The Huge Roses: Chapter Three, part three

In chapter one, American nurse Tory Bird, visiting Amsterdam with her sister Jane, meets Dr. Maximilan van den Nie whilst giving first aid to an injured English tourist.  After a lovely weekend, Tory returns home to the United States.  In chapters two and three, Max arrives in Tory's New Hampshire village in time for an early snowstorm.

Installment One - Installment Two - Installment Three - Installment Four - Installment Five - Installment Six - Installment Seven

THE HUGE ROSES (working title)
copyright 2014 by Betty van den Betsy; not for reprint or publication without permission


Chapter Three, part 3:

Recalled to the purpose of their outing, Tory declined the car and swept an arm before her to show Max the small town center.  “Just down the hill,” she said, “is pretty much everything we offer, except groceries, which are to the west on Pleasant Street.  Otherwise, we’ve got the library, yoga, several burger and pizza options, beer and plenty of antiques.  A lot of places don’t open on Sundays, especially in the winter, and some close down completely for the season in mid-October, and don’t open again until April or May.  Restaurants are mostly pizza and burgers; the diner will give you breakfast all day, and it’s a pretty good one.  Real eggs, from shells.”

“Should I ask what other kinds of eggs there are?” Max inquired doubtfully.  Tory paused a moment, pursed her lips and shook her head.  “Well,” he responded, eyes twinkling, “shall we take a bit of a look around, or do you need to get back home?”

“Oh, I’m always happy to poke through a few shops,” Tory assured him, and they headed down the hill together.

“Do you know Pooh sticks?” the doctor asked as they approached the river.

“Oh, I love Pooh sticks!” she exclaimed with delight.  “You mean races, right, under the bridge?”

“Indeed,” he answered, bending down to search the ground for his racer.  Tory took a few steps away and located a handsome, branchy pine twig that she waved triumphantly.  Max had found a sturdy maple branch.  “You’ve chosen appearance over utility, I think,” he told her.  “Those twigs and needles add up to a lot of drag.”

“I suppose so,” Tory answered, “but it’s so pretty.”  They both laughed at her silliness, then leaned over the railing and dropped their entrants into the Newfound River.  As they turned to sprint to the other side of the bridge, Max grabbed her hand, and held onto it as they bent over the opposite railing, watching for their sticks to appear in the current below.  ‘It’s like I’m a kid, and he’s the big brother or something,’ Tory assured herself, absorbing the warmth from his hand even through their two sets of gloves.

Sure enough, the doctor’s stick emerged from beneath the bridge first.  He dropped her hand and straightened, while she remained bent almost double, clutching the railing.  After a moment or two, her twig floated into view, and she watched it drift slowly downriver while she pushed herself back upright.  The doctor turned to her with a grave expression and extended his right hand.  They shook hands briefly and solemnly, and then broke into wide grins simultaneously.

“I believe I shall never outgrow that game,” he said, and Tory answered, “Or the Pooh stories.”  In comfortable accord, they resumed their stroll toward the cluster of shops ahead of them, Tory pointing out a café and a bar as they proceeded.  As she had predicted, few of the antique stores were open, but rounding the corner onto Pleasant Street, they saw a sandwich board on the sidewalk in front of Golden Treasures.

“I don’t know this shop well,” Tory informed the doctor.  “The woman who runs it moved here last year from New York.  It seems a lot like the others, with a mix of antiques and junk and second-hand collectibles, and how you categorize them depends on what you like.”

“Let’s take a look,” Max proposed, and held the door for her to enter ahead of him.

“Welcome, welcome,” a high, slightly adenoidal voice greeted them.  “Welcome to Golden Treasures!  I’m Fleurie, the owner.  Please, take your time looking around and let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”  The woman who approached them was a vision in a bright yellow tweed suit with iridescent leather piping on the seams and gunmetal gray, patent leather pumps on four-inch stiletto heels.  Her gleaming, brass-blonde hair was expensively cut, swinging just below her jaw, and her make-up was plentiful and flawless.  Having seen Fleurie before, Tory simply smiled a greeting, but Max stopped in his tracks.  Was it for the incongruity of her big-city chic, Tory wondered, or her inarguable beauty?

