Installment One - Installment Two - Installment Three - Installment Four - Installment Five - Installment Six - Installment Seven - Installment Eight - Installment Nine - Installment Ten - Installment Eleven - Installment Twelve - Installment Thirteen - Installment Fourteen
THE HUGE ROSES (working title)
copyright 2014 by Betty van den Betsy; not for reprint or publication without permission
Max,
driving Josh Brown’s BMW coupe toward his home office for a quiet evening
amongst his data sets, saw the bright green bicycle lying next to the pavement
first. Almost immediately, he noticed
the shapely lower body extending from a roadside shrub. Tory had changed into shiny grey exercise
tights for the ride home, and their spandex blend did nothing to hide the
curves of her legs and hips. She vaguely
noticed the sound of an engine, but paid no attention as she seemed to have
gained the kitten’s trust, and her focus was on emerging safely with the
frightened animal.
Max had pulled the car over and was
approaching her as she began her backward crawl, murmuring reassurances to her
small burden as she went. The doctor
observed her progress, and eavesdropped shamelessly on her mutterings, with
profound appreciation. Concerned not to startle
her, he made a point of shuffling his feet through the dry leaves. The tactic worked; Tory turned her head, the
kitten safely cradled in one arm, and smiled.
Then she realized how compromising her current position was, and dropped
her head again to struggle for composure.
First things first, she thought,
and pushed herself into a crouching position.
Then she looked back up – and up, and up – at Max, managed a smile, and
stated the obvious. “I found a
kitten. It’s hurt.”
His face, even his posture,
immediately registered concern, and Tory liked him for it. He held out a hand to help her to her feet,
peering at the bundle of fur in her left arm.
“Could you tell how badly? And
what type of injury?” he asked her, looking eager to do an exam himself. In response, she gently held the kitten out
toward him, using both hands now.
“I don’t think it’s been in a fight. The cut is too clean. But you can see the gash on its
shoulder. It’s also far too thin, and
since the wound is fresh, I suppose it must be a stray, probably abandoned. Poor little thing,” she added with
compassion.
Max, meanwhile, had pulled off his
gloves and run gentle hands over the small body. “It’s certainly too thin, and it seems tender
in several spots. However, there’s no
swelling, so we’ll hope for the best.
Come with me and let’s get this wound stitched. I’ll have everything I need at my temporary
home.” He turned and headed toward the
sports car, grabbing her bike with one hand as he went. She was startled to see him lower the car
into the narrow space behind the two seats.
“Um, my bike isn’t very clean,” she
pointed out.
“Quite all right,” he replied. “This is Josh’s car, and he tells me he often
transports his mountain bike this way.
Your bicycle is spotless by comparison.
Will you be all right with the top down?
It’s less than a mile,” he added.
“I’ll be fine,” Tory assured
him. “And I’ll hunch over the cat a
little so it won’t be bothered by the wind.”
The doctor, opening her door, turned away to hide his smile.
They made the drive in less than
three minutes, pulling up to an elaborate front door, which opened as Max
helped her from the car. The man standing
in the hall to welcome them in was the same one Tory had spotted in the grocery
store earlier in the month, and he seemed incongruous in his quiet suit. In fairness, she had to admit that anyone
would look incongruous in Josh and Sheila’s soaring hallway. “I’ve never been inside this house before,”
she mentioned. “I’ve wondered what it
looks like.”
From the outside, the house – built
to Josh’s custom design just a few years before – was a mix of Alpine, mountain
cabin and modern styles, none of them quite blending in Tory’s eyes. On the inside, the clash of aesthetics
continued, with a thick, white fur rug on a gleaming stone floor – marble,
maybe? A Murano glass chandelier
illuminated a huge fireplace, trimmed in brass, and a dark, wood staircase with
a wrought-iron railing spiraled up to the next floor.
“Not entirely to my taste,” Max
confessed. “Meet Jaap Hol, my right
hand. Jaap, Tory Bird has found a kitten
that needs a stitch or two.”
Tory waved her hand toward the
older man. “I shan’t shake hands,” she
excused herself, “as it’s filthy right now.”
“Miss Tory,” Jaap smiled and bowed
his head slightly. “Mr. Max, may I
suggest the pantry for your operation?”
At the doctor’s murmured assent, he whisked away. Tory, gazing from spot to unexpected spot,
followed Max through a living room (magnificent bay window, tartan curtains and
a stag’s head on the wall) and dining room (octagonal, with a circular blond
wood table on a gray slate floor) into the pantry. They found Jaap spreading clean white packing
paper over a high serving table. A heavy
black bag in an old-fashioned style was open on a nearby chair, revealing
first-aid supplies. Spotting a deep
sink, Tory started the water running to get warm and resumed her soft
murmuring. Jaap stepped forward as it to
assist, but then took a step back.
