Chapter Three

She was the first to get up. From the sunlight beaming through her window, she figured it to be about nine o'clock. She could hear Paul's gentle breathing from across the hall. It was comforting. Finding a short light cotton slip that also served as a nightgown, she pulled it over her head. She considered wearing slippers, but quickly dismissed the idea; she preferred going barefoot. Standing in front of her mirror, she tilted it so it was better directed at her head and shoulders. She pulled her hair from the back, lifted a white silky ribbon from a larger collection of ribbons hanging off a knob on the side of her mirror, tied a small bow around the bundle and created a ponytail. She tossed her hair with a quick turn of her head. Perfect.

After a stop in the bathroom, she tiptoed downstairs and into the kitchen. The kitchen windows were cracked open and she could hear the birds chirping outside. The air smelled wonderful, as it was spring, and many trees had fragrant blossoms. She looked inside the stove. There were a few dark red glowing ashes, hopefully enough to ignite some fresh wood. She stoked the fire with a short splintered log. She pumped some water from the sink into a pot, ground some coffee beans, and emptied the grounds from the bottom of the grinder's little collection box and poured them into the coffee pot drip basket. Lastly, she put the pot on the stove burner. In a few minutes they would have morning coffee.

Mornings were her favorite time with Paul. With his research and treatment of patients, both human and animal alike, he stayed busy and sadly preoccupied. But in the mornings, he would come downstairs, sit and talk to her. She had his full undivided attention. He would look intently at her when she talked, gazing at her eyes and mouth as she shared with him all her adventures of the previous day. She entertained him, as she was very animated when she spoke. He would smile gently and look at her like she was the most important person in the world; listening to her like she was sharing the secrets of the universe.

She could hear the squeak of the old wood flooring as he got out of bed. The smell of coffee had wafted upstairs. She looked at the broke cuckoo clock on the wall. The cuckoo never worked, but the clock did. It had been a payment for delivering a calf a couple of years back.

"Thirteen minutes," she murmured to herself, as she pulled out some cups from the cabinet. That is how long it usually took Paul to make his way downstairs.

She thought about making him breakfast. There wasn't much in the kitchen that wouldn't require a great deal of preparing. Smiling to herself, she closed her eyes and crossed her fingers as she looked outside the kitchen door.

"Yes!" she cheered, as she spun around and opened the back door. There on the small porch steps was a basket of fresh eggs, a loaf of bread, and a mason jar of what looked to be strawberry preserves. Very few patients could afford to pay cash for the services that Dr. Paul provided. Probably the worst kept secret in Llanromney was Larene's cooking ability, therefore it only made sense to barter services with food; preferably already cooked. She placed the food on the big tall wood kitchen table. She took out a few plates, some silverware, and napkins. Some of the eggs had been hardboiled for her; they were wrapped in a different cloth. She quickly shook off the thought that the neighbor didn't even trust Larene to successfully boil an egg. Thirteen minutes had elapsed, and just on time, she could hear Paul descend.

He was still wearing his pale blue pajamas. The top was like a loose fitting shirt and the slightly baggy pants had a waist drawstring. This was extremely unusual, as he almost always comes down stairs dressed in a suit. She poured a cup of coffee for him. She turned to face him, one leg outstretched and her hand on her hip.

"What happened to your clothes? Perhaps you left them in that dancer's vardo last night?"

Expressionless, he took the warm cup and sipped his black coffee. He always drank his coffee black. When he was about thirteen, and his father felt he had been too heavily influenced by his wife and three daughters, he took him on a short coastwise trip with him. His father, the sea captain, was a tough, hard man. When on the bridge of his ship, the steward offered the Captain's son a cup of coffee; Paul added milk and sugar to the strong brew. On the port wing of the bridge, his father asked him what he was drinking.

"Coffee, father." The big man grimaced, took the cup from his son's hands, and threw it over the side into the sea.

"If you are going to drink coffee with me on the bridge of this ship, you will drink you coffee BLACK, like a MAN!" Since then, Paul always drank his coffee black.

"My suit is hanging outside on the line. It smelled like smoke from last night. It shouldn't take long to air out. There is a nice breeze coming from the East. It appears the earrings didn't buy me much clemency," he observed, looking up from the rim of his coffee cup, "Thank you for the coffee, Larene. Where did the food come from?"