Whichever it was, Fleurie seemed eager to encourage the doctor’s interest.  She reached out a manicured hand – her nails matched her shoes – and briefly touched his elbow.  “Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?” she asked, bringing her high voice down a measure and trying to purr.

“I’ve a young goddaughter,” he answered.  “About to turn nine, and I thought I might find something unique for her here.”  Adding a burst of speed to her puttering pace, Tory nipped around a convenient corner.  If Max had wanted her help with selecting a gift, surely he would have mentioned that earlier.  Apparently Fleurie had something she lacked when it came to inspiring confidences.  Of course, Fleurie had a lot that she lacked.  Trailing a finger along a shelf holding mid-century modern dishes, Tory wistfully imagined pampering herself with a time-consuming beauty routine:  expensive creams and lotions, salon facials, weekly hair appointments and twice-weekly manicures.  A vision of herself, impeccably made up, using polished fingernails to grub in the garden and affix the blood pressure cuff snapped her out of that wistful reverie, and restored her grin.  She headed down a nearby staircase and found herself in a room decorated as a 1950s den, complete with old copies of ‘Life’ magazine that would make entertaining browsing.

Ten minutes later, Max found her in an Adrian Pearsall lounge chair, upholstered in salmon velvet and priced at $1,500, reading a decades-old article about adopting lighthouses.  She gazed up at him with a welcoming smile – which he didn’t return.  “You seem comfortable,” he remarked blandly.

“Um...” Tory began to answer.  “Well, I didn’t want to barge in on your shopping, and it sounded like you had something specific in mind, and I don’t want to be nosy, but.”  She stopped abruptly, with no idea where her train of thought was going or why some of the fun had gone out of the afternoon.  Why was Max looking like that?  Or why wasn’t he looking like something – his face was a blank canvas, without expression.

Suddenly he smiled, though a social gesture without the warmth she’d seen on him before.  “Right,” he answered.  “I’ll just finish up upstairs, and then take you home.  I should be five minutes.”  As he walked toward the staircase, Tory thought she might have heard, “hopefully less.”  She quickly realized, however, that she must have misunderstood, or imagined the muttered words.  She rose from her seat, rolled her hips and shoulders – that chair had mis-aligned a few things – and replaced the magazine tidily where she’d found it.  Gathering her purse, she made her way up to the register, where Max was signing a charge slip, a lavender paper bag with red script on the counter next to him.  Fleurie was chattering lightly about her love of the tranquil countryside, so Tory stood quietly to the side waiting for them to finish the transaction – economic and social.

“Ah, Tory,” Max intoned, turning his head toward her.  “Have you met Ms. Gold?”

“Oh, no no no no no,” the blonde interjected.  “Fleurie, puh-leease, doctor.  I’m sure, in such a small town, we’ll be very good friends in no time.”  She gazed at him through her spiky lashes, gold dust glinting from her eyelids.  He smiled with great charm and assured her, “Of course.  Fleurie.”

Tory took a tentative step forward.  After all, he had invited her to join their conversation.  “We have met,” she said, “but Ms. Gold may not remember, with all the new people she’s been meeting since she arrived.”

“Oh, and it’s been lovely,” the older woman gushed.  “Of course, I came here most summers after I married Archie, and his family’s been coming since the 60s or 70s.  So I feel quite at home, which is a blessing after the difficulties during my divorce.”  Abruptly, her expression changed from cosmopolitan and provocative to brave and wistful.  To Tory, it didn’t seem quite real.

