I’m a stalker. The good kind…

We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of, haven’t we? Things we don’t want to confess to friends or parents or children. My obsession with Joe Carpenter was one of those things. It was bad enough to have been secretly in love with a man for more than half my life, but resorting to stalking at twenty-nine and a half was really embarrassing. Still, one does what one must.

Millie Barnes has concocted a foolproof plan for winning the man of her dreams. Or is she just a fool in love?

Fools Rush In
Kristan Higgins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Ed Higgins, a great storyteller and great father

who loved Cape Cod above all other places.

Thanks, Dad.

Acknowledgments

Without my agents, Maria Carvainis, Donna Bagdasarian and Moira Sullivan, being published would remain an elusive dream, like donating a kidney to Bruce Springsteen or cooking Thanksgiving dinner. I am endlessly grateful for their excellent representation.

Deepest thanks and appreciation to my editor, Abby Zidle, a funny, kind and wicked smart person whose suggestions and guidance made this a much better book.

The people of Cape Cod have always been gracious, welcoming and helpful, kindly overlooking my lifelong love of the New York Yankees. Thank you for making the Cape our second home.

Personal thanks to fellow writer Rose Morris for her immeasurably kind soul and helpful input; to Carolyn Wallach for unhesitating honesty and generous praise; to Heidi Gulbronson and Pam Boynton, brave enough to read the first draft and say nice things anyway; and to my wonderful family: Mom, Hilary, Mike and Jackie, my truest friends.

Fools Rush In

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

I’M A STALKER. THE GOOD KIND.

Well, I was a stalker. It’s been a while. Even so, it’s hard to admit that you’ve followed, eavesdropped, spied, lurked, skulked and bribed in the name of love. But I’ve done all of those things—rather well, I might add. Perhaps you know what I’m talking about. It doesn’t matter how old you are, what level of schooling you’ve had or where you live—stalking is innate to the female psyche. We’ve all been there.

In my case, I stalked Joe Carpenter from the age of fourteen and a half until I went away to college. I knew where my subject lived. I knew his middle name, his mother’s name, his sister’s name, his dog’s name. I knew what kind of truck he drove, his favorite color, the names of his past four girlfriends, his favorite beer, where he went to happy hour on Fridays, which songs he played on the jukebox. I knew where he worked, how he took his coffee and the grade he got in third-year Spanish. There wasn’t much I didn’t know about Joe Carpenter.

While I didn’t quite meet the legal definition of stalking, I did drive by Joe’s house once or twice. Maybe more. (It was more.) I’d been known to “run into” him, a calculated maneuver executed with military precision and made to look quite accidental. It took years of training to reach the level of “coincidence” I developed. I probably shouldn’t be proud of that. Still, a talent is a talent.

It started in freshman biology at Nauset High School in Eastham, Massachusetts. Joe’s seat was diagonally in front of mine, and in order to look at the blackboard, I had to look past Joe. And I couldn’t. Not many women could look past Joe, even when he was fourteen years old. Then I discovered that his locker was three down from mine, and the stalking began.

Joe might mention to a friend that he was going to the beach after school, and I’d show up, too, crouching illegally in the terns’ nesting area so as not to be discovered, watching Joe frolic with the in crowd. I’d see his mom’s car at the store as my dad drove me home and suddenly blurt the need for tampons, knowing that feminine hygiene products would ensure that my father remained in the parking lot. I’d skulk through the aisles, hoping for a glimpse of Joe Carpenter. I’d ride my bike around town looking for Joe, stopping once I saw him to check the air levels in my perfectly inflated tires, carefully not noticing him, simply lurking in his golden presence.

Joe became, ironically, a carpenter, known professionally as Joe Carpenter the Carpenter. Thanks to my years of research, I knew what others, too sidetracked by his beauty, might have missed—Joe was honest, humble, hardworking and sweet. He performed anonymous acts of kindness, took pride in his work and treated people with benevolence and good cheer. He even adopted a three-legged dog. And yes, Joe Carpenter was gorgeous.

He had the kind of looks that made breathing irrelevant. A smile from Joe could cause waitresses to drop coffee carafes, sending splinters of glass skittering across a restaurant while they stared dreamily at my subject. Cars had collided when he jogged across an intersection; rooms had fallen silent at his entrance. And God in heaven, if he took off his shirt when he was outside working…Tourists had been known to stop and photograph the beauty Joe provided. Forget Nauset Light, take a picture of that!

Not a woman alive could remain unaffected by Joe’s looks. Dark blond hair, streaked with lighter gold from his hours in the sun. Clean, strong bone structure. Pure green eyes framed by impossibly long, thick golden eyelashes. Dimples. A slightly lopsided, boyish smile. Perfect teeth. Of course, Joe knew he was beautiful—a person couldn’t look like that and not be aware of the effect he had on others. But he never flaunted it. Usually a little scruffy, he didn’t seem to care too much about his appearance. His hair was often tousled, as if recently from bed. He was frequently unshaven. Clothes rumpled. Effortlessly, magnificently appealing.

Joe and I were both native Cape Codders, both in the same school year. We weren’t friends, though we might have said hello to each other a few times in high school. (It was three times, and these slight acknowledgments in front of our peers caused bursts of giddy joy and acne as my hormones surged with the thrill.)

And then came The Time—the monumental event that ensured Joe’s status in my heart forever more.

In sophomore year of high school, our class made the trip to Plymouth Plantation required of all New England schoolchildren, by civic pride if not by law. With the curious mix of ennui and exuberance typical of fifteen-year-olds, we spent an hour on our rattling, fume-ridden bus before slouching through the streets of the historic village. Despite the fact that my peers were sullen and bored, I couldn’t help but be charmed by “Obadiah,” the period-garbed man who was roasting bluefish over an open fire. He offered me a taste. I accepted. He gave me another. I ate that one, too, delighted at his interest in me, ignoring the fact that he made his living by schmoozing tourists.

On the bus home, as kids tossed wads of paper back and forth, shrieking like enraged chimpanzees, that bluefish made itself known to me. My best friend, Katie, asked me if I was okay; apparently, I was more than a little green. I answered by throwing up on my shoes. Ah, bluefish. I’ve never been able to eat it since.

At any rate, the kids around me reacted with all the kindness you’d expect from teenagers—that is to say, none. I gagged a few more times to the taunts and disgusted cries of my peers as Katie went to the bus driver for paper towels. My eyes were tearing in the aftermath of vomiting, my nose prickling, face flaming. And then…and then Joe was sitting next to me.

“You okay, Millie?” he asked, pushing his hair off his forehead.

“Yes,” I whispered, horrified, thrilled, nauseous and smitten.

“Shut up, guys,” Joe instructed affably, and because he was Joe, they listened. He patted my shoulder, and even in my weakened state, I registered every detail—the warmth of his hand, the kindness in his beautiful eyes, the half smile on his perfect lips. Then Katie arrived with paper towels and kitty litter to absorb the mess, and Joe returned to the back of the bus where the cool kids sat.

Proof! Proof that Joe was more than just a pretty face. College and even medical school didn’t help me outgrow my obsession; instead, I’d come home on break and pick up where I left off—find Joe. Run into Joe. Speak to Joe. Sure, I’d feel slightly ridiculous…until I caught a glimpse of him, when all embarrassment would evaporate in a cloud of love. He always had the same effect on me, his casual “Hey, Millie, how are you?” sending tremors through my limbs, heat to my face.

Now, at nearly thirty, I was still doing a pretty good imitation of teenage obsession. With my residency finally over, I had just moved back to the Cape, and here I was, in agonizingly close vicinity to Joe again. But this year would be different, I vowed. This was the year I would become Joe-worthy.

I didn’t have any illusions about myself. I was a smart, nice person. Funny. Caring. A fine friend. Though I was still pretty new to the profession, I knew I was a good doctor. But in terms of physicality, I was short, chubby, with long, lank hair that I pulled into a ponytail more often than not. Straight enough teeth. Brown eyes. Overall, rather plain and ordinary. Being cursed with an extremely beautiful older sister had certainly not helped my self-image over the years. Nor had my residency improved on what nature had given me, though I had definitely mastered the pasty skin/dark circles/unshaven legs look.

In order to attract the attention of a man who embodied physical perfection, I knew I had to make the most of what I had. While I didn’t imagine that I could become a swan, I was determined to become at least, oh, I don’t know, a Canada goose? They’re nice, right? Nothing wrong with a Canada goose.

My plan was simple, much like those of countless women who had set out to get their men. I would get a good haircut and makeover and shed the excess weight that gave me the Pillsbury Doughboy figure I now sported. I would buy a new wardrobe with the help of better-dressed friends. I would get a dog, as Joe was a dog lover, and become a better cook. And once I’d done these things, I would insert my newly forged presence into Joe’s life and make my move.

CHAPTER ONE

ON THE FIRST MORNING in my new home, I awoke to the sharp, hopeful smell of fresh paint, the radiator ticking companionably against the cold March day.

Today held all the unsullied promise of a new school year. Residency finished. Home remodeled. Career soon to begin. And Joe…Joe was out there this cold morning, soon to find that I was the love of his life. Swinging out of bed, I looked around the room, noting with pride the bright, clean blue walls and antique quilt. I padded barefoot to the kitchen, admiring my gleaming counters and shining porcelain sink. Turning on the coffeemaker, I breathed a deep sigh of happiness and gratitude.

As the coffee brewed, I rummaged through a box that was yet unpacked. Finding what I was looking for, I returned to the kitchen as the coffeemaker emitted its last gurgles, poured myself a cup, sat down and turned my full attention to the object before me.

An eight-by-ten photograph showed Joe Carpenter standing silhouetted against the sky, shirtless, as he nailed a shingle on a roof. The crispness of the black-and-white photo showcased his perfectly muscled arms as he performed this seemingly mundane task, which, with Joe’s easy grace, became poetry. He was slightly turned away from the camera, but enough of his face showed that you could see just how beautiful he was. The caption had read Aptly named Joe Carpenter of Eastham works on the restoration of Penniman House.

How did I get this picture? I’d called the paper and asked for it, thank you very much. It had been in the Boston Globe, and they’d never suspected that I wasn’t Joe’s mother, as I’d claimed to be. Sometimes having an old lady’s name comes in handy. After all, they wouldn’t have believed me if my name had been Heather or Tiffany…. Of course, I couldn’t keep this picture out in the open, so I secreted it away for special times. Now was such a time, and I gazed at it with the reverence it deserved.

“It all starts today, Joe,” I said, feeling pretty idiotic. Still, as I traced the outline of the man I’d loved for so long, the foolish feeling dissipated like early morning fog. “You’re about to fall in love with me. Everything from here on is for you.”

Resisting the urge to kiss the photo, I got up and strolled around my little house, cup in hand, basking in the thrill of simply being here. Home ownership on Cape Cod is a monumental achievement…one that I’d accomplished through no effort of my own. My grandmother had died just after Christmas. When the will had been read, I’d learned, with great shock and unsquelchable joy, that she had left her house to me—and only me.

The modest little ranch wore the requisite cedar shingles of the Cape, bleached a soft gray by the salt air and sun. There was no yard to speak of, just a scattering of pine needles, sand and moss. But the house was priceless because it was on protected land of the Cape Cod National Seashore. This meant that it would forever be free from development, I would never have a new neighbor, and I was pretty close to the water (three-tenths of a mile to be precise, though there was no view whatsoever). But I could hear the roaring surf of the mighty Atlantic, and at night the beam of Nauset Light swept across the darkness.

For months, I’d been driving up from Boston to work on the house, sanding floors, painting walls, sorting through my grandmother’s things, and the end result was a nice amalgamation of old and new. Gran’s needlepointed footstool sat next to my glass coffee table, bright new fabric covering her old beige love seat, a nice watercolor in the spot where a photo of John Kennedy at prayer had once hung. I considered the warm yellow I’d chosen for one wall of the living room, decided it was indeed fantastic, and walked into the bathroom to check on the pink flamingos my mother and I had stenciled on the pale green walls. Wait till Joe sees it here, I fantasized…he’ll never want to leave. I stuck my head in the bathroom vanity to assess how much space I had. The small area still smelled pleasantly of lemon Pine-Sol, the fumes making for a rather pleasant buzz.

The phone rang and I jumped, whacking my head on the cabinet. I ran to the kitchen to answer my first phone call in the new house.

“Hi, Millie, hon,” my mom said. “How was the first night? Everything okay?”

“Hi, Mom,” I answered happily, rubbing my scalp. “Everything’s great. How are you?”

“Oh…fine,” she answered unconvincingly.

“What’s up?”

“Well…it’s Trish,” Mom murmured.

“Ah.” Of course it was Trish, the usual topic of family conversation. “So what’s going on?” I opened the fridge and eyed the few occupants: oranges, half-and-half and, purchased in a moment of self-delusion regarding my baking ambitions, yeast. Clearly, I would have to hit the market later on. “Is Trish visiting?”

“No, no, she’s still in…New Jersey. But the divorce is final today. Sam just called us.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. And I was. My parents adored Sam Nickerson, my brother-in-law. As did I. As did the rest of this town. Sam was the son my parents never had. He and my father often watched football games together and did manly things like dump runs and driveway patching. My mother loved nothing more than feeding him and my much-beloved seventeen-year-old nephew. “Well, it’s not like we’ll never see Sam or Danny again,” I assured my mom. “They’re staying put, at any rate.”

“Oh, I know,” she answered. “I just wish…I wish your sister had taken more time. I think she’s making a mistake.”

A sweet, guilty pleasure rushed through me at my mom’s disapproval. Trish had always been Mom’s favorite, and for years Mom had turned a blind eye toward my sister’s behavior, always putting a positive spin on her selfishness. Even when Trish had gotten pregnant just after high school, my mother had defended her, taking comfort in the fact that Sam had immediately married Trish and taken her out to Notre Dame, where he’d been on an athletic scholarship.

I reminded myself that I should be over this sort of thing. Still, I couldn’t help saying, “Well, of course she’s making a mistake.” Closing the refrigerator, I asked, “How are Sam and Danny?”

“They’re all right. Sam seemed very sad, though.”

“I’ll go visit them later,” I offered.

“That would be nice, honey. Oh, Daddy wants to talk to you. Howard, it’s Millie.”

“I know who it is,” my father said. “I’m going to the plumbing supply store, punkin. Anything you need?”

“No, thanks, Daddy. I’m all set for now.”

“Well, I need some pipe. The Franklins’ septic system overflowed last night and their yard’s a mess. I told them Scott tissue only, but who listens, right?”

“Serves them right, then. I don’t think I need anything, but thanks, Dad.”

“Okay, baby. Bye-bye.”

“Bye. Have fun with the cesspool!” I answered, knowing he would. My father owned Sea Breeze: The Freshest Name in the Business, a robust septic service company, and he loved his job with the kind of zeal usually displayed only by missionaries or NFL cheerleaders.