"From the Gruver's," she said, sitting down on the wood kitchen chair with a pillow tied to the seat.

"We should try to keep track of what we do and what folks owe us," Paul said, grateful for any topic that didn't involve dancing girls. Larene looked down at the floor and her feet. When she lifted her bare foot off the wood floor, she could see a partial footprint left behind from her perspiration.

"Would it make any difference if we did?" she questioned, now contemplating the swirls in her coffee.

"Why don't you tell me about your psychic reading? I believe Maleva is actually quite gifted."

Larene stood up, hands gently resting on the kitchen table. Her gaze drifted to something outside the window, far in the distance. She looked down at the palm of her right hand. Paul knew better then to prompt her for answers She had to put it together in her head first, and what she said, when she said it, would be just as she wanted it. There was no rushing this process.

"Maleva read my palm, but wouldn't tell me what she saw," she began very seriously. "She drifted in and out of a trance and spoke in a tongue I didn't recognize. Maleva looked scared and frightened. But it wasn't just me that was part of her vision, she mumbled something about her son, Bela, and went on about wolves; a man turning into a creature like a wolf. A werewolf? You could get a sense she was seeing some very evil and deadly images. That's when she read my palm and saw something horrific, but wouldn't tell me what it was."

"I wonder what is was she saw," Paul wondered. "Darkness, evil, death… maybe it was something related to your cooking?" he mused. He didn't look up, he didn't need to. He could feel the glare that was cauterizing his skull. "So, did she tell you anything?" he inquired, looking up sheepishly.

Her mind was spinning about what to say next. They had never kept secrets from one another; they had experienced so much together. They grew up like brother and sister. They enjoyed a friendship that few could imagine, and most would never experience. Affirmation of feelings had never been a part of their relationship, neither spoken nor unspoken. She felt anxious and the coffee wasn't helping. She took a slow, deep breath. With all the thoughts racing through her head, there was one truth that could not be denied. He would know if she was keeping something from him. Yes, he would know.

Still standing and looking out the window, she said, "Maleva said you were a good man, doing very important work."

"Hmm, interesting. Is that all she said?" Now her throat was strangely dry. She took a deep breath.

"She said we are very much in love with each other." She closed her eyes.

Paul slowly stood up, looking at Larene. She was standing alongside the kitchen table, her hands clutching a napkin as if she was trying to wring water out of it. The morning sun was shining brightly through the window; her hair seemed to sparkle, and her skin appeared to glow under the caress of spring sunshine. The strong light behind her silhouetted her body under the short sheer cotton slip. He could make out all the lines and curves of her body. The shadows and paths of light revealing the feminine muscle that defined her long legs and thighs. He could just perceive the dimples of her lower backside, the flatness of her stomach, and the roundness of her bosom pressing against the flimsy nightshirt.

He approached her from behind. Ever so slowly, he brought the front of his body to the backside of hers. He was close enough to detect the subtle fragrance of the lavender soap she used. He wasn't touching her… but was close enough to feel her body warmth. He leaned his head slightly, to that sensuous area just behind her right ear. He breathed gently, warming the skin of her neck. This is when he fully expected for Larene to pull away, freeze up, or vocalize her objections. His lips just barely brushed the back of her neck. She was standing on her toes now, and almost imperceptibly, leaned back against Paul, so she could feel the length of his body against her. He could feel her breathing getting heavier, and see her chest slightly heaving. Paul soon realized he was engulfed in a plume of healthy young woman pheromones, blocking out all reality that wasn't Larene. He pressed up against her a little more as his hands moved to encircle her waist. Just as he could feel her responding to his caresses…

BANG! BANG! BANG! A loud knock came from their front door. BANG! BANG! BANG! This time even louder.

"Who do you think it is?" she said in a breathless voice.

"I don't know, perhaps Friar Johannssen?" Paul said, obviously shaken.

"I'll get the door." Larene said, turning in the direction of the parlor.

"Larene! You can't open the door looking like that!" She looked down at her attire and realized he was right.

"I'll go," announced Paul, as he turned for the other room.

"Paul, I don't think you should go looking like that either." Larene said delicately, referencing his obvious condition.

"Look," she said, as she grabbed his long coat from the hook in the kitchen, "I will get the door. You concentrate on something horrible, think about horses or… I got it! Think about that fish casserole I cooked for you last month!"