“Ah, yes,” the doctor responded with sympathy.  “Wonderful to have friends about you at such a time.  I do hope we’ll meet again,” he added, sweeping up his package and collecting Tory with one large arm at the same time.  He moved decisively but unhurriedly toward the door, bearing her with him, and Fleurie charged around her counter to collide with them at the doorknob.  She put a hand on his shoulder and fluttered again, while Max grasped the doorknob firmly.  Tory, believing herself unobserved by her two companions, who seemed to have eyes only for each other, frankly stared at Fleurie.  Were those false eyelashes, or just several coats of mascara?

False, she decided as she was thrust back into the crisp November air, calling, “Thanks.  Good-bye,” over her shoulder.  There seemed to be undercurrents playing around her that she didn’t want to try to interpret.  So she took half a step out of the doctor’s reach, and turned slowly left before beginning to turn slowly right.

“Well,” said Max, “a successful expedition.  I was able to find a bangle bracelet – is that the right term? – for Saskia.  I think she’ll like it.  Now I’m hungry.  Could we get lunch?”

“Umm...” Tory answered.  Hadn’t they been going straight home?  She thought he’d been angry with her, or at least bored.  Perhaps she ought to decline lunch.  But she was quite hungry.  “There’s Pat’s.  Pizza and fish.  It’s this way,” she stepped out, headed for the casual restaurant that rarely entertained Rolls-Royce owners.

“You know,” the doctor remarked casually, “you must try to cure yourself of your ‘um’ habit.  Eventually, I shall determine what the utterance signifies for you.”

Tory peeped up at him nervously.  These were strange waters, and she wasn’t sure what to think, or how to respond.  He glanced down at her, hooding his bright blue eyes suddenly from her gaze.  His real smile, the warm one, spread over his face.  “Tory, I beg your pardon if I’ve misbehaved.  You’re very patient to put up with me today.”

“Oh, but I’m having a lovely time,” she assured him.  “And the dogs like you, too.”   She took one skipping step to keep up with his long strides, and heard the great shout of laughter characteristic of him.  Whatever had been going on, it seemed to be okay now.  She hoped the good mood would survive lunch at a pizza joint – probably not his usual meal.

She needn’t have worried.  Max looked around the place with some curiosity, but no concern.  He asked for a recommendation after they gave their drink orders and got their menus, and Tory told him, “The pasta is okay, the seafood is good, the pizza is excellent.”  They agreed to split a pizza after having salads – Greek for Tory; garden for Max.

“You were going to tell me something about your research,” she reminded him as they pulled their first cheesy slices from the pan.  “Remember, when we were talking about social interaction and relationships being healthy?”  He’d seemed happy to describe some of the work he was doing, and the care with which he and his colleagues took into consideration specific circumstances related to their patients.

“We generally see better results when people work on their recoveries with others who have related injuries and prognoses,” he said.  “However, for a competitive athlete in a solo sport, the team environment can be stressful initially.  I also work with a number of elderly people, and I suspect our research project on that subject will uncover something similar.  My elderly patients who’ve been isolated for some time often need extra care and patience when we ask them to transition into a group setting.  It’s as if the social muscle needs regular exercise, just like everything else.”

“We see a lot of that in family practice, too.  People who kind of... shut down.  Sometimes I can understand why kids or grandkids don’t want to deal with their relatives – there are some pretty ugly stories.  But most often it’s just, ‘I’m too busy,’ or, ‘I’m sick of him going on about the old days.’  We have some programs at the community center, and Dr. Bachmann and I both go out on house calls.  Still, it’s too easy for people to get lonely.  Sorry, this is a hobbyhorse of mine, I guess.”

“I’m impressed by your caring,” Max replied.  “I get the impression your own family is very close.”

“Oh, yes.  My parents are so deeply in love – forty years on – that I sometimes worry what might happen when one of them dies.  But why borrow trouble?  We four siblings talk most days, and we get together often.  We’ll never leave Mother and Dad to grow lonely, either.  Sometimes I think they wish we would!  That’s why they travel so much.  It’s not just research.”  She grinned at him, eyes sparkling, and he smiled back, reaching a hand across the table – but then turned his wrist to check his watch.  Tory felt her cheeks warming, grateful she hadn’t had time to reach out to take his hand as she’d been about to do.  What a fool she’d have felt then!

