Read My Sunshine Online

Authors: Catherine Anderson

My Sunshine

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

My Sunshine

 

A
Signet
Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

All rights reserved.

Copyright ©
2005
by
Adeline Catherine Anderson

This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is
http://www.penguinputnam.com

 

ISBN:
978-1-1012-1019-2

 

A
SIGNET
BOOK®

Signet
Books first published by The Signet Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

SIGNET
and the “
S
” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

 

Electronic edition: February, 2005

 

“Coulter Family” books by Catherine Anderson

Phantom Waltz

Sweet Nothings

Blue Skies

Bright Eyes

Other Signet Books by Catherine Anderson

Always in My Heart

Only by Your Touch

This book is dedicated to Reverend James Radloff, known to his parishioners as Father Jim, a priest who has touched countless lives, including ours. As a writer, I seldom find myself at a loss for words, but sometimes feelings run too deep to be easily expressed. So I'll fall back on simplicity and merely say, “Thank you.” Thank you for being such a wonderful, dedicated priest. Thank you for your friendship and guidance. Thank you for always being there. And, last but not least, thank you for all the wonderful Monday nights.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

A wonderful lady named Virginia Son, my stepmother and good friend, was my inspiration as I wrote
My Sunshine
. Her courage and cheerful optimism became a template as I developed the character of Laura Townsend. Thank you, Virginia, for your fabulous smile and infectious laughter. You set an example for everyone who knows you by teaching all of us an invaluable lesson: how to keep going even when we can't quite remember the way or clearly see the signposts up ahead. When you read this book—and I know you'll be able to one day soon—I hope you see yourself in the story.

Prologue

L
ightning flashed in the leaden sky, each brilliant burst quickly followed by a deafening clap of thunder. Rain pelted the vehicle with such force it sounded like pea gravel striking metal. Peering through the windshield, Isaiah Coulter could barely make out the houses along the tree-lined street. He dreaded the thought of making the fifty-foot sprint to the covered front porch of his parents' suburban residence. Not for the first time since this storm had started, he wished he'd thought to grab a jacket before leaving home that morning.

When he pushed open the door of the Hummer, his shirtsleeve grew instantly wet and icy, compliments of the high mountain chill that always descended on Crystal Falls, Oregon, when the autumn sunlight was obscured by clouds. Isaiah clenched his teeth, sprang from the vehicle, and broke into a run even as he slammed the door behind him.

Water streamed from his face by the time he reached the porch, and dripping shanks of dark brown hair were plastered to his forehead. Swearing under his breath, he raked back the strands
with rain-slicked fingers and slapped uselessly at his soaked shirt.

“Mom?” he yelled as he opened the front door. “It's me, Isaiah!”

As he wiped his feet on the entryway rug, Isaiah scanned the tidy living area, barely registering any details because the furniture and decorations were so familiar. On the longest wall, the faces of his brothers and sister as well as his own stared back at him from countless framed photographs, a pictorial record of their lives from infancy to adulthood. The delicious smells of warm apple pie and freshly brewed coffee greeted him as he moved farther into the room.

“In the kitchen, dear heart!” Mary Coulter called.

Following his nose and the sound of her voice, Isaiah stepped into the archway. Standing at the kitchen counter, his mother flashed him a welcoming smile. Her plump cheeks rosy, her dark hair lying in loose curls around her face, she was, in Isaiah's eyes, just as beautiful at almost sixty as she had been twenty years ago.

“How's my best girl?” he asked.

“Hmph,” she responded with a shake of her head. “And isn't that a fine kettle of fish? The handsomest of all my sons, and you're still single.”

Isaiah knew very well that he wasn't the handsomest pup in her litter. In truth, he and his brothers were all carbon copies of their dad and looked pretty much the same. As for his being single, he liked it that way. Veterinary medicine was a demanding field, leaving him little time for personal relationships. Someday, when his life grew less
hectic, he might consider settling down, but for now he needed to stay focused on his career.

“Ah, Mom,” he replied in a whiny baritone, his stock response when Mary needled him about getting married.

“Don't you ‘ah, Mom' me. Just look at you, Isaiah Joel, drenched to the skin and blue around the lips. You need someone with good sense to look after you.” She tossed him a hand towel. “Mop up as best you can before you make puddles on my floor.” She glanced at his boots. “If you've tracked in horse dung, I'll snatch you bald-headed.”

