nose like they usually do in the summer. Probably had something to do with the fact that I was wearing as few clothes as possible in an attempt to not overheat — lots of shorts and skirts and tank tops. I could identify constellations on my forearms by connecting the dots. Good thing my job at the Imogene kept me out of the public eye most of the time.
Doc Corn’s waiting room was only half full but with the same miserable assortment of furry creatures as we’d seen yesterday. We strode up to the unoccupied receptionist’s desk.
I could hear someone — two someones, a man and a woman — having a muffled conversation around the corner. I strained to pick out the voices, but wasn’t sure about either one, except that the man was definitely not Doc Corn.
“I told you it will have to wait, Rhonda,” the male voice hissed.
The woman muttered a few sentences, but I only caught a snatch — “Whatever. I’m sick of it.”
I scrunched my face at Pete, figuring we were inadvertently eavesdropping on a bit of marital unbliss. Then I winked at him. We’d made it two days so far without that kind of unpleasantness.
Maybe a paying customer would give the unseen pair a chance to cool off. I tapped the service bell and cringed as its loud clang echoed off the hard surfaces necessary in a room that has to be sanitized every evening.
Rhonda’s head peeked around the corner. “Oh, Meredith.” She quickly smoothed her long hair with both hands and bustled to her chair. “Tuppence is just great. No complications. She’s ready to go home. If you give me a minute—” she clicked at her keyboard and the printer whirred to life. She slipped the invoice in front of me.
I dug in my purse for my wallet, and when I glanced up, a man stood behind Rhonda. He wore pointy-toed, heavily embossed cowboy boots, Wrangler jeans with creases pressed down the front of each leg, a Western shirt and a bolo tie with a giant turquoise clasp. His dirty blond hair was stick straight and flared a bit over his ears.
“Quincy Nugent.” He stuck out his right hand, aimed toward the gap between Pete and me. “The newlyweds. Have you considered life insurance? Lots of married couples do it, consider it their gift to each other.”
Pete and I froze awkwardly for a second, unsure who should go first in the obligatory return of politeness — if you could call being solicited for life insurance politeness.
I leaned sideways and scribbled my name on Rhonda’s receipt, leaving Pete to tend to the handshake. I frowned and took my time flipping through the care instructions Doc Corn had written for Tuppence. Pete mumbled something about not making important decisions in a hurry.
Quincy was obviously one of those people who was trying too hard — posturing. Either he was desperate for acceptance in this rural county, or he thought the charade would garner him more business. Only uninitiated people think the bolo tie is cowboy attire. I’m pretty sure the last thing a real cowboy wants to wear is a string around his neck. And the boots — not actually made for walking in, yet Quincy was giving it his best shot.
Rhonda held up a finger, indicating she was going into the back to retrieve Tuppence. She disappeared around the partition.
“It’s nice to meet you folks. ‘Course, Rhonda and I were at your wedding, but I mean to really talk with you, friend to friend.” Quincy scooted around the desk and crowded in. He lowered his voice. “Heard you’re expecting a big shipment up at the Imogene too. Must have quite a bit of money tied up in those collections, yeah? Can never be too careful. May I suggest a custom-written irreplaceable value rider on your policy?”
Pete has an uncanny ability to know when my blood pressure shoots up. Maybe I turn red — I don’t know. He eased in front of me and stared down at the smaller man.
Quincy backed up. “Well, you think about it. Just let me know. I’m happy to be of service.”
Nails clattered
Doc Corn’s waiting room was only half full but with the same miserable assortment of furry creatures as we’d seen yesterday. We strode up to the unoccupied receptionist’s desk.
I could hear someone — two someones, a man and a woman — having a muffled conversation around the corner. I strained to pick out the voices, but wasn’t sure about either one, except that the man was definitely not Doc Corn.
“I told you it will have to wait, Rhonda,” the male voice hissed.
The woman muttered a few sentences, but I only caught a snatch — “Whatever. I’m sick of it.”
I scrunched my face at Pete, figuring we were inadvertently eavesdropping on a bit of marital unbliss. Then I winked at him. We’d made it two days so far without that kind of unpleasantness.
Maybe a paying customer would give the unseen pair a chance to cool off. I tapped the service bell and cringed as its loud clang echoed off the hard surfaces necessary in a room that has to be sanitized every evening.
Rhonda’s head peeked around the corner. “Oh, Meredith.” She quickly smoothed her long hair with both hands and bustled to her chair. “Tuppence is just great. No complications. She’s ready to go home. If you give me a minute—” she clicked at her keyboard and the printer whirred to life. She slipped the invoice in front of me.
I dug in my purse for my wallet, and when I glanced up, a man stood behind Rhonda. He wore pointy-toed, heavily embossed cowboy boots, Wrangler jeans with creases pressed down the front of each leg, a Western shirt and a bolo tie with a giant turquoise clasp. His dirty blond hair was stick straight and flared a bit over his ears.
“Quincy Nugent.” He stuck out his right hand, aimed toward the gap between Pete and me. “The newlyweds. Have you considered life insurance? Lots of married couples do it, consider it their gift to each other.”
Pete and I froze awkwardly for a second, unsure who should go first in the obligatory return of politeness — if you could call being solicited for life insurance politeness.
I leaned sideways and scribbled my name on Rhonda’s receipt, leaving Pete to tend to the handshake. I frowned and took my time flipping through the care instructions Doc Corn had written for Tuppence. Pete mumbled something about not making important decisions in a hurry.
Quincy was obviously one of those people who was trying too hard — posturing. Either he was desperate for acceptance in this rural county, or he thought the charade would garner him more business. Only uninitiated people think the bolo tie is cowboy attire. I’m pretty sure the last thing a real cowboy wants to wear is a string around his neck. And the boots — not actually made for walking in, yet Quincy was giving it his best shot.
Rhonda held up a finger, indicating she was going into the back to retrieve Tuppence. She disappeared around the partition.
“It’s nice to meet you folks. ‘Course, Rhonda and I were at your wedding, but I mean to really talk with you, friend to friend.” Quincy scooted around the desk and crowded in. He lowered his voice. “Heard you’re expecting a big shipment up at the Imogene too. Must have quite a bit of money tied up in those collections, yeah? Can never be too careful. May I suggest a custom-written irreplaceable value rider on your policy?”
Pete has an uncanny ability to know when my blood pressure shoots up. Maybe I turn red — I don’t know. He eased in front of me and stared down at the smaller man.
Quincy backed up. “Well, you think about it. Just let me know. I’m happy to be of service.”
Nails clattered
Similar Books