Instead, she rose from the booth and said, maybe a bit too brightly, “I should probably get back home.  Lots of chores to do!”  The doctor joined her, stopping at the register to pay their tab, and together they walked back to his car.  “Thank you for lunch,” Tory said.  “You shouldn’t have paid for mine.  I’ll get the check next time.”

“Most certainly you shan’t,” Max answered.  “I must have some opportunity to show my appreciation of your generosity in the snowstorm.”

“You shoveled,” Tory exclaimed.  In her mind, the statement needed no explanation.  Shoveling was the ultimate act of kindness.

Max, of course, didn’t just drop her off at the house.  Again, he held doors, walking with her to the house and ushering her into her home.  He held out a friendly hand and Tory took it, approving of this continental habit.  She approved of the continental kiss he brushed on her cheek, as well – approved of it perhaps a bit more than was sensible, given how far out of her league he was.

The doctor was thinking of leagues, too, as he drove away, though he might not phrase the idea quite that way.  Her shining eyes and ready smile, the bright bloom on her cheeks when she was cold, warm or embarrassed all rendered her lovely.  They were also signs of her comparative youth, of her joy in her family and her New Hampshire village.  He saw clearly there could be no future for a Dutchman nearing middle age and a youthful Yankee.  And since a brief affair with someone like Tory, with her open heart and innocence, was out of the question, it behooved him to take a long step back from their developing friendship.

The Huge Roses: Chapter Three, part two

In chapter one, American nurse Tory Bird, visiting Amsterdam with her sister Jane, meets Dr. Maximilan van den Nie whilst giving first aid to an injured English tourist.  After a lovely weekend, Tory returns home to the United States.  In chapters two and three, Max arrives in Tory's New Hampshire village in time for an early snowstorm.

Installment One - Installment Two - Installment Three - Installment Four - Installment Five - Installment Six

THE HUGE ROSES (working title)
copyright 2014 by Betty van den Betsy; not for reprint or publication without permission


Chapter Three, part 2:

Forty minutes later, she heard the doctor’s car pull up to her house, and was glad she hadn’t dawdled over her shower and change of clothes.  She’d made time, though, to flick on some mascara and whisk a pale gloss across her lips.  She pulled on her heavy tweed coat, tweaked a beret into place, grabbed her purse, and pulled open the front door to find Max on the doorstep, reaching for the heavy brass knocker.

“Hello again,” she greeted him.  “That needs polishing.”  Digging gloves from her pockets, she missed seeing him grin.

“Hello again, yourself,” he answered.  “You’re admirably prompt, and your hair looks glorious.  Do you bring your own prayer book?”

Taken aback by his compliment – mousey hair rarely gets described as glorious – Tory had to think about the question for a moment.  “My mother does, but I don’t even own one.  I think Neil’s the only one of us who does; his godmother took her work seriously. But he doesn’t bring it; we’re regular enough churchgoers that we know most of the words, and Neil’s not shy about mumbling when needed.”

“I hope I get to meet him one day,” Max murmured.  Then, louder, he asked, “Neil is your brother?  The one who has made use of Josh Brown’s services?”

“Yes; he and Emma – they’re twins – both ski and snowboard competitively.  Sometimes maybe too competitively.  Collarbones and shoulders and tibias and ankles and one quite drastic femur.  That was Emma’s.  It’s not really a bad record, when you consider they’re almost thirty.”  Tory was confused to see that the doctor was coming around to the passenger side of the car with her, and boggled slightly when he opened her door for her.  “Oh,” she exclaimed, and tried to recover with a more subdued, “thank you.”  Shoulders shaking, he closed the door and walked over to the driver’s side while she buckled her safety belt.

