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“I don’t want you to go.” She dropped onto the bed in an unladylike flounce that had visions of skimpy underwear flashing in his brain again. “My parents don’t know you’re with me. But they do know I’m here.” Her voice had taken on an unfamiliar whiny tone. “I have to go, but you can’t go with me.”
“Did you plan to hide me away in the hotel while you snuck in the obligatory visit with the family?” The guilt on her face said that was exactly what she’d intended. “I’m an easygoing guy, Darby, you know that. But I’m not doing room service while you go to your parents.” He frowned. “We’ve been partners for almost a year and I’ve never met your family. Why is that?”
She’d met his mother on the rare occasions Cecelia had dropped by Knoxville for a visit. But he hadn’t met a single person from Darby’s pre-Knoxville life. Not even at the grand opening of their clinic.
“Fine. You can come.” She stood, eyed him as if she’d rather kiss a sewer rat than introduce him to her family. “But just remember you insisted upon going and that I was going to spare you the drama.” Then her eyes took on a delighted spark. “Oh, and by the way, City Boy, there are chicken barns. Four of them. Hope you’re real hungry for some of my momma’s chicken and dumplings. Mmm, chicken.”
Darby winced. No, her mother hadn’t really just pulled up her shirt to ask Blake’s opinion on the “bug bites” on her abdomen. Not at the dining room table. Not with the entire family present. Not while they were eating dinner.
Yep, Nellie Phillips had.
To his credit, Blake was taking her family—all twenty-two of them present and accounted for, and sitting at various places throughout the farmhouse—in his stride. Actually, he seemed amused by the chaos that was a permanent fixture at the Phillips home.
Standing there with her floral print shirt pulled up, her mother revealed a tiny sliver of thick white cotton and a wide expanse of pale white skin, marred only by the bright red vesicles clustered over her lower ribcage and wrapping around her trunk on her left side.
Concern replacing her mortification, Darby squinted at the “bug bites”. “Are you sure something bit you?”
Blake examined the rash. “Looks more like Herpes Zoster.”
Darby agreed. Those angry clusters were isolated to a single dermatome, and hadn’t been caused by an insect.
“Herpes Zoster? Is that serious?” one of her brothers asked, leaning toward his mother for a closer look. “See, Mom, I told you to let me drive you into Pea Ridge to be checked.”
Nellie gave Jim a silencing look. “Don’t be silly. Herpes Zoster is a fancy term for shingles.”
“Shingles?” Darby’s dad spoke up from where he sat in his honored spot at the head of the table. He lowered his glass of iced tea and scratched his graying head. “Earl Johnson from down the road—you remember him, Darby? You used to clean house for him? He had shingles early in the spring. Had me kill my rooster for him.”
Knowing Blake didn’t want to hear about old wives’ tale remedies for certain ailments, Darby scooted her chair closer to the table and reached for the bowl of fried potatoes. “Mom, how long have you had the rash? Are you taking anything to help dry it up?”
“Tell Darby about those spells you’ve been having.”
Darby’s gaze cut from her mother to her oldest brother and back again. “What spells?”
Her mother waved her hand. “No big deal. Just a few twinges of pain. I thought from the bug bites.”
Concern sparked in Darby’s chest. “What kind of pain? Haven’t you been feeling well?”
“I’m fine. Fit as a fiddle.” Darby’s mother didn’t meet her eyes, but instead passed a bowl full of greens to Blake. “I remember my mother having shingles. She had a lot of pain even after the rash disappeared, complained with her side hurting for months.”
“Pain is normal with shingles.” Blake accepted the bowl, staring at the contents with speculative eyes. He tentatively dipped out a small spoonful. “You should schedule an appointment with your doctor to get on an anti-viral and some pain medication.”
“I don’t like pills. Never have.” Nellie smiled at Blake. “I’m like my mother that way.”
Darby’s niece came running into the kitchen, squealing that her brother had spilled his juice. Rosy jumped up to check on the spill, but Nellie placed her hand on her daughter-in-law’s arm. “Let me.”
Darby followed her mother into the living room and helped clean the juice puddle.
Watching her mother, Darby noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes. Dark circles she hadn’t really noticed—probably because she’d been so distracted with worrying about Blake and his reaction to her family, worrying about her family’s reaction to Blake. She also noticed the fatigue plaguing her mother’s face, the deepening wrinkles, the slight tremble to her hand when she wiped the towel across the floor.
Her mother had shingles. Not the end of the world, but how long had she been suffering, ignoring the pain? Why hadn’t she let Jim drive her to Pea Ridge to be checked? Why hadn’t she mentioned the rash to Darby when they’d talked on the phone earlier in the week? Even if her mother didn’t understand why she’d become a doctor, why she’d had to get away from Armadillo Lake, she knew she was a darn good one
.
When they’d wiped up the last of the juice from the scuffed hardwood floor, Darby met her mother’s gaze and felt as if she was five years old.
“Mom,” she began, before they stepped back into the kitchen, “you didn’t have to ask Blake about your rash. I would have checked it for you.”
“Nonsense.” Re-entering the kitchen, her mother waved her hand. “He’s a real doctor.” She shot an admiring glance toward where Blake sat talking with Darby’s father. “No sense in you having to worry yourself over some little rash.”
