Stuck in the Middle (26 page)

“Don’t laugh,” Tori insisted. “Some of those fanatics are scary people.”

“I don’t think Ken is scary-religious.” Allie slipped past them and into the kitchen. “He’s just been so heads-down on his medical career that he’s not well-rounded. He hasn’t developed a social life. Joan can help with that.”

Heat crept up Joan’s neck as she returned Tori’s stare. Deep inside she felt certain there was way more to Ken’s faith than merely the lack of a social life. And she was on the verge of figuring out what it was. She tore her gaze away from Tori’s and followed Allie into the kitchen. “Yeah, I’m such an expert in social situations. I haven’t been on a date since Roger. And Ken sure hasn’t been beating down my door.”

Of course, he had volunteered to come to her house on Thursday night to help organize the group’s project. But given Tori’s hostility, Joan didn’t want to mention that.

With relief, she realized she had managed to mention Roger the Rat without wanting to spit. Maybe she was starting to get over her anger.

“Well,” Tori trailed her, stopping to lean against the doorjamb, “I just think Joan could do better, that’s all.”

Allie whooped with laughter. “Better than a doctor?”

“Absolutely.” Tori raised her chin. “She could get a brain surgeon, easy.”

A rush of gratitude washed over Joan, and she whirled to hug her baby sister. “I don’t know about that, but I’m glad you think so.”

“Could someone help me with this?” Gram held two pot holders toward Joan and inclined her head in the direction of the open oven door.

Joan took the pot holders and lifted out the roasting pan, inhaling the savory odor of onions and roasted meat. The juices sizzled as they sloshed against the hot sides of the pan. It wasn’t heavy, but if Gram’s joints were bothering her today, Joan was glad she asked for help. Better not to risk another lasagna incident, this time with witnesses.

Allie was at her elbow in an instant with two big slotted spoons. She lifted the steaming roast from the pan and deposited it onto a waiting platter, inhaling. “Mmmm, it smells wonderful, Gram.”

“I hope it’s not overdone.” Gram hovered over the roast, poking it with a fork and fretting. Apparently satisfied, she turned a grin on Joan. “At least it’s not fried.”

As Joan fished carrots and potatoes out of the pot, Gram went to the refrigerator for a jar of homemade pickles. Mom came into the room as Gram set them on the counter and put a hand on the lid, her jaw set.

“Mother, let me do that. You might want to get the table ready.”

Relief lightened Gram’s features as she yielded the jar. Mom easily twisted the lid off and dumped the pickles into a dish while Gram picked up a stack of napkins and went into the dining room.

Joan scooped the last carrot out of the crock pot, struck by the tender expression on Mom’s face as she watched Gram place a napkin and silverware beside each plate. With last night’s revelations fresh in her mind, she might have been seeing her mother with different eyes today. Maybe her actions were a little rough at times, her voice a little too harsh, but she loved Gram. She was doing what she thought necessary to take care of her, to protect her. Like she had protected her daughters.

Anxiety twisted a knife in Joan’s gut. If only Mom didn’t think a nursing home was the best way to provide that protection.

~ 17 ~

Ken parked in the physician’s lot at ten past six. He slammed the car door and jogged toward the hospital entrance, trying to shake the lethargy that added weight to his limbs. He hated being late. He’d have to remember to turn the volume up on the clock radio. But after only four hours’ sleep, he doubted if he would have heard the alarm even if it had blared through a bullhorn beside his ear. Thank goodness he’d forgotten to put Trigger outside before he fell asleep. If the dog hadn’t decided to bark in tempo with the radio’s music, he’d still be sleeping.

Of course, now he had a huge mess to clean up when he got home. The stack of medical journals he hadn’t managed to read yet had become enough confetti to fuel the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said as he burst through the ER doors.

Dr. Boling, seated at the nurses’ station, rose at his entrance. Apparently it hadn’t been a busy day, because the older doctor seemed relaxed and unstressed as he shook his head in Ken’s direction.