Pleased with the sense of familial closeness, I hung up the phone. Then, with great moral fortitude, I readied myself for the next step of my plan to win Joe Carpenter.

As a medical doctor, I obviously knew that there is only one way to lose weight, and that is to burn more calories than are consumed. I’d put myself on prison rations, hence the dearth of anything good to eat in my house. My self-control lacked gusto. If I bought Ben & Jerry’s Heath Bar Crunch, arguably the finest ice cream on earth, I would eat the entire pint in one sitting. With this fresh start of mine, I had resolved to improve my eating habits, and therefore I hadn’t bought anything fattening or sugary or buttery—in other words, anything good. To facilitate the weight-loss process, to enter the golden realm of the physically buff, I had also decided to start running.

Running, I surmised, was easy. Just put on sneakers and go, right? Very little skill required in running. I had all I needed. Running bra, check. Nikes, check. Black running shorts, check. Not the spandex kind. Dear God, no! These were a nice, loose, breathable fabric. Cute T-shirt, check. This one said Tony Blair Is a Hottie. Gaze upon Joe’s picture, check. Sigh dreamily, check. And out the door I went.

I’d never really exercised before. At all. Oh, I played a little softball as a kid, as it was something of a religion around here, but I never did aerobics or Jazzercise or Pilates, as did, say, sister Trish. And the difference showed. Trish, who was thirty-five, looked about twenty-three, with toned, tanned arms, tiny waist, firm bottom. As an adult, I had been too engrossed in college, med school, etc., to spend any time on my physical well-being. Residents are notoriously unhealthy. We eat Twinkies and call it a meal. Sleep for four hours and call it a night. Exercise? That’s something we advise for our cardiac patients. It’s not for us, silly.

After a minute or two of vague stretches, I walked down my long dirt driveway and onto the road. Since the Cape was pretty deserted in March, I was fairly sure I’d be safe from unwanted spectators. It was overcast and cool, a good day for running, I thought. Off I went. Trot, trot, trot. Not bad. Easy, in fact. Mercifully, no coordination was required. Trot, trot, trot. It was pretty cold, and my bare legs and arms stung in the damp, raw air. I passed my neighbor’s driveway and continued down the road, finding that I had to breathe through my mouth now. My stomach jiggled. I wondered how far I’d gone and glanced at my watch. Four minutes.

I tried to distract myself, get into the zone, by looking around at the pretty sights. Twisted locust branches clacked together in the salty breeze. I came up to the lighthouse, its bright red-and-white tower starkly beautiful against the gray sky. Ouch! A sharp pain lanced through my left side. Run through the pain, Millie, I coached myself. Pain is weakness leaving the body. My feet slapped the pavement. Nine minutes now. The cold air scraped my throat, and I was not encouraged to hear my lungs convulsively sucking air. Agonist breathing, we call it on the hospice ward. Had I run a mile yet? Was I doing something wrong? Was my oxygen saturation dangerously low?

I lurched to a stop, bending over and wheezing pitifully. Just taking a breather, I consoled myself as my heart thundered sickeningly in my head. After a couple of minutes, I regained my composure. Off I went again. Immediately, the wheezing was back. I tried to concentrate on breathing…how hard could it be? In, out, in, out, in, out, oh Jesus, I was hyperventilating! And now I could hear a car! I feigned athleticism and forced myself to lengthen my stride in case it was someone I knew. Smiling through the incredible pain, I waved, which caused my shoulder to spasm and cramp. The car passed. Crisis over.

No, not over. A hill loomed ahead. Keep the feet slapping, Millie. Don’t stop now. This hill didn’t look like a hill to the naked eye; it was more of a grade, really, but as far as I was concerned it was Heartbreak Hill. I imagined myself in the Boston Marathon, that pinnacle of all athletic events, often imitated, never duplicated…and here comes Millie Barnes, that’s Dr. Millie Barnes, ladies and gentlemen, from beautiful Cape Cod—

Was I about to lose control of my bladder? And/or throw up? My watch said thirteen minutes. Clearly, it was broken. At the top of Heartbreak Hill, I turned around and started back. Ah, this was easier, except that I was hyperventilating again. Calm yourself! I commanded. The hill, so horrifically long on the way up, was far too short on the way down. My legs were as supple as oak beams, and my shins practically mewled in agony. The pain in my side had yet to go away, and my shoulder cramp had now spread to my neck, forcing me to tip my head at an awkward angle.

The lactic acid in my body was building up to toxic levels. I imagined them diagnosing me at the ER in Hyannis. “Christ, what happened to her?”

“She was running, Doctor.”

“How far?”

“Almost a mile, Doctor.”

Damn it! If I stopped now, I knew I would never again attempt this stunning torture. Think of Joe, I ordered my brain, think of being naked with Joe and having a fabulous body. “Oh, Millie, you’re in such great shape,” Joe will sigh reverently as he gazes upon my…my…my neighbor’s mailbox! I was almost home! And yes, there it was, home sweet home, my own beloved washed-out driveway! I staggered into it and careened to a stop. Knees buckling, legs shaking uncontrollably, T-shirt soaked, throat dry and rasping, fighting off the dry heaves, I wobbled drunkenly into my house and collapsed into a kitchen chair.

Here she is, ladies and gentlemen! Dr. Millie Barnes, winner of the Boston Marathon! I looked at my watch again. Twenty-eight minutes, 1.7 miles. That was awesome! I had done it. My convulsive gasping took a while to stop, but after all, what a workout! After twenty minutes or so, I heaved myself out of the chair and downed a glass of water.

Then I made the large mistake of looking in the full-length mirror. My face was a shocking shade of red. Not pink, not flushed with the glow of a good workout, not even just red. A shocking shade of beet-red. The whole face, just one solid color. My eyes were puffy from sweat irritation, my lips chapped and flaky white, providing the only break from the Crayola crimson. My sweaty T-shirt clung to the doughy skin of my upper extremities and neck. My legs were red and wind-burned, better, I supposed, than the chalk that was my normal skin tone. Oh, well. I was a work in progress, after all.

I took a hot shower, forced out far too soon by the tiny water heater’s shortcomings. As I made myself a pot of greenish herbal tea, I decided to call my sister. After all, her marriage officially ended today, and I thought I should be, well, sisterly. Still…Trish scared me a little. I remembered her hissing fury when Gran’s will had been read. Trish had received several thousand dollars, a pittance compared to what this house was worth. That was the last time I’d seen her.

After a few minutes of sifting through papers on my desk, I found her number. The strange area code gave me a pang. She was pretty far from home, our Trish.

When I’d been in college, I’d called her fairly often for Danny updates, as I adored my nephew, but after he was six or seven, Trish would just put Danny himself on, knowing the true purpose of my call. Or I would talk to Sam, who would give me blow-by-blows of Danny’s Little League games, parent-teacher conferences, clarinet lessons, etc.

“Hello?” As always, she sounded impatient.

“Hi, Trish, it’s Millie,” I said, immediately uncomfortable.

“Oh, Millie. Hi,” she answered. “What’s the matter?” I could picture her fidgeting next to the phone, no doubt with many better things to do than talk to her younger sister.

“Nothing’s the matter,” I answered, pouring my bilious tea. The aroma of herbal sludge filled the room. “I, um, I heard your divorce was final today and I wanted to see how you were doing.”

There was a pause. I could sense her irritation coiling like a rattlesnake. “I’m fine,” she said briskly. “Never better.”

I gritted my teeth. Wishing I hadn’t called, I nevertheless forged on. “Well, you know, you were married for a long time, and I just thought…”

“Millie, I’m happier now than I’ve been in years. Just because you belong to the Sam Nickerson fan club doesn’t mean that we made each other happy, okay? This is what I want. Avery is what I want. Not Sam. Sam is boring.” There was no greater crime in my sister’s eyes than being boring.

“Right,” I answered. “It’s just that…I thought you might be down. Seventeen years and all. Thought you might be feeling a little melancholy, but I can see I was wrong.”

“That’s right.”

“Okay, Trish, great talking to you. Have fun in the Garden State.”

“How are you?” Trish asked unexpectedly.

“Me? I’m good. Great, in fact,” I answered, immediately assuaged by the unforeseen attention. Such was the plight of a younger sibling.

“How’s Gran’s house?” she asked with only a moderate amount of hostility.

“It’s getting there,” I answered. “Is there anything you want? Maybe an afghan?”

“God, no, Millie. Please.” We were back to normal.

“Well, I’m going over to see Danny later, and I’ll tell him you said hi,” I said, hoping to inspire some guilt. It didn’t work.

“I called him earlier. He’s coming to visit again next weekend.”

“Oh.” Our conversation was clearly over. We said our uncomfortable goodbyes and hung up.

Trish and I were as different as two who shared a gene pool could be. While I had battled crooked teeth and fat as a youth, Trish had floated through adolescence, untouched by eating disorders, pimples or bad hair choices. Trish had been captain of the cheerleading squad. I had been president of the science club. Trish had been prom queen. I’d taken honors biology. She’d dated the football hero. I’d dated not at all.

In order to dispel the feeling of incompetence and frustration my sister inspired, I next called Katie Williams. We’d been friends since kindergarten, when she’d thrown up on my desk, a bonding experience that has withstood the test of time. There’s something irreplaceable about a person who’s known you since you lost your first tooth, bought your first bra, had your first drink. Katie knew about my undying love for Joe, my plans, Trish, everything. Being the single mother of two little boys, she seemed to enjoy hearing about topics other than potty training and Bob the Builder. And of course, she got free medical care, courtesy of her sons’ godmother (that would be me). At any rate, Katie was my sounding board as I plotted, ranted, raved and fantasized about Joe Carpenter. She had always been extremely tolerant of this.

Katie listened with false compassion and far too many laughs to the account of my first athletic attempt, sympathized about my sister and agreed to come over for coffee the next day with my godsons. After we hung up, I got dressed, hooked up my CD player and danced around to U2, pretending to be Bono for two songs. Then I finally stopped stalling and got into my car. Time to go see Sam and Danny.

They lived on the other side of town in one of Eastham’s most picturesque neighborhoods. When my nephew was three or four years old, Sam’s parents had died in a car accident, the result of a drunken teenager smashing into them on Route 6. Trish, Sam and Danny had moved into Sam’s parents’ house three weeks after the funeral. My sister had begun remodeling immediately. A year later, the house was unrecognizable. They’d gutted it almost completely, and in its place now stood a modern, angular structure with huge windows facing the bay. Sam had taken a second job to help pay the bills.

The modern house was not at all my taste, though I had to admit it was very impressive—large, open, lots of glass and deck space. But it was the view that made your heart stop. The house overlooked a tiny bayside beach. Water stretched out to the horizon, dotted with wooden rowboats and seagulls, cormorants, the occasional swan. You could hear their constant cries, a melody of sea birds, if you will, that blended with the omnipresent wind and gentle lapping of the waves. At low tide, you could walk almost a half mile out, and at high tide, the water was deep enough to swim. Sea grass waved gracefully, deep green in the warm weather, golden in the winter. People, even we hardened locals, came to the beach to get a glimpse of the sunsets that glorified the sky each night. This was what my sister had left for Short Hills, New Jersey, where I hear they have an impressive mall.

I parked my car in the crushed-shell driveway and ran up the steps. Sam was a cop, and when he was not making the world safe for the rest of us, he worked part-time for a landscaper. His own gardens were spectacular. Even now in March, unexpected green things popped up to relieve the gray and brown of the dormant flower beds. In a few more months, people would be stopping on the street to admire my sister’s former showplace.

I opened the door and shouted hello. With pounding feet, my nephew came bounding down the stairs like an excited Irish setter. I felt a rush of love and gratitude that even at the advanced and cynical age of seventeen, Danny was still so happy to see me. My nephew seemed, to me and just about everyone else, the culmination of what you’d hope your child would be. Funny, generous, extremely smart, tall and a bit gangly, he also excelled at baseball, truly the all-American boy.

“Hey, Auntie,” he said, bending down to smooch my cheek. He’d become taller than I was about five years ago.

“Hello, youngster,” I said. “What are you doing?”

“Calculus homework. Want something to eat? I’m starving,” he said as we went into the kitchen. Stainless-steel appliances, granite countertops, stark white walls and an unforgiving black tile floor gave the room an imposing military feel. Clambering onto a stool at the counter, I watched Danny galumph around, slamming, rattling, sloshing. I refused his kind offer of sustenance, though my stomach growled, triggered by the smell of a toasting bagel and the sight of my nephew downing a glass of creamy whole milk in four swallows. Thousands of calories.

“Is your dad at work?” I asked.

“Nope. He took the day off,” Danny said, peeling a banana and stuffing half of it into his mouth while he waited for the bagel to toast. “The divorce is final today, you know.”

“Yes, I heard. How are you doing with all that?”

“Well, okay, I guess.” He paused for a moment, looking out the window toward the bay. “I mean, Mom’s been gone for a while now, so I’m pretty used to that. But Dad’s taking it kind of hard.”

“Did you talk to your mom today?”

“Yup. She’s okay.”

I waited, fascinated by the amount of food my nephew could force into his mouth at once. A third of a bagel. My, my.

“She said she’s glad to be on to a new chapter of her life, a door closes, a window opens, that sort of thing. I think she’s doing all right.”

“Wonderful,” I murmured, trying to be neutral.

“Oh, come on, Aunt Mil. You can’t blame her too much.” Danny continued with a shrug, swallowing like a python polishing off a goat. “She deserves to be happy. Just because my parents screwed up when they were kids doesn’t mean Mom shouldn’t be able to move on. I mean, yeah, the whole cheating thing really sucked. But I don’t think she meant to hurt anybody.”

Such generosity! How could this child be the product of my sister’s loins? “You’re the best boy in all the world,” I said. “And they didn’t screw up, having you. You’re the best thing that ever happened to either one of them. Or to me, for that matter. Come here so I can pinch your cheek.”

“You’re not that old yet, Aunt Mil,” Danny said. “Hey, remember my friend Connor? He said you were cute. He wants to play doctor when you open the clinic.”

“That’s terrifying,” I laughed. “So, where is your dad, anyway?”

“He’s walking on the beach.” Danny turned somber. “He’s wicked sad, Aunt Mil. Wicked.”

Poor Sam, walking picturesquely on the beach on the day of his divorce. My heart tugged. I chatted with Danny a little more, asked him about his grades to remind him that I was the adult, and then left the house to find wicked sad Sam.

How Trish had landed Sam Nickerson—well, getting pregnant with Danny had worked its magic. But she’d never deserved him, that was for sure. Sam was the nicest guy around and always had been, and he’d always been especially good to me.

