Free Family Practice by Charlene Weir Page A

would hazard a guess. I’ll wager they’ve all thought on it. And come up with reasons. Maybe different for each one. And maybe none of them right. I’ll set Osey on them. Maybe he’ll ease out a speculation or two.”
    She nodded. Detective O. C. Pickett, slow-talking country boy with an engaging grin, was one of those loose, relaxed people whom everybody liked. He could walk up to a group of strangers and in ten minutes they’d all be joking and carrying on like he was an old buddy.
    Parkhurst slid his plate to the corner of the table, set his coffee mug in front of him, and wrapped both hands around it. He studied her. “You all right?” he asked softly.
    â€œFine,” she said, self-consciously aware of him: high-planed face, straight nose, penetrating brown eyes, thick dark hair, full lower lip, arched upper lip. Air of icy arrogance. Hard-edged, giving a sense of violence barely contained. When he softened, like now, she got nervous. They’d worked together for over a year, had started out with distrust and thrown barbed darts at each other, but had gradually moved toward a grudging respect; she’d become appreciative of his worth and learned to rely on him.
    Then, while she wasn’t paying attention, this stupid adolescent attraction popped up and slapped her in the face. After Daniel’s death, she’d vowed, never again. Too much potential for pain. The trouble with love was the hole it left when it was gone. If she were so foolish as to get in an emotional entanglement, it wouldn’t be with Parkhurst. That would be disaster. He wasn’t her type. He had too many hard edges. She outranked him—hell, was top of the line in authority.
    And there was her position as police chief. Hokey as it sounded in today’s social climate, the good citizens wouldn’t take lying down—so to speak—their chief of police cavorting around without benefit of matrimony. Hampstead’s climate was several degrees below the modern world.
    She didn’t like the awkwardness between them. Things floated around in it that made her twitch like a scared rabbit. She didn’t know what to do about it. And right now she didn’t want to think about it. She had all she could handle with Jen’s precarious situation.
    â€œIt’s not your fault.” He smiled, which was itself unusual and put her on alert.
    â€œI know that.” Right about now, she and Jen should be settling in their seats after intermission, waiting for the ballet to continue. “If Jen doesn’t recover, I’m going to resign.”
    He raised an eyebrow. “Susan—”
    She shook her head, found bills in her wallet, tossed them on the table, and stood up.
    Before going home, she stopped at the hospital to see Jen. No change.
    When she snapped on the kitchen light, Perissa came in nattering pleasure at her arrival. Susan scooped up the little cat, who climbed onto her shoulder and bit her ear. She dumped the cat and squatted in front of a cabinet, found a flat can of liver, and stuck it under the can opener. Perissa waited patiently, sitting tall, tail curled around her front paws, while Susan spooned liver chunks into a bowl.
    After a quick shower to wash away the sticky feeling, she pulled on one of Daniel’s white T-shirts and opened the windows wide to encourage any stray breeze to wander in. It was just dusk; the air was like velvet, the trees made moving shadows in the soft wind. Fireflies glowed and winked out, glowed and winked out. Crickets sang. A dog barked.
    She propped pillows against the headboard and stretched out on the bed to study her notes. Maybe something would leap up at her. Perissa jumped on the bed and industriously kneaded Susan’s hair. “Well, cat, we’re left here with the night terrors and the dreams and the regrets. What do you think? We gonna get through this?”
    Perissa gave her an inscrutable