Читать книгу: «A Family at Last»

Chapter One

Through the gathering dusk, Karen Lowell stared at the one-story brick pediatric clinic in the Green Hills area of Nashville, Tennessee. She had to summon the courage to march inside that building, even if it meant making a complete fool of herself.

She had to stop Dr. Chris McRay from ruining her life.

And her brother’s. And a lot of other people’s. Maybe even his own.

She opened her car door and stepped into a blustery February wind that buffeted her dark green coat. She should have come here months ago, she reflected as she hurried across the parking lot. She’d blamed work and family pressures, but in all honesty, cowardice had kept her away.

Chris had no business returning to his hometown, even if it did desperately need a pediatrician. Karen had opposed hiring him and now he’d set a date less than three weeks away for his arrival.

Before he made the move, someone had to change his mind. Karen couldn’t delay any longer.

She knew practicality wouldn’t sway Chris, who must have already weighed the reduction in income he’d receive by moving to Downhome. Instead, she had to hope he’d retained a shred of common decency.

It was a lot to ask of a man who’d lied on the witness stand. A man who’d sent her innocent brother to prison to cover up a crime he himself had committed.

A man who’d gotten away with murder.

Although her hands felt clammy, Karen refused to let nerves get the better of her. Murderer or not, Chris posed no immediate danger. In fact, to a casual observer, he no doubt appeared quite likable.

He’d been all smoothness and charm when he’d interviewed for the clinic job. As director of the town’s nursing home, Karen had served on the three-person physician search committee, which meant she’d had to sit there acting civil. Afterward, she’d voiced her opposition forcefully, but the other committee members had prevailed.

No wonder, considering how few applications they’d received. Chris was clearly the best qualified, on the surface. And few people in town wanted to confront the miscarriage of justice he’d perpetrated fifteen years earlier.

Karen stepped through the glass door into the inviting warmth. At this hour—a few minutes past five—no one occupied the front counter, which was festooned with red crepe paper and Valentine’s Day hearts. A waiting room opened on each side, one marked for well-child checkups and the other for ailing youngsters.

She hadn’t meant to arrive so late. However, her justification for taking a day off work and making the hour-and-a-half drive to Nashville had been to attend a continuing-education seminar at Vanderbilt University. The seminar had ended half an hour ago, and then she’d become mired in traffic on Hillsborough Road.

Childish laughter and a whiff of cinnamon issued from the waiting room to her right. Above the din, a man urged the youngsters to settle down. Despite the calm words, that voice sent chills through Karen.

Cautiously, she eased into the doorway. Through clusters of balloons, she spotted a group of enthusiastic toddlers and preschoolers gathered around a white-coated figure who sat on the carpet.

Even with his back to her, there was no mistaking Chris’s shaggy brown hair. Then his achingly familiar tenor launched into “The Wheels on the Bus.” With his right hand, he conducted the children in an impromptu chorus, while his left arm cradled an infant.

The children joined in with gusto. Instinctively, Karen hummed along until she realized what she was doing. Did the man’s good humor have to be so infectious?

Finishing the song, he turned and flashed a smile at some of the applauding mothers. The groove in his cheek stirred memories as sharp as glass.

Karen could almost smell the scents of her childhood: sultry wildflowers from summer fields where she used to tag along with her brother, Barry, and Chris, his best friend, as they explored; pungent rainy days in the attic, when they’d donned old clothes and Chris had led the playacting; the roses he’d helped her prune during their teen years, when she’d watched the boy grow into a man. She’d feared he would never notice her—but then he had. One magical night that she’d expected to cherish forever.

Instead, for many years, she’d regretted it with all her heart.

“Would y’all like some cider?” The question, close to Karen’s ear, startled her from her reverie. A young woman indicated a steaming Crock-Pot, the source of the cinnamon scent.

“Thanks.” Gratefully, Karen accepted a cup of the hot liquid. Glancing around, she realized all the mothers were quite young. “What’s going on?”

“We’re the Teen Mom Cooperative,” was the cheerful response. “Dr. Chris sponsors us.”

His application had listed the group as one of his volunteer activities, Karen recalled. “I’m surprised he wants to leave Nashville,” she blurted before considering that the other woman might not know of his plans.

However, her hostess appeared merely resigned. “He wants to spend more time with his crippled grandmother. We’ll miss him like crazy, but I think it’s sweet. That poor old lady deserves a little love.”