Paul rolled his eyes, "thank you, that worked perfectly."

Larene opened the front door. Out on the front porch stood Virgil and Francis Gruver. They had a farm up the road about 3 kilometers away. Francis was Virgil's daughter. He had lost his wife to rabies years ago. It was tragic. No man could do more to try to hold his family together. Francis was 15 years old; she had coppery red hair, more freckles than clear skin, and was just showing the signs of becoming a woman. Against her left cheek she held a blood soaked cloth.

"Sorry to bother you folks, unexpected and all, but it's an emergency." Victor said apologetically, holding his straw hat in his hand.

"That's fine, please, you two, come on in." Larene led them to the treatment room. The footsteps upstairs let her know that Paul was getting dressed. "Dr. Paul will be with you momentarily."

Dr. Paul Thomas entered his treatment room with all the professionalism and confidence that people had come to expect. He looked at Larene who was barefoot and still wearing his coat.

"Larene, would you be kind enough to bring a bowl of hot water and clean white cloths?"

"Certainly, doctor!" she said. Hearing the footsteps going up the stairs assured him that she was getting dressed first.

"What happened here?" Dr. Paul asked. Francis explained in great detail how she was chasing a runaway calf at their ranch. The calf darted into their dark barn and Francis was running after it. More focused on the calf than where she was going, she accidently stumbled into a sharp sickle that was hung on the wall. It cut deeply into her cheek.

Just then, Larene returned wearing a modest light grey dress, not unlike what nurses wore and her black shoes. Her hair was still in a ponytail. She brought with her a bowl of steaming water and clean cloths.

"All right Francis, let's take a look."

The girl was sitting on his treatment table, legs dangling just off the floor. She removed the cloth that she held against the wound, so Paul could examine the cut. It was a little over two inches long, down to the bone, and followed her jaw line. It was a clean, straight cut, almost like an incision, he was surprised it wasn't bleeding more than it was.

"Francis, we are going to have to stitch this up!" Dr. Paul said, as he was cleaning the injury with the water and the cloths. The girl started trembling and she looked at her father with a terrified, pleading look.

"It's going to be all right, Francis," as he reassuringly patted her leg, "it will be over before you know it!" The girl, still trembling, her teeth almost chattering, continued to look at her father with the saddest expression Paul had ever seen. Dr. Paul opened the drawer in his treatment cabinet that held the surgical instruments used for suturing. He pulled out a length of catgut thread and a hooked needle, along with a pair of tweezers. This is when Francis appeared to be hyperventilating.

"Francis, are you afraid of getting stitches or perhaps the pain?" Paul asked, sympathetically.

"No, it's not that," the girl murmured, still staring at her father. Virgil finally spoke up. "Dr. Paul, you are a great doctor and we are lucky to have you here in town. You help a lot people, heck, you have sewed me up a couple of times… you saved my leg when I dropped my plow blade on it." He pulled up his pants leg to reveal a big, long ugly scar. "Remember when you went out of town for a week to go to your father's funeral? Miss Larene was here, doing what she could while you were gone. Well," he said, now looking at his daughter, "she stitched up Natalie's forehead, the butcher's little girl. You can't even see that scar! Now, for me, I don't much care what my old leg looks like, I am just grateful to still have my leg, even if the scar looks like the stitching on my saddle, but Francis, she is such a young, pretty girl, we would much appreciate it if we can get this stitched up special like, for a woman's face." The two looked at Dr. Paul with pleading eyes. Dr. Paul turned on his doctor's stool to look at Larene, who was standing by a glass cabinet, holding a surgical tray.

"Well, Nurse Larene, would you like to do the honors here and suture Francis's injury?" Dr. Paul was a gifted physician. He had many areas of expertise however, cosmetic suturing was not one. His ego and feelings were not hurt. He was grateful that Larene had skills that, as a team, made them even better.

Larene nodded. Francis and Virgil Gruver breathed an audible sigh of relief. Dr. Paul and Larene exchanged places. Larene rolled the stool she was sitting on to a small desk that she had claimed as her own. She opened a drawer and withdrew a very small suturing needle and some extremely fine catgut thread. She quickly glanced up at him. This woman never ceased to surprise him. With slender, adept fingers, patience, and skill, she sutured Francis's face with twice as many small stiches as he could ever have managed. The girl was tough. She didn't cry out or move a muscle. He gave her some ointment for the wound and told her to come back in a couple of days to have the stitches removed. Maybe Larene would trust him to remove the sutures. The grateful rancher promised him the best cuts of meat when his livestock go to slaughter in June. Paul and Larene waved goodbye to the Gruvers as they rode off in their farm wagon.