He seemed to be quite familiar with the route, though she volunteered a suggestion or two.  Other than that, conversation was minimal, and the silence perfectly comfortable.  ‘That’s because it’s not a date,’ Tory thought to herself.  ‘If it were, I’d be struggling to seem interesting.’  Rather than struggle, she contented herself with watching the passing trees, checking on neighbors’ shoveling progress, and enjoying the comfort of the powerful, well-padded car.  “Rear-wheel drive,” she announced, speaking a thought aloud.  “Mercedes are always rear-wheel drive.”

“My friend Jaap arrives tomorrow to housekeep for me,” the doctor replied, “and he’ll have a Land Rover for us.  I’m not entirely impractical.”

‘Just stinking rich,’ Tory thought, and felt a guilty pang immediately as the church steeple came into view.  ‘But it wasn’t judgmental,’ she reasoned.  ‘Only an observation, really.’  As he parked the car, she reminded herself of the old-fashioned courtesy he’d offered in holding the car door for her, and except for unbuckling her seat belt, kept still after he cut the engine.  Sure enough, he swung his long legs from the driver’s seat, then walked around to her side and opened the door for her.  Despite feeling self-conscious, she managed to exit the car, one hand on his, without stumbling, dropping anything, banging into her companion or otherwise disgracing herself and her athletic family.  ‘Although,’ she reflected as they entered the lovely old white-clapboard building, ‘he’d be a decent person to bump.’  Sitting down, she stifled the thought and stilled her mind for the service.

Soothed and centered by the ancient liturgy and rites, Tory rose for the processional, enjoying the rumble of the doctor’s deep baritone beside her.  After the benediction, they began their shuffling exit.  Max complimented Mr. Rourke on his sermon regarding humility, and Tory led the way to the parish hall for coffee hour.  “We should spend a few minutes, anyway,” she explained to the doctor.  “It’s not a large congregation, and we’re always very excited to see each other, let alone guests.”  That time she did notice the sudden quirk of Max’s lips, and his dropped eyelids, but had no chance to ask what he’d found funny before old Mrs. Tambor from the Altar Guild pounced.

Fortunately for the doctor’s sense of privacy, neither she nor any of the long-time parishioners who followed her were as interested in him as they were in talking about themselves.  Tory made an introduction or two and then wandered away to find a cup of tea and a cinnamon bun, leaving Max to stories of grandchildren, cataracts and snowstorms past.  Glancing at him from across the room, she thought of an ocean-side cliff, massive and reliable as the waves of elderlies eddied around him.  Not a perfect analogy, she realized, but a vivid one.  After fifteen minutes or so, she returned to offer him tea and a chance to leave, and he took both graciously, leaving an interested murmur behind as they walked toward the door.

“A very welcoming group,” he observed as they stepped outside.  “Thank you for introducing me.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Tory said, “I mentioned to a few people that you’re here to cover for Josh.  After she talked to you, Mrs. Tambor came over fishing for information, and she’d gotten the idea that you were staying at our house or something, so I wanted to straighten that out before the game of telephone could start.”

He looked at her quizzically, and she explained the children’s game of a whisper chain, where the sentence the final player hears can be dramatically different from the one the first player whispered.  “Aha,” Max nodded.  “Gossip.”

Tory laughed.  “I suppose,” she said, “but that’s got a very negative connotation, doesn’t it?  I’m just thinking about people chatting; keeping each other up on the local news.”

“In fact, a valuable social function.  And research certainly seems to be moving toward a conclusion that interaction with others, and especially forming intimate relationships, is vital for longevity in good health.  Though exchanging information about a newcomer to the community hardly qualifies for intimacy.”

“No, but it may be a step in the process.  And that kind of deep relationship is really valuable, but I suspect any engagement in the social web is useful.  From my candy-striping through my hospital clinicals and now at Dr. Bachman’s, I see so many people I wish I could prescribe a couple of friends for.  It’s not just old people, either.  We get people in their twenties and thirties who are just doing so much, or focusing on one goal, like a fast-track career or raising super-children or even just buying a Camaro or whatever that they’re giving themselves blood pressure problems, stress injuries, digestion issues...  I want to  sit them down and tell them to spend ten minutes patting a dog before they can leave.”

