Page 98 of The Cabin
“And charge a mint for it too, I bet.”
“I’ve been known to accept value in trade.” I widen my grin. “Eggs, sides of ham, quarters of beef, bushels of fruit and vegetables, things like that.”
He blinks. “Bullshit.”
“Not a word of it, Mr. Crenshaw. I’m taking night classes to get my MD, at which point the name on the outside of this facility, and on the side of my husband’s truck, will be ‘Nadia Fischer, MD, Country Medicine,’ which means I’ll be practicing medicine the way it has been done out in the country for…well, a long time.”
“Why in th’damn-hell would you do a fool thing like that? Ain’t gonna make no damn money that-a way.”
“Because it’s a need which I can fill, and I don’t need money. I’m…independently wealthy, Mr. Crenshaw. I do this because I love practicing medicine. And more than that, I love being a doctor—even if I don’t yet have the official MD after my name yet—to the kind, wonderful folks who live out here, where I live. I do it because I can, and because I want to. I accept value in trade because my clients may not have much by way of money, but they do have pride, and they make a living off the land. And while I may not need money, I do need to eat.”
He eyes me, and I can see his estimation of me rising. “Guess mebbe when I assumed you was a stuck-up city girl, I was wrong.”
“I guess maybe that’s true.” I pat his shoulder. ”Now, sit tight. I need to calculate the dosage for your antibiotics, and get them mixed up. You are very lucky, Mr. Crenshaw, that your wife coerced you into coming out here when she did, or you would have been too far gone for me to be able to do you any good, and then you would be doomed to a lengthy and expensive stay in the hospital.”
He eyes me. “Well, I guess I’d be the fool to not take you up on the offer of visits. My wife has been fighting the arthritis for a while now, and it ain’t gettin’ no better.” His eyes go to my belly. “But, you be careful on those roads, missy. I may be a cranky old country boy with no education and less sense, but I know bouncin’ around back roads like that ain’t good for th’unborn.”
I rub my belly, six months rounded. “Thank you for the concern, Mr. Crenshaw. I’ll be careful.”
Mr. Crenshaw writes out a misspelled I-O-U for several pounds of bacon and pork belly as value in trade for my services, along with a detailed map of how to get to his property.
The rest of the day is slow. The baby kicks, hard, and often, but I’m grateful for it, even when it hurts; being over forty, it’s a minor miracle that I could conceive.
There’s a young man skipping school who comes in for stitches after crashing his four-wheeler, and an elderly woman with a respiratory infection. There is, technically, a doctor in attendance—Dr. Oscar Gutiérrez—but he’s older than dirt and prone to long naps in his office, and he’s perfectly content to let me do things my way. And once I have my MD, which I’m trying to finish before I have the baby, he’ll officially retire and the community practice will be mine.
At closing time, I rouse Dr. Gutiérrez and send him home, and then head home myself.
Nathan is in his workshop, of course; the cabin which was his home when he first arrived at this little lakeside paradise of ours has been transformed into his workshop. Better lighting, more ventilation, less furniture. The bedroom is now an office, the kitchen is still a kitchen with the same antique appliances, but the rest is open-plan, with a workbench and all his tools. He’s a craftsman, now, an artisan. He has a little shop in town where he sells his handmade bookshelves, dining room sets, sideboards, end tables, desks, and anything else he takes his fancy to craft, as well as his now-trademark and locally famous wildlife carvings. Which are, I’m proud to say, garnering attention beyond our little community. There’s even been talk of a few places in Atlanta giving him shelf-space.
Mainly, he just likes working with wood. Making things. Letting the wood tell him what it wants to be and helping it become that. He loves doing it, and he’s amazing at it. And the beautiful fact is, he’s doing well enough at it that he can almost entirely support us with his woodworking business.
Which, of course, we don’t need. He had quite a bit saved from his career as a Hollywood set builder, as well as a few real estate investments a friend once convinced him to buy into which have panned out profitably. And I have the massive windfall Adrian left me, which I’ve invested so we’ll be comfortable for the rest of our lives.
