Chapter 4
Jake
Unruly. That’s what this new girl, Ali, was. Unplanned. Unpredictable. Impractical in all the ways I usually avoided.
And yet. I found myself thinking about her the rest of the day.
She saw right through me too.
She clocked me as the one who plays it safe. The boring one.
That bothered me. A lot.
I walked through the back door to the clinic and put on my lab coat. I made sure to fill one of the pockets with mini treats. Always at the ready to ease the fears of one of my patients.
As I turned around, Chicory, my four-legged sidekick, waited patiently in a tall sit position for acknowledgment and, of course, a treat of his own.
“Chic. Hey, boy.” He loved to be scratched behind his blond ears. Chicory was a gentle golden retriever and a popular guy around town. He served as the clinic ambassador by being a soothing presence for new pets coming to the clinic.
“That’s a good boy,” I said with one last scruff of his coat.
When I’d left on my errand run, my office manager, Sheila, was busy organizing files.
I expected to find her behind the front desk still sorting those worn-out manila folders.
The woman was as disciplined and organized as a honeybee.
She’d established herself as indispensable from the jump and approached everything with precision and diligence. My savior.
Last week, she’d decided it was time to convert all the physical files to digital so we could move over to a new online system to better communicate with the families we serve—something I had wanted to do for a while.
It was a massive undertaking. I didn’t even know where to begin.
Sheila, though, she tackled it like a champ, with a three-phase plan, weekly goal markers, and regular progress updates.
Like I said, my savior. She matched my weird in ways I could not articulate out loud for fear of ridicule. But she got it.
“Hey, Doc,” Sheila said, sounding winded. And her voice came from the floor.
“Sheila? You okay?” I ran over to the front desk.
“All good, Doc. Just working on my planks.”
“Your planks?” I leaned over the front desk to peer over the reception desk and down at the floor. Sure enough. Sheila was indeed in a forearm plank, hovering over a bright pink yoga mat.
She hopped up like she was launching out of a burpee.
“Yep. I read about a woman who beat the world record for holding a plank. She made it to four hours, thirty minutes, and eleven seconds. A Canadian,” Sheila said.
“I figure I can beat that with a little training. She was fifty-eight, Jake! Not only can I beat her time, but I will do it in my sixties.”
The smile on Sheila’s face was contagious. While she and I were alike in our discipline and routine, Sheila had boundless energy, strength, and enthusiasm. Her petite, thin build and short hair may have made her appear like a more mature Tinker Bell, but she was as fierce as they came.
“That Canadian doesn’t know what’s coming!” I said encouragingly. “How long are you up to so far?”
“I surpassed the three-minute mark over the weekend.”
“Impressive.”
“Don’t you worry, Doc. My training won’t interfere with my work here. This is just my latest goal. You know me.”
Sheila lost her husband to cancer a few years back.
I was running a program to bring dogs into hospice and palliative care centers to offer comfort to the family members coping with the loss of their loved ones.
On the day Sheila’s husband died, Chicory and I happened to be visiting the center.
She’d stroked Chic’s soft blond coat and let tears pool at the edges of her weary eyes.
It was Chic, not me, she’d looked to for guidance as she asked if we knew of any jobs for a grieving widow whose work experience consisted mainly of managing a household for thirty years.
I had only just that very morning discussed with Chic myself about how I needed a front desk manager for my then newly opened clinic.
At the time, I was in a bit of a sad rut myself, and talking through things out loud to Chicory had become my therapy.
I swear he had a sly, all-knowing look in his eye as Sheila asked about a job.
I don’t believe in a lot that can’t be proven by science and logic, except when it comes to animal instincts and the nonverbal energy exchange that constantly shows up between pets and humans.
It hasn’t been proven as fact, but I’ve felt it and seen it on too many occasions to fully deny its existence.
That day with Sheila was one of those experiences.
A week later, Sheila Kessler showed up ready for a new purpose in life. She thought her thirty years working inside the home would be viewed as a weakness to potential employers, but I knew it had prepared her for exactly what my clinic needed.
Chicory, in all his wisdom, made that happen.
Also, since losing her husband, Sheila had been taking on new goals, as she liked to call them. World-record planking was probably one of her most ambitious yet.
“No, ma’am. My bigger concern is if this goal of yours means you’ll be rewarding yourself at each milestone you reach.
” That meant a regular supply of some sort of sweet treat—no chocolate, of course, because that was toxic to animals—but always something addictive and sugary.
It was only a problem because she was all too willing to share.
“Of course! That’s the best part!” she said with a knowing laugh.
“Ugh! You’re gonna kill me, Sheila. All that temptation.”
“My reward comes in the shape and flavor profile of gummy bears.”
She pulled out a clear canister with a clamp lid full of small, colorful bears.
Then she knelt to pet Chic. “This guy gets it.” Then to Chic himself she said, “We respond to positive reinforcement, don’t we, you old boy.”
She said, “Help yourself, Jake,” as she continued to pet Chic and launched into what the rest of the day looked like. “You have a full schedule this afternoon.”
I worked to open the canister.
Sheila continued, “I can’t wait to be able to slide an electronic tablet across the desk instead of pointing to all this paperwork.
We’ll be running so much more efficiently once we fully convert to the new system.
” She had a dreamy tone to her voice that I completely understood. Our weirds really did match perfectly.
“I may have more help for you, actually,” I said through clenched teeth. I was struggling to open the damn canister.
“Eric, ah . . . Eric pulled me aside today and asked if he could shadow in the clinic. I guess he’s thinking about pursuing veterinary medicine now that he has his degree.
What do you think? Could he help with the conversion and maybe shadow me with patients?
” I said, still struggling with the damn canister.
“Hmm . . . I’ll have to develop a plan for how that could work. Will he quit at the Corner Market?” Sheila asked.
