Chapter 2

2

ETHAN

" O kay, Mrs. Timmons, everything looks good," I say as I step into the room.

The older woman sits on the edge of the examination table and gives me a wink. Unlike at my old practice in LA, my patients here are all a hell of a lot nicer. They're kind, good people, and I enjoy being around them far more than the superficial, hoity-toity snobs I dealt with back in LA. The view is nowhere near as nice, but it's a trade-off I'd make every single day of the week and twice on Sundays.

I set the file down on the counter beside me. "Your numbers are mostly good. But I'd still like for you to get out and do some light exercise. Try taking a twenty to thirty-minute walk a day. It's really important that we work on that cholesterol level. You think you can do that for me?"

"Of course, I can, Dr. Collier," she says. "I'll do anything you ask."

The tone in her voice is flirtatious, which is somehow amplified by her slow, syrupy-sweet Tennessee drawl. It makes me chuckle because she's old enough to be my mother and not some giggly high school girl.

"Well, be careful who you say that to, Mrs. Timmons. I'd sure hate for Mr. Timmons to hear that and come down here to set me straight."

She cackles like it's the funniest thing she's ever heard. I write out a prescription for her, tear it off my pad, and hand it to her.

"Thank you, Dr. Collier," she says. "And I have to say again how nice it is to have you in town now that Dr. Pelson has retired."

"Nice of you to say, Mrs. Timmons. I'm glad to be here."

I walk her out of the examination room and to the door, holding it open for her.

"Go ahead and check out with Melinda and we'll see you in a month," I say. "And don't forget, now. Twenty to thirty minutes of activity a day."

She gives me another wink before starting across the lobby to Melinda's station. I close the door, then walk down the short hallway to my office and drop heavily into the chair behind my desk, letting out a long sigh. It's been a long day. Picking up the coffee mug sitting next to my laptop, I take a drink. It's cold. But it's still caffeine, so whatever. My eyes drift to the photo of me and Dr. Artie Pelson hanging on the wall beneath my array of diplomas and certificates.

It occurs to me that it's the only personal photograph I have anywhere in my office. But I suppose that's because Dr. Pelson is a large part of my life and my story. He was my teacher back in med school, but more than that, he was my mentor. Dr. Pelson is a big part of why I'm a doctor today, and he's an even bigger part of why, at forty-five years old and despite being a renowned cardiovascular surgeon making piles of money, I left LA and started over as a general practitioner in Emerson, Tennessee.

"Money can't buy you respect, satisfaction, peace of mind, or your way into heaven," I mutter to myself.

"Dr. Pelson used to say that all the time."

I glance up to see Melinda standing in the doorway of my office. She's an attractive woman in her late thirties with honey-blonde hair and hazel-colored eyes. Two children, a fantastic husband, a sharp mind, and good relationships with almost everybody in town, I inherited Melinda along with Artie's practice when he retired and lured me out here. And thank God she came with the practice. I wouldn't have even known where to start without her.

"That is indeed an old Artie-ism," I say. "He never liked the idea of doctors getting filthy rich providing basic health care to people who need it most."

"He is a good man," Melinda says.

"Yes, he is."

"And he obviously thinks you are, too."

"I'm not so sure about that."

Melinda pulls a face. "There is nothing Artie loves more than this town, and he would not have left you this practice if he didn't trust that you would do right by us and care for us the way he did. So, yeah, I am pretty sure about that."

The corners of my mouth curl upward. She's right, of course. Artie loved Emerson with every fiber of his being. And no, he wouldn't have entrusted the care of its people to somebody he didn't have full confidence and belief in. If he didn't think I'd do right by the people of this town, he would have either enlisted somebody else, or he'd still be here caring for them himself rather than down in Florida enjoying retirement with his wife, Grace.

