Sinking down onto the bench, I drop my head into my hands. I’ve gotten sloppy. I don’t tell Elias that the reason I evenhavea breathalyzer is so I could figure out exactly how much I could drink—and when—without risking driving drunk. For a year, I was careful. Blew a zero point zero every time. But the anniversary of Tessa’s death sent me over the edge.
“I’ll get help,” I say softly. The headache still thrums behind my eyes. My sour stomach gurgles. Scotch doesn’t make for a proper dinner. “I need this job, Elias.”
“And I need doctors I can trust.” Elias crosses his arms over his chest and sighs heavily. “You’re fired, Doc. I’m sorry. You were great doctor—still are most of the time. But I can’t take the chance that one day, you come in with a point-oh-eight and kill someone. This is unforgivable.”
Elias could have reported me to the medical board. Gotten my license revoked completely. But he didn’t. I never asked why. Still, there’s no way the hospital will hire me back. I don’t blame them.
Camping is the latest in a long line of activities I’ve tried to stave off the boredom. White-water rafting, mountain biking, bungee jumping, paragliding, rock climbing, scuba… They all worked. For a time. But too soon, the excitement wears off and I start eyeing the bottle once more.
I pile the branches in the center of the tote, then spend an hour foraging for twigs and leaves to use as kindling. The hiking trails tempt me, but if I want to eat tonight, I need to get a move on.
Nat’s no longer on the boathouse deck—thank God—but the older woman with the obscene t-shirt is, and she gives me the once over as I climb the steps.
“So, are you arealdoctor? Or do you just call yourself ‘Doc’ to get in the ladies’ pants?” she asks.
I should ignore her. Idoignore her until I find a set of paddles inside the immaculately clean building. When I slip back through the door, though, she’s blocking my path.
“I asked you a question, young man.”
She’s a tiny thing. Frail, even. But there’s fire in her eyes. And in the profanity emblazoned across her chest. I need to get out on the water and catch something for dinner—unless I want to go to bed hungry—but Ms. “Fuck Me Sideways” isn’t going to let me pass without raising hell.
“I’m a real doctor, ma’am.”
“Gladys,” she snaps. “No one calls me ‘ma’am.’”
With a nod, I try to bypass her, but Gladys widens her stance.
“Not so fast, Doc. I got some more questions for you.”
This isn’t what I signed up for. The online ad promised an escape from civilization. Or at least the pressures of everyday life.
“Each campsite has a full half-acre of land. Relax knowing you won’t encounter a single soul—unless you want to.”
So much for the Blakely Island Resort guarantee.
“Gladys, I didn’t come here to chat. So if you don’t mind…”
“I do mind, Dr. Doc Reynolds. Why are you out here all alone a few days before a holiday weekend?” She stares me down—or up, as she can’t be more than five feet tall—and clucks her tongue three times. “You’ve got a story.”
“Everyone has a story, ma’am—Gladys. Mine isn’t a topic for polite conversation.”
“Do I look like I engage inpoliteconversation?” She cackles, her head thrown back and her hands jammed on her hips. “You can’t be a doctor. You’re blind as a bat.”
“I’m not. But I don’t like to make assumptions about people,Gladys. Though, I suppose I should have taken your shirt as a warning.”
Another deep, almost crazed laugh, and she slaps my back so hard, it stings. “You are a goddamned hoot. Now sit down. I’ll get you a beer and we can talk.”
“Thank you for the offer, ma’am, but if I don’t get out on the Sound in the next hour, I’ll be eating sand for dinner.”
Her lips twist into a scowl, but she steps aside. “We’re not done with this conversation, Doc. I don’t have anything better to do but sit on this deck and wait. So one of these days…you’re gonna talk to me.”
Her stare follows me as I rush down the path to the campsite. Great. The last thing I need is a busybody grandmother trying to “figure me out.” I’ll have to stay away from the boathouse during the day. I can return the oars well after dark.
The canoe is sturdy enough, and I paddle to a beach on the other side of the island. The Razor clam season just started, and in half an hour, I have a solid pound of clams in my bucket. Enough for the night, and just in time as the sun has started dipping toward the horizon.
The trek back to the campsite is against the tide, and by the time I beach the canoe, I’m wiped.
It’s another two hours before I finally sit down next to the fire pit. The grill basket with half a dozen clams and two skewers of veggies sizzles over the flames.