When I was eleven or twelve and Trish and Sam were hormonal teenagers, my parents had gone out, leaving my sister in charge. Katie was sleeping over, and Trish stuck her head into my room to inform us that she and Sam were going to a party. She warned us not to tell Mom and Dad or she would kill us, a threat we’d taken with the gravity it deserved.

At this moment, Sam came in and said hello to us, commented favorably on my Barbie and her Dream Van, chatted us up for a minute or two. When he realized that Trish was supposed to be babysitting, he told her that they couldn’t just leave us alone. They ended up taking us to the movies to see some preteen-appropriate flick. Sam even bought us popcorn and soda and hadn’t seemed to mind that Trish was fuming. Tragically, that night still held the title of Best Date of My Life.

That was Sam for you. Or that was Sam before seventeen years of marriage wore him into a “yes, dear” kind of husband, slightly defeated and always a little confused when it came to Trish. But once, at least, he had genuinely loved her, and when I caught sight of him, looking out over the ocean, shoulders hunched against heartbreak, he did indeed look wicked sad.

“Hi, zipperhead,” I called merrily over the wind, my shoes crunching on the crisp, cold sand as I walked over to him. He turned slightly, wearily.

“Hey, kiddo,” he responded listlessly.

“That’s Dr. Kiddo to you,” I said. My eyes felt wet; not from the wind, alas, but from seeing Sam so obviously miserable. I linked my arm through his. “How’s it going?”

“Okay.” He gave a halfhearted grin and returned his tragic gaze to the ocean. Sympathy and irritation bickered in my head. Sam was better off without Trish, though I knew better than to say this.

“Guess what?” I offered, determined to be upbeat.

“What?” Sam answered.

“I’m taking you out tonight! Come on, let’s go back to the house. Man, that wind is murder! My ears are like hunks of ice.” I began to steer him to the path that wound through the sea grass toward his house.

“Sorry, kiddo. I don’t want to go anywhere,” Sam answered, letting me propel him, though he had at least eight or nine inches on me.

“I know. That’s why we’re going out. It’s too pathetic to sit at home on the night of your first divorce. As opposed to your second, when you can indeed stay home. It’s every other divorce. Go out, stay home, go out, stay home.” Shockingly, Sam was unamused by my feeble attempt at humor. I stopped to look up at him. “Really, Sam. Come out for a beer with me. I’m buying. You will not sit home alone tonight. I will chain myself to your oven before I let you.”

“Millie…”

“Come on! Please?”

He sighed. “Okay. One beer. Nowhere local.”

“Good boy!” As we climbed up the deck stairs, I turned to him once more. His face was so sad, so dejected, that my eyes filled. “Listen, Sam, I want to say something. Seriously.” I swallowed. “I just wanted to tell you that I think you’re wonderful. And I’m sorry you’re hurting.” My mouth wobbled. “I’ve always been really proud to have you as my brother-in-law.” I wiped my eyes with the heel of my hand and gave him a watery smile.

Sam looked at me with a trace of amusement, then put his arm around my shoulders and started into the house. “That was pretty good, kiddo. Did you practice it in the car?”

“Yes, I did, wiseass. For that, you’ll have to buy the second round.”

CHAPTER TWO

TWO HOURS LATER WE WERE at a bar in Provincetown, drinking beer and waiting for buffalo wings. There are still places like this in P-town, though you have to know where to look. Otherwise, you end up eating things like grilled sea bass enchiladas with fresh cumin in a creamy dill sauce.

The bar was perfectly ordinary and nice, and chances were we wouldn’t run into anyone we knew. I understood Sam’s desire to get out of town. There wasn’t a person around who didn’t know about the breakup and winced at the fact that not only had Officer Sam been dumped, but for a rich stockbroker from New Jersey.

We sat quietly at our little table, watching the local color. Sam had been pretty morose on the way up, and I was getting a little tired of it. Trish had left last August, and though today was the official day, it seemed (to me, anyway) that Sam was enjoying his misery a tad too much. Determined to snap him out of his funk, I kicked him under the table.

“Guess what?” I asked in my adorable, merry way.

“What, kiddo?” answered Sam gamely.

“I started running today,” I said. “As in, ‘I will someday run in the Boston Marathon’ running.”

Now Sam, as an ex–Notre Dame football player, had obviously been something of an athlete and was still in good shape. He ran, played softball in the town league and probably did other physical things related to his profession. His interest, however, was muted, and he merely nodded and took another sip of beer.

“Want to hear how far?” I tempted, not above using my own degradation to bring a smile to my brother-in law’s face.

“Sure.”

“One point seven miles.”

This caught his attention. “Really,” he said, looking slightly less tragic. “How long did that take you?”

“Oh, gosh, let’s see now,” I answered. “Um, about twenty-eight minutes.”

His laughter bounced off the walls, and I grinned along with him.

“Christ, Millie, I can crawl faster than that.”

“Ha, ha, gosh, you’re so funny, you stupid jock. I’m just starting, you know.”

Our wings arrived, and I, who had worked so very hard that day, felt that surely I deserved at least eight of them. We slurped our way through the food as old pals can, and I watched him for signs of suicidality or vegetative depression. None so far.

Sam was pretty attractive. Not the masculine perfection that was Joe, who had been the subject of at least three catfights in which the authorities had been called. Sam was averagely clean-cut, American attractive, tall and lean, light brown hair going to gray, beautiful, sad hazel eyes with crinkles at the corners. Gentle voice, nice smile. He was such a kind man, so sweet and hardworking. And yes, I had a master plan to fix his life, bring him happiness and undo some of the misery my sister had wrought. But I had to do this gently, because, after all, the poor guy had only been divorced a few hours.

“How’s your dad?” Sam asked as the waitress cleared our plates.

“Dad’s okay. You know. He’s still furious with, uh, Trish, but uh, you know how much he loves you.” Whoops! I didn’t mean to mention the T word. Sam grunted in response.

“So, Sam, how are you doing?” I asked in my best compassionate-doctor voice. He smiled sadly, tragically. I clenched my teeth hard for a minute.

“I’m okay, I guess.” He took a deep breath and another swig of beer, then rubbed his palms on his jeans. “It’s just that…well, I keep wondering what I did wrong. I never saw it coming.”

“Really?”

“Well, I mean, I knew she wasn’t happy. Neither of us was, but we weren’t exactly miserable, either.”

“Why wasn’t she happy?” I asked curiously.

“I don’t know! Don’t you guys talk about stuff like that? Ask her. She’s your sister.” Sam shot me an irritated glance, then began picking at the label on his beer bottle.

“Well, Trish and I aren’t exactly close,” I murmured. “I didn’t mean to upset you, big guy. It’s just…I don’t know, a marriage doesn’t fall apart just like that, does it?”

Sam sighed. “Probably not. She complained about me working too much, but, well, we had lots of bills. And she was happy to spend whatever I brought in.”

True enough. My sister liked nice things, a term she used to describe her spending habits. Others might use foolish or irresponsible.

“And…I don’t know, Millie. We got to a point where we knew things weren’t really working, but we didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t anything concrete, just this sense of things not being…right. I didn’t know how to fix it, so I basically just ignored it until the boyfriend came along.”

That was probably the longest paragraph I’d ever heard Sam utter, and he seemed to regret saying it. He took a long pull from his beer, then said, “It’s weird not to be married anymore. I’ve always been married, you know?”

“Sure,” I said. “It’ll take some time.” Six months and counting, I added silently. “And as for Trish, well, she’s just…she’s always wanted so much,” I finished lamely. “She’s kidding herself if she thinks she’s going to be happy with Mr. New Jersey.”

“Right,” Sam said tersely. I winced and made a mental note to avoid mentioning Trish’s lover.

“Guess what?” I said. “I’m getting a dog.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yup. I think I’ll name him Sam.”

He smiled. “It’s good to have you back on the Cape, Millie.”

I smiled back, and we chewed our celery sticks without further discussion, listening to the music and watching a game of darts. Then Sam glanced up. “Oh, hey, Joe,” he said casually.

My heart froze, my face froze, my mind—yes, you guessed it—froze. I looked up. And there he was.

It was like a play, when the spotlight shines only on the leading man. Joe Carpenter stood at our table, smiling down at us, dimples flirting, white teeth gleaming. Lust and panic flooded my veins in equal measure.

“Hey, Joe,” I said, my heart suddenly pounding, mouth dry.

“Hey, guys. Mind if I sit down a sec?” Joe asked, pulling a chair around and straddling it. He wore faded blue jeans, a flannel shirt and work boots, and I swear to you, he was the most desirable and delicious man God ever made, thank you, Father, thank you, Son, thank you, Holy Spirit.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Sam answered. “What are you doing so far from home?”

“Oh, just out on a date,” Joe replied, turning his beautiful, smiling green eyes to me. “Hey, Millie.”

“Hey, Joe,” I said again, wracking my brain for a clever comment.

“What about you two?” Joe asked. “What are you doing up here? Arresting someone, Sam?”

My heart thudded so hard my chest hurt. Why hadn’t I put on makeup? Why wasn’t I wearing something other than a Holy Cross sweatshirt? Did I have on earrings? Was chicken wing stuck in my teeth? Trying to save Sam from having to explain that this was Divorce Day and also to say something adorably memorable, I fumbled for an answer.

“Oh, we heard this place had good food,” I said.

Then, walking across the room, hips swaying, blond hair flowing as if in a shampoo commercial, came Joe’s date. Tall. Skinny. Big boobs despite the skinniness, their cantaloupe-like roundness announcing them as store-bought. Unlike me, she seemed to know what to wear to a bar in Provincetown: she had on a wide-necked shirt and interesting earrings that matched the blue in her blouse and, no doubt, her eyes.

“There you are,” she said, placing a hand on Joe’s shoulder in a statement of ownership. Yes, I could now see that her eyes were indeed blue—Caribbean-blue, I believe Bausch & Lomb called them.

“Oh, hey,” Joe said, grinning easily at the blond one, “let me introduce you. This is Sam, this is Millie, and this is Autumn.”

“Actually, it’s Summer,” she said with a glare. Sam swallowed a smile and I bit my lip.

“Right,” said Joe, unremorseful. “You’re just so pretty, I forgot for a minute.” Gross.

She bought it, gracing him with a tight smile. For us, she had nothing.

“Well,” said Sam. “We’ll let you get back to your night. Nice meeting you, Summer,” he said, standing. “See you, Joe.”

I sat frozen for a moment. Was I going to have to stand? This would mean Joe and Summer would see that I was still chubby, the day’s run notwithstanding. But, no, gracious Joe also stood. He smiled down at me and I managed to smile back.

“Bye,” I said.

“Bye, Millie,” he answered. Summer apparently didn’t think that a goodbye was necessary, for she just walked away, tiny little behind twitching.

I dragged my gaze away from Joe’s perfect backside and looked at the table. Say something, I commanded myself, not wanting Sam to see the love I had for Joe written all over my face. Feigning normalcy, I asked Sam if he wanted another beer.

While seeing Joe with another woman never felt good, it was certainly not uncommon. For sixteen years now, I had watched him with other women, and I didn’t expect that someone as gorgeous, sweet and hardworking as Joe would be alone. Of course, it bothered me a little. He was always with someone like Summer, someone very pretty and not really nice. These relationships never seemed to last.

I wholeheartedly believed that once I had Joe’s attention, he would see in me all that he had been missing with other women. I was smart, nice, funny, undemanding. And let’s not forget I was a doctor, for crying out loud, helping the sick, comforting their families, and, once in a while, saving a life! A pretty cool job, if I did say so. Once I became as attractive as I could become (short of plastic surgery and diuretics), Joe would finally see me as something more than an old classmate and fall in love with me.

Maybe you’re wondering where I got the chutzpah, the hubris, the balls to go after a guy like Joe. After all, the longest relationship I’d had was less than six weeks. The thing was, I’d spent most of my life in love with Joe Carpenter. I would be turning thirty soon. I figured it was now or never, and if I was going to try to get Joe, I was going to give it all I had.

I put the encounter with Joe in the back of my mind…another trick I’d mastered over the decades. Later I would examine every detail with excruciating fervor, rating myself, considering what I could do better, psyching myself up for next time. But for now, I put the incident aside. After all, I was used to pretending Joe was just an ordinary guy.

Joe and What’s-Her-Name were occupied playing pool when Sam and I left a little while later. We strolled down to where we’d parked.

“So, Sam, you’re not going to go home, listen to a Norah Jones CD, get drunk and cry, are you?” I asked as we got into the car.

“Well, I think I’ll probably pass on that one,” he said amiably. “Another time, maybe.”

“You’re a good boy. An excellent role model for my dog.”

“Don’t you dare name your dog after me,” he laughed.

When we got back home, I felt warm and fuzzy, like a good sister-in-law, though officially, I wasn’t one anymore. Sam kissed my cheek, thanked me and walked inside his big house, looking, I believed, not nearly so wicked sad as he had earlier. “Hang in there, buddy,” I murmured, putting my car in reverse. “Life is about to get better.”

CHAPTER THREE

THE NEXT MORNING, I GOT OUT of bed and collapsed to my knees. My God! What had happened to me? Every muscle south of my scalp had seized like a bad engine. Scrabbling with my quilt, I hauled myself up and lurched stiff-legged into the bathroom, swinging my pelvis like John Wayne to minimize any leg extension. Knives of pain shot up my Achilles tendons into my calves. I’d been hobbled. Whimpering, I bent to the faucet for a mouthful of water and gulped down four Motrin.

My pain turned to joy as I mounted the bathroom scale. I had lost not one but two, two whole pounds! Of course, I knew this was just fluid loss from my excessive perspiring yesterday, and that I couldn’t really have lost two pounds of fat in one day, that the complex workings of the human body just won’t allow that, but long before I was a doctor, I was an overweight American woman, and guess what? I lost two pounds, that’s what!

Katie and her sons arrived a little while later. Corey was six years old, Mikey three. Like her sons, Katie had creamy blond hair and sky-blue eyes, making her my polar opposite. Her beauty attracted dozens of admiring men, but Katie…well, since her divorce, Katie had become a bit hardened. Maybe even before that, but since Elliott left her, she just didn’t, as she put it, have a lot of time for crap.

And when exactly had Elliott chosen to leave her, you ask? Why, just after she’d given birth to Michael, after thirty-six hours of labor and three hours of pushing her nine-pound, six-ounce son into the world. Good thing I was there for the birth, because Elliott the Idiot was not. In one of those unbelievable, made-for-Lifetime-television scenes, he arrived a few hours later and told Katie that he wanted a divorce, that he “just wasn’t happy anymore.” And so, as Katie bled from her impressive episiotomy, as her breasts took on the texture of granite, as her newborn son mewled in her arms, her husband had dumped her for a younger woman.

