Page 25 of A Guardian for Christmas

The doctor clears his throat. “Here are your refills, dear,” he says, handing her a small white pharmacy bag.

Talk about unorthodox. “Don’t you have to call those in?”

“Excuse me?”

I explain how prescriptions work like he’s five, and I can’t believe I even have to. “You write a scrip, you call it in. Then the young lady and I toddle on down to Costco and pick the shit up. Right?”

“What’s Costco?” Esme asks.

Dr. White waves me off. “I’m licensed to refill things as needed,” he says, as if that makes any damn sense.

My hackles are all the way up already, and I intercept the bag and read the bottles. Inside the bag, there are a bunch of herbal remedies, vitamins, and a beta blocker.

I don’t like this. I don’t like a single thing about any of this.

“We’re going to get some fresh air,” I inform everyone.

“But her heart…” Dr. White cautions. “Nothing too strenuous.”

“A brisk walk is better than whatever the hell you’re pushing on her,” I mutter.

Frye calls after us, reminding us about some appointment with a guy named Cowen.

I ignore him.

I don’t look back as we head to the coat closet off the foyer, and I wrap Esme in a down puffer coat, woolen hat, and mittens.

Outside, the snow is starting to melt in the afternoon sun, and the path is in parts icy, snowy and muddy. We clasp hands, and I keep an eye on her condition as we walk through the trees, past the crumbling carriage house, and past an overgrown garden with statues covered in moss. I look over my shoulder back toward the house and see the doctor walking to his car, Frye following behind him. The two of them are having a heated discussion, which I care nothing about.

“Watch out. Sorry, this part of the trail needs some work,” Esme says. I turn to watch where I’m going just in time to avoid tripping over a fallen tree across the path.

I squeeze Esme’s hand as we walk, a silent promise that I’m going to take some house projects off her plate. I know she has the weight of the world on her shoulders, and I wouldn’t be one bit surprised if it’s making her shut down in the way that I found her this morning.

Esme seems happy to be out of the house, and the walk puts a healthy flush on her cheeks. God, she’s even more beautiful outside in the sunshine.

We cross a small stream deep in the woods and stop in the middle of a stone bridge covered in dead kudzu vines.

“Why are we stopping here?”

“Isn’t it pretty?” Esme asks.

“Yes, baby, it’s beautiful,” I say hurriedly, ready to get off this bridge before it collapses under my weight.

Esme leans into my chest, and I can’t resist drawing her close and kissing her pretty, cold lips.

“This is the exact spot where my great-great-grandfather George Bryant proposed to Elinor.”

I have to focus. As much as I want her to have a romantic moment with me, I brought her outside so we could talk with no one listening. I don’t actually give a shit about long-dead railroad barons and Gilded Age romances.

I change the subject abruptly. “Sorry, baby, but that guy is a quack.”

She blinks up at me. “Who? George Bryant?”

“No. The doctor,” I say, almost laughing.

Esme pauses and weaves her fingers through mine. “Why do you say that?”

“Does he even have an office? How is he carrying around your prescriptions? That’s not how real doctors work. And what he should be doing is ordering a sleep study, because…”

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