Catching the towel in one fist, Isaiah blotted his face and dried the back of his neck. “My boots got pressure-washed coming across the lawn, and I wiped them dry on the rug. As for my lips being blue, that's because it's colder than a well digger's ass out there.”

“Your lips are blue because it's October and you aren't wearing a coat. A man with your IQ should know better.”

“I know better. I just forgot.”

“You'd forget your head if it weren't attached. Absentminded, I guess, always thinking deep thoughts and oblivious to everything else.”

“It was sunny when I left the house this morning.”

“Grab your father's sweatshirt there on the back of the chair and put it on. You'll catch your death, sitting around in that wet thing you're wearing.”

Isaiah did feel cold. He quickly divested himself of the wet garment, plucked a plastic shopping sack from the cloth bag holder hanging on a hook
by the kitchen door, and stuffed the shirt inside. A moment later, as he drew his dad's sweatshirt over his head, his mother clucked her tongue, saying, “Your ribs are showing, Isaiah Joel. I swear, a high wind would blow you away.”

Isaiah knew very well he wasn't that thin. “Ah, Mom.”

Accustomed to Mary's scolding, Isaiah bent to kiss her cheek before taking a chair at the round oak table in one corner of the kitchen. “Man, that pie sure does smell good.”

“Made it especially for you.” Mary took two pie plates from the cupboard and set herself to the task of cutting the dessert. “It's not often anymore that I know ahead of time when you're coming over.”

“If apple pie is my reward, I'll start calling in advance. It's my favorite.”

Mary smiled. “Yes, I know. I'm your mother, remember.”

“Thanks for making me a pie, Mom. That was sweet of you.” Isaiah settled back on the chair. “Where's Pop?”

Mary released a shrill little sigh, conveying with a lift of her shoulders that her trials were many as Harv Coulter's wife. “He set out early this morning to meet Zeke at Natalie's supper club. Something's gone haywire with the refrigeration system, I think. After that, he was heading out to the Lazy J to help Hank and Jake mend fence line. His back has been giving him fits all week, but do you think he'll take it easy?”

“He enjoys helping at the ranch, Mom. Just
because he's retired doesn't mean he has to stop living.”

“I know.” Mary released another sigh. “And Jake and Hank really do need the help right now. With Molly expecting again, and Carly trying to care for a baby so soon after eye surgery, both your brothers are spread mighty thin.”

Isaiah had been so busy that he'd nearly forgotten his sister-in-law's corneal surgery. “How's Carly doing?”

“Good.” Mary beamed a glad smile as she licked a bit of pie filling from her fingertip. “She can see, at any rate. The major problem right now is retraining her thingamajig.”

“Her visual cortex,” Isaiah offered.

“There you go,” she agreed with a nod. “All those medical terms go in one of my ears and out the other. Hank called last night. He bought some red duct tape and lined the edges of all the steps so Carly can tell where one ends and another starts. She almost fell on the front porch yesterday when she was carrying Hank Junior.”

Isaiah winced. “No wonder Hank's taping the steps.”

“He says it helped.” Mary opened another cupboard to get some coffee mugs. “With no depth perception, she can't see the stair treads clearly.”

Enjoying the warmth that still radiated from the oven, Isaiah sighed and flexed his shoulders. It was strange, he thought, how quickly he could always relax in his mother's kitchen. He guessed it was because the room was a reflection of the woman herself: small, colorful, busy, and full of love.

The fact that Mary Coulter loved her children was in evidence everywhere he looked. All available surfaces were crowded with plaster hand-prints, school portraits, art projects gone yellow with age, and silly stuff that he or his siblings had given her over the years, including a knickknack shelf filled with some old-fashioned power-pole insulators that Isaiah and his twin brother, Tucker, had carted home one long-ago day. Now it appeared that Mary had begun to collect grandchild keepsakes. Jake's son's baby booties were pinned to the ruffled white curtains at the window, and the front of the refrigerator was hidden by his crayon creations, all of which were nothing but scribbles.

Normally Isaiah disliked clutter, but somehow his mom made it work. The crowded walls and splashes of color were not only pleasing to the eye but also oddly soothing. The tension that had knotted his shoulders all day eased away as he rocked back in the chair. He observed his mother with a faint smile. Even her apron took him back through the years, a white frilly thing with embroidery on the pockets that she'd worn for as long as he could remember.

