Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 37733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 189(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 126(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 189(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 126(@300wpm)
“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.