Page 81 of Love Bound

Finn and I watch as Cory pulls the big screen door open and a man steps out, then a woman. She says something to him and he responds and points to the bay. The woman fishes around in a paper bag and then hands him a pastry from Weaver's.

My stomach rumbles. Teri Coombs is a baking genius. Despite the promise of a sweet, Cory doesn't know quite what to do, but right then Laurel steps out and talks to the woman for a moment and then waves to us. Taking Cory's other hand, they disappear, and the woman crosses the street to head toward the pier.

"Was she pissed?" Finn asks, but he's still looking at the woman making her way back to the pier. There's a puzzled look on his face.

"A little," I say as we turn to go back to the clinic. "But every step is scary for her. People say she's a control freak, but parents have to be. There's so much you can't control." I instantly realize this is the wrong thing to say to Finn.

But his attention is back on me and he just slips an arm around my waist and nuzzles my hair. "I think you need food."

"I need you more," I say.

I don’t care if the Burkes are looking out their window. Finn tastes so good in the outdoors, in the sunlight, his face against mine, his arms around me, his stubble against my face.

We're back to kissing.

***

Finn leaves that Friday afternoon for Rockland to get more sheetrock screws, a new battery for the electric drill, and to pick up a drywall lift on rental from the hardware shop.

Floors one and two do not need new ceilings, but the rooms on the third floor definitely all need new sheetrock. Plaster had fallen in places or was buckling, and he and Jackson had ripped nearly all the plaster out. Without the family coming, Finn now has three days to work on it. Nic is due within the hour and slotted to spend the entire weekend.

I think of Bryce sitting somewhere in a car, or by a window across the street, relieving himself with a pee bottle. This is information I never thought I would know: the underbelly and unromantic stories of surveillance operations.

The reports Bryce sends are of watching Miller walk all over the city, smoke weed and cigarettes, get into bar fights, and yell a lot at that barking boxer next door. The dog would bark at anything, day or night, and it drove Miller nuts. But Bryce is vigilant and sends daily reports to Nic, who then passes them to Finn on a need to know basis.

This last month, there had been no need to know anything.

Readying for my ten o'clock, an elderly sick lab/boxer mix named Althea with an abscessed anal gland, I set out a heavy surgical blanket, grab a half dozen forceps from the autoclave, a curved swaged needle, thread, antibacterial sutures, a fifteen-milligram syringe of succinylcholine to get her under, an IV, calibration for the oxygen/nitrous oxide/Sevoflurane-anesthesia mix, intubation paraphernalia and, finally, a bag valve mask just in case the ventilator malfunctions. I can at least hand pump air into her if things go south. The patient is a referral from a vet in New York and the last thing I need is a lawsuit from a disgruntled flatlander.

I'm just glad I don’t have to put another animal down.

Suddenly, there's pounding on the door and Ralph's bellow comes from the front. "Your horse is out again!"

Salty has escaped twice before. When I glance at the clock, the large hand is on the eight. I have twenty minutes to find Salty and be in the office. Not a good way to impress a New Yorker.

I come running from the hall, grabbing one of the spare leashes by the side door. "Thanks. Which way?"

Ralph's face is lit with excitement. Finally. All his spying is paying off. "Away from town. On the road though."

As I quickly step out, I'm careful not to let the door slam. If Salty is still close to the house, it would startle him. Glancing over to the asphalt, I make certain he's not headed toward traffic and then I swivel to the right and there he is, about four hundred yards away, standing. Staring at me warily, he shakes his coat, and now I'm close enough to see several flies rise and land again on his back. The sun is already hot.

Out the side of my mouth, I cluck to him, twice, and he starts to walk toward me. I can hear Ralph coming up behind me and I wave him to stop. I don't want Salty spooked and taking off down the road toward the cliffs or into the woods toward the Christmas tree lot. Salty dips his neck and nickers gently, stomps one foot, and then I turn and start walking slowly but purposefully back to the corral.

I hear him follow, his hooves pulling a little sand and dirt on the soft road. Once I’m close to the corral door, I stop and let him pull up next to me. As he watches, I clip the dog leash to the halter and lead him inside. This time, I make certain the gate is shut and secured and double-check the latch. Horses are smart and can learn to lift a latch with their very nimble lips. My dad used to joke they learned to use it like an opposable thumb. I find the Carrabin in the short, tufted grass, unsure how exactly he could have wrestled this off, but I make sure it's looped through the latch.

I check my watch. Nine fifty. I've got ten minutes and sometimes new patients are late. GPS doesn’t work well here, and it often leaves them in Molly's field staring at miniature horses.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

It’s Devon. She wants to talk. Again. Oh, and borrow some butter.

"It better not be for a cake," I say and then sigh. "Okay. I've got a procedure at ten. I'll need about forty minutes. Then come over and we can talk while," I glance at the card again, "Althea resurfaces."

I can hear the pause on the other end of the phone.

"When she comes out of anesthesia," I explain.

"I know what 'resurfaces' means," says Devon. "I just haven’t heard that in a long time."