Chapter Three #2
In front of me is a house straight out of a country living magazine.
The two-story blue-gray home looks older, but it is obviously well cared for.
White trim lines the home, matching the white shutters flanking each window.
Pink and white flowers peer out from stained window boxes, and I admire the effort the upkeep must take.
A wraparound porch hugs the base of the house, and I awe at its size. I suddenly picture myself living out here, having a place to sit each morning, drinking my coffee on the worn porch swing to watch the sun come up over the barn, and a cold drink to watch the same sun set after a hard day’s work.
The walls of this home likely sheltered generations of Harts over the years. If the front steps could talk, I bet they’d name every member that ambled up and down those stairs after a weary day, only to open the door and hear the joyful chorus of family ready to gather around the dining table.
I pull into an empty spot, briefly counting the array of cars and trucks filling the circle drive. My palms begin to sweat, and I rub them absentmindedly on the tops of my thighs. He asked for you, I remind myself. I’m a doctor and he’s a patient. He needs my help, simple as that.
With a shaky exhale, I push open the car door.
The humidity still clings to the air even though the sun has almost disappeared beyond the horizon.
It’s been an unseasonably warm June from what I gather.
I hadn’t paid attention to the finicky Iowa weather too much over the last few years, but with my recent sabbatical and desperate attempt to fill my schedule with something other than therapy appointments and staring at the same beige walls of my rental, I found myself spending more time outdoors.
My version of outdoors might have been the city streets of Des Moines, but I was subject to early morning rain followed by intense afternoon heat waves just the same.
With my traveling physician’s kit in tow, I slam my car door, then press the key fob twice to lock the doors.
A habit, of course, having only lived in a city my entire life.
The second the fob beeps, my shoulders pinch up.
Only a fool would lock their doors at a home like this.
I slowly spin from where I stand, soaking in the miles and miles of vast green farmland that surrounds the home.
My body is torn between fearing the unfamiliar and feeling a sense of calmness in the serenity this setting has to offer.
Pushing out another breath, I make my way up the worn stone path and past the garden beds teeming with various wild flowers.
Reds, greens, oranges, and yellows blend together in a mosaic of color that could have only been inspired by a magazine.
Some are large, towering over the hedges, as others sprawl out and cover the ground.
Each flower is different, yet somehow they blend perfectly together.
With light steps, I cautiously climb the worn stairs of the home. When I reach the top, a laugh leaks out of an open window next to the front door, followed by the shriek of a young girl. I smile, wanting to take a moment to stand and listen to the family clamor as they unwind from their day.
All of a sudden, a cough sounds from somewhere behind me and I spin abruptly, seeing a farmhand meander in the opposite direction of where I stand toward a large red building.
The ends of his hair stick out from underneath his dusty ball cap, and I squint, noticing it’s nearly gray.
His hair may indicate he’s much older, but the ripple of muscle under his thin tee and the tattoos that line his arms scream that he has the body of a thirty-something.
With one hand and the flex of his bicep, he slides a large metal door to the side and disappears into the darkness.
He may not have even seen me dawdling on the porch, listening to a family I’ve never met laugh about their day, but a blush warms the apples of my cheeks just the same.
I press the back of my hand to my skin, willing it to cool, then curl my hand into a fist, forcing myself to knock on the door before I chicken out.
I’m just about to rap against the white wood when I see a doorbell hidden off to the side next to an old brass mail slot. I reach my hand over, wondering if the bell would be preferred, when I notice the slight tremor to my fingertips.
“Cripes, Holly, get it together,” I mutter under my breath, opting for three sharp raps before I lose all courage and scram back to my car.
I wait on bated breath one, two, three more seconds. Waiting for the sounds of steps coming toward the door or the voices filtering out the window to pause at the sound.
And no one seems to notice.
I reach to the side, pressing the doorbell firmly, my ear perking up, hoping to hear a telltale ding, but another loud roar of laughter rolls out the open window.
“You’ll have to knock a hell of a lot louder than that if you want to be heard over the chaos,” a voice behind me booms, and I jump a little, spinning on a heel with a smile on my face, hoping the movement covers up my skittish fumble.
The man striding toward me is the same man I saw entering the shed behind us.
As he comes closer with each step, I can confirm his hair is mostly gray, but I can also confirm my original thought that he’s much younger than his hair would let on.
Even with the sun’s last translucent rays leaving the land, I can tell that he must be related to Grayson.
They share the same crystal-blue eyes that sparkle as he smiles down at me.
“I, uh…” I jut a thumb over my shoulder toward the front of the house. “I rang the bell and knocked. Not sure anyone heard me.”
He reaches an arm out, nearly circling my waist, and I stumble back, causing my shoulders to slam into the door with a rattle.
He immediately takes a step back and lifts both hands up in front of him in surrender.
“Didn’t mean to scare you, ma’am,” he points behind me, “just reaching for the handle, that’s all. ”
That blush is back, heating my cheeks, and I swipe a hand up my forehead, smoothing back the hair that’s tucked neatly into my low bun. “Sorry, it’s been a day.” I take a step to the side, gesturing for him to move ahead of me.
He nods once in acceptance, stepping forward again to reach for the handle. The moment the door is opened, the chatter that had been muffled before is in full force, and it immediately brings a smile to my face.
The man holds open the door, gesturing for me to enter ahead of him.