Larene and Paul both did their best to shake off the awkwardness of the morning. She had promised to organize the laboratory, and he had patients to check on. He grabbed both his human and nonhuman medical bags and headed out to the barn. The distance he had to travel was too far to walk. The barn had two stalls, one for Angel, and the other for Beowulf. Beowulf was tall, dark brown with a mane and tail that were both black. He came from the highest quality breed of stock. Beowulf was payment from a horse breeder; Dr. Paul had saved the life of his daughter, and he was especially appreciative. He led Beowulf out of his stall into an open area in front of the stalls. There were two saddles on a sawhorse. Hanging on the wall were bridles and, harnesses, and on a long bench were brushes, blankets, and rigging for when the horses were to pull the wagon. One of his less affluent patients fed the horses and cleaned their stalls. Paul tried petting the horse, like someone might pet a dog. Beowulf was not enamored by the gesture. He threw a blanket over the horse's back and then settled the saddle on top of it. He cinched the strap under the horse's abdomen, and led the animal out to the front of the house. He secured his bags to the back of the saddle, put a foot in the stirrup, and hoisted himself into position on Beowulf's back. The horse took about two steps before letting out a huge volume of air it had been holding in its lungs. As the horse's lungs deflated, the saddle loosened, sliding down Beowulf's side, and depositing Paul on the ground. The horse was obviously amused, but to add insult to injury, Larene was standing at the porch door watching. She had her hand over her mouth, and her eyes were as big as saucers. She looked like she was internally hemorrhaging in her attempt to not laugh out loud. She started to crouch down, holding the doorframe for support.

"It's okay, go ahead and laugh, no need to hurt yourself." She watched him from the doorway as Paul and Beowulf ventured down the road. Beowulf changed direction repeatedly to brush against every bush and tree limb in his effort to remove Paul from his back. Her stomach hurt from laughing.

It was a busy and productive day. A few of his patients actually paid him in cash, so he was able to pick up his shipment of new experimental pharmaceuticals from Robert at his import/export office. It was starting to get dark; tonight was his night to play chess with Captain Wellen. The town's pub, Hog's Breath, had a small room upstairs where they could play quietly. They could order food, drink brandy, play chess, and have private conversations. Larene would visit her sisters for most of the evening.

The pub was full of patrons; drinking ale, telling stories, and playing darts. It smelled of smoke and stale beer. He worked his way to the back of the pub, greeting everyone he knew along the way.

One of his neighbors yelled out, "You know Doc, you touch that pretty young assistant of yours, and you're going to special place in hell the Friar warned you about!"

"Thank you Everett for reminding me, I had almost forgotten!"

In the back of the pub was a very narrow and winding stairway to the upstairs rooms. Captain Wellen was already there, seated in his usual chair, with the chessboard set up, a bottle of brandy with two glasses, and a particularly nasty smelling cigar. The two men shook hands and Paul sat down.

The room was small, lit by two oil lamps, with a small window facing the street. It was used mostly for storage. The Captain was in uniform, as always, but he did unbutton the top two buttons of his restrictive collar. On a crate next to him was a book that taught chess strategies of the Masters. He also incorporated his years of military experience into his chess game, using familiar battle tactics to defeat his opponent. Paul had never read a book about chess or studied the great chess masters. Paul had been beating Wellen pretty regularly simply by observing his offensive, discerning certain weaknesses, and using them against him. They played, drank a little, and ate some particularly good lamb stew. Paul explained to him the rabies epidemic the town was experiencing and provided an update on his research.

"I need to talk to you about your research, in an official capacity, Paul… and, by the way, you're in check." Paul looked down at the board. He slowly took off his glasses and methodically cleaned them with a napkin, obviously stalling for time. Wellen's knight had him in check. He always had a problem anticipating the moves of a knight. He had a mental block about that L shaped movement. Paul already knew it was checkmate, as did Wellen. He just wasn't ready to give him that satisfaction just yet. The Captain uncharacteristically leaned back in his chair, raising the front two legs off the floor. He was feeling way too pleased with himself.