“No problem. The wife’s visiting her mother for a week, so I’ve got an empty house waiting for me at home.” He tilted his head to peer through the bottom half of his glasses. “You look tired.”

“I’m not awake yet.” Ken ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll be alright, as long as there’s coffee.”

“Always. It’s a key ingredient in a doctor’s blood. Our veins would collapse without it.” He rounded the desk and headed toward the back office to give report. Ken fell into place beside him.

The nurse lifted her head from her computer monitor. “Dr. Fletcher, there’s someone out in the waiting room to see you. She’s been here about twenty minutes.”

“Me?”

She nodded. “She’s not a patient. Says she wants to talk to you about a personal matter.”

He looked toward Dr. Boling, who waved good-naturedly. “Go. I’m in no hurry.”

Curious, Ken walked through the double doors leading to the ER waiting room. The room was empty. Odd. Maybe the woman got tired of hanging around and left. As he turned to go back to the treatment area, he caught a glimpse of movement through the revolving door. A tall woman stood outside, smoke curling above her head from the cigarette she held to her lips. He sauntered across the room and stepped into the warm August evening.

She turned when he came through the door. Deep creases framed her mouth, caused by decades of sucking on cigarettes. “You Dr. Fletcher?”

“Yes. I understand you wanted to see me?”

She crushed her cigarette in the receptacle before thrusting her hand toward him. “I’m Beverly Lassiter.”

Lassiter. “You’re Mike’s grandmother.” He shook her hand, searching her face for any sign of trouble. “Is he okay?”

“That boy?” Her thin chest huffed a single proud laugh. “Never better. Startin’ school tomorrow, though. By the end of the week, I ’spect he’ll come up with some sickness or other that’ll keep him home.”

Ken laughed with her. He’d played his share of hooky at Mike’s age. Her love for her grandson couldn’t have been more obvious if she’d whipped out a stack of photos to show him. Something heavy inside Ken shifted a fraction. At least Mike had a grandmother who loved him.

Mrs. Lassiter drew her shoulders up. “I come to thank you for what you done.”

“What I . . . oh, you mean removing his stitches?” Ken shook his head. “That was nothing.”

“Twern’t ‘
nothing
.’” Both hands clutched at the strap of the handbag hanging from her shoulder. “Not many folks woulda checked on the boy. He said you came twice. I’m beholdin’ to you.”

She raised her chin to look him in the eye as she delivered her thanks. Not an educated woman, certainly, and judging by the worn state of her clothing, not a wealthy one. But she carried herself with quiet dignity and knew the social graces, knew that a good deed required an acknowledgment.

He dipped his head. “You’re welcome. I was glad to do it.”

She hesitated, her grip on the shoulder strap tightening as her gaze slid away. “Holly ain’t a bad girl, not really. She was just so young when Michael came along. And she’s always been mule-headed, wanting to do for her own self instead of letting me help.” She looked away. “Not that I can do much, but she and the boy’d be better off living at home with me rather than in that dump.”

Ken suspected a girl like Holly wouldn’t relish the thought of living under her mother’s observant eye. Mrs. Lassiter didn’t seem the type who would keep her mouth shut if her daughter was doing something she didn’t approve of.

“I got a glimpse of some of Mike’s friends the other day.” He watched the traffic beyond the entrance to the parking lot. “I hope when school starts up again he’ll find some different kids to hang out with.”

Mrs. Lassiter shook her head. “Not if he’s like his mama. If there’s a bad one around, she’ll hook up with him, and next thing you know they’re in trouble together.” She peered into his face. “But my grandson likes you. Maybe you could talk some sense into the boy.”

A smile twitched at the edges of Ken’s lips. “You know, when I was a boy, I wasn’t much different from Mike. I got into my fair share of trouble.”

She squinted, her gaze dropping to the stethoscope hanging around his neck. “You done alright with yourself.”

A look of understanding passed between them. He was being given tacit permission to do what he’d wanted to do since the night he met Mike Lassiter—provide a positive influence. It was a huge responsibility, and not something to agree to lightly. But Ken, of all people, knew what a difference a positive influence could make in a child’s life. Maybe now was the time to give back a little of what he’d been given. From the first night he met Mike, he knew in his heart God wanted him to do something for that boy.

