Delia had stopped at the inn that day, and had ended up staying for the rest of the week. There had been so much to talk about, so much to learn about each other, so many feelings to explore, tears to shed, so much of their past lives to share. While life with the Bishops had been wonderful, finding the woman who had given birth to her—finally understanding why she had been placed for adoption, that it had been Delia's parents who had arranged for the baby to be turned over to adoptive parents immediately after her birth, that the seventeen-year-old Delia had been whisked away to college as if the child had never been bo
rn
—had only served to add another dimension to Laura's life. Learning that she had two half sisters and a half brother had been an added bonus. She had found much common ground with each of the Enright girls—Zoey, whom she so resembled, and Georgia—and had found staunch allies in her half brother, Nick, and his wife, India. With the exception of one episode, life for Laura had been mostly sweet. Discovering this whole new family had made it only sweeter.
If only Matt weren't such a stubborn cuss where the Enrights are concerned.
Laura sighed as she rinsed out the pasta pot.
In all fairness, she thought she understood—even though he obviously did not—that he felt threatened by the growing presence of this other, new, family in Laura's life. As a young boy whose nights had been haunted by ugly dreams—the sad aftermath of years
of neglect and pain—Matt had found a redemption in the Bishop home that perhaps even Laura could not fully fathom. Laura had been but days old when Tom and Charity Bishop had brought her home. She had never known other parents; another life. Matt's early years had left scare that even now, Laura acknowledged, might not be fully healed. That Tom Bishop had died, and that one never knew for certain what or whom Charity remembered from one day to the next, were an endless source of grief for both their children, but maybe, in some ways, just slightly more so for Matt, who had so fiercely loved the couple who had taken him in and saved his life—and his soul— in so many ways.
Laura, too, had loved her parents, but it seemed that now, when she most needed their counsel— when it seemed that dark forces gathered to frighten her, to hint that unspeakable things could happen to her child—that guidance was being denied her. Laura could not bring herself to tell Delia about the threat that hung over her—to show her the frightening letters, to draw
her birth mother into the ever-
tightening web in which she found herself entangled—because then she'd have to explain about Gary. Oh, someday, she knew, she would need to tell her,
but please, Lord, not yet
—not while the Enrights were still getting to know her, still forming their opinion of her. Later, when they had come to know her, maybe,
but please, not now
…
Mom
always said to deal with one thing at a time. To focus on the here and now.
Laura rubbed her temples, trying to push it from her mind; to refuse to acknowledge that just that
morning, another white envelope had arrived. For a moment she wished that she hadn't thrown it away— wished that she had left it where Matt could have found it. But Matt blamed himself for not having seen through his brother-in-law, for not recognizing Gary for what he was, as if, somehow,
he
should have seen what she herself had not.
Don't dwell on the other. It's what he wants. If I let him frighten me, I am giving him control over
m
e…
Laura leaned against the wall, inhaling sharply, exhaling slowly, as if to expel any last unpleasant thoughts, forcing her fears from her mind. There were other, more immediate issues to consider tonight. There was Matt, and there was Delia—and there had to be a way to join these two pieces of her life.
Laura switched off the kitchen light, then paused to look out the kitchen window at the dark, late winter sky that hung over Bishop's Cove. Through the bare draping branches of the wisteria a star winked at her, and she stepped outside into the cool night air to take a better look. It was a bright and bold star—a wishing star—and so she wrapped her arms across her chest against the cold night air and closed her eyes to make a wish.
fou
r
"
O
kay, sweetheart, just take it easy," Matt crooned quietly to the German shepherd that lay uneasily on the examining table. "Just another minute and you can get down."
The dog watched Matt through wary brown eyes, but she had stopped struggling.
"Do you think it's something more than hip dysplasia?" The dog's concerned owner, a middle-aged man in khakis and a worn Johns Hopkins sweatshirt, petted the dog affectionately.
"Well, judging by the symptoms—the difficulty in rising from a prone position, a reluctance to run, her age, and the fact that shepherds are prone to the condition—I'm pretty certain that's her problem. The X rays will tell us definitively, but she's a candidate for bad hips, Barry. I see on her chart that her mother had it, as well as her grandmother. We know it's an inherited condition. Just a few weeks ago I read a study that placed the incidence of hip dysplasia in German shepherds at close to eighty percent." Matt
sat on the edge of the table and rubbed the side of the dog's face. She was a sweet-tempered old girl, and he was fond of her. "We'll know as soon as
they bring the X rays back…
there's Chery now with the films."
Matt hopped off the table and went to the door, took the large square films from the technician, and held them up to the light. It was clear that the hip's ball and socket were poorly formed, and the signs of an arthritic condition were unmistakable in the dog's hip joints.
"Here, right here, see?" With his index finger. Matt traced the areas of arthritis on the X rays.
Barry nodded anxiously. "What can we do for her?"
