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“I joined a private practice, but I still work out of Houston Grace.”
“What made you choose orthopedics?”
Patty and Ian glance at each other, and for a second I expect her to answer.
Patty Duke was a nurse before she had her boys. When Ian was a kid, Sam Senior would privately complain he was a momma’s boy, but as Ian got older, the grumblings transitioned to pride when he’d mention Ian was following in his mom’s footsteps.
“In orthopedics, there’s a problem, and you can solve it. Almost all your patients live. Ideally, you give your patients a better life. That’s not true for every discipline.” Patty reaches over and pats his forearm. “I love the precision of orthopedics. I’m exploring options for a spinal surgical fellowship to specialize in spinal surgery, but there’s a degree of uncertainty to the discipline that I don’t love.”
God, all the Dukes boys have always been so smart. Butter leaks out of the biscuit I’m holding, so I rush it to my mouth, taking a big bite so the golden melted deliciousness doesn’t drip.
“What are you doing these days? Still got the salon?” Ian asks.
My mouth is full as full can be, so I press my fingers over my lips to cover my chewing.
“Sandra has two locations,” Patty answers for me. “One right here in Hill County on Main Street. Same place as always.”
“Where your aunt had the salon?” Ian asks.
I nod and sip some orange juice to help wash down the biscuit.
“And her other location is in Austin. It’s super fancy.” Patty’s wiggling fingers and dramatic eyes describing my salon brings out my giggles.
“It’s not that fancy,” I say before Ian goes off getting the wrong idea.
Patty cocks her head and in a parental tone I know well, she goes, “Now, Sandra.”
“Okay. It’s… nice,” I admit. “It’s a high-end spa. It’s actually quite different from the location here. The space in Whispering Creek is primarily hair and nails, although we do facials there two days a week. The location in Austin is a health and wellness center. You know, in addition to a full-service spa, we also have a yoga studio, Reiki, acupuncture. It’s a much more comprehensive—”
A loud ringing fills the room. Sam Senior half gets up out of his chair and fumbles around, searching for his phone. He finds it, squints, presses it, and then holds it up to his ear.
“Sam. Merry Christmas.” Sam Senior smiles and motions to Patty.
I push my chair away from the table and begin gathering dishes.
“Yes, sure. We can jump on the Zoom. Do you think Ollie’s up? Okay. Yeah. Patty… can you call Ollie? He didn’t answer for Sam.”
“Oh, Sandra, don’t worry about those dishes, dear,” Patty says to me.
I disregard her and busy myself. I don’t need to be a part of the family video session, and being useful gives me a purpose. Ian gets up and joins me, and we fall into a rhythm of him bringing plates to the counter while I scrape, rinse, and set them in the dishwasher just like Patty likes.
Patty and Sam Senior fuss over a laptop on the kitchen table.
“Dad,” Ian says, “if your face needs to be that close to the screen, you should increase the font size.”
“Don’t give me trouble,” he mumbles.
Ian and I exchange an amused glance.
Voices emanate from the computer, and I gently nudge Ian and motion for him to join his family. He wrinkles his nose and gives a quick shake of his head.
“Where’s Ian?” someone calls out. I’m pretty sure it’s Oliver.
Sam’s kids yell through the computer, shouting out gleefully about their windfall from Santa, which is my cue to leave them to their family Christmas morning. I dry my hands on a towel and slip down the hall to the bedrooms. Once they’re done, I’ll return and help finish up with the kitchen.
The bedroom doors are all ajar. Oliver’s bedroom is first in the series of doors, but he still lives here, and it feels a little too personal to escape into. The second room is Ian’s, which has been converted into a guest room. I’ve actually crashed in this room a few times over recent years when we’ve hung out at the ranch house with friends and sleeping here won out over walking a mile down the road to my house. Oliver and I share a few friends in common, and we don’t do it as much as we used to, but we’ll all come over here every now and then to hang out.
There’s an acoustic guitar in the corner, and I pick it up and sit on the edge of the bed. The strings bite into the pad of my thumb as I strum. The Gibson is severely out of tune, so I set about tuning it. Once it’s more or less good to go, my fingers strum a favorite section fromComplicatedby Avril Lavigne.