Katie had become, unsurprisingly, suspicious of men. In addition, she had to work hard to support the boys. She lived in an apartment above her parents’ garage and worked as a waitress at the Barnacle, and while she made ends meet, I wanted more for her. Though she swore the last thing she wanted was a relationship…well, I just happened to know a wonderful man who was recently divorced himself, a man who loved children, especially boys, had a fine son of his own, a man I was very fond of, who would make a perfect husband for my best friend. I had to tread gently here, because Katie would hate the thought of being set up. And Officer Nickerson was still smarting from my own sister’s betrayal. Gently, gently, subtly, subtly…

“I saw Sam last night,” I blurted as Katie and I sat at the kitchen table. The boys were in the dining room, engrossed in the Bob the Builder and Spider-Man coloring books I had bought for them.

“How’s he doing?” Katie asked.

“Sad, for some reason. He’s so much better off without her,” I said, deliberately insensitive, though I did indeed think it was true.

“Oh, come on,” Katie said. “They were together a long time. He must feel pretty crappy, poor guy.” She sipped her coffee with an appreciative murmur.

“Maybe we could take him out some time,” I craftily suggested. “Cheer him up a bit.”

“Sure.” Mission accomplished! “When do you start work?” Katie asked.

“April Fool’s Day. A coincidence, I hope, and not an omen.”

Though I wanted to go into private practice, the costs were prohibitive for someone just out of residency. I had approached Dr. Whitaker, our Norman Rockwell–style physician and my own doctor since birth, to take me on as a partner. He wanted me to get a little more experience first and suggested the Cape Cod Walk-In Clinic, which was a satellite of Cape Cod Hospital. Dr. Whitaker would then reevaluate the situation in the fall.

“Are you excited?” Katie asked.

“I sure am. Can’t wait.”

“And how’s the Joe-hunt going?” Katie inquired, looking into the dining room at her boys, their fair heads nearly touching as they colored. A maternal smile of happiness warmed her face.

“Joe, Joe…” I crooned. I told her about how yummy he’d looked the night before, how sweet he’d been, how funny it was when he’d called Summer the wrong season. Katie listened as my voice took on the tone of a zealot. I could hear myself babbling inanely about Joe’s virtues and charms, but like any good zealot, I found it hard to stop. Finally I reined myself in.

“So, anyway…that’s Joe for you,” I finished.

Katie chuckled and patted my hand. “You’re a nut, you know that?” She put aside her cup with a regretful sigh. “But you make the best coffee. Come on, boys. We have to go to the market. You can have a muffin if you behave.”

Corey and Mike cheerfully ripped out their masterpieces, proudly presenting the blurry, messy pictures to me for my refrigerator door, where they would hang for months. I received my kisses and hugs and helped buckle the boys into the back seat of the Corolla, waving as they trundled down my driveway.

Turning back to my little cottage, a small, familiar wave of loneliness mingled with my new sense of house pride. I knew Katie would have given her kidneys (well, one, at least) for the pleasure of a day alone, but it was different for me. When solitude was unrelenting, it tended to lose its shine. And so, onto the next step in my plan. Adopt a dog.

Oh, yes, a dog. Not a cat! No, having a cat says, “Hi. I’m single. For a reason. Because I love my cat. My cat and I have something special here.” But a dog! A dog is a statement of humor, energy, fun. A gal who can get down on the floor and wrestle with her dog is wicked cool!

We’d always had dogs when I was a kid, but when I was a teenager, our last dog went to that great beach in the sky, and my parents hadn’t gotten another one. Now, with a home of my own, I was all set to become a proud new dog owner. This dog of mine, my new best friend, my companion while I ran oh-so-gracefully, this dog who would adorably wake me with a cheerful nuzzle, who would collapse in paroxysms of joy upon my arrival home, who would protect me, no, die for me, who would undoubtedly love Joe and Joe’s three-legged dog, was just hours away.

To the Cape Cod Animal Shelter in Hyannis I went. I first stopped at one of those mega-stores for pets, where I purchased an adjustable-length collar with day-glow reflecting colors to save my pup from an accident. Along with this went a leash, a comfy cedar pillow bed that had Sweet Doggy Dreams printed all over it, and a two-sided ceramic doggy dish with blue-painted paw prints in it. Throw in a bottle of shampoo, some tick repellent, heartworm tablets and a book on dog training, and I had spent $167 before even laying eyes on my new pal.

The animal shelter was surprisingly benign. When you picture the pound, death row usually comes to mind. Poor, abandoned animals in too-small cages, making their last confessions to the priest…but this pound was not bad at all. While I waited in the sunny foyer, I talked to the adoption counselor and explained what I was looking for. She told me to go ahead and look around, and so I went to where the dogs were kept.

A cacophony of barking, from savage snarling to high-pitched yipping, greeted me. The vast echoing room housed dozens of doomed doggies, each in its own cage. Tears welled in my eyes as I passed the inmates. It was death row. Doggy death row. Poor darlings. A huge black-and-brown beast snarled at me, and my sympathy faded as I leaped away from his cage. There were quite a few of this type of dog: huge, muscled creatures with terrifying, feral mouths excellent for killing the addict who tried to get to my stash. Of course, as I was not a drug dealer, I didn’t really need such a creature. Now, there was a nice-looking pooch, a little mop kind of thing of indeterminate parentage. Whoops, large scaly patches on back. Not a Joe-magnet type of dog. In the next cage a Chihuahua mix, looking like a wingless bat, trembled and urinated in terror. Sorry, kid.

And then…there he was. My dog. As if waiting for me, he wagged his tail as he stood on his hind legs, front paws against the chain-link door. Mostly white with splotches of black, floppy ears, sweet, hopeful eyes…he looked like some combination of Border Collie and Lab. I put my hand up to his eagerly sniffing nose.

“Hi there, buddy,” I said. He licked my hand. Sold.

Of course, we had to spend some time in the Bonding Room before I could leave with my new best friend, but it was just a formality. We were in love. I filled out the paperwork and coughed up some more cash. An hour after meeting, Digger and I were walking to my car. He was two years old, which meant he was fully grown, friendly, good with kids, and he was adorable. Wagging, wriggling, licking, Digger was my very own.

He loved the car. He was so excited that he peed on the passenger seat as we drove out of the parking lot.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE NEXT STEP IN THE Plan to Get Joe was the all-important makeover. This would serve two purposes: one, obviously, to make me more attractive to Joe; and two, to make me look more professional at the clinic. In Boston, I hadn’t cared too much about how I’d looked, buying bland, comfortable clothes, favoring my ponytail for its ease and speed. But my attitude was different now. Some of the people I’d treat would become my clients, and I wanted to project a confident, professional demeanor. And of course, I wanted to be a babe. Dr. Babe.

Turning to the best possible source of a woman’s beauty—a gay man—I called my dear old friend, Curtis.

“I’m ready,” I told him.

“Thank God,” he replied.

Curtis and I had been pals since freshman year of college. He was from Nebraska, of all places, and I’d taken him home for Thanksgiving so he could see the ocean for the first time. He’d stood there, stunned and lovestruck, and hadn’t been back to the Cornhusker State for more than forty-eight hours since. At any rate, Curtis and his long-time partner, Mitch, had joyfully agreed to become my style consultants. These guys made the Fab Five seem like Neanderthals: Curtis’s fair-haired, blue-eyed-angel looks set off his wicked sense of humor, while Mitch’s dark, Byronesque beauty and uppercrust accent suggested generations of robber barons and too many Cary Grant movies. They looked perfect together, and, as far as I could see, they were. Their relationship was so blissful and solid and charming that everyone who saw them together felt happy inside, except for the zipperheads who beat them up periodically if they ventured too far from home.

Since college, Curtis and Mitch had lived in Provincetown, that mecca of homosexual freedom, beautiful gardens, charming shops and fabulous food. The boys owned and operated the Pink Peacock, a beautiful bed-and-breakfast that showcased their genius for interior design. And, true to stereotype, Curtis and Mitch adored women and absolutely reeked of good taste in all matters related to the female form. I had no compunction about placing myself in their well-manicured hands.

So it was that on a cold, blustery Wednesday, I drove up to P-town in my rapidly aging Honda. The drive was glorious, a straight shot up Route 6, the highway that runs down the middle of the Cape. I passed groves of stunted pitch pines and postcard views of salt marshes, zooming along in fourth—my overdrive had never worked—joyfully singing at the top of my lungs to “Rosalita” by my other boyfriend, Bruce Springsteen.

I turned off Route 6, passed the rows of cheerful beachside cottages and navigated down Commercial Street, where galleries and cafés hugged the narrow road. Parking was no problem this early in the season, and I easily found the salon recommended by Curtis and Mitch. The boys themselves frequented this place, and they had gorgeous, lustrous hair, robust cuticles and no visible pores.

Inside, the walls glowed a gentle apricot, and the soothing tones of classical piano music drifted out of discreet speakers. The guys were waiting for me. Their friend Lucien was the owner of the salon and had agreed to “do” me personally, an offer that Curtis and Mitch viewed as quite miraculous. As soon as I walked in, the three gay men descended upon me, clucking as if I had just arisen from my deathbed. I couldn’t blame them. A Boston University sweatshirt and jeans so old they were nearly white did not exemplify the height of gay male fashion.

Extremely tall and buff, Lucien had the ebony skin and dangerous cheekbones of Grace Jones. He also sported a fabulous British accent, which I suspected might be fake. “Fantastic to meet you,” he said stonily. He grimaced as he pulled the elastic out of my ponytail, running an elegant hand through my heavy hair. “Better change, duckie. We’ll be here all day.”

Well, that’s what I was here for, after all. Cut and color, makeup and manicure. I had turned down the pedicure, embarrassed at the thought of someone else cutting my toenails. As I pulled on the chic black robe, I could hear my pals discussing my situation with Lucien.

“She’s set her cap for a man,” Mitchell said in his trademark 1940s lingo.

“Who hasn’t?” sighed Lucien. “Save the two of you, of course.”

“She’s going for a whole new look,” Curtis volunteered. “Professional but interesting and youthful. She’s a doctor.” Here I smiled at the pride in my pal’s voice. No friend like an old friend.

“Right, Cinderella!” barked Lucien. “Why don’t we start with the facial? I’ll need to work from the bottom up on this one. Let’s see if we can do something about that wretched winter skin.”

THREE HOURS LATER, I had been highlighted, brushed, teased, shorn, pumiced, waxed, detoxified, moisturized, astringentized and practically spanked. My cuticles throbbed from the orange stick abuse. My face still stung from the punishing, acidic toner. Scalp tingled, burned and itched from the hair color. Eyebrows screamed from waxing. Could they be bleeding? People really did this willingly? The boys wouldn’t let me see how I looked…. They’d draped a sheet over the mirror so we could do the “reveal.” I tried to remind myself that this was all for a greater good, but even picturing Joe’s perfect face didn’t make me feel better.

As the foiled highlights set in my hair, Lucien escorted me to the makeup area. “Time to fix that face!” he announced. Sitting me down, he began to apply cotton ball after cotton ball of paste-like foundation over my still-suffering skin.

“That color seems a little light,” I commented as he opened another bottle.

“Just sit back, love, and we’ll choose for you.” Clearly, my opinion mattered not one bit. I let Lucien scrub my face with a rough sponge, coughing as he poofed powder onto my cheeks. “There’s simply no cheekbone visible, is there?” he sighed. “Well, we’ll have to fake it.”

“I’ve always tried…” I began.

“Darling, don’t speak. Just sit back and let me work. Mitch, precious, tilt that light just a tad? Brilliant. Now, Millie, is it? You’re going to love me for this.”

As Lucien applied every makeup item known to mankind, Curtis and Mitch began to look a little…concerned.

“Do I look okay?” I asked, trying not to move my lips as Lucien dabbed Product Number Four upon them.

“Ah…” began Mitch. Lucien shot them a heated glance.

“It’s very…dramatic,” Curtis attempted.

“Well, what did you want? Boring?” demanded Lucien. “I thought we’d done boring.”

“I’m sure it’s great,” I soothed. “And you’re right. I’ve done boring. Time for a little flair.”

“See?” hissed Lucien. “Right-o, we’re done here. Back to the sink.” He began removing the foil wraps from my hair and rinsed my head. I yelped as the hot water hit my tormented scalp.

“Sorry!” Lucien sang out cheerfully. He adjusted the faucet so that the water turned ice-cold. Back at the cutting area, though, he settled in, brushing and drying my hair with a dexterity I knew I could never achieve.

“Ready?” he finally purred. Curtis and Mitch exchanged worried glances. With a quick, smooth move, Lucien tore the sheet from the mirror.

The first thing I saw was my eyebrows, or rather, the lack thereof. Granted, they were a bit unruly before, but now they were no longer recognizable as human eyebrows, so thin they looked like they were one hair thick or drawn on with a very, very sharp pencil. The skin around them was puffy from the waxing, and even the grotesque amount of makeup Lucien had applied couldn’t quite mask the redness.

And speaking of makeup…my skin was now pasty-white except for angry slashes of brown (“cheekbones”). I looked like I had just drunk deeply and satisfyingly from the neck of a wayward virgin, thanks to the arterial red on my lips. My eyes, tightened by the minimizer/astringent therapy, looked tiny, ringed in thick black. I glanced in alarm to Curtis, who had the honesty to look away, ashamed for his part in this fiasco.

“What do you think?” cooed Lucien the Nazi.

“I…I…” I had no answer. My brain reeled.

“Your hair is lovely,” Mitch said kindly, apologetically.

I forced my gaze north of those eyebrows, and…oh. My hair—thick, heavy, somewhat schizophrenic—looked fabulous! Now, layered, chic, at least eight inches shorter, it was lighter, too, a vibrant, glowing mahogany. Shiny waves floated about my face, sophisticated but casual. I loved it, thank God.

“Wonderful,” I said to Lucien. Curtis smiled in relief, knowing he had been granted reprieve from certain execution. The makeup, after all, could be washed off. The eyebrows…well, eyebrow pencils had been invented for a reason, right? But hair was critical to good looks. You couldn’t be adorable if you had bad hair, and I now had great hair.

A short time later, I walked down the street, having parted with an ungodly sum to pay for my degradation, wondering how to grow my eyebrows back while avoiding unsightly stubble. Once in my car, I checked myself out in the rearview mirror. Eyebrows still bald. Skin still shockingly white, lips still blood-drenched. My previously wonderful hair had been ravished by the salty Provincetown wind. The carelessly sophisticated look was gone, never to be completely reproduced, soundly replaced with the fourth-grader-asleep-on-the-bus look.

There was no singing along with the radio on the way home.

