Page 8 of Unwanted Vows

She rolls her eyes at him. “I can always just nap with the children,” she says.

“You can, but you won’t,” he says. “I know you. I’ll find somebody competent. Don’t worry.”

He then turns to me. “Come on, Maddy. Let me guide you to your home base.”

The cottage is right on the edge of the fairgrounds, behind the midway. Attendants are putting last-minute finishing touches on the decorations near the rides.

The susurrus of people in conversation as they work, and the clatter of hammers and tools provides the background to a scene that will elicit wonder when the fair opens. Creating a magical world that can be packed up and moved to a new location is clearly a busy process that takes many hands. There’s something comforting and simple about the sight of so many people at work toward a common goal.

“I hope you won’t mind if Julia brings the children to the midway to enjoy the rides,” Charles comments in that way that means he knows you won’t object, but he is bringing it up to be certain you are informed. “We’ve issued passes for all of them, and Austin plans to add an extra security team for while the kids are having fun.”

“Thank you for telling me,” I say. “I’m sure Paul will have a good time.” I swallow my disappointment at not being the person to introduce him to the rides.

Since it is June in California, the day is already getting warm, even though it has hardly started.

When we reach the pavilion that looks like the M.A.S.H. unit from TV, only much brighter and cleaner, I’m relieved to discover that inside the tent is a comfortable room with beds, couches and chairs for people who’ve managed to get a little too much sun.

There is a separate room with a locking cabinet containing all sorts of medical supplies, from cleaning and soothing basics to a defibrillator that has a full charge.

In addition, there is a little sink with a foot pump and a drain going to a barrel. Beside it is an electric kettle in case hot water is needed. The padded exam table is well-stocked with paper covers, paper gowns, and towels of all kinds.

“Will this do?” Charles asks a little anxiously.

“It will do very well,” I say. “We might want more electrolyte drinks, but other than that I can’t think of anything else I should need.”

“I’ll get more sent over,” Charles says. “Anyone needing specialized care can be sent to the clinic or the hospital. I’m sure that you know that this fair needs to do well.”

“Of course,” I say. “I always do my best. I’m sure everyone will enjoy the event. You and your family have done a lot to make it great for everyone.”

By mid-morning, there is a growing crowd of people moving through the fairgrounds. I am glad Kate encouraged me to bring the box of food with me. The air is permeated with the rich odor of cooking food: spices, roasting meat, barbecue sauce, toasting bread, caramel apples, and much more. I’d be starving just taking all that in without anything to eat.

Two interns from Spindizzy Clinic and I have our hands full with bumps, scrapes, and bruises all day. Ramey is happy to be part of the hustle and bustle, and David is his usual cheerful self. Both are working toward their doctorates, and are my backup staff at Spindizzy Clinic. David’s dark hair and his slim build remind me of Andrew and I struggle with little pangs of sadness when I catch him from the corner of my eye from time to time. My heart clearly won’t accept that I won’t ever see Andrew again.

There is a lull and the tent is finally empty of those needing medical attention. My stomach grumbles, and I fish a breakfast taco out of the bag. I am expecting the usual bland combination of rice and beans. Instead, I get a flavor medley of spices, peppers, ground meat, and the odd dash of a spice I can’t name.

I am just savoring the last flavorful bite when I hear the screaming. I look out the tent flap, and see a tall, blond man running toward me. I can see the child is Cece and I can make out her words, called out in a wail. “Don’t hurt the kitty! Please, please don’t hurt the kitty. She just didn’t want to be caught!”

She is clinging to a scrawny, orange cat that has chomped down on her hand. I open the door flap to the examining room, and the man places her on the table.

I keep my eyes fixed on the girl and the fiercely growling little beast that has sunk its teeth into her thumb joint with the tenacity of a frightened bulldog. A long-fingered, freckled hand with sun-bleached blond hair growing across its back is carefully restraining the kitten, keeping it from doing more harm. Despite the heat, the arm is covered by a long-sleeved, white dress shirt.

I massage the back of the little beast’s jaws, getting it to release the girl’s hand. Someone comes running up with a cat carrier, produced from who-knows-where. The kitten relaxes its death grip, and the anonymous, long-fingered, strong hand takes the little beast away, presumably to pop it into the carrier.

I place a towel under the sobbing child’s hand. The freckled hands bring a basin of liquid to me. “Saline solution,” a rich, masculine voice says. “I don’t guess that by any miracle you have running water here? I’d like to scrub up.”

“No,” I say, plunging the child’s hand into the solution. She starts wailing again as the solution stings the puncture wounds on her hand. “We’ll just have to keep changing the saline baths. There’s a camp wash basin, water container, and soap over there.” I nod toward the set up.

“Don’t hurt the kitty!” Cece says again. “I was trying to save it. I did save it! So please don’t hurt it.”

Cece’s big blue eyes are filled with tears, but she doesn’t stop pleading for the little kitten. “Please don’t hurt it. I don’t think it’s sick.”

I spare a glance for the contents of the cat carrier. The tiny scrap of orange fluff has plastered itself to the back wall of the carrier, growling ferociously. “Spicy little thing, isn’t she?” I say. “It’s hard to say for sure, but she doesn’t look sick, just angry and scared. We’ll get you patched up, and see about taking her to a vet to get checked out.”

“Thank you,” Cece says with a sniff. Then she gives a sharp intake of breath, not quite a little sob and adds, “This stuff really, really stings.”

“That’s because it’s saline solution, which is essentially salt water,” the voice that goes with the long-fingered hands says.

I look up into the face of the owner of the freckled hands, and my world stops. My heart thumps painfully in my chest, and my mouth goes as dry as the Sahara. I blink rapidly, some small part of my brain convinced I’m hallucinating. I know this man. Or to be more precise, I knew him in the biblical sense,eight years, eight months, and three weeks ago. Paul’s father is looking down at me.

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