He smiled. “Seems to me you’ve gone above and beyond the requirements of your job.”
“Thanks.” I really did not want to talk about the wedding, or Billie, or anything related to Billie or the wedding, so I plunged in with, “Actually, I knew a doctor once with the last name Miller. Philip Miller? Ever heard of him? He went to the University of Colorado Medical School—”
“No, can’t say that I have. What kind of doc is he?”
“Was. He’s deceased.”
“I’m sorry. It sounds as if he was a friend.”
“Yes, that’s true.” Was I so transparent, or was Craig Miller just really good at reading people? Well, that was his job, I supposed. Philip Miller had been able to read people, too, and it had gotten him killed.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Craig asked, again all earnestness.
“No, thanks.” I tried hard to think of how to change the subject. “Um,” I said finally, “where did you get your medical training?”
“The Ca rib be an,” Craig said. “And after living there year-round for four years, I swore up and down I was going to live in a place with a really cold winter and lots of snow.”
I burst out laughing. “D’you think you ended up in the right place?”
His smile filled the car. “Oh, don’t I know it!” I was afraid he might go back to talking about the wedding, but he didn’t. Come to think of it, it’s women who love talking about weddings, not guys. Craig eyed me with the sly expression Arch used to employ when he wanted something from the cookie jar. “That was quite a stunt your uncle pulled at the spa.”
“He’s my godfather, not my uncle. And trust me, he pulls stunts all the time. Which one were you talking about?”
Craig raised an eyebrow. “Making out with a twenty-year-old in the Smoothie Cabin? Has he no shame?”
I gave Jack’s it-wasn’t-my-fault version of the kiss in question. I even managed not to smile when I said that Isabelle was the aggressor.
“You expect me to believe that?” Craig asked. “That a spa employee tricked an older man into a glorified closet? So she could kiss him? Why not just ask him out on a date?”
I shrugged. At that moment, Arch’s battered Passat drove into view. I explained that I needed to get going, as I still had so much to do before the you-know-what the next day. Craig said that he understood, and hopped out of the car. He offered to take the keys up to Jack, but I said I’d promised to deliver them myself. I locked the Mercedes and followed Craig up the steps to the house.
When Jack came to the door, I said, “Jack.” Once Craig disappeared through the living room, I hesitated. Should I bawl out my godfather for a) honking his horn this morning, b) disappearing during the spa visit, and c) pulling the stunt with the Smoothie Cabin?
“I’ve upset you,” Jack said. “I screwed things up out at Gold Gulch, didn’t I?”
“Sort of.” I felt uncomfortable.
“You know how much I love you, don’t you, Gertie Girl?” When I nodded, he pulled me in for a hug. “I’m sorry. There was a reason for my stuff at the spa. I…I’m just not ready to tell you yet. Will you forgive me?”
With my head in his shoulder, I said, “Of course.”
He thanked me, hugged me again, and took his keys. He said he’d see me the next day.
“You want to drive, Mom?” Arch asked. From the backseat, Todd and Gus gave me sleepy greetings.
“Not particularly,” I began, “I just drove all the way—”
But then I had a good look at Arch. He appeared to have slept in his rumpled, none-too-clean shorts and T- shirt. He had dark bags under his eyes, which he could only manage to keep half open. So maybe he hadn’t actually slept at all. While he was waiting for me to answer, he yawned.
I said, “Yeah, sure, give me the keys, hon.”
Arch, Todd, and Gus all fell asleep on the way back to our house, which was less than twenty minutes away. I shook my head. When Arch was an infant, he’d had numerous sleepless nights. Sometimes I’d found that the only solution was to take him out for a ride in the car. As soon as we’d gone half a block, he’d always be in dreamland. Looks as if things hadn’t changed that much.
Marla called on my cell when we were halfway home. The buzzing of the phone did not seem to bother the boys, and I resolved to call Marla back later. But she would not be deterred. She called again, and again, and again, until I finally answered.
“I need to see you,” she said breathlessly. “Where are you now?”
“Almost to our house. Want to come over? I have extra crab cakes.”
“Ah, the promise of food. Yes, please. And I have such a juicy and delicious piece of gossip for you, you won’t believe it.”
The boys groaned when the car stopped and didn’t move again. Finally, they piled out, extending their arms, cracking their joints, and complaining more than Rip Van Winkle with a backache. Arch yawned and asked if he could make his pals pancakes, if he promised not to get in my way. They were
Arch was pleased. Although I’d often offered to teach Arch to cook, he’d always resisted. But making flapjacks was a skill he’d learned in Cub Scouts, and he still loved whipping up big batches. He’d even perfected the art of dropping dollops of batter into a hot pan when it was just the right temperature. Plus, he always insisted on melting real butter for the batter and then pouring more on top of the flapjacks themselves. He’d even learned to make clarified butter, which he made and froze in small batches, to use in the pan so the fat wouldn’t burn before he ladled in the batter. I guess he was his mother’s son, after all.
Even better than all that, Arch was always particularly pleased with his creations when my dear Tom would tuck into a stack of eight or more of the creations, and invariably pronounce them the absolute best pancakes he’d ever tasted in his entire life.
While Arch gave directions to Todd and Gus on setting the table, I checked the messages. Julian had called to say he had located plenty of new potatoes to make our salad for the additional fifty people. Was I doing okay? I left a voice mail message on Julian’s cell saying I was fine, no problem.
Was I fine? Did I have enough food for the Attenborough wedding? Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure.
So while Arch sizzled clarified butter in our flapjack pan, I began measuring out the ingredients for extra crab cakes.
“Gosh,” Gus asked, “who is all the crab for?”
“A wedding tomorrow.”
“Who’s getting married?” Todd wanted to know as he frowned over the cutlery drawer.
“Billie Attenborough and Dr. Craig Miller. He’s a doctor at Spruce Medical Group.”
“Oh, man,” Todd commented, “my mom hates Spruce Medical Group. She took me there when I had that torn rotator cuff, you know, the one I had the operation for at the beginning of the summer? My mom wanted an MRI, but whoever was in charge there said I only had a sprained arm. Anyway, the guy told me to start lifting weights. He even showed me how to lift the weights, especially with my left arm, which was the one that was hurting so much, especially at night.”
“Which guy did you see?” I asked.
“Aw, I don’t remember his name,” Todd said.
“You’re such a wuss,” Gus interjected, which brought some spectacular left jabs from Todd. “Okay, okay, you’re not a wuss!” Gus hollered in defeat.
“So did lifting the weights help?” I asked.
“Not even, Steven,” Todd replied. “I did those stupid weights every day for a couple of weeks, and by then the upper part of my left arm felt as if it was falling off.”
“Hello?” said Arch, as he measured out buttermilk. “Your upper arm can’t fall off. Only your whole arm can fall off.”
“And it’s called resistance training, Todd,” Gus said, laughing.
“Thanks for the updates, guys,” Todd replied. “Okay, it felt as if my whole arm was coming off when I did resistance training, how’s that? Anyway, my mom took me someplace else, and whoever was in charge there said I needed an MRI, which showed, duh, that I had a torn rotator cuff. And so I had surgery. I told her we should sue