"It is checkmate, Paul, admit it, you lost!"

"What a gift you have, Wellen, to be such a gracious winner. It really does distinguish you."

Stubbornly, Paul examined the board one last time. He wanted to be certain there wasn't an available move he had missed. "Drat!" cursed Paul, as he reset the pieces to play a new game.

"You know, Paul," Wellen said smugly while puffing on his cigar, "Vulgarity is the linguistic crutch of the inarticulate."

Paul looked up, "The job of Town Friar is already taken, Wellen, but thank you for your unsolicited counsel."

"What is it you need to talk to me about, officially, Captain?"

"It's all the dogs you are experimenting on, Paul. The townsfolk are complaining. They know you are doing important work for their benefit, and they appreciate it. It is just that they hold dogs in a high regard here in Llanromney. Dogs are more than pets; they herd, they protect, and they hunt. Even though most of the dogs you use for research are already infected, they are also someone's family pet. It would be better if you stopped." Paul was looking down at the chessboard, still in a state of disbelief that Wellen beat him.

"Paul?"

"I heard you, Captain," Paul said, obviously distracted.

"The good news is that many of the folks I spoke to are willing to help by trapping wolves and other critters, and bring them to your lab. They don't much care about what happens to the wolves," commented Wellen in a conciliatory tone. "One more thing Paul. I figured out how you were beating me. You are going to have to work a little harder from now on."

"So, what do you have to say?" Paul grumbled, "Pass me the brandy would you?"

Paul lost the next game quite quickly. He reevaluated his strategy and led with more of an offensive. This game was taking much longer, as both men were being very thoughtful about their moves.

"How are you and Larene getting along?" Wellen asked, as if to break the tension with idle conversation.

"We are getting along great."

"She is a very special lady."

"I don't know what I would do without her" Paul said sincerely.

"That's good, Paul. I am happy for you two." Wellen said, in almost a lamenting way. Paul looked up from the chessboard to look at his friend.

"Why is it that you have never settled down?"

"I see what you have with Larene, the communication, the relationship, but I could never find or develop that."

"I thought you and, what's her name, Judith, the widow who has the dress shop, I thought you two were getting close?" Affairs of the heart were something that Wellen had never shared with Paul, or perhaps anyone.

"I have been a military man and an officer all my life. I grew up with two older brothers who both went into the military young. You already know my mother died shortly after I was born. Point being, I don't know women well, I don't know what to talk about, and I sure as hell don't know what it takes to make them happy. I just stopped seeing Judith because I really didn't know what to say to her."

Paul poured them both a fresh brandy. He realized how hard this conversation was for Wellen and the trust it represented. So perhaps his comrade was a little lonely. Paul thought hard before he spoke. He realized Wellen was feeling somewhat vulnerable. "Frederick, can I offer a little friendly advice?"

"Sure, I figured you might."

"Well, first, let me ask you a question. Do you like Judith?

"Yes."

"Do you know why or what you like about her?"

Wellen thought for a moment. "Yes."

"Then tell her. Take her someplace nice and quiet, and let her know how you feel."

"Then what do I say? I don't know how to get to know her better."

"Want to know something very interesting about women?" Paul said softly, as if it was a secret.

"Absolutely" Wellen responded just as softly, now leaning back in his chair again, looking very engaged in the conversation.

"Women want you to understand them. They will eagerly tell you everything they want you to know about them…there is one caveat my friend, and it is crucial to the process."

"And what is that?" Wellen replied, blowing a cloud of cigar smoke above their heads.

Paul leaned over the chessboard toward Wellen. He looked at him straight in the eye and said, "You have to listen."

"What?" Wellen asked, looking confused.

"You have to listen to her. She wants to tell you about herself, her experiences, her likes and dislikes, hopes and dreams. All you have to do is listen."

"Can I pretend to listen?"

"No, she will know."

"You listen to Larene like that?" "Yes, every day."

"How do you do it?"

"I grew up in a different environment than you. I have been well trained for this. Two more things, my friend."

"Do tell?"

"First, when Judith is talking, you might think she is asking for advice – she isn't. If she wants help with something she will ask you directly."

"And the second thing?" Wellen inquired.

"You're in check, my friend!" Dr. Paul exclaimed with a grin.