“Did he miss the land?”
“Never said so, not that he ever said much. He was away most of the time, and when he wasn’t, he was lecturing Jill and me to work harder at school and make the most of all the opportunities he never had. But that loss was always there, as if our own life was being lived on the sidelines and the real world was back at the ranch and in that sweet orchard.”
“Is that why you’ve come back west?”
“Dee, Jamison and Jill insisted when Millie died.”
“Your wife died?”
I nod and wait for the wave of grief to hit me again, but for once it hovers way out on the dark horizon and stays away. I breathe.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“Don’t bake me casseroles,” I say.
She almost chokes on her champagne, sees I’m serious, and answers.
“I already told you, I’m not much of a cook. So you came west to avoid casseroles?”
I nod.
“I was tired of running into Millie’s friends and all my old patients.”
Her eyes have softened, as if she might understand.
“You’re still a doctor?”
“Was. I just sold the practice. Fresh start.”
“Great place for a fresh start, Dirk, Brighton Court. Great location. Particularly great neighbors.” She touches her glass against mine again and we laugh.
“But what about your own friends in Franklin? Don’t you miss them?”
I shrug. Some died. Mostly my friends were Millie’s friends. I worked all the time. Is this why I’ve come west? To learn to actually live? Maybe to learn to love. Dee keeps suggesting it.
“Do you know, Dirk; I feel like I know you; like I’ve seen you before somewhere. Like maybe we knew each other when we were younger. Were you always a country doctor?”
“It was never my dream,” I say. “I started out playing soccer, a goalie. I was good. Got myself a college scholarship.”
“Here?”
Suddenly Lucy’s hand hovers in my hair. I like it there. To my surprise, I neither flinch nor move away.
“You were on tv, weren’t you?” she says, her voice low and fast. “I worked at Network Eight, behind the scenes. Hair and makeup. I got less than five minutes with each person, but I had a feeling we’d met before, Dirk.”
I nod.
“Bad head injury,” I say.
“You’d blacked out for days,” she says. “You were a star, Dirk! Dirk ‘the doc’ O’Connell. D.O’C. Amazing! Sports champ. College scholarships galore. Top of the class. You saved that impossible goal for the nation when we beat Brazil. Hit your head on the goal post. We replayed that scene for days promoting your interview. Everyone worried you’d die, and when you came to, days later, everyone wanted your story, and our network got the scoop. I did your make-up. I was new. You were one of my first real challenges. I was a bit in awe, to be honest. I wound a big, white fake bandage over your scar. Do you remember that?”
I nod slowly. I find her in my memory – cheer leader cute, and very professional. Very effective with me. I scared myself with my own scar, but she made me presentable in no time flat.
“So, you went ahead and made your initials a reality – became a real doctor. That’s so impressive. Fancy a star like you turning up here, at Brighton Court!”
Her fingers are back in my hair, gentle, skilled, like a hairdresser, a make-up artist – someone accustomed to having her way with people’s hair and faces. She leans closer, so close, her fingers in my hair, gentle, insistent. She finds it, and runs a finger along the old scar, almost reverently. Her dark eyes search mine. I want to lean towards her, to brush my lips against hers, to wipe the pity right off them. Yes, I was frustrated when it happened – angry with myself. I’d been top of my game, with all the strength and confidence every young man takes for granted. I lost it all – the promise of my skills and team leadership – in one head-cracking moment. The disbelief, the shame of it, the shadows ... they lingered for years.
But I picked myself up after that injury. I made a new life for myself – not the one I would have chosen, but one I’m proud enough of.
