CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Benedict

I ignored Agnes's attempts at speaking with me when she got back to the clinic. Her feeble attempts at playing matchmaker for me and the Sheriff were more obvious than a Kardashian's need for likes on a social media post.

Even if I were attracted to Sheriff Copeland, he was just Rocco in a different uniform. Same gruff exterior that hid insecurities, in my opinion. Rocco could never deal with the fact that he liked men. His Italian family would never accept it, and he knew they'd never accept a man on his arm at Sunday dinners with his nonna.

As for the Sheriff, sure, I was sad for his loss. And he had a right to be sullen, but his armor was so thick, I doubted he noticed the world around him anymore. I, for one, would not be held hostage by a man again. Rocco with his down-low requirement, and the Sheriff with his aloof demeanor. Nope. Not going there.

I'd put my year in here and then I'd be free to mingle with my people. Being a young and successful doctor in a bustling city would give me ample opportunity to marry the right man. And by right, I meant successful, connected, confident in his homosexuality, and terrific-looking eye candy for me to be on his arm. The power couple of the city.

My new plan, after being embarrassed in front of the entire town at the diner, was to work a full day, each day, in the clinic, and then stay upstairs in my apartment. Twelve months would go by quickly, and then I could bid them au revoir and be on my merry way to a place that I fit in.

"You gonna walk around the rest of the week looking like your face is a slapped ass?" Agnes asked, standing by my desk after the last patient departed. "So big fucking deal! You and Hunt didn't hit it off at first. It's only the first week, doc."

I looked up at the aggravating old lady with my best do not fuck with me glare. "I'm not sure what gave you the idea that I had an interest in the Sheriff, or that I am even gay, but you need to back off, nurse."

"I'll start with the gay thing," she began. "A blind person could see that. As for you and Hunter Copeland. Like I said, you were sent here on purpose. That boy needs another great love. That person is you. You'll see soon enough, kiddo."

"One year, Agnes. One year," I repeated. "Mark it on your calendar, or your stone tablet, but I'm outta here in one year."

"Suit yourself, doc. I suppose meeting everyone at Smitty's on Saturday night for Mrs. Gellar's hundredth birthday is not happening either?" I rolled my eyes. "What?" she asked, putting a hand on one hip.

"Smitty's tavern? That hole in the wall on Main?" I asked, again rolling my eyes. "Do you people have any culture in this town?"

"I'll have you know that Mrs. Gellar was a Broadway star once upon a time," she stated. "Paul Gellar met her when he was in New York City during World War II. She followed him here and has been involved with the local theater group ever since."

"You're telling me this town has a theater group?"

"Well, not anymore. We had a theater group. They ran out of money," she said. "Sad really. Mrs. Gellar needed that activity after Paul died."

"Who funded it before?" I asked, suddenly interested in something Agnes had to say. "Is there an actual theater in town?"

"Actually, your mother used to fund it. But after she died, your father stopped supporting them. He said he didn't have the time anymore and that Mrs. Hawthorne, your mother, was the only reason they gave."

"That was only ten years ago," I mused, staring into space as I remembered my mother. "Mom loved the arts. She gave hundreds of thousands over her lifetime."

"We only needed ten thousand a year and an occasional repair to the theater. Your mother never said no, doc. She never came, but she never once said no."

"We'll do it again," I stated. "How much and when do you need it?"

Agnes looked at me like I'd lost my mind. She pulled out the chair across from me and sat down. "Just like that?"

"Why not?"

She shook her head back and forth, barely able to hide her disgust, a frown appearing under her heavily wrinkled face. "You rich folks," she huffed. "When it comes to dropping coin all of a sudden, you people rarely show any hesitation at spending your wealth. You folks are something else."

"And guess what else, you old bag?"

"Oh, Jesus!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands above her head. "I've awakened Broadway Annie all of a sudden."

"Trust me, you have. I was in a child theater group myself. That's why Mom was so enthusiastic about the arts."

"Okay, I'll bite. What else?" she asked.

"I'm going to restore the entire theater and then I'm going to name it after someone special to the town. Plus," I added excitedly, raising my index finger to dot the ‘I' in declaration . "I'm going to Smitty's on Saturday— with you —and we are going to announce the news."

"Well, sombitch ," she hooted. "No shit?"

"No shit!"

"But according to you, doc. You've only got a year."

"I can get an entirely new theater built from the ground-up in a year, missy. This is nothing."

She grinned and tapped her finger on the top of my desk. Uh-oh.

"Do you know who the male lead was in our last production?" she asked, looking like the Wicked Witch of the West when she'd launched her flying monkeys. I shook my head. "Our very own Sheriff Copeland!"

I practically gasped. "No way," I whispered.

"Way," she argued. "Back when Hunt was fun. Back when he believed in love."

Her words settled in my heart. Back when Hunt was fun. Back when he believed in love.

Had I ever been fun? Had I ever believed in love?