Max’s rich laugh enlivened the chilly air for a moment, and Tory smiled at the friendly sound.  “I want to tell you a bit about my research,” he said, “but I’m not sure where we’ll be going.  Do we want the car?”

Recalled to the purpose of their outing, Tory declined the car and swept an arm before her to show Max the small town center.  “Just down the hill,” she said, “is pretty much everything we offer, except groceries, which are to the west on Pleasant Street.  Otherwise, we’ve got the library, yoga, several burger and pizza options, beer and plenty of antiques.  A lot of places don’t open on Sundays, especially in the winter, and some close down completely for the season in mid-October, and don’t open again until April or May.  Restaurants are mostly pizza and burgers; the diner will give you breakfast all day, and it’s a pretty good one.  Real eggs, from shells.”

“Should I ask what other kinds of eggs there are?” Max inquired doubtfully.  Tory paused a moment, pursed her lips and shook her head.  “Well,” he responded, eyes twinkling, “shall we take a bit of a look around, or do you need to get back home?”

“Oh, I’m always happy to poke through a few shops,” Tory assured him, and they headed down the hill together.

The Huge Roses: Chapter Three, part one

In chapter one, American nurse Tory Bird, visiting Amsterdam with her sister Jane, meets Dr. Maximilan van den Nie whilst giving first aid to an injured English tourist.  After a lovely weekend, Tory returns home to the United States.  In chapter two, an early snowstorm hits on Hallowe'en night, and Tory is surprised that the car that goes off the road near her house (what a coincidence!) contains Max van den Nie, and the two enjoy a snowy day together.

For installment one, look here.  Installment two is right here, installment three here, and installment four here; installment five is here.


THE HUGE ROSES (working title)
copyright 2014 by Betty van den Betsy; not for reprint or publication without permission


Chapter Three, part 1:

Sunday morning showed the New Hampshire scenery at its finest, with pure white snow frosting the evergreens under a brilliant blue sky.  The sun brought enough warmth to make an early-morning walk tempting, so Tory pulled on her fleece-lined snow boots and set out, with the dogs pushing along with her.  They trudged down to the lake, which had a thin coating of ice that cracked and shifted under Hal and Jennet’s investigations.  That early in the day, almost no one else was about.  The minister drove past on his way to take early service, and Tory saw another walker in the distance, but otherwise she had the beautiful scene to herself.  She’d brought a camera along, with vague thoughts of turning a picture into her Christmas card in another month or two, and snapped a few photos of some of the more picturesque trees framing the lake.  In the muffled quiet of the dripping day, she let her mind wander.

Peace and quiet, a serene morning, a lovely, lonely scene – they were all important elements of her happy life.  Still, the lonely part sometimes felt too prominent a part of her days.  Even when her parents were home, Tory sometimes felt an almost-overwhelming yearning for company; for someone who shared her interests and respected her views.  ‘Not that Mom and Dad don’t respect me,’ she thought, then shouted to the gamboling dogs, “but you know it’s not the same!”  She laughed aloud, reveling in the feeling of independence and abandon that comes with stomping the first set of footprints into a fresh snow.  She scooped a handful of snow from a convenient branch and formed a ball, throwing it hard toward the dogs, who chased after it delightedly.  They charged back toward Tory, undismayed that their toy vanished on impact with the ground, and the three of them continued to play their abortive game of fetch as they broke ground through the pines toward the town.

She noticed her fellow walker drawing closer around the lake’s edge, and felt a pleasant bubble of excitement on recognizing the tall, smiling Dutchman.  Thinking he may have had quite enough of her company, she hesitated about continuing toward him until his welcoming wave drew her forward.

“You’re a morning person,” he greeted her, as the dogs accosted him with wriggles and head butts.