"If she were a few years younger, I'd recommend surgery, but she's thirteen now, and surgery can be very traumatic for an older dog. I'd like to try a new type of drug that Dr. Espey has had some promising results with. It's ca
lled PSGAG—polysulfated glycos-
aminoglycan. It helps stimulate repair of the damaged cartilage. There's actually a form of glycosamine available to human arthritis sufferers." Matt stroked the dog's hindquarters, and she turned her head to watch but did not otherwise react. "I think it's worth a try."
"Thanks, Dr. Matt," Barry said as he and the young intern helped the dog down from the table. "We really appreciate that you have stayed on to help Dr. Espey out. We all know i
t's hard for him right now…
"
Matt stuck his hands into the pockets of his white jacket. "I owe a lot to Dr. Espey. I'll stay as long as he
wants me to." Matt patted the dog on the head and her owner on the back as they walked to the reception area. "Liz," he said to the receptionist, "give Barry two weeks' supply of PSGAG. And Barry, you'll call me at the end of the week if you see any change at all in her condition. And you'll call me if you don't. Either way, we want to monitor this carefully."
"Thanks again, Doc."
"You're welcome." Matt nodded, then turned to receptionist and asked, "Who's next?"
The back door, not having been properly closed, blew open with a sharp gust of wind, drawing Matt's attention to the parking lot. A dark green Mustang took a spot at the farthest end of the lot. As Matt prepared to close the door, a short blond woman got out of the car. Matt stood, mesmerized, holding his breath, every nerve in his body on standby. When she turned toward the building, the air fled from his lungs in one gush.
It wasn't her.
But, of course, he'd known that it wouldn't be—
"Matt
…
"
"Oh. What?"
"I said, is something wrong?" Liz looked concerned.
"No.
Nothing. You were saying…
?"
She handed him a stack of charts. "Let's see, in room one, you have Mrs. Myers and her diabetic cat, and out back you have two dogs waiting to be spayed. Out front you have an epileptic parrot, a ferret with hairballs, and a cocker spaniel with cataracts. Oh,
and the McKays brought in their latest litter of basset hounds to be inoculated."
"Ferrets with hairballs
,"
he muttered as he opened Room
1
, and greeted Mrs. Myers and Fluffy, the diabetic Javanese who meowed loudly at the very sight of the vet. It had the makings of a very long day.
By five forty-five that afternoon, Fluffy's diabetes had been brought under control, the ferret's hairball had been removed, the cocker had been referred to a vet outside of Baltimore who specialized in eye surgery, both dogs—a Pekinese and a mutt—had been spayed, the parrot was sent home with a week's supply of an experimental drug for his epilepsy, and all the basset pups had been inoculated. Matt rubbed the back of his neck as he walked to the front desk and opened the door into the waiting room to double-check that no last patient had strolled in unannounced. Satisfied that the workday was, in fact, over, he locked the front door.
"Liz, looks like we're done for to
day." Matt leaned around the corn
er of the small office area to where the receptionist ruled. "Why don't you just leave that pile of paperwork until the morning?"
Liz hesitated, debating with herself, then frowned, picked up the stack of bills, and stuffed them into a battered brown leather case. "I'll take them home. It's close to the end of the month, and I want to make sure the bills are taken care of. Besides, I'm off tomorrow, so it
will give me something to do be
tween the talk shows and the soaps."
Matt laughed, knowing that Liz would no more spend a day watching television than she would
robbing banks. At sixty, Liz was lively and energetic, and would most likely spend part of the morning at her aerobic class and a good part of the afternoon volunteering at the local hospital.
"Will you be stopping to see him?" Liz asked as she slipped her arms into a green down jacket.
"Yes, I thought I might." Matt nodded, knowing who "him" was.
Liz smiled and patted Matt on the arm affectionately. "You're a good boy, Matt Bishop. I know that Tim appreciates the fact that you're keeping his practice going. We all do. Tim Espey has run this clinic for almost fifty years. He's treated just about every animal—farm and domestic—in the county. If you hadn't stayed on after he had that first stroke last year, I don't know what we'd be doing."
"Everyone would be driving over to Dr. Peterson in the next county." Matt shrugged, knowing full well that Dr. Espey's patients might well end up there, eventually, once Matt left.
And they wouldn
'
t be happy about it,
Matt reflected as he drove his pickup down the lane leading to Dr. Espey's house, but there it was. As long as Tim Espey owned the clinic, Matt Bishop would be there to keep it open. Doc Espey's first stroke had felled him, and the last stroke had left him unable to walk and with a weakness in both arms. Matt didn't know how much longer the old vet would hold on to the clinic, but Matt would be there with him to the end.