I take that first step over the threshold and the smell of food wafts down the long hallway.
A colorful, worn, and loved rug lines the wooden floors.
Frame after frame of pictures adorn the walls on both sides.
A mess of boots and sandals are piled in the corner and a series of faded hats hang from the hooks along the right side of the wall.
The entire place screams family. Love. I bet this home has seen love and heartbreak and a whole lot of everything else walk down these halls over the years.
“I’m Theo, by the way,” the man to my side says. I spin to face him, reaching a hand out to clasp around the one he offers me. “Holly, hi, nice to meet you. I assume you’re one of…” I trail off, gesturing with my head to the voices down the hall.
“Yes, ma’am,” he drawls. “Are you a friend of Harper’s?”
“I, um…” I trail off, not sure how to explain why I’m here. “I work with Piper—Harper’s friend. I’m here for Grayson, actually.”
Confusion knits Theo’s brows, and he looks down the hall behind us for a beat before coming back to me. “I didn’t know Gray was seeing anyone.”
“I’m his doctor. Sort of.” I bring the gray unmarked pouch that’s been clenched in my fist up to eye level. “I need to take his sutures out.”
A look I can’t quite read crosses Theo’s face before I see him bite the inside of a cheek and gesture again to the hall behind us. “They’re all in the dining room, second door on your right. I’m gonna wash up but I’ll be right behind you.”
He excuses himself, opening another door and disappearing inside a half bath. I stand for another minute in the dim hall by myself before I slip off my heels and force myself to pad down the hall.
I reach the threshold of the dining room and lean a shoulder against the trim as I listen to someone talk about the engine of something that needs a new something-or-other, and I wait, hoping for a pause in the conversation that I soon realize isn’t coming.
Moving into the light, I take a step into the room, and for a moment, no one notices. Conversation bleeds on, multiple discussions happening at each end of the room as I scan the faces, looking for Piper’s familiar red hair.
And I don’t see her.
I do, however, see a woman about Piper’s age with platinum blonde hair cut just below her chin.
The ends are a vibrant pink, the perfect compliment to her neon T-shirt that falls just above her belly button; she’s sticking her tongue out at another guy who looks older than her but younger than Grayson.
When she turns back to reach for her glass, her gaze snags in my direction.
“Oh shit, hey!” she squeals, immediately scooting her chair back.
The ripple of the wood against the floor has the rest of the room turning toward the noise, and I can feel dozens of eyes watching her move around the table to rush to my side.
“You must be Holly! I’m Harper.” Her hands come up to squeeze my biceps, and she tugs me further into the room.
“Where’s Piper?” I hiss, having to lean down a bit to meet her petite height.
She waves a hand dismissively. “Piper isn’t here, but it’s fine. Everyone!” she calls out, her voice a pitch higher than it was before.
The room falls silent. And I keep my gaze locked on Harper, hoping the embarrassment dies quickly as I mentally berate Piper for ditching me.
“Who the hell are you?” a deep voice barks with a twinge of annoyance to it.
My shoulders stiffen at the sound, and I look down to the end of the table where Harper was sitting to find a younger man scowling at me.
Tattoos cover both of his arms, and his crystal-blue eyes are glaring in my direction as Harper wraps a comforting arm around my back.
“Hey, Lukas. Could you be less of a dick to our guest?” She doesn’t wait for a confirmation from him before adding a muttered, “Thanks.”
The room falls eerily silent and I force myself to look around at the crowd.
An adorable elderly couple sit at the head of the table; their faces are worn and wrinkled, but soft, kind smiles sit on their lips.
The elderly man has his hand around the back of the woman’s chair.
She’s leaning into him affectionately and it looks as if they were having their own private conversation amongst the rest of the family chatter.
At the other end of the table, I spot a man who looks like an older version of Grayson.
He has the same strong build, one that easily catches attention.
His hair looks like it was once the same shade of brown, but now sports flecks of gray.
To his side, there is an empty chair, but next to that, with his fork paused in the air, as if he was frozen in time while cutting into his peach cobbler, is Grayson.
Grayson sits in the middle of the table with his back pressed against a wooden hutch. His large frame is almost comical for the standard dining chair he sits on.
He’s even more handsome than I remember, and my heart skips a beat as our eyes lock. He looks … confused. A little disoriented as to why the woman he’s now met twice in his life is standing in his family’s dining room with his younger sister asking for everyone's attention.
“This is Dr. Holly Carrington,” Harper says, emphasizing my name as if that means anything to anyone in this room. “The one Gray met a few weeks ago when he cut his arm.”
A few soft “ooos and ums” fill the awkward silence, but Grayson doesn’t blink.
His fork eventually starts to lower, and I look around, hearing a snicker from Lukas as he covers his mouth. An older woman, who might be his mom or possibly an aunt, stands in the entryway that leads to a kitchen with a stack of dirty dishes in her hand, sending a knowing smile in my direction.
It’s then that Theo comes around the corner, sliding past me and Harper to move into the empty seat at our sides. “So, is it just me,” he begins, reaching for a dinner roll and eating half of it in one large oversized bite. “Or did we have no idea that Grayson’s hot doctor makes house calls?”
Lukas barks out a laugh, and Harper hisses at the both of them. I turn to face her as the entire awkwardness of the evening is finally spelled out for me. “He didn’t know I was coming, did he?”