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“True, but I’m doing it, anyway.” She points to the chair in her sunny kitchen.
“You’re not qualified.”
She laughs. “I’m more than qualified. Now, sit.”
“Lally, I know you’re a veterinarian, but I’m not a dog.”
“I know my way around flesh wounds, Magnus.”
“To animals.”
“And humans. Before vet school, I was a nurse.”
“Seriously?”
“Quite.”
I didn’t even realize, but while she was convincing me to take a seat, she was already inspecting the wound like one of those ninja nurses. Muttering the diagnosis under her breath, I drop to sitting and a smile grows on my face.
The dogs gather around as if watching a movie scene filmed live. I half expect Lally to say,Scalpeland for one of them to retrieve it.
I consider telling her about my condition and the occasional headaches that I have but keep that to myself for now. Instead, sipping the iced tea, I find myself intoxicated by Lally’s scent and her soft yet deliberate touch. She knows what she’s doing and isn’t squeamish at all when she shows me the three-inch splinter she pulled from my back.
“I see you’ve taken worse,” she says.
“A few bullets.”
“And a stab wound?” She must see the scar by my ribs.
“Good eye. I’ve been shot, stabbed, impaled, taken shrapnel. The gamut.”
“Glad you have a handy knack for staying alive.” Warmth fills her voice.
I’ve had similar conversations, talked battles and scars with guys, but the warmth and sincerity in Lally’s voice thaws me out and warms me over in the best of ways. It’s welcome, even in this tropical climate.
Lost in my thoughts, I only realize it when she squeezes my good shoulder and says, “Good as new, flyboy.” She says the last bit with flirty, teasing affection.
Gripping her hand planted there, I have the idea to spin her around and draw her onto my lap. To kiss her madly. Instead, I glimpse a photo on the wall in the living room.
It’s a man in dress blues—her brother maybe—and there’s a similar image of her in uniform along with several certificates and awards.
“You were in the military?” I ask, aghast.
“For a time.”
“Lally?” My tone is measured.
She seems to know what I’m asking without me having to say it.
“I don’t have people over here that often. Only moved to Coco Key a few months ago. Hanging these photos is a way for me not to forget without having to remember all the time.”
“Only people who’ve experienced devastating loss would understand that logic.”
“And you do.” She says as a matter of statement, fact.
“I do,” I confirm.
“I grew up in the Pacific Northwest and did a lot of hiking and backcountry camping, that kind of thing. When I was sixteen, I just didn’t fit in at high school. I wasn’t interested in the latest movies or pop songs.” She gazes at her feet. “Though I didn’t mind school dances.”