“Uh. No. I don’t think so. He said he’d find a way to juggle a few hours a week here and his regular shifts there.” I continued to struggle with the cannister.
Sheila’s expression turned thoughtful. “Do you need help with that, Doc?”
“No . . . I’m sure I can get it.” I was starting to sweat. I was being bested by a canister full of gummy bears.
Sheila reached one hand for the clamp and gently released the small spring-loaded bar from the contraption, and it opened with no effort at all.
“Oh . . . thanks.” I grabbed the little scooper inside the jar.
“You okay, Doc?” Sheila asked. “Everything go okay on your errand run?”
“Yeah . . . errands went fine.”
“I know it’s a Wednesday, so was it truck gas-up day? The truck running okay? Because if not, I can make an appointment for you over at Chandler’s again.”
Chandler’s was the auto mechanic in town. I loved my old truck, but I was no mechanic. It took a village to maintain the old girl.
“She’s good.” Better than good, I thought as I remembered for the fifty thousandth time how the value of my truck had increased because Ali had been in it.
After a few beats, Sheila’s voice brought me back.
Daydreaming . . . I was daydreaming?
Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice and returned to the topic of Eric. “Yep, Doc, I think I can make this work. Eric’s a smart kid, and I think I know exactly how to put him to work. Leave it all to me. Ope, and here comes our first afternoon patient.”
Mr. Whitaker stepped through the front door with his dachshund puppy, Emily.
Chicory sat like a sentry poised to welcome Emily—who was new to the concept of a lead.
Chicory stepped up to do his job first by slowly approaching young Emily, reaching his nose to hers.
She playfully pounced on her elder friend with zero regard for limbs or balance.
Together we walked Emily back to the examination room.
Chicory walked us only as far as the door, then returned to his bed in the lobby, ready to take position again when another patient arrived.
It wasn’t until later in the afternoon that news of the “out-of-towner” reached Sheila. I knew it was on its way. Like any small town, news traveled, and usually quickly.
“Well . . . I heard that you gave the out-of-towner a ride to her cabin this afternoon. How could you keep that from me?” Sheila said. “Is that why you were acting strange when you got back to the clinic?”
Sheila, for all her diligence and poise, fell prey to town gossip. I read that Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg was like that too. Perhaps it was a common trait among high-achieving, strong women.
“It was just a neighborly gesture.” I shrugged, aiming for casual, even though Ali hadn’t left my thoughts all afternoon. “I wasn’t acting strange, was I?”
“This is big news, Doc,” she said, fixing me with a knowing look.
“It’s not,” I said evenly. “She needed a lift. She moved into Libby Bennet’s old cabin. It’s next to mine. It made sense.”
“I heard she’s pretty,” Sheila said, her tone pointed. She leaned over the reception desk, chin propped in her hand. “Also maybe a bit high-maintenance? What’d ya find out?”
She had clearly settled in for the full debrief.
“Not much. I can confirm that she is pretty and yes, probably high-maintenance, but harmless. She’s Libby’s granddaughter, from Chicago, and she’s here for an indeterminate amount of time. That’s all I know,” I said.
“Hmm, well none of that is very juicy,” she said.
“Betsy could see she was Libby’s granddaughter. She recognized her immediately. Eric went on her social media profile thingies and did some sleuthing.” She wiggled her eyebrows.
“Turns out, she’s high profile.” She used air quotes around high profile. “You may not know this, but Libby’s son is some big real estate mogul. We’re talking extreme wealth! And his daughter—”
“Ali, her name is Ali,” I interrupted. Normally, I tuned out small-town gossip.
Not today.
Today I was a squirrel hoarding every scrap of information about her.
“Right. Ali. She’s a product of all that: fancy boarding schools, fancy houses, fancy vacations.
Not much room in that life for Libby, I guess.
” She shook her head. “Libby didn’t make a show of her son’s success.
Ali used to come for stretches as a kid, but that stopped eventually.
And I heard she wasn’t even at the funeral. ”
Sheila leaned back.
“There’s more to that story.”
A pause. I waited. Wanting more.
That was it.
Sheila was done.
My shoulders sagged.
I was acting out of character. A gorgeous woman blows into town and suddenly I’m off-balance.
Alison Bennet was way out of my league. She probably had a boyfriend. Or a rotation of them. Polished and high profile, back in Chicago. Friends with job titles like “director of vibes” or “emerging generation interpreter.” If they worked at all.
She looked like the kind of woman who hopped around high-end tropical resorts and expected to be fawned over.
That wasn’t me.
I had a clinic. A house. Yard work. I sat on the local wild gardens committee and read books. The most exciting thing I did was sing at the open mic night at the Tavern. I had designated errands days, for God’s sake.
Routine and predictable.
Small-town.
And Alison Bennet was way out of my league.
“Did she say how long she was staying?” Sheila asked, snapping me out of it.
Again with the daydreaming.
“Um, no, but she had a lot of bags, so maybe a longish visit is my guess.”
“Hmm . . . Do you think she reads? Invite her to book club next week,” Sheila said.
“Me? Why me?” I frowned. That would do absolutely nothing to improve my odds.
“You’re her neighbor, aren’t you? Most of us are still strangers. It makes sense for you to extend the invitation. You are leading the next one, right?” Sheila said.
All fair points.
“Sheila, I don’t know if a book club is her style,” I said. “You heard. She’s . . . high profile.”
“It’s worth a shot. Call it a party. A girl like that loves a social function.”
Ali probably had a calendar fuller than this entire town.
So what was she doing here—besides throwing my life off-kilter?
Do it! This is a good excuse to see her again, Jake.
Where did that thought come from?
I looked at Chic. He looked back at me and tilted his head, that all-knowing gleam in his eyes.