Chapter 8
Astrid
Caldwell had bothered to put on a fleece vest and walk eight blocks across town to tell me, with his hands clasped at the front of his waist, that Hartsdale wouldn't have me.
He hadn't said that. He said the town couldn't really support two practices. He said it like you tell a child something for her own good. Joe is fine. Hate to see a young woman put everything she has into something that wasn't going to take.
But he had walked. That was the part I kept turning the next morning at the kitchen table.
He didn't call. He didn't send a note through any of the half-dozen mutual acquaintances he had to have by now.
He put on a fleece vest at the end of his workday and walked the blocks between Elm and Maple to deliver, in person, the soft version of get out.
I knew the soft version. My mother-in-law ran a decade of it on me in the kitchen on Tuesdays—the wreath was wrong, the lamb was overcooked, the dress was a mistake.
Always pleasant, always concerned, always just here to help.
By year three, I was making my own corrections before she walked in.
By year six, I was apologizing for the placement of a butter knife.
Caldwell ran a ten-minute version of that voice on my porch the night before, and by the time he reached the bottom step, I was gripping the doorframe like I needed it to stay upright. I came back inside and stood at the sink with both hands on the counter, and I waited for my pulse to come down.
He's not gonna do this to you, Easton said, his hand over mine, his thumb moving along the back of my hand once and then resting there. You're the best vet this town has had in thirty years.
I could still feel his thumb on the back of my hand.
I set the coffee down. I'd be damned if I was going to let Joe Caldwell, in a fleece vest, walk eight blocks to take my Wednesday from me.
I scrolled back to the line I was on. Surgical scissors. Mayo, curved, six and three-quarters inch. I ordered two of those, then the Metzenbaums, the hemostats, the needle drivers. Gauze, suture, iodine, alcohol.
By noon, I was on consumables. By one, I was on the laminated wall charts nobody actually looked at, but every clinic had.
I called Howie about the keys. I called Sof about a tech she knew—finishing up at a clinic an hour south, looking to move closer to home. Sof said she'd send me the woman's number that afternoon, and that I owed her a drink.
At two-fifteen, I clicked submit on the supply order.
Moose was on my foot under the table. I scratched the side of his face with my heel.
"We did it, buddy."
Easton was on shift that day. I crossed the street and let myself in with the key he'd given me so I could check on Penny.
He'd been paying a sitter to come by twice a day to feed Penny and let her out. I told him I didn't mind coming over while he was on shift—I was mostly home anyway, drowning in permits and the other paperwork the clinic required.
Penny lifted her head when she heard the door. The tail started when she heard my voice.
"Hi, lovely girl."
I set my bag on the counter and went down onto the rug with her, sat cross-legged, and let her get her face into my neck before I started anything practical.
I got up after a few minutes and did what I'd come to do. Refilled her water, topped off her bowl with the wet food from the cabinet. Penny ate three bites without me having to coax her, then walked over and leaned against my leg.
"Good girl."
She huffed.
I knelt for a picture of her by the bowl and sent it to Easton.
The reply came within a minute.
Easton
Thanks for taking care of her.
Astrid
How's your shift?
Easton
Quiet. If only Duke would shut up.
I laughed out loud at his kitchen sink, alone with his dog, and slid the phone into my back pocket. I gave Penny one last rub on the side of the head before I let myself out.
Audrey stabbed a piece of grilled chicken off her Cobb and pointed the fork at me before she ate it.
"So how's the firefighter?"
"Easton?"
"Yeah. You're seeing him, right?"
"We're just friends. I'm not seeing him."
I pulled a fry off my plate, ate it, and didn't look at her.
"You're together whenever he's not on shift. You're at his house when he is. That's dating."
"I'm helping him look after his dog. He's helping me with my clinic. Besides, dating implies we're sleeping together—which we aren't."
Audrey looked at me over her coffee. Took her time setting it down.
"Just you wait."
I reached across the table, lifted a small chunk of her cheesecake with my fork, and put it in my mouth before she'd finished setting the cup.
"Oh, shut up."
"Hey!"
"That's what you get."
She picked up the rest of the cheesecake protectively, then waved her fork in surrender.
"Well, I'm happy someone's there for you."
"Thanks, Audrey."
"How's the clinic coming?"
"It's coming. Supply order went in yesterday. Autoclave's on a truck Friday."
She stopped chewing.
"That is the most boring update I have ever gotten from a woman with a license. Astrid. Give me the whole list. Speak slowly."
I laughed and took a sip of coffee, watching her watch me over the rim.
"Lease is signed. DEA's through. Howie's giving me the keys today. The contractor came back with a quote that's reasonable. Inspector's coming in two weeks. Sof sent me a tech who's looking to move closer to home, and I'm calling her tonight."
Audrey didn't blink through any of it.
"When do you open?"
"If the inspector clears it on the first walk, three weeks."
She set her fork down.
"Astrid."
"Don't."
"I'm gonna."
"Audrey."
"A month ago, you weren't sure you wanted to unpack. Now you've got a lease and an autoclave."
"Audrey, I'm warning you."
"I'm not crying."
"You're not allowed to cry. You promised."
"I made no such promise."
I picked my coffee back up to hide my face.
"What can I do? What do you need?" she said.
"You don't have to do anything."
"That's not what I asked you. I asked what you needed."
"Audrey."
"I'll pass cards around the hospital. The OB floor alone has fifteen women with rescues. I'll bring the cinnamon bread on opening day. I'll wear a sash if I have to. Don't test me."
I laughed and felt the laugh keep going until my eyes started doing what I'd told her not to do.
"Just come."
"What?"
"Opening day. Just come."
"Done. Easy."
She picked her fork back up. Went back to her Cobb as if nothing had happened.
"Three weeks." She shook her head. "I'm gonna need a drink before opening day."
"You're gonna need many drinks."
"That's the spirit."
Saturday, we walked the river trail.
The dogs were ahead of us off leash, Moose loping, Penny doing her unhurried version five paces behind him. The leaves were going—not all the way, but enough that you could see the color coming in at the edges.
I was in jeans, a fleece, and a mood I couldn't put down if I wanted to.
Easton was a half step ahead of me, hands in his jacket pockets, watching the dogs more than the trail. He had a look when he didn't know he was being looked at—softer at the mouth, easier in the shoulders.
"Penny's keeping up," he said.
"Penny's a champion."
He looked over at me, held it a second, and didn't say anything else.
A blue heron lifted off the water on our left, and we both stopped at the same time. Wings slow and heavy, climbing without seeming to try. Penny stopped, too. Moose kept walking with his nose down, because that was Moose.
"There he goes," Easton said.
"He's big."
"They're always bigger than you think."
The heron cleared the trees. We watched him until he didn't need watching anymore.
We walked on.
A few yards further, I stepped over a root, and his hand was under my elbow before I knew I'd need it. I looked up at him. He was already looking at me. He let his hand drop and went back to the dogs.
You're together whenever he's not on shift. You're at his house when he is. That's dating.
Whatever I had with Easton Ford was making me happier than I'd been in a long time, and I wasn't ready to put a word to it.
We kept walking.