A Distant Summer by Karen Toller Whittenburg Page B

you can show me a picture of Mr. Wonderful.”
    “His name is McCain. Dr. Tucker McCain.”
    Ruth took a step back into the room. “Dr.? As in Gray’s Anatomy?”
    Kris nodded, and Ruth shook her head slowly. “A doctor, Kris. The one thing Maple Ridge needs more than a good burger joint, and you left him in Denver. I honestly thought you had better sense.” She held up a hand and backed from the office. “All right, all right. Not another word. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    The doorway stayed empty for all of ten seconds —Kris counted — before Ruth returned with bifocals in hand and a warming smile. “Welcome back, Kristina. I’m glad you’re home.”
    This time Ruth left, and the doorway remained empty, Kris propped her chin in her palm and tried not to feel tired.
    It was a losing battle, one she had fought ever since leaving Denver on Saturday afternoon. All her vitality and enthusiasm had stayed behind — with Tucker.
    But she would get it back. Maybe a little more slowly than she would like, but if nothing else, the years had taught her to accept the waiting. Ruth had never understood that. She was a mover and a shaker, wanting to change what she didn’t wish to accept.
    Risk a little hurt for a little happiness. How like Ruth to issue such a challenge and how like her to dismiss one mistake as if it had happened a thousand years before.
    What would Ruth say if she knew how a few days in Denver had complicated that original mistake? No point in wondering, because she wasn’t going to know. Contrary to what Ruth might believe, any and all discussion about Tucker was closed.
    Almost.
    Now that she’d told Ruth, there was only one more thing she had to do.
    Kris slipped a hand into her pocket and withdrew the crumpled notepaper. She stared at it for several long minutes before she dialed the number. Her heart was a frantic flutter in her rib cage as the phone rang.
    What was she going to say?
    Think. Swallow. Hold the phone steady.
    She was trembling when she heard the click over and the voice mail recording.
    Disappointment welled inside her, and she covered it with the rational argument that leaving a message was better all around. No emotional inflections in his voice to interpret. No need to convey any feeling at all. Just leave a message. Tell him you arrived safely. Tell him everything is all right. Tell him ... good-bye.
    That wasn’t so difficult, Kris thought as she ended the call. Now the loose ends were gathered. Now her life could get back to normal. Now she had told him goodbye.
    The office phone rang, startling her with its busy urgency.  Kris answered and searched the desk for a pad and pencil. Vacation or not, the Gazette office stayed the same. Today Kris appreciated that fact.
    Business as usual.
    Probably the only thing on earth that would help her forget Tucker McCain.
    * * * *
    Considering that she’d spent the entire afternoon in the hot July sun, it really wasn’t surprising. Hallucinations often accompanied heat stroke, she believed, and the shiny black Mercedes had to be a mirage, although it looked heart-stoppingly familiar, parked in front of Ruth’s gift shop.
    It had been six weeks, specifically six weeks, four days, and seven hours, since she’d last seen a car like it.
    Kris had a strong impulse to brake in the middle of Second Street and take a closer look. But with city hall and the Maple Ridge police station only half a block away, she thought it better to park her own car before she investigated another. Besides, there had to be hundreds of black Mercedes in the world. To assume that this particular one could belong only to Tucker was absurd and — Kris glanced over her shoulder as she drove past — all too reasonable.
    She turned the steering wheel sharply, and the tires bumped the curb as she pulled into a parking space in front of the Gazette office. Kris was out of her car almost before the engine had idled to a stop, her gaze crossing the street to search the