No wonder the name of his company had sounded familiar. I’d moved to Chilson on the happy end of the school-turned-library renovation. While I’d helped plan the move from the old building to the new, my only dealing with the construction project itself was to marvel at the finished product.
“So, you’re off for the winter?” I asked.
“Off until the doctor gives me the thumbs-up.” He pointed at his midsection. “Had hernia surgery three weeks ago and I need the doc’s sign-off before I can swing a sledgehammer again.”
Wonderful. Not only had Denise bailed on her bookmobile promise, but she’d sent me a walking wounded for a replacement. I braked to a stop, right in the middle of the empty road. “If you’re recovering from surgery, I’m afraid I—”
“Minnie, I’m fine.” He looked at me with serious gray eyes. “I wouldn’t put you or the library in any jeopardy. After two weeks, I was fine to lift things up to ten pounds, so as long as you don’t make me tote any big boxes of books, there won’t be any problems.”
I studied him, thinking hard.
What did I know about this man? Next to nothing. The fact that I’d already mentally moved him into the friend category meant zip where the bookmobile and the library were concerned. I had to do what was best for the library and not be swayed by a kernel of friendship.
Then again, what were the risks if I brought him along?
“It was laparoscopic surgery,” he said, “and it was three weeks ago. All I can’t do is lift heavy things, which is why I’m here instead of out hunting.”
That was right: It was the first day of deer season. I tried to remember what people said about snow for hunting, whether that made it easier or harder, but since I wasn’t a hunter, I didn’t try very hard.
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. “Let me make a phone call. There’s this doctor I know.” I dug into my backpack for my phone and called Tucker. Having an emergency-room doctor boyfriend was coming in handy. “Hey,” I said. “Got a quick question for you.”
“You’re not canceling our date tonight, are you?” he asked.
“Not a chance.” It had been weeks since our schedules had synced to where we could have a weekend night together. “My question is a general one, about hernia surgery.”
“Don’t do it,” he said promptly.
I laughed. “Not in my future, as far as I know. But I’m wondering about recovery time.”
He started asking all sorts of questions. What kind of hernia surgery, had there been a mesh installed, who was the surgeon, how healthy was the patient, and on and on.
Okay, maybe having a doctor for a boyfriend wasn’t so handy. I waited until he paused for breath, then asked, “If the guy is around fifty, fairly fit, and had laparoscopic surgery three weeks ago, do you think it’s okay for him to work at a desk job?”
“Well, what I’ll tell you,” Tucker said, “is most guys are back at work inside of a week if they don’t have to do any lifting.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Excellent. Thanks.”
Tucker went on about possible complications, said he couldn’t make any real recommendations without seeing the guy, that every case was different, and to get a solid answer the guy should consult with his surgeon.
“Sure,” I said. “I understand. Thanks.” I tucked the phone away. “Well, it sounds like you’re good to go.”
“‘Fairly fit’?” Roger quoted me, lifting one eyebrow.
I grinned and checked the vehicle’s mirrors. The road was still empty, so I took my foot off the brake. “Well, I don’t know your best mile time, do I?”
“Last summer I ran a half marathon in under two hours.”
I tried to do the math. Gave up fast. Anyone who could run 13.1 miles at all had to be a lot healthier than I was. One of these days I’d start eating better and get into working out. This spring, maybe. Winter was no time to start an exercise program.
We spent the ride out to the south central part of the county working through the pros and cons of over- and underestimating people and came to no conclusions. We talked about the library’s renovation project on the way to the second stop, wherein I learned that my office had previously been part of a fifth-grade classroom, and talked a lot about the weather on the way to the third stop.
This was because although I’d already lived through three northern Michigan winters, I’d spent most of those months in town or on highways that had priority for snow clearance. I had never quite realized how varied the snowfall amounts could be in different parts of Tonedagana County.
“Oh, sure,” Roger said, nodding. “Over by Chilson, that’s what we call the banana belt.”
“Bananas?”
“It’s a joke. But over there we got—what?—six, maybe eight inches? Which is a lot of stuff to shovel, sure, but look at that.” He gestured at the snow-laden trees. “That’s ten to twelve inches, easy.”
As Deputy Wolverson had predicted, the roads had been cleared nicely and the driving was fine, but there was indeed a lot of snow. Cedar branches were weighed down with great clumps of the stuff, the few houses were thickly blanketed with white, and the only bare ground to be seen was the roadway in front of us.
“Why?” I asked.
“Does it snow more over here?” He shrugged. “Ask a weather guy. All I know is that it does. Always has.”
Something to do with the Great Lakes, no doubt. That was always the stock answer for any odd weather up here. And it was probably true. Having multiple vast bodies of water—Lake Superior, Lake Michigan, and Lake Huron—smush themselves together in basically one location was bound to create strange weather patterns.
At the third stop, I continued what I’d done at the first two and kept an eye on Roger to make sure he limited himself to desk-job duties. No way was I going to allow him to hurt himself on my bookmobile, and even though he seemed like a very nice man, he was still a man and would undoubtedly try to do more than he should.
“Mrr.”
I turned from where I was showing the picture books to a young mother and her small child and saw Eddie jump onto Roger’s lap. Eddie, who had slept most of the morning in his carrier, was typically not a cat to rush to judgment, but he had obviously decided that Roger was his new buddy.
“He’s more than ten pounds,” I cautioned Roger. Thirteen-point-five, to be exact. “If you want him to move, please don’t lift him. Just give him a gentle shove.”
My toddler patron squealed with delight to see a kitty cat. “Mommy, Mommy, can I pet the kitty?”
Mommy looked at me.
“Sure,” I said. “He has claws, but he’s great with kids. Of course, he does tend to shed a lot, so . . .” I spread my hands and shrugged. “Up to you.”
The mom gave the go-ahead, and the child rushed forward to pet Mr. Ed. The kid kept petting Eddie, Eddie kept allowing it, and poor Roger was stuck, caught between a cat and a kid.
Not that he seemed stuck. He seemed to be enjoying himself while Mom selected books, I checked them out, and we chatted as she slid them into a tote bag. When all was ready, Mom turned to her child and said, “Okey-dokey-kokey, kiddo. Zip up your coat—it’s time to go.”
The kid immediately started to wail. “I don’t wanna go! I wanna pet the kitty some more!”
The kitty in question didn’t look as if he cared for the wailing, but he didn’t move a muscle, submitting, with bizarre acceptance, to the kid’s clutching of his fur. If I’d done such a thing, he would have howled and taught me a quick lesson with his extended claws.
“Now, now,” Roger said calmly. “There’s no crying on the bookmobile.”
The kid’s wails slowed. “I ca-can’t cry?”