Karen suppressed a smile. Poor old lady indeed! Mae Anne McRay might live at the nursing home and have to get around in a wheelchair, but the eighty-one-year-old former school principal served on the town council and tutored students for their SAT tests. She also had a tongue tart enough to sour milk.

In the play area, Chris disentangled the children gently and arose. “I suppose you guys will be wanting a grand finale. Anybody know what a finale is?”

“They go flip-flop in the pool!” cried a little girl.

“That would be swim fins. Very close.” Receiving no further guesses, he explained, “A grand finale is a fancy way to end a show. Sometimes it involves fireworks, but that wouldn’t go over too well indoors.”

“Why not?” demanded a toddler.

“It’d start a fire,” returned a little girl.

“Poof!” Another youngster waved his hands to illustrate.

“So I thought we might—” Chris broke off as a trail of soap bubbles escaped from his sleeve. “What was that?”

Karen heard a few giggles. As more of the shimmering orbs appeared, the children began to shout with glee.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” The doctor pretended to grumble. “How did those get there?”

“You’re making them!” protested a boy.

More bubbles shot into the air, followed by a steady stream of them. Little hands batted them higher and higher. Only a few shy kids hung back, until Chris aimed some directly at them and then they, too, joined the fun.

Dancing around the room, the kids looked adorable. The nursing-home residents would love to watch this, Karen thought, wishing she had a video camera. Focused solely on the children, of course.

“I know what caused it!” the doctor declared solemnly. “I took a bath today. I guess I didn’t rinse off well enough, huh?” Laughter greeted this absurd statement.

Tears filled Karen’s eyes. How could this charismatic man be the cruel boy who’d fooled her, fooled Barry and, above all, fooled a jury?

Bringing the event to a crescendo, he whirled, releasing a torrent of glistening globes. All semblance of order vanished as the kids gave chase around the room.

As Chris spun, Karen fixed on his face—the dark eyes keenly alive, the full mouth quirking with merriment. The strength of his personality hit her.

She averted her eyes. Never, ever would she fall under his spell again.

As the hilarity faded, he clapped his hands for attention. “Your moms have a jar of bubble mix for each of you. But—” he waited until the gleeful response died down “—first, you have to fetch your coats and leave quietly. That’s the rule. Okay, everybody?”

“Okay, Dr. Chris!” little voices chorused. After hugs all around, the race was on to pull on outer garments and make a quick exit so they could claim their prizes.

Masterly, Karen reflected. The man had always had a gift for calculating his effect and arousing the desired response.

She’d learned that lesson the hard way.

The young moms and their children filtered out amid calls of “Happy Valentine’s Day,” and promises to see him before he left Nashville. Along the way, they collected plates of cookies and the Crock-Pot, and tossed disposable plates and cups into the trash receptacle. A tidy bunch, she thought with approval.

Karen felt Chris’s assessing gaze flick over her. He was clearly aware of her presence, although he made no sign of acknowledgment.

Finally, the outer door closed behind the last mother and child. Chris stood amid a jumble of balloons, his expression wary. A few leftover bubbles escaped one sleeve.

To break the silence, Karen asked, “How did you do that?”

He glanced down. “There’s a tube,” he said distractedly. “I ordered it on the Internet.” After an awkward pause: “Care to have a seat, or do you plan to challenge me to a duel? I’m afraid my sword arm’s rusty.”

“No duel.” Although her instincts urged her to stand and fight, Karen knew she would be wise to enlist the man’s cooperation, instead. Tucking her tweed skirt beneath her, she perched on a sofa. “Chris, the reason I’m here—”

He raised one hand to stop her. “First, are you speaking on behalf of someone else or on your own account?”

“Nobody put me up to it,” she assured him.

She had no idea how her brother would react if he learned she’d come here. He might find the gesture touching, or he might snarl that she should let him fight his own battles. Such anger was understandable, considering what he’d been through.

After a soul-searing stretch in prison for manslaughter, he’d struggled to complete a college degree and find work as a journalist, with only sporadic success. Then, nearly six years ago, their mother, Renée—publisher, editor and chief reporter for the Downhome Gazette since their father’s death—had suffered crippling injuries when a tractor hit her car.

Barry had returned to fill in for her at work and, when the permanence of her injuries became evident, he’d assumed the position full-time. While the town had more or less accepted him, he’d developed an obsession with clearing his name. And he’d never relinquished his dream of becoming a world-class international reporter.

