2. Prescription For Love

Many thanks go to: senior editor Sandy Lowe for shouldering much of the important daily BSB work so I can stay on deadline, editor Ruth Sternglantz for a keen ear and knowing eye, editor Stacia Seaman for amazing “catches” books after book, Sheri Halal for a super cover, and my first readers Paula, Eva, and Connie for encouragement and inspiration.

And as always, thanks to Lee for being her. Amo te.

To Lee, for making life a surprise

CHAPTER ONE

Abby studied Blake’s brooding profile and feared she’d made the biggest mistake of her life. A week ago they’d been living in New York City, and now she’d uprooted them from friends and community and transplanted them to a rural town in upstate New York. She might as well have teleported them to another planet. “I’ve got to get to the hospital. Are you going to be all right here alone today?”

Blake turned from the window, his blue eyes stormy. “Sure.”

She’d gotten used to monosyllabic responses, ever since she’d told him about the new job and what that meant. She hadn’t expected him to take well to the news, and to be fair, their conversations had dwindled to quick exchanges about schedules and appointments ever since Blake’s fourteenth birthday. He’d been having a tough time at school the past year, but that didn’t mean he was eager to leave his classmates and the excitement of Manhattan. She’d hoped this new place would be safer for him, but maybe physical safety wasn’t the only thing that mattered. And she’d be late if she didn’t hurry, but she couldn’t just leave him looking so lost. Maybe he was fifteen and hugs were history, but he needed to know he was not alone. “What are you going to do today?”

“I guess walk around, check the place out.” He smiled, more a grimace than anything else. “That ought to take me an hour or so.”

“The movers will be here with the rest of the boxes and the big pieces this afternoon. You can get your room set up.”

“We’re going to get cable, right?”

“I sincerely hope so,” Abby breathed. “We’re not exactly in a third-world country.”

“Are you certain?” Blake looked out the window again and Abby pictured their backyard, a sweeping expanse of green, more a meadow than a lawn, that meandered down to a clear-water creek. The creek twisted through stands of oak and evergreens and separated their property from a cornfield, at least she thought it was corn. Right now all she could see were rows and rows of fiveinch-high green stalks. She imagined in the summer they’d be surrounded by whatever was growing out there, like shipwrecked sailors marooned on a desert island. Still, she’d been happy they’d been able to get anything on such short notice, and the renovated old schoolhouse had a quirky charm she liked.

“We’ll get used to it,” she said, fervently hoping that was true.

“Sure,” Blake repeated with a lift of his shoulder.

“I’ll call you. Keep your phone with you.” Abby kissed his cheek. His face was so smooth, almost baby soft still, but that would change soon too. Abby firmly reminded herself they’d cross those bridges when the time came. All children changed, and she could handle it. She’d survived when he’d cut his hair without telling her. Now she was used to the short sides and long floppy top with the dark strands always falling into his eyes. He was a beautiful boy. Her boy. “There’s money in the cookie jar if you need it.”

“Sure.” Blake didn’t look over as she walked out the door, but just as the screen closed behind her, she heard his soft “Thanks, Mom.” Good enough for starters.

Abby started down the short gravel drive, past the picket fence in need of a coat of paint that marked their front yard, and headed into town. The two-lane through the village was divided by a fading yellow line and bordered on both sides by three-and four-story buildings with ornate cornices, tall narrow windows, and deep porches fronting the stores. One out of three of those storefronts was shuttered and empty. Ten minutes later, she turned in between two stone pillars, one bearing a brass plaque reading Argyle Community Hospital, and drove up a winding road between groves of apple trees. She slowed as an ivy-covered red brick building with a white colonnaded entrance and two symmetrical wings extending out in a lazy U came into view on the hillside above the village. A rolling grassy lawn studded with shrubs and flower beds edged the circular drive in front. A pretty place with tall, gracious windows and an air of peace and tranquility. Not the feelings she usually associated with a hospital, but then this was nothing like NYU Medical Center—or any hospital she’d ever trained at.