The Doctor's Perfect Match. Irene Hannon

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      Leaning his bike against the wall of his tiny ’Sconset cottage, Christopher shuffled through his mail as he walked to the back door, feet crunching on the oyster-shell path. Bill, bill, ad, postcard from Bermuda—he flipped it over and read the message from his brother, grinning at his seven-year-old nephew’s scrawled signature that took up half the writing area.

      “Hey, there, Christopher.”

      Looking up, he smiled at his elderly landlord on the other side of the picket fence that separated the yards of their adjoining cottages, which backed to the sea.

      “Hi, Henry. What’s up?” He strolled over, giving his neighbor a swift assessment.

      “Now, you put away those doctor eyes of yours.” The man shook a finger at him. “Don’t be sizing me up every time we talk just because I had a bout of pneumonia last winter. I hope you’re as resilient as I am at eighty-four.”

      A chuckle rumbled in Christopher’s chest. “I do, too.” In the past two years, since Christopher had rented Henry’s second, tiny cottage, the older man had bounced back from the few ailments he’d experienced.

      “Any good mail?”

      At Henry’s question, Christopher began riffling through the letters again. “Mostly bills and ads. But I did get a postcard from my brother.” He handed it over.

      Pulling a pair of wire-rimmed glasses out of his shirt pocket, Henry examined the photo of the expansive beach. “Pretty, isn’t it? Always wanted to see that pink sand.” He handed it back.

      “Would you still like to go?”

      “Nope. Did plenty of gallivanting in my army days. I’m happy to be an armchair traveler now. Don’t have to worry about terrorists on airplanes or fighting crowds or losing luggage. You can’t beat the Travel Channel.” He leaned closer to Christopher and peered at one of the envelopes in his hand. “That looks interesting.”

      Christopher checked out the return address. The Devon Rose. That was interesting.

      Slitting the envelope, he pulled out a single sheet of paper folded in half. Inside he found a gift certificate and a short note written in a scrawling hand.

      Dr. Morgan:

      Thank you for your assistance on Monday. The penicillin took care of the problem. Please enjoy tea for two as a token of my appreciation.

      It was signed by Marci Clay.

      It would be difficult to imagine a more impersonal message. Yet Christopher’s heart warmed as he ran a finger over the words inked by Marci’s hand.

      “Maybe interesting wasn’t the right word.”

      As Henry’s eyes narrowed in speculation, heat crept up Christopher’s neck. “It’s a gift certificate. I did an impromptu house call a few days ago, and the patient was grateful. You ever been here?” He waved the envelope at Henry, hoping to distract him.

      It didn’t work.

      “Female patient?”

      The man might be old, but he was still sharp, Christopher conceded. And if he tried to dodge the question, Henry would get more suspicious. “Yes. Her brother just married the owner, and she’s running the place while they’re on their honeymoon. Hence the invitation.” Christopher paused as an idea took shape. “Don’t you have a birthday coming up?”

      “I stopped counting those long ago.”

      “June eighth.” Christopher had jotted the occasion on his calendar. Henry might pretend not to care about his birthday, but he’d been thrilled last year when his tenant had treated him to an upscale dinner at The Chanticleer. “How about you and I give this a try on your big day?” He held up the gift certificate.

      Sliding his palms into the back pockets of his slacks, Henry bowed forward like a reed, his knobby elbows akimbo, his expression dubious. “Kind of fancy-schmancy, isn’t it?”

      “You deserve fancy on your birthday.”

      “You ought to take some pretty little lady to a place like that.”

      An image of Marci flashed through his mind, but Christopher pushed it aside. “Pretty little ladies seem to be in short supply these days.”

      “You’re not looking in the right places, then.”

      “I’m not looking, period.”

      “I know.” Henry sighed. “But you’ve got to move on, Christopher. You can’t let one bad experience ruin your life. I learned that after Korea. Lots of the guys in my outfit couldn’t get past the bad stuff once they came home. Haunted them for the rest of their lives. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you. You’re thirty-six years old. You should have a wife and a bunch of kids by now.”

      “I’ll get around to that one of these days.”

      “You said that last year.”

      Christopher laid a hand on the older man’s bony shoulder. “I appreciate your concern, Henry. But this is best for now.” He lifted the certificate again. “In the meantime, do we have a date?”

      The man grinned. “I expect we do. Shall I break out my tie?”

      “I will if you will.”

      “It’s a deal.”