Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
He reached across the table and covered my hand with his. His palm was warm, but his fingers were dry and stiff.
“We could have dinner at the Blue Heron,” he said. “That nice place right on the bay.”
“The Blue Heron is expensive,” I said, remembering the menu prices we had seen last summer. “And it is an hour’s drive.”
“We can afford a nice dinner,” he said, his voice dropping to a comforting whisper. “You need to relax, Rachel. The stress of managing the cabin property is wearing you down.”
“The cabin does not stress me, David,” I said.
“You spent three hours looking for your keys last week, dear,” he said gently. “And you forgot our dinner plans with the Millers.”
I kept my hand perfectly still under his palm, though my skin felt cold. He was building his case right here at our dining table, using the same gentle tone he used to diagnose a mild cold.
“We will drive up on Saturday afternoon,” he said, treating the matter as decided. “I will make the reservation for six o’clock.”
