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Nog, and, what the fuck, eh? That's what Silverstein meant, after all.
Doc chuckled, as he always did. "That's Ian. The nonstick surface." That
hadn't been funny the first time, or the fifty-first.
It still wasn't. At this point, it was about as funny as Arnie's joke about
the pope and his chauffeur, which everybody in town seemed to have to tell him
at least once, and which he had to smile through as though he had never heard
it before.
For this, at least, he didn't have to smile. But if glares could raise boils,
Doc's face would have exploded with pus some decades before.
"Good morning, Ian," Karin said, looking up, but not quite meeting his eyes.
He had avoided looking at her, afraid, as always, that he would gawk. She was
quite literally old enough to be his mother, but Ian found nothing matronly
about her. She smelled of some vaguely lemony perfume that should have been
too young for her but wasn't. God, she was lovely, even at this hour of the
morning, dressed in a thick red terry cloth robe that set off the hint of
black lace where it opened at the swell of her breasts.
Her blond, almost golden, hair was tied back in a high ponytail that left the
back of her neck bare and made his fingers itch.
Not that he would ever try to scratch that itch. There probably were a few
better ways to screw up his life in Hardwood than making a pass at Torrie's
mom, but he couldn't think of any, not offhand, unless it was, say, pissing on
the Sunday smorgasbord at the Dine-a-mite.
She still had trouble meeting his eyes. "Can I get you some breakfast?" she
asked, as she always did.
Ian shook his head. "No, thanks," he answered, as he always did. Breakfast
might well be the most important meal of the day, but
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Ian had always found that it went down better after he had been up and around
for an hour or two. "I've got a few Poptarts in my bag."
"Poptarts." Doc shook his head, disgusted. "Not exactly the breakfast of
champions. Lousy nutrition."
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"Hey, check the package. They're not as bad as you think."
"Don't confuse me with facts. I'm a doctor, and I know better than you."
There was no answering that.
Ian sat down and sipped at the coffee. "So, what are you doing here at this
absurd hour of the morning, Doc? I didn't see your car."
The huge white Chevy Suburban that Doc used as a portable office and, when
necessary, an ambulance would have been distinctive for the light bars on top,
even if it didn't have the word
Ambulance backwards on the front, forward on the back, and five little deers
with red x's painted through them on the driver's door.
And if there had been a problem with Hosea, surely the car would be here, and
Doc Sherve wouldn't be sitting around drinking coffee with the Thorsens.
Doc might as well have read his mind. "No, he's fine. He is just sleeping in."
Ian heard the soft footsteps in the hall outside the kitchen.
"That turns out not to be the case," a low, slightly slurred voice said. "I am
quite well, but I am not asleep."
Ian turned in his chair. Hosea Lincoln well, that was what he was called
here stood in the kitchen doorway, wearing an ancient herringbone robe over
yellow silk pajamas and slippers that looked to be as old as the robe. The
robe was belted tightly; he seemed unhealthily skinny that way, much more so
than in his usual outfit of plaid shirt and overalls, which at least gave the
illusion of some bulk.
His skin was the color of coffee au lait, but there was something exotic and
strange-looking about his eyes, and the way he appeared to be freshly shaved,
as always. If he had any trace of beard, Ian had never seen it.
"Good morning, Hosea," Ian said.
"Ian Silverstein," Hosea said, with a slight nod. "A good morning to you, as
well." He limped into the kitchen; his right hand, as usual, hung down by his
side, the fingers curled into a loose and almost useless fist.
Karin started to get up, presumably to pour him a cup of coffee, but desisted
at a slight gesture from his left hand. Hosea preferred doing for himself,
when he could. Which was most of the time.
"And since you're not here to see to my medical needs, Doctor," he said, as he
poured steaming coffee into a mug covered with big red letters that read She
Who Must Be Obeyed, "may I ask why this home has been graced by your most
welcome company this morning?"
Once, Ian would have found his phrasing awkward, but that was before he spoke
Bersmal and that was the exact construction he would have used in Bersmal and
before he had met Hosea or any of Torrie's family.
"My snowmobile's out back," Doc said. "I had another middle-of-the-night." He
grinned. "A birth, for once." Doc liked delivering babies.
Ian searched his memory. "Leslie Gisslequist, maybe?" It was a bit early,
but...
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