Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
“Rachel,” he said, walking across the grass with his smooth, reassuring bedside manner. “You shouldn’t be working in this damp air.”
“The garden needs to be cleared before the hard frost,” I said, not looking up from the dry leaves.
“I stopped by the library on my way home,” David said, his voice gentle and completely empty of anger.
I stopped my shears, the metal blades resting against a dry brown stalk.
“Why were you at the library, David?” I asked.
“I spoke with Mrs. Gable,” he said, stepping closer and placing a hand on my shoulder. “I suggested that it might be best for you to take a leave of absence from your volunteer hours there.”
His hand felt heavy and cold through my wool sweater.
“I have volunteered there every Tuesday for six years,” I said, looking at the grass near his leather shoes.
“I know,” he said, his voice soothing, the same tone he used for patients receiving a difficult diagnosis. “But you have been under so much pressure with the cabin, and I told her we want to make sure you have time to quiet your mind.”