CHAPTER FIVE

FEELING THE NEED TO SHIELD myself from the stares I knew my naked eyebrows would evoke, I stayed home as much as possible for the next week, working diligently on sanding my deck. My sweet (though not very bright) dog followed me everywhere with energetic wags of his whip-like tail. He took to my house and yard immediately and had yet to stray, bounding immediately when called. His only flaw seemed to be a nervous stomach. He pooped at least five times a day, sometimes in the house. Luckily, I was well-armed with multiple cleaning products.

I enjoyed myself in my new home with kooky little Digger. Sure I did. The problem was, there was no one to admire my adorable, sparkling house, no one to ask “Do you like this chair here?” or “What do you feel like for dinner?” There was no one to care about how my day had been, no one to put me first. I wanted to be adored. I wanted to snuggle. I wanted to get laid.

I had dated a little, here and there. In college, dating wasn’t really dating. It was more like go to a party, flirt with someone, go back to his/your room and make out. There were no dinners in restaurants, no phone calls, no gifties. Maybe an e-mail. Maybe you’d walk back from the dining hall together. Catch the movie on Saturday night, him, you and ten or twelve other pals. I might have had a boyfriend in college, but it was hard to tell.

The time I’d felt most desirable was the semester I’d spent in Scotland, the latter half of my junior year. I went to a remote school in the Highlands, took four easy classes and developed muscular calves from the startling hills. For some reason, the Scots found my American-ness very hot, and I was loath to disappoint. They weren’t so hung up on skinny, perfect-toothed, androgynous Calvin Klein beauty, and I found myself making out in the back of pubs with Ians and Ewans and even an Angus, happily not understanding a rolling word out of their manly mouths, but who cared! I was popular! Of course, the lads all expected me to put out in the great American tradition of casual sex, and I had to send the majority of them back to the sheep meadow, their big burly hearts a wee bit broken. Once word spread that I wasn’t easy, it was almost time for me to go back to the States, anyway. My brief popularity in the Highlands had been pretty damn wonderful. I missed those brawny Scots.

Back at home, there was the romance of medical school. What romance of medical school, you ask? Excellent question. We were all so busy learning so much in so short a time that it was impossible to have a date. Once, in panicky desperation born of fatigue, terror and caffeine, I ended up in bed with a classmate, only to pretend the next day that it had never happened. And we were so stressed and tired, it practically didn’t happen.

On to the exotic sexiness of internship. If any resident I knew had time to burn flirting, kissing or shagging, he or she would have vastly preferred to spend it weeping in a closet somewhere or maniacally studying the question they’d botched during rounds. We hung in there grimly, learning, watching, assisting, guessing, chanting to ourselves, “Someday this will all be worth it.”

By my third year of residency, I had a little more time to date. I even had a six-week relationship with a very nice neurologist. But then he accepted a position with a Cleveland practice, and that was it. I didn’t really mind, to tell you the truth. We’d liked each other, and he was funny and cute enough, but it was nothing like what I felt for Joe.

But now I was ready to start life with the man who epitomized my every romantic dream. Thanks to my years of research, I was convinced that Joe would find what he’d wanted all of his life, too…the love of a good woman. Me. Joe’s looks could distract a person, to say the least. It would be like dating Brad Pitt. But thanks to my years of stalking, I knew the true, secret heart of Joe Carpenter.

I knew about the time Joe, quietly and anonymously, had fixed old Mrs. Garrison’s railing after she’d fallen and broken her hip. Thanks to an eavesdropped conversation at the post office a few years ago, I knew that he gave money to his sister on a regular basis to help make ends meet. I knew about his three-legged dog who hopped after him everywhere, adoration written all over his doggy face. How many times had I revisited The Time, replaying in slow motion that act of innate kindness on the school bus so many years ago? Of course I loved him!

And soon he would love me back.

As part of my Dalai Lama/Richard Gere relationship with Dr. Whitaker, I would be seeing his nursing-home patients once a week. The Outer Cape Senior Center, or OCSC, was located just a mile down the road from my house. Every Thursday, I was to visit Dr. Whitaker’s patients and treat them as necessary. And the joy was that, in addition to the obvious benefit of gaining medical experience, I would also see Joe Carpenter, who had been hired to put on a new wing.

I spent an entire sixty minutes showering, applying makeup and fixing my schizophrenic hair into a semblance of the style I’d paid a week’s wages for. Dressed in black gabardine pants, a loose-fitting pink sweater and pink flowery earrings, I bid Digger farewell, ignoring his imploring howls as I got into the Honda, hoping he wouldn’t soil the floor again.

The raw March wind tried to shove my little car off the twisting road to the OCSC as I mentally rehearsed what I would say when I “ran into” Joe. Something casual yet charming. Something that would stick in his brain. I had to remember to feign surprise that he was working here. “Oh, hey, Joe! What are you doing here? Me? Oh, I’m going to be covering for Dr. Whitaker here on Thursdays.” Hence, I would impress Joe with my credentials, inform him that I would be a regular visitor and get to see him without having to create a coincidence.

As I turned into the OCSC, my heart leaped. Joe’s truck, a worn, maroon Chevy Cheyenne with Joe Carpenter the Carpenter stenciled in white on both doors, was in the nearly empty parking lot. I girded my loins, if a woman could do that, and prepared to insert my funny, kind, generous and more attractive self into Joe’s radar. The minute I stepped out of the car, the wind began ravishing my hair, but having learned about the effects of salt air and my new cut, I clamped my hands over my head and ran to the front door.

The familiar, not unpleasant (to me) smell of a health-care institution greeted me…low-salt food, disinfectant and that indefinable medical odor. I peeked down the empty hallways that led off the foyer. No Joe. There was no one at the front desk, either, so I walked over to the large common room on the left, noting the automatic locking doors at the entrance that would prevent anyone from leaving without notice. Ah, here was life! Clustered around a huge TV that showed Judge Judy in alarming detail, a dozen or so seniors, some in wheelchairs, sat mesmerized by Her Honor’s shrill opinions.

One woman managed to tear herself away from the show. She wore scrubs, and I guessed her to be an aide of some kind, the type of person who does all the dirty work in a place like this. She approached and gave me a cool once-over.

“Yes?” she asked, hands on her hips, looking a little ticked that I had interrupted the good judge.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Barnes. I’m covering for Dr. Whitaker,” I answered with a smile.

“Millie Barnes?” asked the aide. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Yes.”

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” asked the aide sourly. Thin, chin-length blond hair with an inch and a half of black roots framed a plain, worn-looking face. She had a truck driver’s build—beer belly, big, strong-looking arms and pink-rimmed eyes.

“Uh, no, sorry…you look familiar, but I can’t think of your name,” I said awkwardly.

“Stephanie Petrucelli,” she answered, irritated that I hadn’t placed her. “We went to Nauset High together.”

Oh, yes! One of the rougher girls in my class, tattooed, bullying, large-pored. An image of freshman Spanish class came to me, Stephanie snickering loudly as I tried gamely to imitate our teacher’s accent. Memories of her waiting ominously for me in the bus line. Mocking me at the tenth-grade dance. Laughing as I barfed on the bus. Though she had never actually made good on her threats to beat me up, she had terrorized me nonetheless. Stephanie had been one of those less-gifted students who had hated everyone smarter than she was. And that was a lot of people.

“I remember now,” I said, neutrally assessing her appearance. The years had not been kind.

“I heard you were a doctor,” she said, sneering.

“That’s right.”

“So what are you doing here? Dr. Whitaker’s our doc.”

“I think I’ve already told you,” I answered snippily—amazing how quickly old resentments flare up. “I’ll be covering for him on Thursdays.”

“Oh. So. What do you want?”

“How about the charts on his patients?” I asked.

“Fine. Go down that hall to the nurses’ station. The charts are all there.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Enjoy your show.” She scowled, and I hid a smile.

I walked down the hall, aware again that Joe Carpenter was somewhere in the building, and discreetly fluffed the chronically flat part of my hair. At the nurses’ station, I introduced myself to the other staffers, only one of whom was a nurse, and spent about an hour going over charts. Most of the patients suffered from fairly standard senior-citizen complaints: coronary or vascular disease, Alzheimer’s, stroke, diabetes.

Dr. Whitaker examined each patient at least twice a month, some as often as once a week. He was meticulous in his notes, his handwriting uncharacteristically neat. He’d left a list of patients to examine today and had given me some background information on each of them, which I appreciated immensely.

The first patient was Mrs. Delmonico, who suffered from morbid obesity and insulin-dependent diabetes. I chatted with her for a few minutes before starting the exam, congratulating her on her newest great-grandchild. She had a shallow ulcer as a result of her poor circulation, and I changed the dressing and wrote orders for whirlpool therapy. Next came Mrs. Walker, a dementia patient who was nonverbal and thin but otherwise seemed to be in good health. I checked her Aricept dose and asked the nurse about art or pet therapy for her, something that seemed to work well with Alzheimer’s patients. Mr. Hughes, the father of one of my childhood friends, was ornery, itching to go home after a long recovery from peritonitis resulting from a ruptured appendix. I told him that I would talk with Dr. Whitaker about discharge and asked after Sandy, his daughter. He then apologized sheepishly for his bad temper and told me he couldn’t believe I was old enough to be a doctor.

It was wonderful. This was exactly what I wanted to do with my life. And then came Mr. Glover…

Stephanie helped him down the hall to the tiny exam room. Only slightly stooped, he looked pretty hale, actually. Rather dashing in a way, with a white mustache and nicely ironed cotton shirt under a blue cardigan.

“Hi, Mr. Glover,” I said with a smile.

“This is Dr. Barnes,” Stephanie said in a clear, precise voice. “She’s helping Dr. Whitaker. Is it okay if she checks you out?”

Mr. Glover looked at me, nodded and got onto the exam table without too much difficulty.

“Great!” Stephanie smiled as she left. I guess I’d been too harsh on her before. She clearly had a way with the old folks, and as for the work she did, well, you couldn’t pay her enough.

“I’m just going to listen to your heart, okay, Mr. Glover?” I asked. He didn’t answer, but smiled sweetly. I pressed the stethoscope against his chest and listened to the blood rushing through his ventricles. Faint but regular. Blood pressure excellent. I tapped on his back to auscultate his lungs, then checked his pupils for reactivity.

“Everything seems great,” I said. “How are you feeling, Mr. Glover? Any complaints?”

“I feel rather hard,” he said, gazing at me with a lovely smile.

“Pardon me?” I asked.

“I’m rather hard,” he repeated.

I glanced at his lap, not quite sure if that was the hardness he meant. It was.

“Um…” I stalled, not sure if he was giving me a real complaint. After all, involuntary tumescence was a legitimate medical—

“Care to take a look?” he asked pleasantly. His gaze dropped to my chest, and he casually reached for my breast, arthritic fingers outstretched.

“Hey! No! None of that, Mr. Glover!” I stepped back quickly, bumping into the scale. “Uh, I think you might want to talk to Dr. Whitaker if you think—” Sometimes dementia results in inappropriate sexual impulses, my brain recited. It would have been nice if Dr. Whitaker had mentioned this in his meticulous notes—

Suddenly, Mr. Glover grabbed me by the waist and yanked me closer, wrapping his skinny legs around mine, pinning my arms at my sides, and lay his head on my chest.

“No, Mr. Glover! Please let go!” I tried to sound authoritative. It had no effect. I wriggled a little, trying to free my arms. He gave a happy moan and rubbed against me.

“Hey! Stop it!” I said, more loudly. “Mr. Glover, please!” Though he weighed no more than one hundred and fifty pounds, he was wiry. And humming. “Mr. Glover, please let go. Right now. This is very inappropriate.” I tried to twist away, which only seemed to excite him more. He giggled. Shit! I was the doctor, which meant I couldn’t exactly knee him in the groin. “Mr. Glover!” My mind raced furiously, trying to think of how we’d been taught to handle this sort of thing in med school. Call Security was the best I could come up with.

My patient began to sing softly. “I saw her today at the recep-tion…”

“Mr. Glover, stop this right now! I mean it!” I managed to liberate my left arm, and gave him a tentative shove, trying to extricate myself without breaking his brittle bones. He didn’t notice. Wincing, I tentatively pulled on a wispy strand of his thin white hair. The Hippocratic oath echoed in my mind. First, do no harm. Mr. Glover didn’t notice, his song continuing, “At her feet was…a footloose ma-an…”

There was drool on my new sweater. Enough! “Excuse me!” I yelled. “I need some help in here!”

I heard footsteps squeaking down the corridor, and in came Stephanie, looking ever so pleased to see me in Mr. Glover’s python grip. And right behind her stood Joe Carpenter. Of course.

“Is there a problem, Doctor?” Stephanie asked innocently.

“You can’t always get what you wa-ant,” Mr. Glover crooned.

“Give me a hand here,” I ground out.

“Oh, Mr. Glover, you know you shouldn’t be doing that,” Stephanie said calmly. She pried his hands off me and calmly unwound him from my waist. I took a step back and tried not to shudder. Straightening my sweater, knowing my face was beet-red, I retrieved my stethoscope, which had fallen during the unorthodox exam. Joe looked on in amusement.

“Hey, Millie. You okay?” he said, not unkindly.

“Oh, sure, you know, just getting to know the clients here,” I babbled. “Quite intimately, in fact.” Not too bad for a woman with an octogenarian’s saliva on her chest. Joe smiled.

“So sorry, Dr. Barnes,” Stephanie said smirking as she helped Mr. Glover off the table. “Are you all finished here?”

“Um, yes. Thanks, Stephanie.” She gave me an evil smile and led Mr. Glover from the room.

“Goodbye, my dear,” he said, waving. “Thank you!”

“Uh, bye, Mr. Glover,” I answered. To Joe I said, “To think, I get to do this every week.”

“Oh, yeah? Are you working here?” Joe asked with his accident-causing smile. Finally, the reality of his presence rocketed into my nervous system, and warmth filled my body. God, his golden lashes were so long.

“Filling in for Dr. Whitaker,” I answered, sounding a little breathy. “Today was my first day. What a wacky thing to happen. Old coot.” We walked down the hall together, and I remembered to feign astonishment at his presence at OCSC. “But what are you doing here, Joe?” I peeked up at his glorious cheekbones.

“I’m doing some work here, didn’t you know?” He gave me a sideways grin, and my loins fired up.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Didn’t you see my truck in the parking lot? I thought I saw you park behind me.” He pointed out the window to the parking lot, where my car was practically mounting his truck.

“Oh, of course!” I said, blushing. “Stupid of me,” I muttered.

“Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you around, huh, Millie?” He smiled again, and I forgot my stupidity.

“You bet, Joe. Take care. And thanks!”

I watched him walk away. The view was magnificent. And the plan was working.

CHAPTER SIX

ON APRIL FOOL’S DAY, I began work at the Cape Cod Walk-In Clinic. It was a small facility in Wellfleet, located right on Route 6, in a little strip mall with ample parking. Our neighbors were a T-shirt-and-gift shop, a video/liquor store and a take-out fried-seafood place. I would have to be wary of that last one.

