6. Rounds #2
“And straight back here?”
“No, I worked in Portland out of college.”
“Why did you go into medicine?”
I look out the window at a woman walking past with a paper bag tucked under one arm. “I like problems with steps.”
His brow lifts.
“Fine. I like helping people, but that sounds dangerously cheesy, and I’m not interested in becoming a punchline before noon.”
“It’s after noon.”
“Well, bullet dodged.”
His laugh is quiet and genuine.
And my grip on snark loosens some.
“What brought you back from Portland?”
The straw wrapper twists too tight and tears. I look down at the pieces.
I could give a litany of half-truths. But something in me says it’s okay to share some truth with him.
“My parents died,” I say.
Doc’s face changes, but he doesn’t perform sympathy. He just listens.
“Plane crash in Alaska,” I add. “Almost eight years ago. Private flight. Weather.”
“I’m sorry.”
The words are simple and don’t ask for anything from me.
“Thank you.”
I flatten the torn wrapper beside my glass. “I came back for the funeral. Art gave me shifts at the clinic. Then more shifts. Then a reason to get out of bed that didn’t involve staring at boxes in my parents’ house or dealing with a messy life in Portland.”
“I’m glad he did,” he says.
My throat tightens and I take a sip of water. The server arrives with our food. I use the interruption to breathe.
Our food is delivered. Extra napkins placed on the corner of the table. Water is refilled. The world continues in small, practical motions.
I wait until we’re alone again.
“So, what brings a Bostonian like you all the way across the country to a little town like Coupeville?”
“I was stationed at Whidbey years ago.”
“You were Navy?”
Yeah, twenty-four years,” he says. “My wife and I fell in love with the island. Always knew we wanted to retire out here one day.”
He sees the confusion on my face. He’s never mentioned his wife.
“My wife, Beth, died almost four years ago,” he says.
I stop with my sandwich halfway to my mouth and return it to the plate.
“I’m sorry, Doc.”
He nods once. “Thank you.”
He picks up his spoon, then sets it down again. “Ellie and I stayed in Boston longer than we should’ve. The house was full of Beth. Good memories, hard ones. After a while, every room asked too much of both of us. Once the lawsuit was settled, we decided it was time to make a change.”
I don’t move.
“Coupeville was one of the places Beth loved,” he says. “And I wanted the slower pace. Water. Community. A place where Ellie could heal without everything reminding her of the worst day of her life.”
My grip tightens around my glass.
The Boston doctor who bought Art’s clinic becomes harder to pigeonhole into a neat box now.
I also don’t look away.
“So that's why you came here?” I ask.
“One reason.”
“What are the others?”
His gaze moves, looking out the window. “I needed work that felt human again.”
That answer is too honest for a lunch I only agreed to because he’s my boss.
I should say something, but I have no witty comeback. And right now, I can’t find the right words.
Before I have to try, Rhea Calder stops beside the table with three women behind her, all dressed for work and laughing about something.
“Well,” she says, smiling at Doc, “we have to stop meeting like this.”
Doc looks up, and his face opens with easy recognition. “Rhea. Hi.”
“Hi, Annie.”
“Rhea.”
Her gaze moves between us. Friendly. Curious. Not pushy. “Front Street Grill is clearly where everyone is ending up today,” she says.
“Annie recommended it,” Doc says.
“Good call. Did he tell you our daughters tried to get us married off last night?”
“No. No. He did not share that.” I keep my smile polite.
Rhea laughs. “There was dinner. There was also an attempted matchmaking operation with the subtlety of a marching band.”
Doc smiles. “They need more training.”
“They need less confidence.” Rhea glances back at her coworkers, then to Doc again. “Ellie is lovely, by the way. Erin talked about her all morning.”
Something warm moves through his voice. “Ellie needed a friend.”
“She’s got one.”
The words are kind.
Rhea is kind. Pretty too, in an easy, uncomplicated way. Comfortable standing in public. Comfortable smiling. Comfortable knowing him from dinner the night before while I sit here with a sandwich I no longer have an appetite for.
I hate every part of my reaction.
Rhea turns to me. “Have you heard about the cannery?”
“No. What about it?”
“Rumor from the county office. Possible buyer sniffing around. I don’t have any details yet.” Her smile fades a little. “Could be nothing. You know how rumors move here. But I figured you’d want to know.”
My appetite dies completely.
Rhea gives me an apologetic look. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to drop that and run. I’ll tell you if I hear anything real.”
“Thanks.”
She touches Doc’s shoulder lightly as she passes. Friendly. Thoughtless. Over in half a second.
I notice.
Doc’s eyes stay on me as Rhea joins her coworkers across the room.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“Annie.”
I put my sandwich down. “People with money love towns like this.”
He waits.
“They love the waterfront. The historic buildings. The walkable streets. The local businesses. The postcard version. Then they come in with drawings and promises and words nobody is supposed to question.”
“What words?”
“Restoration. Jobs. Tourism. Revitalization. Community investment.” I look out the window toward the street I’ve known my whole life. “They say they’re saving a place while they’re only serving their own self-interest.”
Doc doesn’t brush it off.
He doesn’t tell me change is inevitable or progress is complicated or any of the other phrases people use when money has already decided the answer.
“So calling me an outsider…” I start to say.
“You’re starting to get it.” My voice sharpens, and I don’t stop it. “It means people arrive with papers signed and plans made. They talk about what a place could be, which usually means they haven’t bothered to understand what it already is.”
He takes that without flinching.
“You thought I was doing that with the clinic,” he says.
“You bought it from across the country.”
“I did.”
“Art was barely gone.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His answer takes a moment. Then he reaches over and puts his hand over mine..
“More than I did before I got here,” he says. “More than I did this morning.”
That takes the fight out of me in the most inconvenient way.
I don’t know what to do with a man who does that.
Across the room, Rhea laughs.
Doc doesn’t look over this time.
I do.
She’s leaning toward one of her coworkers, pretty, bright, and easy. No armor. No grief showing. No edge.
A normal woman having a normal lunch. Instead of being happy for her, something small and ugly twists in my gut.
“Ready to go?” I ask abruptly.
Doc looks at my half-eaten sandwich. “I’m sorry if I upset you.”
“No. But I’m leaving. You can come with me or stay longer. Your call.”
He studies me for a second, then nods. “Okay.”
He pays before I can stop him. I object on principle. He calmly ignores me.
Outside, Front Street is busy with lunch traffic, people carrying bags, talking in pairs, crossing toward the water like the universe is not tilting on its axis right here in Coupeville.
Doc pauses at the car. “Thank you for today.”
“Stop thanking me for things you forced your way into.” My voice is sharp, and I can’t handle gentle from him right now.
Not after Mrs. Weaver’s comment or watching him all morning caring for our patients in their homes.
Not after Rhea’s hand on his shoulder and the cannery rumor moving through town like a first crack in the ice.
I tell myself none of this has to mean anything.
“Come on, Dr. Bie,” I say, getting into the car, we’ve got work to do.