“Not always,” Tory admitted.  “Though with these two around, sleeping in just isn’t an option.  It’s such a beautiful morning, though, and this snow won’t last, so I thought I should get out and enjoy it.  We’ll be ankle-deep in mud by Tuesday, I expect.”

“Isn’t this early for a snowstorm, even in New Hampshire?  Not that I prefer mud.”

“It’s early for this much snow, certainly.  We usually get a few days in November, though, and December through February should be pretty snowy.  Of course, it’s not like it was when my parents were kids!” Tory joked.  She felt an instant’s surprise that she could talk so easily with this accomplished, impressive man.

“It never is, is it?  My parents grew up skating on the canals of Amsterdam as a regular recreation; these days the ice only gets thick enough every five years or so.”

“Oh, I love ice skating!” Tory exclaimed impulsively.  “But I’ve never felt comfortable doing it at an indoor rink.  It has to be a pond or lake for me.  I’d love to skate along the Amsterdam canals.  It’s such a beautiful city.”

“I will say, I think we celebrate the ice quite well in my hometown,” Max answered.  “We put up impromptu cafés on the ice, and serve erwtensoep – the richest, most warming pea stew you can imagine.”

“We have to bring our own supplies – usually just cocoa in a thermos.”  Noticing a particularly graceful tree limb, Tory raised her camera, aimed and shot a few images.

“You’re a photographer?” Max asked.

“Very much an amateur,” she answered.  “I thought I might find a pretty scene to use for my Christmas cards, though.”

“I expect my efforts would be amateurish at the very best, but if you’d like me to take a photo of you for consideration for the card, I’d be happy to do so.”

Tory gave it some thought.  She hadn’t ever included her own photo in her annual Christmas mailing, but far-flung family and friends often did so, and she appreciated seeing those visual updates.  “That might be nice, actually,” she said.  “With the dogs, maybe – otherwise it feels conceited.  Or are the dogs too twee?”

“Certainly not,” Max said, after coughing awkwardly, twice.  His lids were lowered, a fact that barely registered as Tory looked around for a good backdrop for a picture.  Feeling self-conscious, she tried to strike a natural pose, wondering how the doctor would get dogs, snow-covered pine branches, and her into the frame.  Maybe it was a silly idea – and he hadn’t even had to talk her into it.  Posing was just not her style.

But Dr. Van den Nie had the camera up and pointed so she grinned in his direction while pushing Jennet’s head away from her knees and toward the camera.  “That’s lovely,” he called.  “I’m not much of a photographer, but I do not believe anyone could fail, with such a beautiful scene for a subject.”  A few more clicks, Tory desperately trying to think of some way to start a conversation, and wondering what he’d meant by ‘a beautiful scene.’  The pine trees, surely?  Before she could come up with anything to say, he asked, “Would you want to kneel, to be closer to the dogs?”

“Sure, yes, right,” she said – and was suddenly desperate not to talk.  And then, as he kneeled also, “Oh, no, you shouldn’t... you wouldn’t... I mean, you’ll get wet.  In the snow.”

“I’m dressed for it today,” he replied.  “And I’m having fun.  How about getting the dogs’ attention with a snowball?”  Tory did as he suggested, but after a few more clicks, insisted on stopping the photo session.  “Thank you so much,” she said.  “I’ll sort through them at home.”

“It was a pleasure,” Max answered.  “You, Hal and Jennet are all excellent models, though I’m afraid, ‘Work it, baby,’ aren’t words that come easily to me.”  He choked a bit with laughter as he pronounced the incongruous phrase.

“Okay, this might sound a little stupid, but I’d probably just get confused if you said something like that.  I don’t watch a lot of TV, or even movies, so I’m not up on slang and things as much as I should be.  We get teenagers at the office of course, but it’s mostly old people, so I hear ‘groovy’ and ‘hip’ a lot more than ‘work it, baby.’”