I would be working at the clinic full-time, though my hours would vary. It was up to the other doctor and me to split the time as we liked; we would each cover a shift. The clinic was open from eight in the morning to ten at night, so even the late shift wasn’t too bad. We’d have a nurse and an administrative assistant for the day shift; after six, it would just be the doc and a temp to fill out paperwork and deal with the phones. A nurse would be on call if things got really busy. With any real emergencies or critically ill cases, we’d ship the patients down to Hyannis. Aside from basic X-ray and ultrasound equipment and an electrocardiograph, we were pretty much bare bones.

I hadn’t met the other doc yet but was looking forward to it. I had made some really good friends during my residency, but the closest one was in Dorchester, where she worked at an inner-city hospital. Hopefully my fellow clinic doctor would become a buddy, too.

The Cape Cod Walk-In Clinic was furnished in the same generic, soulless design of thousands of doctors’ offices. The waiting room featured bland blue chairs, six in all, covered in nubby, uncomfortable fabric. Sand-colored carpeting. Blurry floral prints on the walls to soothe our patients’ strained nerves. Punishing fluorescent lights to agitate said nerves. Coffee table with fake plant on it. Children’s corner, with cardboard box of cast-off toys. Counter where patient must stand and be ignored by receptionist for at least three minutes before being acknowledged. (That actually isn’t protocol…it’s just something I’ve noticed.) And beyond the counter, two exam rooms, the X-ray area and an office. Could have been on the Cape, could have been in Arizona.

We weren’t actually open for business today; it was more of an orientation. As Cape Cod Hospital officially ran the clinic, a representative was there to fill us in on paperwork, procedure and protocol. The three Ps, as she’d said brightly on the phone. The other employees were already seated.

“You must be Dr. Barnes,” an attractive woman in her forties greeted me, extending her hand. “I’m Juanita Ortiz from the hospital. We spoke on the phone.”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” I answered. She wore a light gray suit, the skirt short and slim, showing off her long, toned legs. A pink-and-gray scarf circled her neck, and I made a mental note to try that. I myself wore a generic pair of tan slacks and a cream-colored blouse, which I had pulled out of the waistband a bit to camouflage my lack of waist.

“This is Dr. Balamassarhinarhajhi,” she said, the endless syllables rolling effortlessly off her tongue as she indicated a very short, bald Indian man of indeterminate age. Bala…Bala…Balasin…

“Doctor,” I said, extending my hand automatically. He took my hand and shook it gingerly, giving me a nod.

“I’ve heard you and Mrs. Doyle know each other,” Juanita continued, indicating the plump, smiling woman next to Dr. B. I grinned and leaned over, giving her a kiss on the cheek. Jill Doyle was one of my mom’s oldest pals, and I had been thrilled when I’d heard that Jill would be working here. She was chatty and comforting, organized and energetic…a perfect nurse, I would wager.

“And this is Sienna,” Juanita finished, pointing to a young woman who looked no more than fifteen years old. Ah, I thought. Some flavor. Sienna had pink streaks in her brown hair, liquid black eyeliner and bloodred lipstick the likes of which I hadn’t seen since my makeover. Her ears were studded with punishing-looking hoops and chunky metal fragments, none of which could really be called an earring. She smiled and idly kicked her Doc Martens against the chair.

“So!” Juanita said. “Let’s get started.”

For the next two hours, Juanita told us how to handle the three Ps. This was the most excruciatingly boring part of any job, and medicine was no exception. Insurance forms, test orders, referrals, transfers, treatment documentation, confidentiality regulations, malpractice…unfortunately, these things took up much more time than you might expect. In truth, Dr. B. and I would rely on our staff to handle a lot of these while we did the actual treating. Apparently, Sienna had a degree in health information processing.

After a few hours, Juanita and Sienna went out to pick up our lunch, leaving Dr. B., Jill and me alone. “I think I’ll take a look around,” Jill said, wandering off into the exam rooms. I trailed along, daydreaming.

I am working at the clinic, wearing much better, more sophisticated clothes than I have on currently. I have a waist. My hairstyle is symmetric. Suddenly, a battered maroonpickup screeches into the parking lot. Out staggers Joe, one hand bloody from the foreign body protruding so rudely from the soft tissues of his palm.

“Millie…Millie, are you in there?” he calls. Adorably, he is woozy from the sight of his own blood. (This is an actual Joe C. fact, filed away from the time he got cut during metal shop in eleventh grade.) I come out, placing a friendly and firm arm around his waist, and he leans against me.

“I had an accident with the nail gun,” he murmurs. I guide him inside, competently reassuring him, numbing and sterilizing his hand. He gazes at me with clear green eyes, suddenly seeing me in a new light….

“Where did you do your residency, Dr. Barnes?”

It was the first time I’d heard Dr. B. speak. I turned to him, smiling. “Brigham and Women’s in Boston,” I replied. “And you, Dr.—I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve got your name down just yet.” I smiled with what I hoped was charming self-effacement.

“Balamassarhinarhajhi,” he answered in a lyrical, singsong accent. “I was a resident at St. Vincent’s in New York City, though that seems a very long time ago.”

“This must be a big change, then. Much quieter.” Clearly, I was going to have to write his name down and study it before tomorrow.

“Indeed. A pleasant change.”

“Have you lived on the Cape long?” I asked.

“No, not long,” he answered.

“Do you like it here?”

“Of course.” He stared at me expectantly, so I forged on.

“Are you married? Any kids?”

“Yes,” he replied, his black eyes staring at me, no doubt wondering why I was grilling him. Okay. Not the chattiest guy. New friend would take some work.

THE NEXT FEW WEEKS WENT WELL. Although work was pretty slow, it was fun to be with Jill, mostly shooting the breeze while we waited for people to walk in. My parents’ friends were by and large wonderful people, and Jill was a particular favorite. She had several grandchildren she doted on, and I listened happily as she reported on their amazing talents and clearly much higher-than-average intellects. Sienna was a hoot, filling us older folk in on her youthful exploits…actually, she was only five years younger than I was, but I didn’t do things like go into Boston at eleven o’clock at night to hear a band or sleep over at strangers’ houses or date multiple men. Sienna did these things and seemed happy to burble on about them to us.

Dr. Balamassarhinarhajhi (it only took me twenty or so tries) agreed to be called Dr. Bala when Sienna told him outright she thought saying his entire name simply took too much time. We met briefly during the half hour that our shifts overlapped to fill each other in on the happenings of the day. Otherwise, he remained polite and distant. Sienna had managed to discover that his was an arranged marriage. How she learned this was a mystery, but it didn’t stop us three females from talking about it a good deal.

And yes, there was an occasional patient. A Provincetown chef sliced open his finger and needed three stitches. A child slammed his finger in a car door and needed an X-ray and a splint. Your everyday emergencies…We had no bomb scares, no poisonous gas leaking into our air supply, no gang members, no feral dogs, no helicopters crashing through our roof, so it was nothing like TV.

The night shift was even quieter. Dr. Bala usually covered this for mysterious reasons that I certainly didn’t want to question. Our temp was a college student, a very pleasant young man named Jeff, who opened his books and studied diligently in the complete silence that often characterized the hours between five and ten o’clock. When I did work the night shift, I quickly learned to bring the New England Journal of Medicine or my laptop and spent quiet hours reading the latest medical news.

Here at the clinic, it was easy to help the patients who came in. I got to spend a lot of time with the few I saw, chatting them up and paying lots of attention to them, and it was this that I loved the most. My dream of being a family doctor seemed closer when I chatted with Mrs. Kowalski, who suffered from a rash after eating Chinese food, or gave Barbie stickers out to Kylie McIntyre, who’d gotten poked in the eye by her older brother. And I enjoyed being the doc in charge, because as a resident, I had always been supervised. I called Dr. Whitaker each week and filled him in, on both the clinic and the nursing home, and he seemed pleased with what I was doing.

When I wasn’t at work, I toiled diligently away at my other life’s mission, stalking Joe. Each Thursday during my hours at the senior center, I carefully staged an innocent crossing of paths between the golden one and myself, a casual hello, a friendly wave. Once Tripod, who accompanied Joe on all his jobs, hopped over to me, and I was able to stroke his head and tell Joe what a sweet dog he had.

I continued to run, and after a few weeks, my little jog didn’t cause quite so much pain, though I still gasped like the largemouth bass my dad regularly pulled from Higgins Pond. I lost a few more pounds and tried to cook at least one decent meal a week, learning the hard way that most recipes call for the meat to be thawed before cooking.

On another front, the house was becoming more and more mine. I painted the cellar floor and cleaned energetically. Occasionally I would pick up a picture frame or vase or some other little object and happily agonize over where to put it. Digger and I were quite content.

ONE SATURDAY AFTERNOON in late April, as my dog and I huffed toward the house, I saw Sam’s truck in my driveway. He and Danny were getting something out of the back of the pickup.

“Hi, Mil!” Sam called.

“Hi, Aunt Mil!” Danny echoed.

“Hello, boys,” I gasped, letting Digger off the leash. The silly dog forgot he was supposed to protect me from strange men and instead leaped over to Sam and Danny, collapsing with joy as they reached down to pet him. I took advantage of this moment to regain my breath and steady my trembling knees.

“How’s the running going?” Sam asked with the annoying smirk of a natural athlete.

Ass, I thought. “Great!” I answered with feigned enthusiasm.

“You up to two miles yet?”

“Bite me,” I whispered cheerfully so my nephew wouldn’t hear. Sam laughed.

“You’re looking good, Aunt Mil,” Danny said, extricating himself from Digger’s maniacal licking. He glanced at my T-shirt. “‘Mean people suck.’ So true.”

I grinned up at my tall nephew. “What are you guys doing here?”

“Thought you could use a few plants,” Sam said. “I’ve got some lilacs and hydrangeas for you.” As a part-time employee of Seascapes Landscaping, Sam got stuff at a great discount.

“Oh, thanks, Sam!” I exclaimed. How touching, that he would think of me and my bare little yard. He was the sweetest guy. Digger seemed to share my esteem and attached himself vigorously to Sam’s leg.

“Off. Off, boy,” Sam said, prying the dog’s front legs from his knee.

“The same thing happened to me at the nursing home,” I laughed. “Except it wasn’t a dog.” Sam grinned and threw a stick for Digger, effectively ending their romance. I’d have to try that with Mr. Glover.

“Can we see the house?” Danny asked.

“Of course, of course!” I answered. I had forgotten that these guys hadn’t been over since my renovations and immediately felt remiss. After all, it had been Danny’s Great Gran’s house.

“Why don’t we just get these plants in the ground first, Dan, and give Millie a chance to, uh, shower,” Sam suggested.

“Great,” I said, grabbing Digger. “You want to stay for lunch?”

“Sure!” Danny replied, ever hungry.

Happily warmed by their presence, I went inside, wondering what, if any, food I had to offer them.

I showered quickly, throwing a hair band in my wet hair and pulling on jeans and a sweatshirt. In the kitchen, I watched out the kitchen window as they hauled the lilac trees and hydrangea bushes around my small yard, their voices muffled as they talked and laughed. Sam let Danny do the digging, leaning on his own shovel while his energetic son did the hard part. They looked so much alike—same hair color (aside from Sam’s gray), same rangy build, same smile, same down-turning eyes, though my nephew’s were Trish’s chocolaty-brown. Danny was nearly as tall as Sam now, and the realization brought tears to my eyes. Danny was growing up. In just a few short months, he’d be a senior, and then go off to college somewhere. I wondered what Sam would do without him.

I snapped myself out of my musings and rummaged in the cupboards. A can of tuna, age indeterminate, was the best I could come up with. I had a tiny loaf of low-carb bread and set about making sandwiches. Mayonnaise? Not in my house! I put a little oil and vinegar onto the small slices for flavor and set the table with Gran’s chicken plates and the glasses with the etched gold leaves. All I had to drink was water, so I filled a pitcher and called the boys in. They thoughtfully took off their boots before entering.

“Wow, Aunt Mil!” Danny exclaimed, turning in a slow circle in my living room. “This is great!”

“Yeah, it’s fantastic,” Sam said.

I beamed. “Well, thanks, guys. I’m glad you like it. Katie helped a lot, too. She’s really good with decorating.” It was time to insert my friend into Sam’s subconscious.

“It’s really great, Mil,” Danny said, going down the hall into the bathroom to wash up. “Cool!” I could tell he’d seen the flamingos.

“How do you like living here?” Sam asked, washing his hands at the kitchen sink.

“Oh, it’s so much fun, Sam,” I answered. “You know I’ve never really had a place of my own. It’s a blast.” I smiled at him fondly.

“Good for you, kiddo,” he said, putting an arm around me in brotherly fashion.

We sat down at the kitchen table, where Danny picked up a sandwich and inhaled approximately three quarters of it in one bite. “I like those little knobs,” he said thickly, nodding at my cupboards.

“Oh, Katie suggested those,” I said, nodding and looking at Sam. “She’s great with decorating.”

“So you said,” Sam answered.

Danny was finished. Finished! I had yet to take one bite. “Got anything else?” he asked. “I’m starving.”

“Danny,” chided his father. “Don’t be a savage.”

“It’s just Aunt Millie,” was Danny’s excuse.

True, true, just Aunt Millie, selfless Aunt Millie, who pushed her sandwich over to her beloved nephew.

“It’s okay, Sam,” I said, watching Danny devour my lunch. “I’m not really hungry. You know how it is, after a run.”

Sam’s mouth twitched. I gritted my teeth and decided to talk directly about Katie. It was time for Sam to move on, and time for Katie to get a decent man. “You want to go out with Katie and me sometime?” I asked, ever subtle.

“Sure! She’s hot!” Danny replied, naughty boy.

“Not you, junior,” I said, pinching his cheek in my auntie way. “Your aging father.”

“Sure,” Sam answered easily, finishing his own sandwich.

Mission accomplished! “Great. I’ll call you and let you know when.”

They left a little while later, laden with my profuse thanks and affection, but apparently still hungry.

“Don’t worry,” I heard Sam say as they got into the truck. “We’ll stop at the Box Lunch for a real sandwich.” I scratched my nose with my middle finger at this, and Sam grinned as he backed down my driveway. His smile made my heart swell. It had been a long time since I’d seen Sam happy, I realized, and God knew he deserved it after the pummeling Trish had given his heart.

Hanging out with Sam and Danny was so different without my sister. Though I had known Sam most of my life, he’d always been Trish’s property, and she’d never been one to share. I remembered one occasion when I’d been back from college at Thanksgiving and we’d all been at my parents’ house, waiting for the big meal, football on in the living room, the classic American scene. Danny was playing checkers with my dad as they watched TV, Mom and Trish were busy in the kitchen, chatting and laughing. Everyone was happy. Sam struck up a conversation with me about school, and we were talking about classes and college life when I looked up and saw Trish glaring at me from the kitchen doorway.

