Chapter Fifteen
DR. GABRIEL HAVERS did not make his expected appearance at dinner, after all. No. He showed up for supper. In the company of his partner in crime and evil twin, Sheriff Paul Winslow.
Were Camellia inclined toward profanity, she would have let out a string of the bluest oaths known to mankind when she opened the door to find these two awaiting admittance. Instead, she groaned aloud. And then took refuge in scolding, like a little broody hen.
“And just why are you here, yet again? I am not running a soup kitchen for indigents, I can assure you. I have more important things to do than to spend my whole day cooking and cleaning. And don’t you dare set foot inside the house in that condition. I won’t have mud tracked all over my floors!”
The men, taken aback, blinked at each other. Then, shrugging with a “What the hey” expression, each employed the available cast-iron bootjack with force and energy.
“All right, all right, come in out of the rain. Sometimes I do believe men have no more sense than God gave a goose. Boots over there, gentlemen, on the rug, if you please. Then you may enter. I suppose you want coffee right away, as well.”
“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, ma’am,” said the doctor with unaccustomed humility.
The sheriff was right with him. “Coffee sounds positively delightful, ma’am,” he echoed meekly.
Cooling down her spurt of temper from high boil to simmer, Camellia flounced through the parlor into that current bone of contention, the kitchen. Both callers traipsed along in her wake, amazingly, sweetly, soundless in their stocking feet. A pleasant change. Perhaps she ought to institute the rule of no clumping footgear inside her house at all, during any season, wet or dry.
“We’re just mighty appreciative of your talents, ma’am,” Gabe, pulling out a chair at the table, tried again.
“You put together a mighty mean meal, ma’am,” Paul murmured, doing likewise.
Hands on hips, arms akimbo, she surveyed both of them without much affection. “And just what excuse will you use when you can no longer depend on Molly’s presence as justification for being here?” she demanded.
“Why, the unutterable esteem we hold for you, dear lady,” grandly proclaimed Gabe.
“The pure pleasure of just bein’ able to associate with you,” declaimed Paul almost as grandly.
Camellia snorted. And relented a little. “All right. I’ve prepared dinner for you. I’ll prepare supper for you. But I absolutely, positively draw the line at breakfast!”
Ben’s entrance through the back door, a quarter of an hour later, seemed a repeat performance of the noontime ritual. “H’lo, Cam,” he said, pressing a cool damp cheek to hers. Then, seeing she wasn’t alone, he inquired mildly, “You started takin’ in boarders now? I can tell you right away, these two ain’t reliable.”
“Get your boots off,” ordered both guests in concert.
He was startled enough to instantly obey—as if the command had been made in his wife’s voice. Camellia, expertly beating some sort of gravy into submission at the stove, grinned. Perhaps these two moochers might serve a purpose, after all.
“Camellia, my dear, might I ask what is on the menu for this evenin’?” the doctor entreated in his most dulcet tones.
“Does it matter? Why don’t the two of you settle down into marriage, so you can bedevil your own wives about food, instead of me?”
“Will Molly be here at the table with us?”
Paul, traveling along the road of his own thoughts, spoke without considering any possible consequence. Silence followed his non sequitur: deep dark silence broken only by the sound of rain thrashing at the window panes and an occasional rumble of thunder overhead. Camellia, Paul, and Gabriel each traded glances; the doctor even arched a quizzical brow.
Into the silence came Molly.
Still slowly, still cautiously, favoring hidden injuries and stiffened muscles. But her half-smile of greeting more than made up for any faltering of gait.
And how beautiful she was, reflected a bedazzled sheriff, as both he and Gabe rose politely at her approach. That shiny blue-black hair, with all the curls piled on top of her head like a little girl playing dress-up; the aquamarine eyes, which, meeting his, immediately lighted up with pleasure; the heart-shaped face, set off with high pinkened cheekbones and soft red lips; that form, fragile yet alluring, with all the inviting curves just built for the caress of a man’s hand...
“Paul. Paul. You still with us on planet earth, son?” said Gabe, with his usual crooked grin.
“Alwa
ys and forever.”
Tonight’s discussion centered on the weather: cooler, drenching rain, wind, so opined Ben, to beat the band. The storm had swept in as light moisture and quickly turned ugly. Paul reported that a small tree, taproots beleaguered during last month’s downpour, had gone down over on First Street; Gabe reported that he’d nearly been brained by a flying shingle torn from someone’s roof. It was a gully-washer, all right, in everyone’s judgment.
“Flapjacks are mighty tasty, Camellia,” Paul ventured then. “Never tried ’em with gravy on top b’fore. Sausage, ain’t it?”