them, and absorb them in the same way. Because once he did, he could not let go and move on and forget. He never forgot. Was it any surprise, really, that he had become a veterinarian instead of a doctor? He was a man more comfortable with bonding with animals than people. Had his father really not seen it?
Jon relied on the comfort of how quiet, secluded, and consistent their neighbors were. He had known them all his life, and most accepted that Jon was the way he was, and never forced the awkwardness on him. All except the house that had stood empty on the property just to their east. Every season his anxiety would build as he waited to see if the Deschanel family would fill it for the summer, and bring the unwelcome expectations on him, as the eldest of the St. Andrews household, to entertain and welcome them. But thirty years passed since it was purchased, and no Deschanel had ever visited that home. The only movement in the house came from the weekly visit of the overseer Alex Whitman.
He should have known, when the house never went on the market, that someone would eventually show up.
Jon was in his back office reading about treatment options for a Yorkshire terrier with a pancreatic tumor when he heard the familiar jingling of the bell above the main door, startling him out of his concentration. He set his pen down to the left of the folder, and walked out and down the short hallway, to the reception area.
Ana Deschanel was standing in front of him, drenched and shivering. Water pooled near the door entrance and several rogue balls of hail rolled around near her feet. Jon’s eyes moved from the floor to Ana and back, and then rested on what was in her arms.
She was holding the limp, bleeding body of a brown cat and as Jon moved toward her, her eyes widened with relief. He moved to take the injured, possibly dying, cat from her arms. Ana was crying, and he felt her trembling.
“I...I tried...I couldn’t fix her...I tried,” she sobbed. Of course you couldn’t fix her, you ridiculous girl.
Jon gently lifted the cat into his own arms, and, without making eye contact, he turned and walked back to his procedure room.
As he closed the door behind him, he could hear the soft, muffled sobs from the front. He ignored them and went to work.
Chapter Eight: Ana
By her fourth week on the island, Ana started questioning whether she was really getting anything out of the change of scenery. New Orleans was really no different than this small island. The people who had put down their roots all knew each other; their histories, their secrets. Different accents, same problems.
As a Deschanel, she was different from most people, but it went beyond her family. She was quiet, but not shy. Withdrawn, but intelligent. But she knew–had always known–that she was unlike the girls she went to the Sacred Heart with, and even more unlike those she graduated Tulane with. There was something quiet, and dark, and... craving about her. She had not come to Maine to find herself. She knew who she was. She had come to squash it, privately, away from the eyes of the people who thought they knew who she was already. She was thirty now, and the thoughts were screaming at her to fix it now, before it was too late.
How many men had it been? She had lost count after the first month, and then one month stretched into almost a year. The men she chose didn’t require conversation or understanding. They didn’t need to know who she was, why she was in a seedy bar in the Faubourg Treme, why she couldn’t connect in a normal way with anyone.
She had learned many coping mechanisms over the years; methods of controlling herself so she seemed calm to others, despite how she actually felt. Everyone thought she was so normal, at first. Her friends, teachers, family, her boyfriends. But most of them had not known how to handle her introversion once they penetrated the surface.
But there was nothing normal about her inability to hold a
Jon relied on the comfort of how quiet, secluded, and consistent their neighbors were. He had known them all his life, and most accepted that Jon was the way he was, and never forced the awkwardness on him. All except the house that had stood empty on the property just to their east. Every season his anxiety would build as he waited to see if the Deschanel family would fill it for the summer, and bring the unwelcome expectations on him, as the eldest of the St. Andrews household, to entertain and welcome them. But thirty years passed since it was purchased, and no Deschanel had ever visited that home. The only movement in the house came from the weekly visit of the overseer Alex Whitman.
He should have known, when the house never went on the market, that someone would eventually show up.
Jon was in his back office reading about treatment options for a Yorkshire terrier with a pancreatic tumor when he heard the familiar jingling of the bell above the main door, startling him out of his concentration. He set his pen down to the left of the folder, and walked out and down the short hallway, to the reception area.
Ana Deschanel was standing in front of him, drenched and shivering. Water pooled near the door entrance and several rogue balls of hail rolled around near her feet. Jon’s eyes moved from the floor to Ana and back, and then rested on what was in her arms.
She was holding the limp, bleeding body of a brown cat and as Jon moved toward her, her eyes widened with relief. He moved to take the injured, possibly dying, cat from her arms. Ana was crying, and he felt her trembling.
“I...I tried...I couldn’t fix her...I tried,” she sobbed. Of course you couldn’t fix her, you ridiculous girl.
Jon gently lifted the cat into his own arms, and, without making eye contact, he turned and walked back to his procedure room.
As he closed the door behind him, he could hear the soft, muffled sobs from the front. He ignored them and went to work.
Chapter Eight: Ana
By her fourth week on the island, Ana started questioning whether she was really getting anything out of the change of scenery. New Orleans was really no different than this small island. The people who had put down their roots all knew each other; their histories, their secrets. Different accents, same problems.
As a Deschanel, she was different from most people, but it went beyond her family. She was quiet, but not shy. Withdrawn, but intelligent. But she knew–had always known–that she was unlike the girls she went to the Sacred Heart with, and even more unlike those she graduated Tulane with. There was something quiet, and dark, and... craving about her. She had not come to Maine to find herself. She knew who she was. She had come to squash it, privately, away from the eyes of the people who thought they knew who she was already. She was thirty now, and the thoughts were screaming at her to fix it now, before it was too late.
How many men had it been? She had lost count after the first month, and then one month stretched into almost a year. The men she chose didn’t require conversation or understanding. They didn’t need to know who she was, why she was in a seedy bar in the Faubourg Treme, why she couldn’t connect in a normal way with anyone.
She had learned many coping mechanisms over the years; methods of controlling herself so she seemed calm to others, despite how she actually felt. Everyone thought she was so normal, at first. Her friends, teachers, family, her boyfriends. But most of them had not known how to handle her introversion once they penetrated the surface.
But there was nothing normal about her inability to hold a
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