The Dashing Doc Next Door. Helen Myers R.

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      “Having come from a rather large family, I guess Gage misses having more people around,” Brooke replied without thinking. Belatedly intercepting her aunt’s look of amusement and unabashed satisfaction, she quickly regretted the comment.

      “You two have been visiting more,” Marsha said with a satisfied nod.

      “Not really. There’s been no time.”

      Looking unconvinced, her aunt pointed out, “You’ve been sharing details about family.”

      Brooke took great pains in cutting chicken off the bone. “I felt I had to make polite conversation while walking through the neighborhood with him to find Humphrey. It would have been rude not to, what with him donating his time and showing so much interest in how we’re doing.”

      “Yes, it would, and I’m proud of you,” Marsha replied. “Because, although I adore you, you can be a bit—”

      Brooke’s breath all but locked in her throat. “A bit what?” Her aunt was never anything but complimentary and supportive. Was she about to get criticized?

      “Insular.”

      “That’s an awful thing to say.”

      “I’m not being judgmental. It’s the place you’ve found yourself at this point in time. The sad thing will be if you stay like that.”

      Her aunt’s opinion stung because Brooke wasn’t stuck in any mode of behavior; she was unemployed, and that had happened because of decisions out of her control. She hated feeling like just another piece of flotsam as a result of “government regulation”—and her helplessness and the injustice of it made her all the less eager to talk about it. How did she explain this to her aunt when Marsha could barely balance a checkbook, let alone do quarterly reports for Newman’s Florist and Gifts? She was that clueless about how the financial world operated; never mind what it meant to be a young, single woman holding her own in such a male-dominated cutthroat world. Why, if Brooke wasn’t handling the accounting side of her aunt’s business, Marsha wouldn’t still be open today! What seemed “insular” to her was savvy and self-protective to Brooke.

      “Anyway,” Brooke said, forcing herself to put her aunt’s need for calm first, “Gage told me that he left Montana because he didn’t like freezing for that much of the year.”

      Marsha looked a bit dazed for a moment and then caught up with their conversation. “That’s what I remember, too. Having emergency calls in blizzards can’t be any fun.”

      As her aunt reached for the muffin again, Brooke sighed, scooped a bit of rice and chicken up with the fork, and held it up to Marsha’s mouth. “Try this.”

      “Oh, Brooke, I’m not totally incapacitated. You don’t need to feed me.”

      “Well, you don’t seem to want to do more than pluck at crumbs like a finch. Cooperate—and then I’ll let you hold the fork.” After her aunt obliged, Brooke set the fork on her side of the plate. “Now that I have your attention, there’s something else we really should discuss.”

      “That doesn’t sound fun at all.”

      Able to smile at her aunt’s childlike tone, Brooke launched into news she was sure her relative would like. “It’s about the store’s windows. Kiki offered to spruce them up and put in some Fourth of July decorations.” What Kiki had actually said was that it was embarrassing to still have the spring/Easter decorations up, and that even customers were asking when they were going to catch up with the calendar—and the rest of the shops on Main Street.

      “It’s still spring,” Marsha protested. She suddenly looked smaller and weaker as she sank deeper into the pile of pillows behind her. “This whole acceleration of holidays is getting out of hand. You watch, in August, they’ll have Halloween decorations on the same aisle as school supplies. Tell her to wait until after the fifteenth. By then I should be able to help her.”

      Incredulous, Brooke said gently, “Aunt Marsha...dear...you’ll be lucky if you’re moved to the rehab facility by then. Now, Kiki is more than capable of doing this. You taught her well, and she’s had good schooling in marketing and design. At least let her draft an idea for you about what she’d like to do.”

      “That sounds expensive. For once I’m taking your advice, Ms. Financial Expert. There shouldn’t be any spending on new things. There are plenty of decorations up in the loft.”

      Years ago, Newman’s Florist and Gifts was the site of Sweet Springs Farm Supply, and the upstairs—still accessible by the back steps—was still a good second-story storage place for inventory, decorations and supplies. But after talking to Kiki and jointly taking a look up there, Brooke had agreed with the younger woman’s perspective.

      “Most of what’s up there is showing its age and should be thrown out, Aunt Marsha,” Brooke reported, combining both her and Kiki’s conclusions. “Why not let us do a real renovation and scrap what isn’t up to the store’s standards?”

      “But people always look forward to the displays I do.”

      “And next year, they’ll enjoy it again. But in the meantime, there’s another good reason to do some purging. If—Heaven forbid—there was a fire, there’s enough clutter up there to burn down the whole block.”

      Marsha suddenly moaned. Seconds later, she pressed one hand to her hip, then the other to her chest.

      “What is it?” Immediately concerned, Brooke was on her feet. “Is the pain worse?” She knew her aunt’s chart as well as the nurses and remembered Aunt Marsha wasn’t due another pain pill until ten o’clock. “I’ll get a nurse.”

      “Just give me a minute.” Marsha’s voice was all tight, the words clipped, as though she was enduring a cramp or spasm of some kind.

      Finally sighing with relief, her aunt shifted her gaze out at the pretty landscaping. Amid decades-old pines, there were beds of azalea and rosebushes providing blossoms three seasons of the year.

      “Whew. It’s moments like this that you realize you’re getting old.” She slid an apologetic glance at Brooke. “It’s not that I’ve intentionally neglected taking care of things upstairs. There just never seems to be enough time to do the serious cleaning out that it deserves.”

      “Oh, Aunt Marsha, we know,” Brooke declared. “Look, I’m here. There’s no reason not to make good use of that. What’s more, Kiki has a strong affection and devotion to you, too. We can do a little work upstairs every day, and before you know it, we’ll have things refreshed and the inventory in good shape.” “Kiki,” as Kimberly Katherine Webb was known around town, had just graduated from the community college nearby and had worked at the shop since high school.

      “She’s been a good girl,” Marsha admitted.

      “She’s twenty-one,” Brooke reminded her patiently. “A young woman, and if the economy wasn’t so challenging, she would probably already be gone trying to make better use of that business and marketing expertise. You have to let me give her more responsibility or she might yet take the gamble and fly off on her own. I promise you, Aunt Marsha, gifts like Kiki don’t come every day.”

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