Grinning, he said, “Maybe Mike would like to go out and get a pizza with me one night. Or take in a ball game.”

Her clutch on the shoulder strap relaxed, and she reached into the bag to withdraw a set of keys. “I reckon he would.”

“Would you like to come inside?” Ken asked as she turned to leave. “It isn’t a busy night, and I might be able to find us a cup of coffee while we talk.”

She shook her head. “I need to get on home. I just wanted to thank you for taking care of them stitches.” Her heel scraped on the asphalt as she headed for a rusty four-door sedan.

“Maybe I’ll see you again sometime,” Ken called after her.

She turned. One side of her mouth rose in a crooked smile. “I ’spect so.”

Joan slipped out the front door at 6:40 Monday morning and closed it quietly behind her so she didn’t wake Gram or Mom. She paused on the porch to inhale the fresh air. In the east, the rising sun dominated a clear blue sky. Her skin felt sticky even in the relative cool of the early hour. Though they’d enjoyed a few low-humidity days unusual for August in Kentucky, summer refused to let go. Today promised to be a hot one.

She stepped onto the sidewalk and stretched her muscles for a moment before taking off at a slow jog. Today’s exercise would probably hurt. Her body was sure to punish her for the overindulgence with junk food over the weekend.

The Hendersons’ cat watched from its perch in the front window as she ran past. When she got to the Faulkners’ flowers, she heard her name called from behind.

“Joan, wait up.”

A quiet groan sounded in her throat when she turned to see Ken and Trigger running to catch up with her. Why did he have to pick now to show up, when she hadn’t taken the time to do more than splash water on her face and throw on some workout clothes? A hand went to her hair. She’d barely even pulled a brush through it before putting it in a ponytail.

She hid her embarrassment by bending down to rub Trigger’s ears. “Hey, fella. What are you doing up so early?”

“Early?” Ken laughed. “What are you talking about? It’s late. Almost my bedtime, in fact. But the book I’ve been reading says the reason this guy’s digging holes in the backyard is because he’s not getting enough exercise. So we thought we’d run with you.”

She glanced over his green hospital scrubs and white sneakers. “Are you a runner?”

“Not really, but I think I can keep up. Is that okay?”

Joan looked away to hide a grin. “Sure.” She started again, and Ken fell into step beside her while Trigger led the way, straining at the leash.

“So, have you come up with any ideas to talk about Thursday night?”

She shook her head. “I really haven’t thought about it yet. How ’bout you?”

“Maybe.” He gave her a sideways smile. “There are a couple of things I want to check on.”

They ran past a few houses in silence.

“I was surprised when you said you wanted to come. I mean, our church didn’t seem to impress you much.”

“It didn’t,” he admitted. “But you do.”

Exercise had nothing to do with the way her heart pounded in her chest. “Me?”

She faced forward, aware that he turned his head to look at her. “Yes, you. You were different yesterday, and I’ve been trying to figure out what prompted the change.”

“I . . .” She stopped. The whole ice cream thing sounded too weird to put into words. The last thing she wanted was for Ken to think she was strange. “Remember that Open Bible Church I told you about?” He nodded. “I went there to hear a missionary talk about building orphanages in Afghanistan, and the church is so different from mine. Karen told me a little about your church in Indianapolis, and I realized it must be like that one.”

“And you want to try to make your church more like that?” He sounded skeptical.

Joan shook her head. “Not really. I mean, I don’t think the praise band and the audio system and all that would go over too well at Christ Community. But . . .” She ran on a few paces. Talking about her reasons didn’t come easily, especially when she hadn’t really figured them out herself. “I saw a bulletin that listed all the activities Open Bible has going on during the week, and I realized we don’t do anything like that. We call ourselves a community, but we’re not, not really.” She gave him a quick look. “I guess I’m beginning to think there ought to be more to church than sitting in a pew and listening to a sermon.”