the truck, a guy wants me to work on for him. But in
the mood I'm in, if I put a hand to it I'll just screw it
up. I'll see you later."
With a grimace of self-disgust he pulled his jacket
back on and went out, not even stopping to pat Monday,
who watched him go with a look of hurt puzzlement
in her eyes.
I felt the same. Like many Maine men, Wade
guards a core of privacy; he tells his secrets in his own
time, when he is ready. And mostly, that worked fine
for both of us.
But at the moment I wasn't in favor of secrets.
Not at all.
My lovely old white clapboard Federal was
charming and historical, but its state of repair
lent new meaning to the term fixer
upper. Calling it drafty, for instance, would
have been putting it mildly. The way the wind blew
through that old place in winter, I might as well have
told the oil man to pump heating oil into the street, and
burned it there without bothering to run it through the
furnace.
And winter, despite the brilliant autumn afternoon,
was not far off. So, after Wade had gone, I
trudged upstairs to start the weatherstripping project.
With me I brought the clawhammer and the pry bar
from my cellar workbench, a tack hammer and nails,
the enormous heavy roll of copper weatherstripping I'd
lugged uphill from Wadsworth's Hardware, and a tape
measure.
Hauling them all into the big, bright front room
overlooking the street, I began removing sashes
together, that neither of us meddled in the other's finances.
We just knew we'd have given each other the
world, no strings attached.
"Still," he went on, "I'll bet it galls you. Having it
a lot more at risk than you planned."
"Right. And that's an understatement."
Wade understood that I was a little crazy about my
financial security. Well, maybe a lot crazy: even aside
from Sam's feelings and Victor's innocence, if there
was anything I could do to avoid losing that money, I
was going to.
"And the only way for me not to lose it," I said, "is
for Victor to get back to his project. Otherwise the
whole idea goes off the rails and my investment goes
with it, because without a surgeon a trauma center is
pretty pointless, wouldn't you say?"
Wade took another meditative sip of his ale. "You
can't just find another surgeon, maybe advertise in the
city papers? Hire on someone else to fill in for Victor?"
It was a good thought, but not practical. "Downeast
Maine is too remote. Victor wants to be up here;
the rest follows from that. To anyone else this area
would look like a career dead end, but he's willing to
let it develop."
With Victor heading it, a local trauma center could
attract whatever it needed, given time and patience:
more money, a rising reputation, other staff.
But without him, its chances were zippo.
"Uh-huh," Wade said quietly when I'd finished,
which for him was unusual; ordinarily, his energy
could charge a truck battery.
"Sam all right?"
I peered at him. "Hanging in there. What about
you?'
"Oh, fine." He frowned at the ale bottle. "I guess.
But this just makes me realize again that I shouldn't
have left Victor in the bar last night. I knew Reuben
was after him but I walked away. So in a way this is--"
All my fault, he was about to say, and I just stared
at him. Self-flagellation was not exactly his usual habit.
"Wade, there was nothing you could have--"
He got up, his face severe. "Done? Yes, there was.
A long time ago. But I didn't do it."
He rubbed a big hand over his wiry hair. "I could
have, but I didn't. Just like last night. And now ...
look, one thing I know from working on the water is,
no one's going to do it for you. If you want something
a certain way, you've got to make it that way. And
when push came to shove last night, I did nothing."
Looking around the kitchen, he shook his head angrily.
"Ah, hell. Got a nice old Remington shotgun in
the truck, a guy wants me to work on for him. But in
the mood I'm in, if I put a hand to it I'll just screw it
up. I'll see you later."
With a grimace of self-disgust he pulled his jacket
back on and went out, not even stopping to pat Monday,
who watched him go with a look of hurt puzzlement
in her eyes.
I felt the same. Like many Maine men, Wade
guards a core of privacy; he tells his secrets in his own
time, when he is ready. And mostly, that worked fine
for both of us.
But at the moment I wasn't in favor of secrets.
Not at all.
My lovely old white clapboard Federal was
charming and historical, but its state of repair
lent new meaning to the term fixer
upper. Calling it drafty, for instance, would
have been putting it mildly. The way the wind blew
through that old place in winter, I might as well have
told the oil man to pump heating oil into the street, and
burned it there without bothering to run it through the
furnace.
And winter, despite the brilliant autumn afternoon,
was not far off. So, after Wade had gone, I
trudged upstairs to start the weatherstripping project.
With me I brought the clawhammer and the pry bar
from my cellar workbench, a tack hammer and nails,
the enormous heavy roll of copper weatherstripping I'd
lugged uphill from Wadsworth's Hardware, and a tape
measure.
Hauling them all into the big, bright front room
overlooking the street, I began removing sashes
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