“Two peas,” Max answered.  “I suspect you’re a book lover, like me.”

“Mostly, yes,” Tory confessed.  “I love music, too – Gregorian chants to hip hop – and I like movies, but I can’t stand commercials so I can only watch pay movies online, or on disc.”

“Have you seen any you enjoyed especially recently?” he inquired, and they were off.  Comedies, mysteries, classics.  The doctor matched Tory’s reservations about supernatural dramas with a dislike of most superhero films – “I admit I enjoyed The Avengers.” – and they shared an enthusiasm for Bollywood.  Movies quickly yielded to books, with recommendations, disputes and a strong connection over the excellence of Cry, the Beloved Country.

“My brother found a list of the 100 best novels of the 20^th century somewhere, and that wasn’t on it.  It was the Modern Languages Association or something, and I couldn’t believe it.  That may be the best book I’ve ever read,” Tory proclaimed.

“Absolutely,” the doctor agreed.  “The language is so vivid, and the story such an honest mix of tragedy and hope and ordinary human life, and the period he’s describing is such an important one in the history of modern civilization, I’m not just surprised by how overlooked it is, I’m close to appalled.”  They both went quiet, Tory brooding on unrewarded excellence as she listened to the shush of her boots through the snow.  The doctor spoke after a moment.  “Let me guess what was on that list your brother found – Joyce, right?”

“Oh, of course.  I’ve never tried Finnegan’s Wake; have you?”

“At university.  I was glad to have my tutor as a guide through its mysteries.”

The peace and tranquility she’d felt in the early part of her walk was transforming, becoming something shared.  She and Max talked as easily as she did with her sisters and brother; as easily as she did with her closest friends in college days, cross-legged on dorm room beds surrounded by nutrition and anatomy textbooks.  He wasn’t an intrusion into the serenity of the morning, but an enhancement of the beauty of the day and the joy of an invigorating walk with the dogs gamboling through the morning.  Tory noticed the comfort and happiness she felt, but chose not to examine it too closely.  One quick thought flitted through the part of her mind that was detached from the conversation:  it’s easy enough to have a pleasant chat about books, especially when you’re trying to be agreeable.

The pleasure was undeniable, though, and Tory regretted arriving at the fork in the path that would take her back to the house.  “Here’s where I turn,” she told Max, who had been politely waiting for her to try to dredge an author’s name from her memory.  “Thanks for your company.  I hope you enjoyed getting to see a bit of Bristol’s scenery.”

“I enjoyed it very much, indeed,” Max answered with grave courtesy.  “You’ve been generous in sharing your time with me.  I wonder if I could trespass further on your kindness, and ask you to introduce me to some of the shops in the town.  My friend Jaap will be coming over in a few days to keep house for me, but until then I need to stock up on a few necessities.”

“Sure, of course,” Tory said.  “I’ve got a few errands to run after church, so I could meet you on Beech Street, by Dr. Bachman’s office.”

“Would it be an imposition to join you at church?” he enquired.

“Whatever the opposite of imposition is,” Tory assured.  “I’m planning to drive, though, given the weather and the Sunday shoes issue.”

“If you’re willing to trust me after yesterday’s mishap,” Max said, smiling, “I’d be happy to pick you up in my car.”

“Oh, of course.  If you’re sure.  Um, I’m, I guess I’ll go home, then, and change, and I’ll be ready in about...” she checked her watch, “let’s say 45 minutes.  That will give us a few extra minutes for the roads, and still early enough to get in the front third of the pews.  Mr. Rourke’s voice is getting a bit reedy.”

Max’s laugh boomed into the snowy morning.  “Lovely,” he said.  “I’ll be with you in 45 minutes.  Suits and ties?” he queried, one eyebrow quirked.

“If you like,” Tory reassured, “though plenty of people wear slacks and sweaters, and some come in jeans.”  She collected Hal and Jennet with a whistle, and set off, kicking puffs of snow ahead of her with the delight of a small child.