Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
He climbed the porch steps with a slow, deliberate stride, a soft smile on his face. His leather shoes clicked rhythmically against the wooden planks.
“For you,” he said, holding out the bouquet. “I stopped by the florist near the clinic.”
I looked at the bright yellow petals, their tight buds just beginning to open in the cool evening air. They smelled faint and sweet, a contrast to the damp wood of the porch.
My hand brushed his as I took them, and my silver wedding ring caught the porch light. I touched the band, feeling the cold metal press into my skin.
“They are beautiful,” I said. “What is the occasion?”
“No occasion,” David said, reaching out to touch my shoulder. “I just wanted to bring you something bright.”
He looked at me with an expression of quiet concern, his gaze lingering on my forehead as if checking for a fever. His touch was warm, but it felt like a weight pressing down on my collarbone.
“How was your afternoon?” he asked. “You look a little tired, Rachel.”
“I was only running a few errands in town,” I said, keeping my voice steady.