I wouldn't say that makes me a good man. It wasn't all that long ago that I enjoyed the money, the cars, the houses, and the lifestyle that came from being one of the wealthiest and most sought-after cardiovascular surgeons in California. Perhaps in the country. I enjoyed all the trappings of wealth that Artie finds abhorrent. Until I didn't, anyway. I still enjoy some of the finer things in life—a nice cigar or a good glass of scotch—but for the most part, I've left that world behind me. I don't think that makes me a good man, but perhaps one day, I can be something akin to it.

Melinda, though, won't hear of it. I'm not sure if Artie instructed her to do it before he left, but every single day, in some fashion, she reminds me that I'm a good man and that I'm living up to his legacy. No matter how many times I've tried to tell her she doesn't need to feed me constant positive affirmations, she keeps doing it. It's sweet, but I don't need it. Don't want it. I know what I am and what I'm not. And what I'm not is a man as good as Artie Pelson … and I will probably never be. The man was practically a fucking saint. And I have no aspirations to be. I simply want to do my job and live my life.

"Do we have anybody else on the schedule?" I ask.

She grins softly, well aware that I'm deflecting and changing the topic—as I always do. "No, Mrs. Timmons was it for the day."

"Good. Okay, go ahead and knock off early and go see those kids of yours."

"Thanks, Doc Collier."

I remain behind for another half an hour after Melinda leaves, finishing up some paperwork and getting the office organized for tomorrow, before heading out. I make sure to set the alarm and lock the door behind me, even if Emerson is a place where people still leave their front doors unlocked at night and their keys in their cars. There's an innocence to this place that's refreshing. People seem to genuinely like and trust one another in ways you'd never see in a big city.

Given the array of drugs I've got in the office, however, I'm not irresponsible enough not to keep them all under lock and key. Clearly, I don't have the same sort of trust in people others do. Not even the good people of Emerson.

"How ya doin', Doc Collier?" the man says with a tug on the bill of his cap.

"Doing well, Nelson. How's the shoulder doing?"

"A bit better every day, thanks to you."

"Keep doing those exercises and you'll be one hundred percent in no time."

"Will do," he replies. "Thanks, Doc."

One of the things I enjoy most is my commute to and from work. It's a twenty-minute walk from door to door. I enjoy strolling down Big Smoky Avenue—the main artery through town—and gazing in the windows of all the mom-and-pop shops that line the main drag. I even enjoy talking to the locals. It's not like LA, where people take pains to avoid making eye contact with you. In Emerson, they go out of their way to greet you. It took some getting used to since I've never been what you might call a people person. But over time, I've found the friendliness a little infectious.

I'm still not a people person, but I've found that I enjoy a little conversation on the street as I walk to and from work. It's strange and makes me wonder if Artie was somehow prescient enough to foresee that the people in Emerson would help bring me out of my shell. At least, a little. Probably. The man always seemed to be three or four steps ahead of everybody else.

"Well, hey there, Doc Collier."

Hannah Bridges leans seductively in the doorway of her shop, giving me those come-hither eyes. She seems to think that flashing me some skin is going to win me over. She's been pursuing me since I landed here, and honestly, it's a little tiresome.

"How are you doing today, Hannah?" I ask politely.

"Well, I'd be a lot better if you'd come on in and let me take some measurements, Doc," she says. "I'll make you a suit fine enough for you to wear to church on Sundays."

Finer than the closet full of Armani, Gucci, and Versace I've got at home? Doubtful. Hannah is a very talented seamstress and makes some beautiful dresses, but I doubt anybody is going to be wearing her on the red carpet in Hollywood, New York, or Cannes anytime soon. But for small-town middle America, she's a rock star.

"Another time. But thanks, Hannah."

"Well, you come on in here whenever you're lookin' for a new suit, Ethan. I'm sure I've got somethin' you can fit into pretty nicely indeed," she says in a sultry tone as her eyes travel up and down my body.

I have to keep from rolling my eyes. Subtlety is not her game. But I suppose she's not trying to be subtle about it. And that's why I'm not interested in Hannah. There's almost a desperate need for attention and validation in her pursuit of me that I find off-putting.

I offer her a friendly wave and laugh to myself as I continue on my way. It's just another day in small town USA.