“Well?” Chris interlaced his fingers.

“I’m sure you’re aware that I opposed hiring you,” she began.

“My grandmother keeps me current.”

“I don’t doubt that you’re a good doctor,” she added. “And I know you want to be close to Mae Anne…”

“But you still think I should have lied on the witness stand,” he finished, leaning forward intently.

She blinked, trying to figure out what he meant. “About what?”

“Don’t act coy. It doesn’t suit you.” Tension gave his voice a rough edge. “You wanted me to deny what I saw that night, and when I wouldn’t, you cut me off.”

How could he twist the situation so completely? Karen struggled to find the right words. “Maybe that’s what you’ve told yourself all these years. Maybe that’s what you’ve needed to believe.”

Anger burned in Chris’s gaze. “You and your family want to blame me for everything that went wrong. That’s unfair, although I’m willing to accept my share of the guilt.”

That was news to her. “You didn’t say so on the stand.”

“I never denied that I was at least half-responsible for the prank,” he answered grimly. “And it was my dispute in the first place. Do you think I don’t have sleepless nights over the fact that a man died and my best friend went to prison? But I’m not the one who—” He stopped abruptly. “This is futile. It’s just easier to make me out to be the villain because I wouldn’t get up on the witness stand and pretend I didn’t see your brother strike Norbert Anglin with a shovel.”

“Barry only hit him once, not three times like the police said,” Karen retorted. “You’re the one who sneaked back later. You’re the one who finished him off.”

“What?” He stared at her in disbelief. “What kind of nonsense is that?”

Barry says…The phrase died unspoken. Karen had heard her brother’s theories so often she’d almost forgotten how far they strayed from the account presented at the trial.

In the past few years, Barry had undertaken a personal investigation. After interviewing a couple of secondary witnesses, he’d pieced together an alternative scenario in which Chris must have struck the fatal blows after Barry had fled.

Karen hesitated. She wasn’t sure when she’d begun accepting her brother’s speculation as fact. How embarrassing to have relied on it, when she’d hoped to play the diplomat.

Chris forged ahead. “It just goes to prove what Mae Anne says—your family’s been blackening my name. That’s one of the reasons I decided to go back, so I could reestablish my reputation. But accusing me of murder? Give me a break, Karen. That’s a reach, even for you Lowells.”

“I apologize.” Although it irked her to utter those words, she had to focus on her goal. “I didn’t intend to make accusations.”

“You came to tell me to stay away from Downhome.” A trace of pain showed on Chris’s face. “Do you think I didn’t figure that out the minute I saw you?”

Although she wondered at his reaction, Karen focused on making her case. “You’ve built a reputation and a patient base in Nashville. And made a lot of friends, I’m sure. If you want to be closer to your grandmother, we can find other ways to arrange that.”

“I don’t want to ‘arrange’ anything. I love Mae Anne more than anyone else in the world.” The statement emerged ragged with emotion.

Karen found the remark odd, considering that Chris had a mother and sister living in Boston. Still, she understood how much he cared about the feisty old lady.

The truth was, Mae Anne and Karen had become friends, too. The whole nursing-home clientele was like family to her, in addition to her own mother’s decision to live there. The out-spoken Mrs. McRay had become such a favorite that Karen often accompanied her to council meetings and other activities.

They’d grown apart these past few months, ever since Chris had applied for an opening at the town clinic. Karen missed their closeness.

Doggedly, she resumed her argument. “I know you’ve made a habit of visiting on the weekends when I’m off duty.” Her mother had mentioned it several times. “There’s no reason to be so discreet. I’m happy for you to drop by whenever you like. I could also arrange for her to travel to Nashville more often.” Plenty of people would be happy to give the popular lady a ride on their business and shopping trips to the city.

Chris waved away the offer. “Thanks, but no. Besides, that isn’t the only issue.”

“You don’t need to clear your name,” Karen said desperately. “Nobody believes Barry.”

“You do,” he pointed out. “Now I gather he’s gone so far as to suggest I’m the killer. Apparently, my grandmother’s protestations haven’t been enough to safeguard my name.”

“Oh, yes, they have!” she insisted. “The other two search-committee members supported you, and the city council followed their recommendation. You can’t be uprooting your career because you care whether a few people listen to my brother’s grumbling!”

“Your brother runs the newspaper.”

“He’s printed nothing about this. Nothing!”