Perhaps he recognized the hand of an expert at work.
With equal parts tender words and a
firm grip, Tory got the little animal cleaned up a bit, and was pleased to hear
its pitiful mews of protest. “Finally, he’s
talking,” she said happily to her companions.
As the doctor stood by silently, a smile in his eyes, Jaap replied, “A
very good sign, indeed,” and handed her a clean, white towel. She blotted the kitten briefly, then set him
on the table. “I thought it was,” she
said to Jaap. “Craig – that’s the vet
here in town – always says cats are experts at masking pain, so it’s especially
hard to tell how much they’re hurting.
By the way, he’s male. The cat.”
She realized she needed to stop
talking, and turned toward Max, who held a threaded needle and a gauze
pad. “He it is, then,” he answered
her. “Shall I stitch, or will you?”
“Do you mind? I haven’t stitched since Emma cut herself
water-skiing a couple of years ago. The
kitten will probably fight more, but I’m pretty good at holding critters over
objections.”
The doctor’s chuckle rolled across
her, warming her from the inside out. “Certainly,
Tory,” he answered, and leaned over the table to set to his task.
The kitten certainly did fight,
despite the anesthetic Max swapped across its shoulder, but Tory had spent her
life amongst litters of pets, and the little cat struggled in vain. As they finished their work, Jaap reappeared
with a nicely-sized wooden box lined with another fluffy white towel. “Oh, just the thing,” Tory exclaimed,
stroking their small patient a few more times before depositing it in its new
bed. “I’ll bike home and get my car and
come back to fetch him, if that’s the right thing. Do you think?” She cocked her head, gazing trustingly at
Max. He looked back, the smile in his
eyes extinguished as his lids dropped lower.
Before she could puzzle out his expression, Jaap intervened.
“Tea is ready, Mr. Max,” he stated
clearly. Max hesitated, then smiled and
said, in a voice like silk, “Well, Tory, I hope you’ll stay for tea. We can discuss your protegée over
biscuits.” She agreed uncertainly, and
was soothed by his adding, in a much warmer voice, “We’ll go into the morning
room – or den, I think Josh and Sheila call it.” Holding the pantry door, he gestured for her
to precede him through it.
The den was another amalgamation of
styles and eccentricities, but, like the living room, it contained a bay window
with a magnificent view of the descending hillside thickly covered with mature
pine trees. The larger living room was
situated to catch the sunset, but even here the last rays were reflected in the
clouds to the south. “Pretty,” Tory
commented, looking toward the sky.
“Very,” Max replied. With her
gaze on the view from the window, Tory didn’t realize Max’s eyes were focused
on her.
He took the cat’s box from her,
gently setting it by a small table loaded with snacks and a sizeable tea
pot. “How lovely,” Tory exclaimed,
taking in the tea set and all its accoutrements.
“Again, I agree – very lovely,” Max
answered. This time, she looked up to
find him looking at her. She was
disconcerted briefly, but eased by his asking, “Do you have the expression, ‘be
mother’?”
“We don’t have tea often enough to
use it in America,” Tory replied, “but my dad’s dad was English, and we lived
in Northumberland for a year on a dig, so I know it. So... I guess I’ll pour?”
“Thank you,” Max accepted her
offer. “And I see Jaap has provided an
extra saucer, so we can give the cat a bit of milk. And a morsel of chicken salad, perhaps.” The saucer placed into the box, and cups
handed round to the humans, Tory began an exploration of the several small
serving dishes. She chose a tomato
sandwich with pleasure.
“I love tea,” she reported, and
watched the kitten begin lapping his milk.
“Jaap insisted on bringing the tea
set over from our Amsterdam house,” Max explained. “I think he’s more thoroughly indoctrinated
by Nanny Winton than my sisters and brother and I.”
“How many sisters?” Tory asked.
“Three, all younger, two with
children of their own,” was the answer.
“And just the one brother, the youngest of us all. He and my sister Pleane are both still at
university; he for his medical degree, and she for a doctorate in art history. She especially is a great one for cats, which
reminds me that I must ask you to choose a name for this one, so we have some
way to discuss him.”
“I’d like to name his something
Dutch, or Fries,” Tory replied promptly.
“And I took two art history classes in college, though I didn’t have
time for more. But that’s not important. Could you please offer me some names?”
The doctor’s warm smile – very
nearly a grin – spread across his handsome face. “I shall of course. There is Friso, which essentially means ‘Frisian;’
I doubt your friend is that. Hidde, a
warrior’s name, and Adde means ‘noble.’
