Tennessee Vet. Carolyn McSparren

of the time.

      What he did not have was the physical capability to build a cage. With his leg, he would be unlikely ever to climb a ladder again and could hardly drive a nail with one hand if he held on to his cane with the other.

      Velma laid down heaping breakfast plates before them, then hovered, obviously waiting for an introduction.

      “Velma, this is Dr. Stephen MacDonald. Stephen, this is Velma. She will remember your breakfast order and give it to you whether you order it or not, so don’t try to change it.” She turned to Velma. “He’s moving into The Hovel for six months.”

      Stephen stood and shook her hand. Hers felt rough and strong, although her nails were nearly as long as the eagle’s talons and painted bright turquoise. Her smile, however, was nearly as brilliant as Barbara’s. “I will too let you change your order. Just tell me when you come in. Otherwise you’re stuck with your usual, whatever you decide that is. I’m glad you’re gonna be across the street from Emma and Seth, Doctor. Half the time Seth’s gone way into the night and out of cell-phone range. Emma needs somebody close by to get her to the hospital.”

      “Not that kind of doctor, I’m afraid,” Stephen told her. “I teach history at the university.”

      “I’m perfectly capable of driving myself,” Emma said with a grin. “I’m just having a baby. My OB-GYN says first babies take a long time to come.”

      “Huh. I got three, Miss Emma. Didn’t none of ’em take but a little minute. Near about didn’t get to the hospital with any of ’em.” Velma turned to Stephen. “You give her your cell-phone number, and don’t go wandering off anywhere without it, you hear.”

      She whirled toward the back of the café. “All right, Darrell, hold your horses. I’ve got the coffeepot in my hand.”

      Turning back to their table, she said, “Nice to meet you, Stephen. Next time I might even be willing to give you an actual menu, but don’t count on it.” She wended her way through the tables and back to the counter.

      “I’d never try to go on a diet with Velma around,” Barbara said.

      “The way you work,” Emma said as she buttered a piece of toast, “you need the calories or you’d pass out.”

      “Velma,” Barbara called, “has the mayor been in yet this morning?”

      Velma nodded toward the wide front window. “That’s his truck pulling in now. He’s late.”

      “Here comes the purveyor of rental cars and everything automotive in Williamston,” Barbara said.

      The man who toddled in was a couple of inches shorter than Stephen and outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds. The bib overalls he wore were immaculate and looked as though they had been tailored for him, then starched and ironed. Stephen glanced at his boots. A marine in boot camp would be proud of the spit shine on the cordovan leather. He’d be willing to bet they also had been made for him.

      “Mornin’, you all,” the mayor boomed from the doorway. “Velma, honey...”

      “I got it, Mayor,” she said and reached a gigantic coffee mug across the counter to him.

      “Mayor,” Barbara called to him. “Come meet Emma’s new tenant. This is Dr. Stephen MacDonald.”

      Again, Stephen stood and shook hands, then sat down again.

      “Another doctor?”

      “Not that kind. I teach at the university.”

      Stephen saw him eye the cane beside his seat, but he didn’t comment.

      “Stephen pretty much murdered his car last night,” Barbara said.

      “You want us to fix it?”

      “It’s a vintage Triumph,” Stephen said. “The parts will have to come off the internet or out of some salvage yard. I have a guy in Memphis who can do it. He’s going to tow it in this afternoon and try to find everything he needs. In the meantime, I can’t keep catching rides with Emma.”

      “I can’t rent you a car, but a truck—sure. Little bitty or big honkin’?”

      “I’ve never owned a truck. I have no idea.”

      “Well, Steve, how ’bout you come on down to the place after breakfast, and I will flat out sell you one? You can’t make do with a sports car up here.” He clapped a hand on Stephen’s shoulder and came close to knocking him out of his chair.

      Steve? Nobody called him Steve, Stephen thought. Not even Nina when she was furious with him. It suddenly hit him that he had crossed the threshold into another universe. He didn’t know the language or the customs. Thank God for Barbara—and Emma, of course. Why had he put Barbara first? He’d known her less than twenty-four hours. But then maybe wallowing in blood together, or something approximating wallowing, gave them a kind of kinship he didn’t have with his daughter’s friends or even his academic friends.

      “Join us, Mr. Mayor?” Emma asked.

      “No, darlin’, I got to get on down to the showroom. Just came in to pick up my coffee and a couple of sweet rolls.” He turned to Stephen. “You let Emma drop you down at the showroom. I’ll rent or sell you wheels. And if I don’t, I’ll have one of my people run you back to your house.”

      “Thank you.”

      Sonny took the sack Velma handed him in one hand and his mug in the other, did a 360-degree wave to the patrons and staff with the sack hand, then toddled back out the door.

      Interested to see what the major drove, Stephen stood, then nearly fell over again at the decibel level of the horn that blasted as the man drove out of the parking lot.

      “That thing has more chrome on it than an eighteen-wheeler,” Stephen said. “And it’s nearly as big.”

      “He owns the dealership,” Emma said.

      “As well as the feed store, most of the rental property in Williamston and heaven knows how much more,” Barbara added. “In the country, Stephen, a man’s truck is a symbol of his place in the community.”

      “Like a knight’s armor or the caparison of his warhorse?” Stephen asked.

      “Pretty much. I’ve got to get back to open the clinic,” Barbara said. She reached for her check, but Stephen got there first.

      “This is for the pimento cheese last night and for keeping Orville alive.”

      “Orville?”

      “Better than Wilbur.”

      Barbara said over her shoulder, “Emma, explain to him about naming rescues, will you? Don’t do it, Stephen. If you don’t keep your distance, keep your objectivity about your rescues, it’s a disservice both to the animals and yourself. Besides, it can break your heart.”

      He felt as though Barbara had taken a tiny bit of peace with her when the door shut behind her. Ridiculous. But he made a mental note to call her in the afternoon and offer to drive back to Williamston in whatever new vehicle he would be driving to pick up a pizza for their dinner. After all, he needed to check on Orville. Orville? When had the blasted bird become Orville? Just happened. But Orville he was, for better or worse alive or, heaven forbid, dead. So much for not naming your rescues. Please, let Orville not break his heart.

      “Stephen,” Emma said and laid a hand on his sleeve. “Everybody hates advice, but I’m going to give you some anyway. Barbara is a wonderful person and a great veterinarian. She is also a one-man woman, and that man died five years ago.”

      He felt as though she’d slapped him. “And that has to do with me how?”

      “Come on. I saw the way you looked at her. If you’d been a puppy, you’d have rolled over to have your tummy scratched.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous. I was impressed at the