“Sam,” she cooed, changing faces as only my sister could, “can I see you upstairs?”

About twenty minutes later, they came down, and from the happy, dopey expression on Sam’s face, it was obvious my sister had just shagged him. Just to reinforce the fact that she was the important, interesting, beautiful one, lest Sam’s attention, however fraternal, drift from her for a nanosecond.

But things were different now. And, thanks to Trish and her New Jerseyite, Sam was single. Katie was single. Love was in the air, although neither of them could smell it just yet.

CHAPTER SEVEN

FOR THE NEXT PART OF MY PLAN, I again turned to Curtis and Mitch.

My suffering over the past two months had paid off. By late April, I was a comfortable size eight and pretty damn pleased about it. The last time I’d been this tiny, this light, was at about age twelve. Time to see what the boys and I could do about finding me some better clothes.

In a moment of self-delusion, I had briefly entertained the idea of asking my mom and Trish to take me shopping. Last weekend, Trish had come up to visit Danny, and when I’d seen her car in my parents’ driveway, I couldn’t help the pretty little scene that had flashed through my head—Mom, Trish and me, laughing, shopping, going out for lunch. Of course, that was about as likely as a great white shark befriending a wounded harbor seal, but still…

My parents and Trish were seated at the kitchen table, laughing about something. Trish leaped up the moment I came in. For a second, I thought she was going to greet me, but in more characteristic fashion, it was to show me how busy she was and how unimportant I was.

“Hi, Millie. I’m just on my way back home,” she said, emphasizing the last word. “Dinner in the city tonight. Nobu.”

“Hi, Trish,” I said flatly. I hated her constant namedropping. We looked at each other for a minute; she was even taller than usual, thanks to the sleek black heels on her feet. I wore sweats and a paint-stained turtleneck; she wore a horribly expensive-looking red knit dress that clung to her chiseled, perfect figure.

“Well, must run,” she’d said curtly. “Bye, Mom, bye Dad. Talk to you soon. Bye, Millie.”

It was always like this. Trish never let me forget, even though it had been almost thirty years now, that I had interrupted her starring role as Only Child. Millie’s here. Party’s over. Message clearly received.

So Curtis and Mitch it was. They met me at my house, and we headed out in their beautiful, buttery-yellow Mercedes.

Hyannis is the elbow on the arm of the Cape, the town that has the airport, the ferry, the hospital, and, most importantly, the mall. Given my tight funds, I couldn’t afford the Provincetown boutiques where Curtis and Mitch did their own shopping, so it was to the soulless but affordable mall that we headed. As I was armed with two men whose wardrobes were fabulous even by P-town standards, I was confident that I would emerge well dressed.

We started with underwear. Curtis and Mitch had no interest in me as anything but a friend, and yes, they picked out my underwear. Gone were the days of Hanes purchased at the supermarket, I noted as the boys chose my panties in shades of lavender and rose and black. Matching bras! Thankfully, the boys let me try those on all by myself, and once I found a model that was both comfortable and made the twins look perky, the boys went to town.

Next was pants. I hated pants. Not only was I short, but I had no waist to speak of, and pants were always a challenge.

“No pleats,” Curtis stated, looking at me scientifically.

“Absolutely not,” Mitch agreed. My opinion, clearly, was not required.

“Nothing flared.”

“Dear heavens, no! And let’s not even consider those ghastly low-risers….”

“Classic, tailored, clean lines.”

“You’re so right.”

As the boys scoured the department store, I wandered around, fingering the sleeveless blouses, wondering if I could get away with showing my plump arms, deeply grateful to have friends who loved both me and the challenge of clothing me. I pulled a bright green top with a square neckline from a rack. “How about this?” I called to my boys.

“Put that down!” Curtis ordered sharply.

“My dear girl, how could you? Green!” Mitch murmured, in shock.

“Honey, just go sit and wait for us, okay?” Curtis said, trying to recover from the obvious horror I’d presented. “We’ll call you if we need you.”

I found a chair and waited, occasionally hearing Mitch or Curtis exclaim over some item of clothing, some accessory. As this was an alien world, I passed the time with my favorite hobby: daydreaming about Joe Carpenter.

The last time I had seen him was a week ago. Another wave and “Hey, Millie!” from the rooftop, like some demigod calling from the heavens. My thoughts drifted….

I am walking into the senior center, wearing tailored, classic pants with no flares and a sleeveless, non-green blouse that shows off my contoured but feminine arms. Great shoes, great purse (though I couldn’t picture either). Joe leaps off the ladder as I cross the parking lot.

“Whoa, Millie!” he says, giving me the once-over.

“Hi, Joe!” I respond.

“You doing anything this weekend?” he asks, staring at me, his dimples just showing.

“This weekend?” I reply. “Well, I have plans for Friday, but…what did you have in mind?” (I know better than to be immediately available…it’s in all the books).

“Maybe we could go out or something.” He smiles.

My reveries about Joe were not that, well, imaginative. I was a realist, I liked to think. I had no illusions about Joe; I loved him for who he was, a blue-collar kind of guy with a heart of gold. And I never had silly, overly romantic dreams about him rescuing me from muggers or anything like that. Just his noticing me would be more than enough.

“Come, child.” Curtis interrupted my thoughts with a wave of his manicured hand. “Time to try these on.” He had a pile of clothes draped over his arm. Mitchell had a similar load. Each item was either beige, black, ivory, red or royal blue.

I took the heavy piles from them. The fabrics felt great, silky and cool over my arm. “Are these my colors?” I asked.

“Yes, precious. You’re a winter,” Mitchell explained, striding into the ladies’ dressing room without hesitation. Good thing there was never any help around in a department store.

The boys waited outside the stall as I tried on the clothes, instructing me through the slatted door.

“Everything is mix-and-match, Millie,” Curtis informed me. “That way you don’t have to worry about what goes with what.”

“I know what it means, Curtis,” I said. “I’m not stupid.”

“Only when it comes to fashion!” Mitchell said.

I stuck my head out of the dressing stall. “Be nice!” I ordered. “Or I won’t buy you lunch.” But it was impossible to be mad at these two, and truthfully, I loved being Eliza to their Henry Higginses. And, hell, they knew what they were doing. My God, I thought as I surveyed myself. I looked great!

The boys had chosen lovely, nondramatic pieces, all of which could be, in those complicated fashion terms, mixed and matched. Three shirts, two short-sleeved sweaters, four pairs of pants and a long skirt. Tailored, professional, classic. I couldn’t believe how I looked. Of course, my hair would have to be worked on and I wasn’t wearing any makeup, but still…I actually looked the part of confident, smart, well-dressed doctor.

“Guys,” I said, coming out garbed in the long black skirt and red sweater. “Guys…” My throat closed with sappy gratitude.

“Ooh! Honey, you’re so pretty!” Curtis exclaimed, darting in to adjust a shoulder pad.

“I always knew a beautiful woman was hiding in there,” Mitch added, kissing my cheek. I grinned wetly back.

But they weren’t finished. “The outfits are just the foundation,” Mitchell pronounced, leading me to the shoe department. To save time, Curtis went to the jewelry counter. One hour and $775.39 later, we were done. I was a well-dressed woman. I weighed 134 pounds. I was a size eight. I had a decent haircut. I owned makeup.

It was time.

CHAPTER EIGHT

IT WAS ALL VERY WELL TO PLOT and stalk and plan about getting Joe, but it was another thing altogether to go out and start doing it. What exactly should I do? What was the first step? I needed input, so I called Katie. I could hear crashing and shrieks in the background as she answered the phone. “Hi, it’s me,” I said brightly. “Bad time?”

“No, it’s fine,” she answered blithely. “Hold on, I’m going in the closet.”

I waited as she hid herself away from her sons. There was a sharp scream from one of them, followed by another crash.

“Do you need to go?” I asked, envisioning one of my godsons with blood streaming down his face.

“No, no, they’re just playing,” she answered. “What’s up?”

“Well, a couple of things,” I said, stretching luxuriously on my couch. There were fringe benefits to being single and childless, and talking uninterrupted on the phone was one of them. “Sam was here the other day, and I thought we really should take him out some night. He’s still a little glum.” Actually, Sam had seemed just fine to me, but I sensed he was only happy when he was doing stuff with Danny.

“Sure,” Katie said. “Just give me a couple days’ notice.”

“Great. The other thing is…well, it’s about Joe.”

“So what’s going on?”

“Well, I’m kind of ready. To make my move.”

“Good for you!” Katie said cheerfully.

“So can I run the plan by you?” I asked, feeling very eighth grade.

Katie laughed. “Sure. Go for it.”

“I was thinking maybe I could have him see me out running, so he could notice that I’m, uh, in shape or whatever. And he’d see Digger and then he’d realize that we’re both dog lovers. And then we could talk about that when we saw each other next.”

“That sounds great. Very well thought out.” Katie’s voice became muffled. “Michael, if you do that one more time, I’m taking that dump truck away for nineteen days!”

“I thought you were in the closet,” I said.

“I am. Doesn’t mean I don’t know everything that goes on here.”

“Nineteen days?”

“Figure of speech. He thinks it means forever,” she answered, and I could hear the smile in her voice.

“So the running thing is good?” I asked, seeking validation.

“Running thing sounds great,” Katie answered. I heard Mikey’s lisping whine. “They found me, Mil,” my friend said. “Gotta go.”

“Okay. And thanks, Katie. I’ll let you know about Sam.”

WITH KATIE’S APPROVAL IN HAND, I set about orchestrating the casual, coincidental encounter with Joe. This is what I pictured.

I am running down Nauset Road, Digger trotting adorably by my side. I am wearing nylon running shorts and a T-shirt with an adorable, pithy statement. And what’s this? Oh my goodness, it’s Joe Carpenter in his truck! He slows down, appreciating the feminine bouncing, then realizes it’s his old classmate, Millie Barnes! “Hey, Millie!” he says, pleasantly surprised. “I didn’t know you were a runner.”

I stop, not horribly out of breath (because my car is hidden at the ranger’s station a half mile back).

“Hello, Joe!” I answer, reaching down to pat my adorable doggy. “How are you?” Chatting ensues. Some laughter. A few appreciative glances at athletic form (his glances, my form). We talk until a car rudely honks its horn, and Joe, regretfully, must take off. He watches me in the rearview mirror as I run effortlessly and happily until his truck rounds the bend and he can’t see me anymore (when I start walking back to my car).

Joe left for work at 6:30 every morning. This I’d learned on a stalking expedition several years ago. But timing was everything for my little running venture, and I had to be sure.

We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of, haven’t we? Things we don’t want to confess to friends or parents or children. My obsession with Joe was one of those things. It was bad enough to have been secretly in love with a man for more than half of my life, but resorting to stalking at twenty-nine and a half was really embarrassing. Still, one does what one must.

Joe lived on a little dirt road on the bay side of town. It wasn’t close enough to the water to be ultra-desirable, and it was close enough to Route 6 to hear the traffic in the summer. Joe had lived there all his life. When his mom moved off-Cape three years ago, Joe took the place over. It was a rambling little cottage, with two additions put on since the original house had been built. Not a ranch, not a Cape, the house actually had no particular style at all. But it had a little deck and was private, surrounded on all sides by pitch pines and bayberry. Of course, I’d never been inside, but as Joe Carpenter was indeed a carpenter, I was willing to bet it was pretty damn cute.

And so at 5:45 in the morning, a time usually reserved for crows, fishermen and infants, I battled those familiar feelings of stupidity and exhilaration, drove across town, parked at the Church of the Visitation and walked to Joe’s road to begin stalking.

The birds’ springtime cacophony of song echoed around me, crows screeching and red-wing blackbirds chuckling. Though it was early May, the temperature still dropped into the forties at night, and the air was cool and damp. I shivered. Digger was at home, much to his dismay, but one can’t stalk properly with a licking, wagging, diarrheic dog at one’s side.

Until recently, Joe’s little road hadn’t been officially named; it was just a dirt road off Herringbrook Road. You know, where the Carpenters live? And the Lynches? And the Snows? Not John Snow—Nick Snow. That used to be how we Cape Codders identified this bumpy, sandy little stretch. But the out-of-towners who have invaded the Cape in record numbers in recent years liked signage for their summer addresses, and Joe’s road was now called Thistleberry Way.

I walked down the road, which was barely wide enough for one car. Joe’s driveway was the last one off Thistleberry Way. As I got close, my heart started to pound. The thing about stalking was, obviously, I might get caught. And how mortifying that would be! There was no good excuse for me to be near Joe’s house…well, no excuse other than the one I had ready. “Oh, Joe, great! I was coming home from an emergency at the hospital, and my car broke down. I was just going to see if I could use Mr. Snow’s phone…”

Well-researched and with no admission of guilt. Still, being caught would be dreadful nonetheless, because I knew for a fact that I would not be the first woman seen lurking on Joe’s street.

Okay. There was his driveway. I took my place across the road, about thirty feet back into the woods, well camouflaged by the squat trees and dense undergrowth. Poison ivy was rampant, but I found a sheltered patch that didn’t appear to have any of the evil weed and also afforded me a fair view of Joe’s driveway. Squatting down, not wanting to get my bottom damp, I began to wait.

This stalking episode seemed a bit more humiliating than the last one, less fun. Of course, the last time I’d been here, I was a first-year medical student, no pride, nothing to lose. And Katie had been with me, so it was more of a hoot. We’d snickered and whispered and tried not to wet ourselves when we laughed too hard, snorting into our arms to muffle our noise. And although my running plan hinged on Joe leaving home when I thought he did, I was nonetheless acutely aware of how ridiculous this was. Local Doctor Caught Lurking Outside Handsome Man’s Home. Charges Being Pressed.

6:05. The birds had settled down a bit, getting to work, finding their worms and bugs and the like. The wind quieted, too, sighing gently through April’s new leaves. My feet tingled from lack of proper blood supply. The tingling quickly turned to pain. I stretched out a leg from my squatting position and instantly tipped over, plopping into the cold mud, which seeped through my sweatpants, freezing my already-cold skin. My sense of idiocy grew.

6:15. I began hearing the noises of people waking up and getting ready for the day. A dog barked. Don’t find me, I prayed. Doors opened and closed, cars started. Mr. Snow (Nick, not John) drove his blue Oldsmobile gently over the bumps and ruts as he left for work in Orleans.

6:20. I felt itchy. Could I have touched poison ivy, or was that just regular, unshowered, morning itchy? Couldn’t tell. Cramp in blood-deprived legs. I stood up slowly and let the old circulatory system have a break. Not too much of a break, though. Would rather suffer agonizing pain than have Joe see me here.

