CHAPTER FOURTEEN Benedict

F or some unknown reason, I'd allowed Agnes to drag me along when she heard the local diner was serving pulled pork for lunch. "Trust me on this, kid. The pork falls apart in your mouth. You damn near don't need to chew."

I wondered how many Michelin stars the diner had won for their amazing pulled pork. "Fritters included?" I joked.

"I suppose if you asked, Jill could muster you up some fritters." Not the answer I'd expected. "I've never been inside one of these Mercedes Benzes," she said, shifting gears on the subject matter and running her hand along the leather-covered dashboard. "I'm gonna assume this shit is real leather up in here?"

"I would assume so," I replied.

"What'd you pay for this?" she asked, turning to glare at me while I drove the two blocks to the diner.

"A hundred? Maybe one-forty. I'm not sure. My father bought it for me for completing my medical residency."

"Shit!" she exclaimed. "Just when I was kinda liking you, you go and tell me your old man purchased this ride? That's some bullshit there, doc. You got your own money now, don't ya?"

I looked at her before turning my eyes back to the street, still amazed at her manner of speaking to people. "Do you really think I make bank working in this town at a not-for-profit clinic?"

"You don't?" she asked. "I mean, don't you own the place? You're a Hawthorne, ain't ya?"

"My father owns everything currently. When he passes away, I'll inherit the family estate," I explained, wondering why I'd bothered.

"Then what you gonna do?" I was stunned by how blunt Agnes was. I'd only been here three days, but she still proved that she had worse manners than I'd imagined. "You get rich when he croaks, dontcha?"

"I don't know why I'm explaining this to you, but why not? At least I know you'll get the news out around here."

Agnes turned to face me, loosening the seatbelt portion that crossed her chest. "And what does that mean?"

"This town just seems like everyone knows everything about each other. Poking their noses in places they should stay out of," I said.

"We call it caring about one another, doc. Maybe it comes off as prying, but we depend on one another in this town. You'd be wise to adapt to that way of thinking if you wanna last five minutes, buddy boy."

"I only have to ‘ last ,' as you say, twelve months," I corrected, glancing at the date on the face of my Rolex. "Make that eleven months, twenty-seven days, and twelve hours."

"Is that so?" she pried, twirling knobs and pressing buttons on the dash. "You actually think God plucked you outta New York City and dumped you in this hick town with no plan?" she asked. I nodded while she curled the corner of her mouth. "She don't work that way," she announced, like she was on God's planning committee.

"She? And you believe God is a woman?" I asked. "Wait. Don't answer. Better question. You actually believe in God?"

"Yes, I do!" she exclaimed. "And I have proof."

Maybe I'd been wrong about Agnes. Perhaps she wasn't a miserable old cuss after all? I mean, she was an old cuss, but maybe she had the fear of God in her. She swore like a sailor and bitched nonstop about everything under the sun, so I was sticking with ‘old cuss' for sure.

"Not that I care, but what's your proof, Agnes?"

She pointed at me, sending a chill down my spine. Oh, God, I thought. Was she about to try to convert me? Did she wonder if I had Jesus in my heart? I mentally prepared my rebuttal of, I'm not a believer in such things .

"What?" I asked, wondering if I should've just ignored her gesture.

"I asked her to send me someone who would stay a long time after I'm gone," she calmly stated. "A fresh face with new ideas," she added, motioning her hand over my body. "And voilà! Here you are."

"Did you hear what I just said, Agnes? One year, and one year only," I argued. "Not long term. Not thirteen months, even."

She turned away and stared out the window, a sing-song voice in her heart. "You'll see."

Agnes led me into the diner, actually holding my hand and peacocking as we walked in. Whatever buzz had been vibrating through the room became silent upon our arrival. My eyes scanned the room while two dozen pairs stared back at me. Locals for sure. Cowboy hats rested on nearby chairs, and two waitresses buzzed by, refilling cups of coffee and what looked like iced tea. I had become the center of attention.

"That's right, folks," Agnes announced. "This is Mr. Benedict Hawthorne. Of the Hawthorne family from New York. Owner of Hawthorne mansion, and our new doctor." She turned around to make sure all eyes were on me before she continued. "As you all can see, our doctor is handsome; however, he is Ivy League educated, too, and the smartest physician we have ever had in Plentywood."

I wanted to melt into the floor or die; I hadn't decided yet. And just when I'd determined that death couldn't come soon enough, the entire diner stood from their tables and began to applaud. Everyone except one man. I caught the Sheriff's eye when he finally looked up from his meal. I recognized the woman with him as the woman I'd met at the clinic. If I wasn't mistaken, I think her name was Jill. He seemed less enthusiastic than the boisterous group.

Agnes dragged me to their table, pointing to one of the two available chairs at the four top. "Sit next to Hunt," she said. "I'll sit here beside Jill."

"Agnes," the Sheriff acknowledged, sitting upright and scooting to his left to make room.

"Sheriff," she replied, waiting for me to sit before she sat, still motioning for me to get comfortable. "You two have met our doctor, haven't you?" she asked, pulling a chair out. "He's here for the pulled pork."

I focused on Jill, a friendlier-seeming face. "Agnes has been bragging about the food all morning," I said. "Apparently, I just have to try the special."

"Don't normally eat diner food, doc?" Sheriff Copeland asked. "And in case you don't know, pulled pork is meat." Good thing he had a name tag on because I'd actually forgotten his name. I'd never tell him this, but I liked his first name. Hunter sounded hot. He was hot. Another thing I'd be keeping to myself.

"I was a medical student for four years. I've eaten worse," I replied, suddenly remembering that Jill had said she owned the local diner. I assumed a town of this size had only one diner. "I didn't mean…"

She held her hand up and smiled. "I knew what you meant, doc. Can I call you doc, or do you prefer a more personal name?"

"Doc is fine," I answered, noticing the Sheriff stiffen at my answer. He probably thought I was being arrogant by preferring to be called Doc rather than a personal name. I guess it did seem rude after thinking about it. "How about you call me Ben when I'm not at the clinic," I corrected, attempting to seem nice, normal, decent, whatever these town folks preferred.

"Nice to see you, doc ," the Sheriff stated, emphasizing his usage of Doc after I'd just agreed to be more personal. Hint taken, asshole.

I smiled curtly and turned to Jill. "I hear the pulled pork is a must."

"That's what folks say," she agreed. "I hope you like a little heat with your meat."

Agnes grinned and tapped Jill's arm. "I hope he does too, dear."

"Agnes!" Jill protested. "You're obscene."

Agnes stood, holding a hand out for Jill to take. "Honey, can you show me your pulled pork recipe? In the kitchen, if you don't mind. Let's leave the boys alone for a moment."

Jill quickly glanced at the Sheriff, almost as if to ask for permission. "Hunt?" she asked, glancing at me next. Why did she seem so concerned about leaving the Sheriff on his own?

"I'm good, sis," he said, not looking at me while he played with his silverware. "I'm sure our new doctor won't bite."

"Or he could," Agnes blurted out, smacking my shoulder before leading Jill away from the table.

The Sheriff finally looked up and acknowledged my existence. The combination of his brooding blue eyes and smoldering looks made me weak. Perhaps his uniform added to the weak-kneed feeling coursing through me. His buzz-cut head gave him a severe look. The square jaw and high cheekbones reminded me of the Marines posters I'd seen on campus during my undergrad.

"Hi," I said, testing my ability to speak.