Free The Splendor of Ordinary Days by Jeff High

offense.
    She smiled through her words. “You, that’s what.”
    â€œMeaning?”
    â€œYou can take the doctor out of research, but you can’t take the researcher out of the doctor.” She was referring to my ­well-­known desire to do medical research instead of working as a ­small-­town doctor.
    â€œOkay. So I have a natural curiosity. Anyway, laugh all you want. There was something really fascinating about the place.”
    â€œWhere was it, anyway?”
    â€œOn Mercy Creek Road.”
    â€œHold it. Mercy Creek Road?”
    â€œYeah, why?”
    â€œOkay, this is wild. I saw a newspaper headline about that place earlier today.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œUp in the attic when we were unpacking my grandmother’s china this morning. The first piece I pulled out was wrapped in a newspaper from 1968. I remember looking at it because I was curious as to when the box was packed. It was on the front page from July of that year, something about the volunteer fire department getting called out in the middle of the night to a fire on Mercy Creek Road. But when they got there, they realized it belonged to the Mennonites and were told their help wasn’t needed.”
    â€œLooks like someone made a poor judgment call on that one. There was nothing left but the stone foundation and the old chimney.”
    â€œI think the article said that the house was unoccupied and that the Mennonites were just letting it burn.”
    â€œWell, that doesn’t make any sense. If the house was in bad shape, you’d think they would have torn it down rather than burn it down, especially in the middle of the night.”
    â€œBeats me.”
    â€œDo you still have that newspaper?”
    â€œYeah. I’m pretty sure I know where it is.”
    â€œI’d like to read it. Maybe you can find it before I leave.”
    Christine nodded. For some reason, I wasn’t sure why, I decided not to mention the singing or the daisies.
    â€œSo, anything else interesting?” she inquired.
    â€œYeah. Apparently the Mennonite community is really close to the back side of Moon Lake.” I paused a moment. “You know, if you had come along with me, we could have gone for a swim and cooled off.”
    â€œI wouldn’t have had my swimsuit.”
    â€œI wouldn’t have had mine either. Sounds like we would have been even.”
    Christine spoke with amused resignation. “Bradford, you’re the king of wishful thinking.”
    â€œI’m not reaching for that scepter just yet, brown eyes. It’s not an altogether out-of-­the-­question idea.”
    Christine responded with only a blushing, secretive grin. Moments passed. When she finally did speak, there was a noted change of subject.
    â€œSo, you want to watch a movie or something?”
    I stretched my arms above my head. “You know, I’m pretty good right here. I’ve got a comfy chair, a glass of tea, a pretty girl . . . living the dream.”
    Twilight was approaching. Christine put ice cream into a couple of bowls, and we continued to sit in the cool of the front porch. From there we watched the sunset spread across the open fields, our voices soft and singular against the approaching darkness.
    I had to laugh at myself. It was a life far from the one I had known while living in Atlanta and Nashville. In the city, the onset of the night brought about an excitement, an anticipation associated with the noise and revelry of sharing a few beers with friends and the potential for laughter, furtive glances, new attachments.
    Here in Watervalley, the slow ebb of sundown brought about a tranquil, reflective close to the day. Cooler, moister air tumbled in, enveloping us in the delicate, sensuous smell of freshly cut hay. The solemn moon illuminated the countryside, casting a low white luster that vanished into the black, shadowy tucks of the distant hills. The dusty confusions of the day