6:28. Thank God! A door slammed, a dog barked, an engine started, and Joe’s battered truck lurched out of his driveway. He didn’t see me. I waited a few minutes to make sure he wasn’t coming back, then stood up. On painfully buzzing feet, I made my way back to the road, brushing clumps of mud and oak leaves off my clothes. Luck decided to join me, and I didn’t see anyone I knew as I walked quickly down the road. Once on Massasoit, I was safe. I made it to my car as Father Bruce, my pastor, opened the doors for 7:00 mass. He looked a bit startled to see me but waved as I got into my car. I ignored him and drove away.

Back home, I showered, made some coffee and got ready for work. Now that the deed was done, my feelings of stupidity faded. I had secured my information. I was armed with knowledge. Tomorrow would be the Day of the Run. Day One of Getting Joe.

THE NEXT DAY, I WOKE UP at the horrifying hour of 5:30. I had gone to bed at 9:00 the night before but hadn’t been able to fall asleep for some time. The mirror was not my friend as I gazed at my puffy eyes, dark circles—and what was this? A pimple on my chin topped off my attractiveness for the day.

Never mind. I had to do this. If I didn’t get started, I’d never get my man. So this was just a tiny sacrifice compared to the happiness that I would find as Joe’s girlfriend/fiancée/wife.

I showered and shaved my legs, even though I would be wearing long pants. I washed my hair and conditioned it, then spent twenty minutes applying gel, drying and spraying it into place so it looked adorably tousled and unaffected. Because I was desperate, I drank one cup of coffee as I fed Digger. Then I got dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. I had finally settled on one that said Massachusetts Department of Correction.

At 6:10, I left the house with a leaping, frenzied, joyful dog and drove to the Little Creek parking area on Doane Road. This site was used for the beach shuttle in the summer, so as not to have too many cars clogging up the area. Tourists and locals alike could park here and hop on an electric shuttle bus that would chauffeur them right to the beach. It was convenient, environmentally sound and wicked fun. It was here that I would hide my car, only about a mile and a half from my house. I could, theoretically, run from home to the Joe meeting point, but this morning was not about exercise.

Little Creek was not yet open, but I drove down the fire road and parked illegally. Even if I was caught, most of the rangers knew my Honda (thanks to my M.D. plates) and wouldn’t mind, I reasoned. It was off season, after all. My watch read 6:19. In approximately thirteen minutes, I would be talking to Joe Carpenter. Time to go.

Digger and I trotted easily down Doane Road, which led to two of the world’s most beautiful beaches, Coast Guard and Nauset Light. My goal was eventually to be able to run around my “block,” which was roughly four miles in circumference, past these two gifts from God, past the Outer Cape Senior Center and back home. But I was still at the two-mile stage, two and a half if I was lucky.

Heart pounding healthfully away, I turned onto Nauset. I trotted along, trying to lengthen my usual trudging stride, opening up so I would look more natural and less tortured. Digger enjoyed our brisk pace, as he usually had to adjust his fast little legs to an awkward walk-trot when we weren’t trying to impress a man. Now, as I glided along, he could actually canter, which no doubt looked much better to the idle observer. I looked at my watch. 6:30. Perfect. Joe would be leaving his house, perhaps already on Massasoit, headed my way. As I ran, waving occasionally at a walker or bike rider, I pictured Joe’s progress across town. Now he should be at the Route 6 intersection. If the light is green, he’ll be here in less than a minute. If red, maybe two minutes. Three, tops.

Mr. Demers was out in his yard, doing a little early morning gardening. He had been a friend of Gran, and I was happy to see him out and about. A tall, imposing, white-haired gentleman, he was from one of the Cape’s oldest families and had that regal sense of belonging. He knew everything there was to know about local history, from native tribes to shipwrecks to Hurricane Gloria, and occasionally gave talks at the library.

“Hi, Mr. Demers!” I called, waving.

“Good mawnin’, Millie Baahnes!” he bleated, his accent thick even by Massachusetts standards. He stood up from his planting. “Goin’ to be a beautiful day!”

“Yes, sir!” I answered. Happy with the world, I checked my watch. Any second now.

It was at this moment that Digger decided his bowels couldn’t wait. Right at the mouth of Mr. Demers’s pristine oyster-shell driveway, he entered into the telltale squat.

“No, Digger!” I snapped. “Heel!”

Digger didn’t heel. I was absolutely not going to have him poop on Mr. Demers’s driveway, especially with the homeowner watching with a frown. I dragged my still-crouching dog along until we were off Mr. Demers’s property. Then I relented, glancing anxiously down the road for a maroon truck, and let Digger have his way. When he was done, on we went.

It was now 6:36, and I was starting to breathe more heavily. That was okay. I was running, after all, I rationalized. It had been seventeen minutes, and only very athletic people can maintain this level of exercise. But I did slow down. I was a little sweaty, and I didn’t want to overdo the glowing thing.

No Joe. Where was he? I kept running. The senior center was about a mile up the road, which gave me a comfortable cushion of time. I could make a mile last a good ten minutes. Twelve, even.

Oooh! I heard a truck. Don’t turn around, Millie. I opened up my stride again, delighting my dog. Here came the truck…it had to be him. Stride, stride, stride. Truck passed. Not Joe.

Damn! Where was he? It was now 6:42. He was downright late. Maybe he’d stopped for coffee, I reasoned. That was possible, though not what my research showed. Still, it could certainly happen.

Things were getting pathetic. I was out of breath but had to keep running because this part of road was straight, and I would see a car or truck before I could hear it. Thus, I would be unable to break into a run before the driver spotted me, and hence, I would look stupid. I slowed down again. Again my dog stopped, this time to pee.

“Hurry up, Digger,” I instructed. He looked at me, wagged and continued peeing. And now that he was doing that, I realized I had to pee, too. Damn that coffee!

At 6:50, we started running again. And there was the senior center! Shit! I couldn’t go past it, or I’d miss Joe! I’d have to turn around and pretend to be coming from the other direction. And I’d have to do it fast, or I’d be caught. The thought came to me that Stephanie, Evil Patient Care Technician, might be getting to work about now. Didn’t the shift start at 7:00? Another thing to worry about.

I passed the senior center and, looking both right and left and listening carefully, ran to the other side of the road. Done. No one saw me. I was now in Joe range again. God, I felt stupid! It was really getting late. I forced a cheerful expression on my face and reached up to wipe my sweaty forehead with my arm. Not wanting to resort to my trudge, I kept bounding along. My Achilles tendons were starting to ache. I wanted to stop and stretch them and hence prevent tendonitis, but that wouldn’t do. Where was Joe? Where was Joe? It became the rhythm my feet pounded to. Where. Was. Joe. Where. Was. Joe. There. Was. Mister. Demers.

Oh, great. There he was, still gardening. He looked at me curiously.

“Everything all right, there, Millie?” he asked.

“Oh, sure,” I gasped. “Just, you know, going for a run. Bye!” I trotted past him again.

My bladder reminded me of its fullness. It was 7:00. I had been running for forty minutes! This was surely a world’s record! My tendons sang. A sharp pain pierced my left kneecap, and I pictured the meniscus shredding. Keep going, I told myself grimly. He had to be coming. My breath rasped in my ears, and I slowed down a little. Digger, the faithless cur, now walked beside me, so sluggish was my stride. But I was still running. I could pick up the pace when I saw Joe’s truck.

By now I was back at Doane Road. Which meant I had to turn around again. There was nothing to do but do it, so I loped in a tight circle to change directions once more.

Is this really necessary? I asked myself. Do we really have to keep doing this? Alas, the answer was yes. As I approached Mr. Demers’s house, I could see the consternation on his face. My own face felt hotter as I blushed. My T-shirt was wet under my arms and sweat-darkened on the chest. Cringing inwardly, I ignored Mr. Demers. Pretended to be interested in a mockingbird instead.

Digger stopped again, crouching in the unmistakable pose of a dog pooping, and I staggered to a stop. Gasping, I looked at my watch. 7:10. I couldn’t go on anymore. My legs shook, my bladder ached, my foot had a cramp in it.

As I used the hem of my now soaked T-shirt to wipe my face, exposing my shockingly white belly, and as Digger crapped in the poison ivy, Joe drove by. He didn’t slow down. Perhaps he didn’t recognize me (please, God). But no, Joe’s golden arm popped out of the truck, and he waved as he turned into the senior center.

I limped back to my car, my Achilles tendons squealing in pain, my face, no doubt, that attractive shade of brick. At the white-shell driveway, Digger sniffed at the site of his earlier attempted defecation.

“Have a great day!” I called to Mr. Demers, who stood watching me with his arms folded in front of him.

“You too, Millie.”

Not likely.

CHAPTER NINE

AS SO OFTEN HAPPENS IN LIFE, love came knocking when I least expected it.

Later that day, I was at work, staring at the anatomy poster in the small office, still smarting—no, cringing—from the earlier debacle. My ever-optimistic mind tried to put a good spin on things, but my black soul refused to forsake the throne.

“Hey, you ran farther than you ever have before!” my mind cheeped.

“Digger was crapping when he drove by,” the soul replied.

“Still, you probably lost a pound,” the mind continued.

“Digger was crapping when he drove by,” the soul repeated. “And he saw your stomach.”

“Dr. Barnes?” Nurse Jill called from the hallway, interrupting the mind/soul argument. I dragged myself into the present. When Jill called me Dr. Barnes, it meant a patient had come in. Otherwise, I was known as honey or sweetie.

“Yes, Mrs. Doyle?” I answered, grateful for the distraction.

“There’s a patient in Room One,” she said, sticking her head into the office with a file and a big grin.

I entered Room One, and there on the exam table sat an extremely good-looking man. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Swarthy skin. Heavy eyebrows, giving him an exotic, Mediterranean look. He held a gauze bandage on his right hand, and there was blood on his denim shirt.

“Hi, I’m Millie Barnes,” I said, extending my hand. As he looked at it pointedly, I realized he couldn’t shake at just that moment. “Sorry,” I murmured with a grin.

“Lorenzo Bellefiore,” he said with a smile.

I managed not to sigh. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said, my insides quivering. “What happened here?”

Lorenzo (oh, Mommy!) glanced down at his hand. “I got cut on a horseshoe crab,” he answered, frowning. “I think I might need stitches.”

“All right, let’s have a look,” I murmured, quite, quite glad that Curtis and Mitch had taken me shopping the week before.

In my best doctor mode, trying to focus on the injury and not on the intense lust that was melting my insides, I washed my hands and pulled on latex gloves. Gently peeling away the bloody gauze from the god’s hand, I looked at the wound. Focus, Millie, focus. He was wearing a spicy cologne, and I could just barely catch a whiff of it. Again, I suppressed a lustful sigh, instead giving him a quick and reassuring (I hoped) smile. His eyelashes were sinfully long.

“Yes, indeed, you will need stitches,” I pronounced cheerfully. Suture repairs were tons of fun for me. I loved suture repairs, especially on gorgeous men with delicious names.

“Promise not to hurt me,” he said, cocking an eyebrow.

“I promise,” I purred.

Flirting! We were flirting! With each other!

I called the charming Nurse Doyle and she, with only minimal facial contortions meant to convey her own giddy joy, got the necessary elements for a basic suture repair.

As I went to work on Lorenzo, I asked him a few questions, designed only, I assure you, to put him at ease and not to pry into his personal life. Well, maybe just a little.

“So, Mr. Bellefiore—”

“Call me Lorenzo,” he said, watching me swab his skin with Betadine.

“Okay, Lorenzo, do you live here on the Cape?”

“No, I don’t.” (I already knew this. If someone this magnificent lived within a fifty-mile radius, I would have known about him.) He went on. “I was born in Brooklyn, actually, but I’ve been away at school so long, that doesn’t seem like home anymore.”

“Where did you go to school?” I asked, sneaking another look at him. Mmm.

“I finished my Ph.D. in marine biology last year,” he answered, smiling gleamingly again. “In Miami. But I got a grant to do some research up here, and I just moved about a month ago.”

“Marine biology. That’s interesting,” I said. “If you don’t like needles, you should look away now.” I was about to inject his hand with local anesthesia, and he did indeed look away.

“Youch!” he yelped, jumping. “That stings!”

“I know, I’m sorry. But it won’t hurt in a minute. Cruel to be kind. So what are you doing up here on the Cape?”

“I’m studying the mating habits of horseshoe crabs,” he answered.

“Really!” I said, squelching a giggle.

“Yes, it’s fascinating,” he went on, and proceeded to tell me about the sexual patterns of the strange and prehistoric horseshoe crab. I made the appropriate murmurs of interest as he went on, carefully stitching up his rather elegant hand. Before he even knew it, I was done.

“Ta-da!” I announced, cutting the last tie. “What do you think?”

He examined the stitches carefully before turning his soulful Mediterranean eyes on me.

“You did a great job, Doctor,” he said, and my pulse jumped.

“All in a day’s work, Doctor,” I replied. I put a sterile gauze bandage over the wound and taped it into place, instructing him on keeping the cut clean and coming back for suture removal.

“Is your tetanus shot up to date?” I asked, rakishly snapping off my latex gloves and tossing them in the hazardous-waste bin.

“Just last year,” he answered. He scootched off the exam table. Alas, he was kind of short, maybe only five foot seven or so, but hey! Those eyelashes made up for a lot.

“Dr. Barnes, can I ask you something?” he said.

Anything and yes yes yes. “Sure, and call me Millie,” I said.

“I know we just met, but do you think you’d like to have dinner with me some night? I hardly know anyone up here, and I’d love to get to know you better.”

Oh my GOD! “I think that might be possible,” I answered calmly. “I’m working days all this week, so my nights are free.” Whoops! Too available. “If you give me a call here, maybe we can set something up.”

“That would be great.” He smiled again and again, my insides clenched with heat. Lorenzo sidled past me and went to settle up with Sienna. Jill came down the hall to pump me for details, but I headed her off at the pass.

“Mrs. Doyle, that humerus fracture needs a follow-up X-ray, so if you don’t mind, could you schedule that?” We had no humerus fracture. Jill jumped right in.

“Of course, Dr. Barnes. Anything else?”

“Yes. Mrs. Donahue needs a refill on her Coumadin, so if you could call that into the pharmacy, that would be great. And please make sure we’re restocked on suture kits in Room One, and don’t forget that we…should…should…okay, he’s gone!”

Sienna came leaping back to join us the minute Lorenzo Bellefiore walked out the door. We huddled around the small window in the doctor’s office that was, we had found, excellent for spying. Our newest and most favorite patient drove off, and then, like the three females we so clearly were, began with the high-pitched histrionics.

“Oh my God! Did you see his ass?” Sienna gushed.

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