Silverhill by Whitney Phyllis A.;

Author:Whitney, Phyllis A.;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media Romance
Published: 2017-08-08T04:00:00+00:00

VII

The path we followed had crossed a woodsy spit of land, and now it would again in the direction of the pond. Occasionally I could glimpse water through the trees. I breathed as if I were hungry for the pine-scented air, and lifted my face to the dapple of misty yellow light that fell between well-spaced trees. The springy feel of pine needles in the thick carpet beneath my feet gave a lift to my step, and Wayne’s step was quick and alive beside me. Overhead the treetops moved in a gentle whisper and when a breeze stirred them we could hear it coming from far off. The only other sound in the world was that of a motorboat somewhere out on the water.

“No one but Chris comes this way anymore,” Wayne said. “Except for his rowboat, the boathouse isn’t used these days. You can see how the path is turning back to wilderness. I haven’t been down here since last fall.”

We no longer walked with clasped hands, but were somehow closer, with arm touching arm. He had flung off all the weariness that had marked him earlier, though dark shadows still smeared the flesh beneath his eyes.

“Did you get to bed at all last night?” I asked.

He smiled ruefully. “For a time. But babies come when they’re ready to come. The hospital called me around one o’clock. There was trouble this time, but we made it.”

I heard the satisfaction in his voice.

“You like being a country doctor,” I said. My words were discovery, not question.

“I suppose I do. Though I became one mainly because it seemed necessary. Because I was badly needed.”

Ahead of us the woods opened and I saw with sharp recognition a stone building on a slope above the pond. I knew this place. It meant something to me, I was sure.

“What about Aunt Fritzie?” I asked as we walked toward the boathouse. “Is there no way to help her? Do you think your father was right when he said she should be allowed to forget?”

It seemed that we walked for a long time in silence, and when he spoke his words startled me.

“My father was nearly always wrong,” he said quietly. “But perhaps he was right at the time about Fritzie. I don’t know. I suppose this is the sort of question every man has to answer for himself. All I know is how I would choose if I had to pick between pain and loss of memory.”

His remark about his father reminded me of the thing Elden had said about not many people having a good word for old Doc Martin. This seemed troubling ground and I moved away from it, agreeing that if I had a choice between forgetfulness and pain I would choose the latter.

“Do you think it’s too late for Aunt Fritzie to make such a choice for herself?” I asked.

“It may be that we’re going to find out,” Wayne said, “whether your grandmother likes it or not. It seems that your

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