It had been Dr. Espey, a respected professor of animal husbandry as well as a practicing vet, who had taken Matt under his wing when Matt had first started his veterinary studies, and Dr. Espey who had
urged him on every step of the way. Having recognized Matt's innate
gentleness and uncanny diagnos
tic abilities, Tim Espey had personally funded Matt's tuition the year Tom Bishop had died and the family finances were in an uproar. He had never bothered to tell Matt that the "scholarship" he had been awarded at the last minute had not come from the school's financial aid committee, but from his own checkbook. He hadn't wanted the boy to be beholden to him, and it was a source of pride to him that it had been Matt who had asked to intern at the Espey Clinic, and Matt who had offered to stay on and keep the clinic open even after his internship had been completed. Matt Bishop was the son Tim Espey had never had, and the old vet loved him dearly.
Matt parked his truck near the side door of the old house, right next to the blue Buick that belonged to Eva, the old doctor's lady-friend. Liz, who had lived all her life in the area and knew everyone's secrets, had confided to Matt that Eva and the vet had been sweethearts long ago, but he had enlisted in the early forties and sent to Europe. In his absence, she had fallen head over heels with the new pharmacist and had married him. The good doctor had retaliated by bringing home the British nurse who had tended his wounds after he'd been injured during the last few months of the war. Both Eva's pharmacist and Tim Espey's nurse having passed on within three years of each other, the vet and the love of his childhood had started seeing each other again. The old man's strokes had not diminished her affection for him, and she cared for him with great tenderness.
"He was wondering if you'd be stopping by." Eva
greeted Matt at the door before he'd even knocked on it.
"I told him I'd be here to bring him up to date on some of his favorite patients."
"He's in the sunroom." Eva reached for Matt's jacket and he shook his head, telling her, "I won't be staying too long tonight. I left early this morning, and I'll need to get my dog out. He's been cooped up all day."
"Well, then, why not r
un
on back and get the dog and bring him back, and then you can both have dinner here?" the voice from the sunroom called to him. "I've got a new dog-food recipe I want to try out."
"Another one?" Matt laughed from the doorway.
"Yup." The old man in the wheelchair chuckled. Long a proponent of natural foods for both man and beast, Tim Espey had been experimenting with home-prepared pet fo
ods and holistic forms of treat
ment for the last twelve or fifteen years. And for the past three of those years, Matt's rottweiler, Artie, had been his favorite guinea pig.
"What's in this one?" Matt sat down on the large square ottoman in front of the wheelchair.
"Oatmeal, ground turkey, and some raw vegetables," Dr. Espey replied. "A little bonemeal for calcium, some vi
tamin supplements, and some ta
mari sauce for flavor."
"Put enough raw carrots in, and Artie will eat just about anything." Matt grinned. "His breeder says he's giving rottweilers a bad name. Artie would rather have broccoli than beef any day. And a bowl of salad is his idea of heaven."
"I think if people knew just how much dogs like vegetables, they'd give them more. Which reminds me—you mentioned that Barry Enders was bringing his shepherd in today. How's she doing?"
Matt leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs. "Well, she's developed a pretty serious arthritic condition. She doesn't get around so well anymore."
Doc Espey nodded. "I whelped that bitch
…
and her mother, and
her
mother, back about six genera
tions. Every one of them developed hip dysplasia after they hit about ten or so. What did you give her?"
"I gave her two weeks' worth of PSGAG and told Barry to give me a call at the end of the week and let me know how's she's doing."
Doc Espey nodded in agreement. "Good choice. But I'd like to see her on fifteen hundred milligrams of vitamin C a day, as well."
"I'll give Barry a call first thing in the morning."
"Tell him to divide the dosage in half and give it twice a day. If she's no better at the end of two weeks, maybe we should send her to see Line Milner."
Matt smiled. "How do you think Barry would feel about taking his dog to a chiropractor?"
"If he thought it would help his dog, he'd do it. Did wonders for that collie we sent down to Milner last year."
"I'll mention it to him."
"Dinner's almost ready, Matt." Eva poked her head into the doorway. "Are you staying?"
"He's staying." Tim turned to her. "He needs a good meal and a few hours out. The boy has no social life to speak of, and can't make a decent meal for
himself unless it comes frozen, out of a box, and fits into the microwave. Of course he's staying. Go home
and get Artie, Matt, and we'll let him try Dr. Tim's new doggie formula. And a
fter dinner I'll let you read
the letter I got today from my old student Hank Stevens. He's developed a very interesting homeopathic approach to treating behavioral problems
in
d
ogs using flower essences…
"
I
t was well after nine
p
.
m
.
when Matt returned to his small rented bungalow just off the main street of Shawsburg, Maryland. He checked the messages on his answering machine—a call from his sister, one from a woman, Beth, he'd met at a party a few weeks earlier and thought he might be interested in seeing again, and a call from one of his old fraternity brothers, wondering where he'd been hiding. He played the messages a second time, debating on whether or not it was too late to call Laura and whether or not he wanted to call Beth at all. He dialed the number of the inn and listened as the recorded greeting began.
"Thank you for calling the Bishop's Inn. For general information, please press—"
"Hello?" Laura had picked up.
"Your dutiful brother promptly returning your call."