There’s a village near the main city, Leeuwarden, called Kooten, which
he might dislike as he gets older.” Max
stopped his recitation and frankly grinned at Tory. She grinned back. “No, not Kooten.”
He resumed, “Titus Brandsma, a hero
of the Resistance; Pier Gerlofs Donia, a medieval hero; Dieter Eilts, a great
footballer; Eise Eisinga, the renowned astronomer; Magnus Forteman, a very
early governor; Jürgen Ovens, a student of Rembrandt; Menno Simons, the first
Mennonite.”
“These are not easy names for an
American tongue,” Tory observed.
“Fortunately, with cats you don’t have to choose a name that’s easy to
shout, since they never come when you call them anyway. I like Titus, and I like the Resistance. Would that be okay?”
“An excellent choice,” Max
approved. “Titus it is. Now, it strikes me that your home is quite full
of animals already, and young Titus might appreciate a few days to recuperate
in peace. He is very welcome here; Jaap
misses the kitchen cats at home. Archy
and Mehitabel, in case you’re interested.”
“I love those stories,” Tory exclaimed. “I haven’t read them for years.”
“My mother spent a year in
Manhattan, studying botany, before marrying my father. She was a bit late for the Greenwich Village
heyday, but she enjoyed the Archy and Mehitabel stories, too, and shared that
enjoyment with us when we were old enough to understand the jokes. I knew I should have a cat named Mehitabel
someday, and when she was joined by a tiny, battered kitten my sister Joke
rescued from a canal, he was an obvious Archy.
But you understand that Jaap will be pleased to have feline company for,
shall we say a week or so?”
“Oh, that’s an excellent idea. I’ll come over and get him on... Monday
evening, I think. Then he’ll have time
to settle with the dogs and Fiona before Mother and Dad and Jane and Great Aunt
Lindy arrive on Tuesday. Will that be
okay?”
“Very good indeed,” Max
approved. “Now please, have a macaroon
or one of these sponge cakes. Jaap finds
it difficult to be feeding just me.”
Tory nibbled a cake with pleasure – much better to have dessert in the
afternoon than at the end of the day, she thought – and together they chatted
about the weather forecast and their respective national holidays, in a spirit
of perfect accord. It was pitch black
outside by the time Tory realized she ought to have left thirty minutes before,
or earlier. Just as she did, Jaap came
in to draw the curtains across the window.
“I should be going,” she announced,
rising to her feet. “Jaap, the cake was
delicious, and so were the sandwiches.
And the tea; I love Lapsang Souchong.
And Max, thanks so much for taking care of Titus today. I guess you’ll have him for the next few
days,” she observed, turning to shake hands with the housekeeper.
“A great pleasure,” he replied, and
Max said, “Jaap will drive you back, Tory, if you’d like. Given how cold it gets after sunset, I
thought that might be better. Your
bicycle is in the Land Rover already.”
“Oh, how kind,” she accepted. “I’d really appreciate that.” She bent down to say her farewells to Titus,
who’d curled up to nap after gratefully bolting his chicken. He was awake again, and purred contentedly as
she stroked his side. “There, he’s
purring. He knows he’ll be well cared
for here.” She smiled at the two Dutch
men, and turned toward the door. Jaap
followed her to retrieve her coat from a commodious closet, and Max came after
him. Jaap seemed to be taking a good bit
of time peering into the closet, and after handshakes and another round of
thanks, Tory and Max had little to do but watch him as he shifted hangers from
one side to the other. Max cleared his
throat audibly, and Jaap spun around, Tory’s coat in one hand and his own in
the other.
The drive home was short, and
mostly taken up with “the next left,” and “there are a few potholes along here
already.” At the house, Jaap pulled her
bike from the truck, and set it on the driveway. “Thank you again,” Tory said. “For everything. Cakes, the cat box, the ride home. I’m very grateful.” She smiled shyly, and he said, in his formal
English, “Certainly the pleasure is very much mine, Miss Tory. I shall look toward seeing you on
Monday.” They, too, shook hands, and he
waited to see her safely into the house before returning to the Land Rover and
driving away.
Unbeknownst to Tory, after serving
Max a light supper that evening, Jaap made a point of mentioning her. “A lovely young lady,” he judged. “Clearly someone of hearth and home, but with
a deftig air.” Max simply grunted in response, which his
companion understood as a clear signal to drop the subject.
As hoped, though, he got Max
thinking – or stirred up thoughts already there. The doctor had sworn off Tory’s company once
already, and none of his reasons for doing so had changed. His decision to have Jaap drive her home had
been the right one, he decided, as a picture of her leaning down to the teapot,
her shining hair swinging free, rose in his head. He didn’t intend starting anything that could
only end unhappily.
