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"Good afternoon, Mrs. Ogilvy.” Mrs. Ogilvy looked up from the medical records piled on her desk. “Hello, Mister Owen.” “I wonder if Doctor Layne might have a moment to see me. Just for a minute.” “I’ll let him know you’re here. He’s been so busy. So many new patients. You understand.” “I do understand, Mrs. Ogilvy. It’s nothing urgent if he can’t spare the time.” Owen sat between a shabbily dressed man trying to suppress a cough and a matronly woman rubbing her ankle. Mr
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All in good time, my pretty. These things must be done delicately.
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Painters were clearing their drop-cloths and ladders from the shop as Jonas and Walter Aiken surveyed the space. “Very nicely done, Owen, my boy,” Jonas said. Ellie beamed with pride. “Isn’t it the best? And the soda fountain -- isn’t it gorgeous?” The Aikens surveyed the gleaming marble and shining metals. “Spectacular,” Walter said. Owen ducked his head in their direction. “I couldn’t have done it without the three Aikens. I really am very grateful.” “Very happy to help,” J
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“Then it’s settled,” Ellie said with satisfaction. She stood, hands on hips, looking at the shop’s north wall. “The soda fountain will be perfect here, and Papa and Uncle will get us the best marble and the best workmen to put it in, and Owen, you’ll order all the equipment from Mr. Dows, and the pharmacy,” she turned to the back of the shop, “will be there, and then there’s all this space here for anything else you want.” “Yes, dear,” Owen mumbled. “Owen, don’t sulk,” Ellie chided.
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Chapter 4 Mrs. Ogilvy’s thin voice barely carried over the sound of Layne scrubbing his hands. “Doctor, there’s a young man who insists on seeing you. I told him you were in surgery and he was rather put out. It was all I could do to make him wait. A Mister Owen.” “You may show him in. I’m done now. Jordan is finishing up.” “Yes, Doctor.” Owen shuffled in. As soon as Mrs. Ogilvy was out of hearing, he said, “Old bat. Kept me waiting for an hour.” “That old bat, as you ca
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“Doctor Layne!” The sound of Owen’s voice from across the street interrupted Layne’s contemplation of the white church before him. Layne was dressed in what he hoped was appropriately formal attire. He carried a silver-handled walking stick, more because he thought it suited the occasion than because he needed it; and he wore a heavy silver ring with a lapis lazuli stone. He turned to see Owen rushing toward him, away from a well-dressed young woman. She was holding an open umbrella, althou
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On Saturday Layne paid another visit to his neighbor, who was straining to place a newly-delivered display case. “Mr. Owen, that looks awfully heavy for one man to wrangle.” “Oh, Doctor Layne. Yes, I suppose it is.” “Allow me to assist.” Layne moved to one end of the case and together the men shifted it into position. “There, that’s better.” Owen clutched his stomach and grimaced. “Paulie! What’s wrong?” “Oh -- my stomach hurts sometimes. It’s probably nothing.”
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Thanks! I wish I could figure out how to attach the two photographs which inspired the story, but I haven't yet. Meanwhile, if you'd like to see them, they're on pinterest.com, if you look up "dr layne & mr owen". Or you may prefer your own imagination.
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At Franklin, New Hampshire, the waters of the Pemigewasset and the Winnipesaukee flow together. From that point the river they form is known by neither name, but by the new name Merrimack, as if an entirely new river had bubbled up at the confluence. The town grew quickly after the establishment of water-powered mills in the early nineteenth century, and by the 1870s it was thriving. Winfield Layne’s medical practice in Franklin was not thriving in the early spring of 1872. Mill workers we
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A romance inspired by two photographs from the late 19th century. Some of the historical details and people of the story are from the actual history of Franklin, NH; others, including the two main characters, are fictional. I have changed their names from the names written on the backs of the photographs.
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Vic finds an old letter written by his great-uncle Martin describing a very peculiar encounter.
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To Vic the family delegated the task of emptying out Uncle Martin’s apartment. It’s not as if Vic and Martin had been particularly close. Vic knew that his cousin, or great-uncle once removed, or whatever Martin was exactly, was a generous, principled, good man who had been very active in AIDS service organizations in the 80s and 90s. But he knew nothing of Martin’s personal life. Still, being between jobs, he didn’t mind preparing his cousin’s belongings for storage, now that Martin had to move
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Yes, it will. I probably should be more definite about the span of time in which this is all taking place. But I have an idea for how Sam might heighten his visibility.
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Sam went outside the hardware store to survey his work. He had finally gotten the hang of painting on the inside of the windows so that the image he wanted would appear correctly when viewed from outside, but it still felt like adding layers backwards. As he noted a few details to fix, a man stopped next to him on the sidewalk. "Wow, that's really nice, isn't it? Raises the level of the neighborhood a notch," the man said. "Thanks," Sam replied. The man looked at him in surprise. "You mean yo
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Can't guarantee the no drama part.
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I think the cages will confirm our suspicions that Rev. Farrow is not a nice man.
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Noah groaned. “Move over, Sam. Let me do it.” Sam yielded the computer chair to Noah. “If you’d just give me a minute I could get it. I’m not as fast as you with this stuff.” “Understatement of the year. We look for Craigslist, then find Blythe or some place close by. Here it is. See? And over in this column is Jobs -- a whole list by category. So which one do you want to look at?” “Let me go through them myself. I want to take my time.” “OK. You do know the back button, right?” “Yes.” “If
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Sam sat outside the soundproof studio at KRFA as Adam Talbot concluded his broadcast with a few brief news items. “In Salem, Califoregon, Henrietta Buckle is taking her lawsuit claiming religious discrimination to the State Supreme Court. Ms. Buckle recently joined the Rectilinear Church of Palo Alto, which draws most of its membership from born-again Christians who feel called to intensify their opposition to social change, hence the frequent term for them, ‘born-yet-again Christians.’ “Ms. B
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An idea for at least a second chapter has slowly been forming in my brain.
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Some sympathetic chord has been struck, or Gary wouldn't have reacted as he did. But he's left with mere hints of a road not taken, a possibility unfulfilled, a connection severed.
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I thought of the idea for the story some time ago after contemplating the parallels between handedness and sexual orientation. But now that the story is underway, the parallels begin to break down, and I have to let the characters do what they want.
