The Doctor's Perfect Match. Irene HannonЧитать онлайн книгу.
those two were meant for each other from day one. But getting them to see that took a bit of work.”
From Heather, Marci had heard all about Edith’s penchant for matchmaking. Although The Devon Rose proprietress claimed her neighbor’s efforts hadn’t had that much impact on her relationship with J.C., it was obvious Edith felt otherwise. Why disillusion her?
“All I know is I’m grateful their paths crossed. I’d given up on J.C. ever finding a wife.”
“It was just a matter of meeting the right woman. Or, in Heather’s case, the right man.” Edith began empting the tray. “And speaking of men…is there some handsome man pining away for you back in Chicago?”
Only if you counted Ronnie at the diner, Marci thought as she dumped the flour into a mixing bowl. And by no stretch of the imagination could the fifty-something cook with the receding hairline and prominent paunch be called handsome.
“No. Men are more trouble than they’re worth.”
Edith shot her a startled glance. “Goodness. That’s exactly what Heather used to say. Until J.C. came along, that is.” The older woman picked up the empty tray and headed back toward the dining room, pausing on the threshold. “By the way, I saw Christopher Morgan at a meeting at church last night. He asked how you were doing. He’s single, you know.”
With a wink, Edith pushed through the swinging door and disappeared.
Flummoxed by both the comment and the unexpected little tingle that raced up her spine, Marci stared after her. Was Edith hinting that the doctor was interested in her? That the two of them…
No. She cut off that line of thought. It was preposterous. They knew nothing about each other. Meaning that if the man was interested in her, it was for the wrong reasons. And hormones were no basis for a relationship. She’d been there, done that. Repeating the experience held no appeal.
Yet…she did owe him a thank-you for his visit on Monday. Without his intervention, she’d probably still be out of commission. Somehow a note didn’t seem sufficient. Perhaps she could offer a small token of appreciation?
As she stirred the dough, she mulled over the problem. What was an appropriate gift for a man? Most men didn’t appreciate flowers. A CD would be okay, except she didn’t know his taste in music.
Gathering the dough together with a few quick kneads, she dropped it onto the floured counter. And as she began rolling and cutting out the scones, the ideal solution came to her: food. What man didn’t like home-cooked food? Bachelors, in particular. She had a killer recipe for chocolate-chip-pecan cookies.
Or better yet, why not send him a gift certificate for the tea room? He could even bring a date if he wanted to. Perfect.
Placing the scones on a baking sheet, she slid them into the oven as Edith returned to the kitchen.
“Julie’s almost finished refilling the sugar bowls.” The older woman set another tray of plates on the counter and moved toward the refrigerator. “I’ll work on the jam and clotted cream for tomorrow. Another full house, according to the reservation book.”
Casting a speculative look at Edith, Marci considered asking her if she knew Christopher Morgan’s home address. According to Heather, the older woman was well-connected on the island. Even though she and Chester weren’t natives, they’d embraced island life after their move to Nantucket a dozen years ago following Chester’s retirement.
But she quickly nixed that notion. In light of Edith’s implication that the man was interested in her, she didn’t want to encourage any romantic plans her neighbor might be concocting. Especially since the Lighthouse Lane matriarch would have plenty of time and opportunity to implement them. Marci did not want to be dodging matchmaking attempts while living in the cottage behind Edith’s house during her month-long vacation—J.C.’s graduation present to her.
It would be far safer to find the good doctor’s address on her own.
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