“She’s a deputy sheriff here in town,” I began, then went on to tell him how we’d met, and a little about our conversations at the park, at the house, and then finally at dinner.
“You’ve spent quite a bit of time together since we last spoke,” he responded.
“She wanted to see the beehives.”
“Ah,” he said, and because we’d spoken so frequently, I knew exactly what he was thinking.
“Yes,” I said, “she’s attractive. And intelligent. And yes, I enjoyed our time together. However, I’m not sure how Natalie feels about me, which means there’s not much else to add.”
“All right,” he said.
“I’m serious,” I insisted. “And besides, I suspect Natalie might be dating someone else. I’m not sure about that, but there are signs.”
“I understand,” he said.
“Then why does it sound like you don’t believe me?”
“I believe you,” he said. “I simply find it interesting.”
“What’s interesting?”
“Natalie is the first woman you’ve spoken to me about since you broke up with Sandra.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “I told you about Yoga Girl.”
She was a woman I’d gone out with twice the previous fall, right around the time I’d been accepted into the residency program. We’d had a couple of pleasant evenings, but both of us knew by the end of the second date that it wasn’t going to work between us.
I watched as he pushed his glasses up on his nose. “I remember,” he finally said, his voice coming out with a sigh. “And do you know what you called her? When you first mentioned her to me?”
“I can’t say that I do,” I admitted. I also tried to remember her name. Lisa? Elisa? Elise? Something like that.
“You called her Yoga Girl,” he said. “You didn’t use her name.”
“I’m sure I told you her name,” I protested.
“Actually, you didn’t,” he said. “At the time, I found that interesting, too.”
“What are you trying to say? That you think I might be falling for someone in local law enforcement?”
The corners of his mouth turned up slightly as we both noted the fact I’d suddenly avoided her name. “I have no idea,” he went on. “And that’s not really for me to say one way or the other.”
“I don’t even know if I’ll see her again.”
The time on my computer showed, amazingly, that nearly an hour had already passed and that our session was about to come to an end.
“Speaking of seeing each other,” he added, “I wanted to let you know that it’s possible we could meet in person next week. Unless you’d prefer to continue communicating electronically.”
“You think I need to travel to Pensacola?”
“No, not at all. Perhaps I should have been clearer. There’s a conference at Camp Lejeune in Jacksonville concerning PTSD. One of the speakers, unfortunately, had to cancel and I was asked to fill in. It’s on Tuesday, but I have to fly up Monday. If you’d like, we could meet in Jacksonville, or I could come to New Bern, if that’s easier.”
“That would be great,” I said. “What time?”
“Same time?” he asked. “I can catch a morning flight and rent a car.”
“Are you sure it’s not too far out of the way?”
“Not at all. I’m looking forward to visiting your grandfather’s place. You’ve painted quite a picture for me.”
I smiled, thinking that even if I had, I still hadn’t done it justice.
“I’ll see you next week, Doc. Do you need directions?”
“I’m sure I’ll be able find it. Take care.”
*
Two hours later, my cell phone rang. Though I didn’t recognize the number, the area code was from upstate South Carolina. The hospital administrator?
“Trevor Benson,” I answered.
“Hi. This is Thomas King from Baptist Easley Hospital. I received your message, but I wasn’t exactly sure what information you needed.”
Unlike the receptionist, his accent wasn’t nearly as thick or hard to understand.
“Thank you for returning my call,” I started, before laying out the situation. When I finished, he asked me to hold for a moment.
It was way longer than a moment. I listened to Muzak for at least five minutes before I heard the phone click through to him.