average height and seemed to be of average build, but there was nothing average about the riot of freckles that marched across her straight little nose and dusted her rosy cheeks. And there was nothing average about her mouth. It was soft and pink and full. He’d almost kissed her!
He threw his head back and laughed at that.
Wouldn’t she have been surprised? Wouldn’t he! It wasn’t in his nature to go around kissing strangers.
He locked the rabbit in its large wire- and wood hutch and shook his finger at it. “It wasn’t nice of you to eat her skirt. Now I’ll have to pay for it, and I’m going to take the money out of your carrot allowance.”
Twenty – four hours later, Megan was practically flying down Duke of Gloucester Street. Her black shoes skipped over the brick sidewalk, her long skirt showed flashes of white petticoat as she jigged through a pile of leaves, and her thick, wavy red hair tumbled free, swirling around her shoulders. It was five o’clock, and she had just finished work for the weekend. She tilted her face up into the crisp air and wrapped her long black cape tight around herself. This was her favorite time of the year. Crisp apples, nippy mornings, pumpkins and leaves and… rabbits.
She stopped in her tracks and watched the big brown rabbit hop down Duke of Gloucester Street and disappear between two buildings. That was no ordinary rabbit, she thought. That was what’s – his – name’s rabbit, and it was on the loose, looking for clothes to eat.
She followed it into the little garden beside the bakery, becoming more furious with each step. Obviously, Patrick Hunter was an irresponsible pet parent, not caring if his rabbit got lost or run over by an oxcart or starved to death.
“Poor orphan bunny,” she said. She hefted the huge rabbit into her arms and grunted. Okay, so chances of its starving to death were slim. There was still the oxcart to worry about.
Martha Greenwald and Betsy Markham, fellow visitors’ aides, peeked into the garden and waved at Megan. “I see you’ve got Dr. Hunter’s rabbit,” Martha said.
“
“He’s just moved into town. A pediatrician, fresh out of residency and cute as a button.”
Megan pressed her lips together. The guy with the ratty sneakers and leather jacket was a pediatrician? He must have gotten his diploma from the Acme School of Medical Make – Believe. The man was clearly loony. “He should take better care of his rabbit.”
“Dr. Hunter’s a little disorganized,” Martha said. “He’s not all settled in yet.”
Betsy petted the rabbit. “Don’t you think it looks like Dr. Hunter? They both have such big brown eyes.”
Megan nodded. “Everyone seems to know Dr. Hunter.”
“He’s taken over old Dr. Boyer’s practice. Dr. Boyer retired last month and moved to Florida,” Martha said, smoothing out the wrinkles in her apron. “My daughter took her little Larissa to Dr. Hunter last week, and she said he was wonderful.”
“Anyone know where this wonderful person lives?” Megan asked, shifting the weight of the rabbit to her hip.
“Nicholson Street,” Betsy said. “I returned his rabbit two days ago. He’s living in the little white cottage across from the cabinetmaker.”
Megan set her chin at a determined angle and marched off to do battle with Patrick Hunter. She didn’t care if he was Pediatrician of the Month; he had no business fathering a rabbit if he didn’t intend to take care of it. Rabbits weren’t exactly brilliant. This one probably had a brain the size of a walnut. What were its chances against hordes of tourists and overzealous gardeners? Remember the tragedy of Peter Rabbit’s father?
“Don’t worry,” she told the bunny, “that’s not going to happen to you. I’m going to give that Patrick Hunter a piece of my mind.”
By the time she reached the Hunter cottage Megan was sweating profusely and had resorted to bundling the enormous rabbit in her cape and slinging it over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Lord, she thought, what did he feed this thing, rocks? She stopped at Hunter’s front stoop to catch her breath and to reassemble herself and the rabbit into a more dignified appearance.
Before she had the opportunity to unwrap the animal, Patrick Hunter flung his front door open and grinned down at her. “I saw you stomp up my stairs. Is this a social call?”
She swung her cape off her shoulder and into Pat’s outstretched arms. “I’m returning your rabbit.”
He shook his head at the lumpy black bundle. “I see you’ve been feeding him again.”
Her eyes widened at the sight of a twitching nose and big bunny teeth protruding through a ragged hole in her cape. “Oh, no! Oh, darn!” She glared at Patrick Hunter. “This is all your fault. You should be ashamed of yourself for not taking better care of this rabbit. You don’t deserve to have a rabbit. If I had my way I’d have you put in the stockade. What if this sweet thing got lost, or rabbitknapped, or run over?”
Pat took a step backward. Boy, she was really steamed, he thought. He wanted to invite her in for tea, or lust, or something, but he was afraid she might start breaking things… like his nose.
She sniffed the air. “I smell something burning.”
“My applesauce!” He practically flung the rabbit at her, and ran back into his house.
Megan followed at a distance, closing the door behind her. The cottage, a white clapboard Cape Cod with a gray shake roof and black shutters, was very small. The downstairs consisted of one room, dominated by a walk – in red brick fireplace. Part of the room had been converted into a country kitchen.
She rolled her eyes at the language Pat was aiming at the pot on the stove. “Something go wrong?” she asked.
Pat slouched against the stove with a large, dripping spoon in his hand. “I suppose these things happen.”
“Hmmm,” she said, “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t gotten around to learning how to cook. I can toast bread and boil water and defrost most anything, but I can’t actually cook.” She guessed Patrick Hunter couldn’t cook either. A large stainless – steel pot of glop bubbled ominously on the stove, sporadically spewing its contents over the side and onto the floor.
A square wood table sat in the middle of the kitchen area. It was cluttered with sacks of flour and corn meal, a jar of molasses, colonial – style cones of sugar, and a wicker basket filled with sweet potatoes, baking potatoes, and turnips. Several pumpkins sat on the floor beside the table. The counters held jugs of cider, bunches of dried herbs, and loaves of bakery bread. Megan set the rabbit on the floor and motioned to the food.
“Mrs. Hunter likes to cook?”
“No Mrs. Hunter. Just me… and Tibbles.” He peered into the pot. “Do you think it’s done?”
“What is it?”
“Applesauce,” he said, sounding insulted.
“What are those big brown lumps?”
“I think that’s the part that got a little burned.”
Megan wasn’t much of a cook, but she’d never made anything that looked as bad as Patrick Hunter’s applesauce. She wondered if he misplaced babies at the hospital and melted his rubber gloves in the autoclave.
They both turned when the front door swung open and a young girl timidly entered the room. She wore blue jeans and a denim jacket, and she held a well – swaddled baby in one arm and a brown paper shopping bag in the other.
“I knocked, but nobody heard me,” she said. “I couldn’t wait any longer. I have to go.” Tears clung to her lower lashes and straggled down her cheeks. “I have to go, and I can’t take the baby, and I
