Internal Fixation - Tawdra Kandle Page 0,30

Once she’d left the hospital, I’d propped a long letter on her desk, hoping she’d understand why I’d had to leave the hospital—to leave her—for as long as it took for me to figure out why I’d acted the way I had. I had to find some space and learn to be a better person—exorcise my demons, grow the hell up, and return to her a better man.

That was my plan, anyway. Whether or not I’d succeeded . . . well, we’d find out shortly.

The closer I got to my hometown, the more excited—and trepidatious—I was about seeing everyone. I had originally thought I’d go directly to my house in town, sleep for a few hours—or maybe just give in and sleep through the night—and then head out to the farm to see Gram and Pop. It was possible that buried down deep was the hope that the surprise of seeing me would temper some of the remaining resentment.

But the closer I got to Harper Springs, the less I was inclined to sleep. I was afraid I’d go home and then be too revved up to actually doze off. Plus, there was the better-than-average chance that one of my neighbors would see me pull into my garage, and word of my return would get around before I could see my grandparents. That would only make things worse.

So in the end, I didn’t turn down the street that would lead me to my own home; I followed the road that skirted town and steered the car toward the farm.

They’d be home, unless it was Sunday, in which case they would be in town at church if it was before one. Was today Sunday? Good God, after traveling almost around the clock, I wasn’t sure what day it was. But I was fairly certain it wasn’t Sunday. I’d left No Hungry Child’s headquarters in Slovenia late on Thursday, but there had been flights and layovers and delays and a few bus trips. It felt most likely that today was Saturday, but I wasn’t sure, and I couldn’t dig out my phone now to check, since it was tucked into the side of my duffel.

Well, whatever. If it turned out that I was wrong and Gram and Pop were at church, I’d just sit on the porch and wait for them. It was a beautiful December day, with a gloriously clear blue sky and temperatures hovering in the mid-seventies. A few peaceful hours rocking on Gram’s porch wouldn’t be a hardship at all.

About ten minutes later, I turned the car off the road and down the long dirt drive that was as familiar to me as my own breath. My heart began to pound a little faster, adrenaline surging as the reality of being with my own people again hit me. I rounded a bend and braked in surprise.

The patch of dirt and thin grass adjacent to my grandparents’ house was filled with cars. I frowned, my head spinning a little as I tried to make sense of this. When I bent my head to look out the window and up to the wide wraparound porch, a few things fell into place. The railings were adorned with swags of greens and sparkly garlands. A tree in the corner of the porch was decorated with stringed popcorn and other handmade ornaments. And on the lawn below the house, there were probably a dozen long tables set up, some surrounded by folding chairs of every ilk and variety and others clearly holding food.

Of course. It was the Saturday before Christmas, which meant that Gram and Pop were hosting their annual community Christmas party. This was a tradition older than me, and one I had loved while I was growing up on the farm. Later, when I’d gone away for college and med school, I’d done my best to be back home in time for the celebration.

During my residency, it was at this party that Laurel and I had announced our engagement. It was possibly the only time my former fiancée had enjoyed a visit to Harper Springs, and in retrospect, I was pretty sure that was only because she had been the center of attention that weekend. It was that same visit that some of the reservations I’d had about spending my life with this woman began to churn again. I’d overheard her telling our friends and neighbors—people who’d been part of my life as long as I could remember—that our wedding would definitely not