In the stillness, Karen found herself intensely conscious of Chris’s rapid breathing and the sheen of perspiration on his brow. She waited, hoping he’d rethink this cruel plan to impose his presence on her town.

“I have other reasons for why I choose to return.” All the light in the room seemed focused on his face. “I left a couple of things…unfinished, and I want to finish them. Frankly, I don’t know what I expect to happen or how long I’ll stay. At least a year—I owe the town that much for hiring me.”

She tried to muster an argument. No words came.

“I’m not going to hang my head or keep a low profile, either.” Chris picked up momentum as he went. “I didn’t do anything wrong, but some people I cared about turned against me. Believe me, I’ve paid for it in ways you can’t imagine. Well, I’m sorry if my presence inconveniences you and Barry, but you’re going to have to deal with it.”

Karen flushed with anger. How embarrassing that she’d nearly let this man win her over with a few parlor tricks and a smile. She’d been an idiot to expect him to cooperate.

“You’re sorry if you inconvenienced Barry by sending him to prison?” she repeated. “I wish you’d look a little harder at why those issues trouble you. Maybe it has something to do with a guilty conscience!”

Chris folded his arms. “I’m sorry you wasted your time driving to Nashville. If anything, you’ve only affirmed my decision.”

Karen gathered her purse and headed for the door. She wished she could utter some zinger—a grand finale of her own—if only to ease her sense of failure, but nothing sprang to mind.

All she managed to say was, “Don’t worry, I didn’t travel all this way for your sake. I had to attend a seminar.”

Out the door she went. It closed with a bang and a loud jangle, as if she’d childishly slammed it.

Cheeks flaming, Karen hurried to her car. Not only hadn’t she succeeded, but she’d given Chris ammunition to use against her family.

And she ached in a way she hadn’t in a long time. She recognized the feeling as grief for lost dreams and lost trust.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, she lifted her chin with resolve. Maybe Chris’s return wasn’t entirely a bad thing. At least it would force Karen to face her own unfinished business.

After so many years, she might finally free herself to love someone else.

CHRIS MOVED AROUND THE waiting room, picking up a dropped pacifier and a toddler’s shoe. After putting them on the counter to be reclaimed, he tied the balloon strings together to take for the children in his apartment building.

With her bright hazel eyes and fiery spirit, Karen still had the power to make his heart beat faster. And to infuriate him like no one else.

Years ago, she’d awakened something in him that refused to die, although she’d done her best to kill it. As had he.

When he saw her today, he’d been tempted to touch her soft, red-brown hair. But just when he’d hoped they could reach a new, mature understanding, she’d outraged him and given him a shock.

Chris hadn’t imagined the Lowells would stoop to claiming he’d slain Norbert Anglin. Couldn’t they see that he’d tried to protect Barry on the witness stand? He’d testified that his friend had acted in self-defense after Anglin attacked them with a pitchfork. They’d only been two foolish eighteen-year-olds releasing a few chickens, nothing that merited getting stabbed.

But a man had died, leaving his widow with a farm to run. No matter how much Barry had gone through, Mrs. Anglin had suffered more.

In his office, Chris replaced his white coat with a corduroy jacket. He toured the clinic, making sure the medicine cabinets and examining rooms were locked. Then he clicked off the lights, set the alarm and exited through the back.

Silhouetted between buildings, stark trees raised bare arms to the night sky. He inhaled the chill winter air, in an effort to calm his agitated spirit.

Chris’s thoughts shifted to Downhome. He hadn’t harbored any illusions about the possibility of resuming old friendships. He only wanted to make peace, for everyone’s sake.

Apparently, that wasn’t going to happen.

Much as it galled him to dig up old hurts, he had to make sure he left no doubt in anyone’s mind about the events of that night. Karen had forced his hand.

As soon as he got settled, he resolved, he was going to ask to review the old police reports. The new chief, Ethan Forrest, had served on the physician-search committee and seemed like a reasonable fellow. Once Chris had all the facts in hand, he’d be armed with proof against Barry’s wild accusations.

As he tucked the balloons into his trunk, the breeze tugged at them. Chris wedged them firmly inside and shut the lid with a snap.

He’d learned long ago to keep his life under tight control. Medical cases, personal finances, relationships—anything could spin into chaos if you didn’t pay attention.

Including the matter of Karen and Barry Lowell, Chris reflected as he got into the car. He needed to tie up those strands as well.

If Karen didn’t like the results, she had only her brother’s obsessive antagonism to blame.