As always, she chattered nonstop as she worked, launching into a story about some neighbor's granddaughter as she drew a half-gallon of vanilla ice cream from the freezer and rifled through a drawer, looking for the scoop. Isaiah listened with only half an ear, his mind on a cow he'd treated that morning.

“Anyway,” Mary said as she advanced on the
table, “the reason I asked you to stop by is because I have an idea I want to run by you.”

Isaiah accepted the plate his mother slid toward him. “An idea about what?” he asked as he forked up a chunk of juicy fruit and flaky golden crust that dripped with melting ice cream.

“Not what,
who,
” Mary corrected. After filling two mugs with piping-hot coffee, she returned to the table and took a seat across from him. “It's about Laura, the young woman I've been telling you about.”

Isaiah didn't recall his mother's saying anything about someone named Laura. He sent her a bewildered look.

Mary huffed in exasperation. “Haven't you been listening?”

Isaiah swallowed and nodded. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

He lowered his fork back to the plate. “I'm sorry, Mom. I guess I'm a little distracted.”

“What is it this time?” Mary asked resignedly. “Not another rat fatality, I hope.”

Isaiah winced at the reminder. Two months ago, a new tech had prepped some lady's pet rat for abdominal surgery. After shaving the rodent's belly, she'd tried to vacuum up the fur and accidentally sucked up the rat as well. Isaiah had been left to explain the rat's unexpected demise to its owner. It hadn't been one his finest moments as a veterinarian.

“No, not a rat, thank God. A cow this time. Uterine infection. I've done three flushes and hit her with every antibiotic there is. If this next round
doesn't work, I'll have to put her down. The farmer's a young guy with a growing family. He can't afford to lose her.”

Mary reached across the table to push a tendril of hair from Isaiah's eyes. “Oh, sweetie, you worry me so.”

Isaiah caught her wrist to kiss her fingertips. “I'm fine, Mom. Just busy, that's all.”

“You're not fine,” she insisted. “Just look at you.”

Isaiah glanced down. “What's wrong with me?”

“You've lost weight, for starters, and your hair is so long it's almost to your collar. And where on earth did you find that shirt you were wearing? It looked like you slept in it.”

Isaiah shrugged. “It just looked bad because it was wet.”

“Wet, my foot—it was wrinkled.”

“I forgot to take it from the dryer, that's all. I shook it out.”

Mary rolled her blue eyes toward the ceiling. “And your weight? You can't be eating right. What did you have for breakfast?”

Isaiah tried to recall and couldn't. “Yogurt, probably.”

“Probably?”

“A dog got run over, Mom. I was in surgery at six forty-five.”

“So you ate no breakfast.” Mary nodded sagely. “And lunch? Please tell me you had something.”

He'd wolfed down a package of Twinkies and a bag of Cheese Nips between ranch calls. “I ate while I was driving.” He glanced guiltily at his
hands, hoping his fingers weren't stained yellow. “I'm doing fine. Really.”

“Ha. If ever a man needed a wife to look after him, it's you.”

“Are we back to that again?” Isaiah chuckled. “Let up on me, Mom. Like getting married would solve everything? It's a new generation. Young women today don't stay at home and look after their husbands. They have demanding careers of their own, and that's just as it should be.”

“There must be a few old-fashioned girls left out there.”

If so, Isaiah hadn't encountered any. Not that he'd been looking. “Maybe so,” he settled for saying, then glanced at his watch. “About that idea you wanted to discuss. If we're going to talk, we need to get cracking. I have to be back at the clinic by three.”

Mary took a sip of her coffee. “Do you remember my neighbor, Etta Parks?”

“The old lady two doors down?” A fleeting image of a pretty, silver-haired woman passed through Isaiah's mind. “Yeah, I remember her.”

Mary smiled. “Laura is her granddaughter. She's a lovely, sweet girl. Almost every day she comes by to see Etta while she's out walking the dogs.”

“Dogs? How many does she have?”

“Oh, they're not actually hers.” Mary's blue eyes went misty. “That's one of the ways Laura supplements her disability income, by walking people's dogs or caring for them while the owners are on vacation. I think she does other things as well,
housework and ironing and such. But it's her knack with animals that made me think of you.”

Isaiah realized that his mother was working her way up to something. He glanced at his watch again. “I'm sorry. I'm not following. A disability income, did you say?”

Mary filled in the blanks, explaining how Etta's granddaughter had gone swimming with friends five years before and hit her head on a rock when she dove into the river. “It left her with brain damage of some kind,” she explained.

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