Winner The Crystal Awards 2016, Best Multimedia Story (3d Place).
A spinster doctor rents her spare room to a brain-damaged patient who doesn't know he is a former undercover agent targeted for execution by a powerful criminal.
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Mitchell never forgets the feeling of raging hormones that had her nearly kissing Jean one evening. Now, even though weeks have passed, she's still hoping to find a way to send him elsewhere to live. Well, maybe not hoping exactly, but she is occasionally thinking about it. And one of his new paintings may have given her the clue she needs.
Enjoy Chapter 12 of DUBY'S DOCTOR.
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Weeks of hard work, since his graduation from St. Luke's Daycare, had transformed Jean's room into the studio of a full-time artist. Somewhere in there, a bed sank beneath a sea of sketches and canvases. Jean would have to dig himself a place to sleep later tonight, but until then, he stood near his south-facing window and added careful brushstrokes to the painting on his easel.
Downstairs, the front door slammed and Mitchell called, "Mommy's home!"
Jean heard mail dumped on a table, footsteps crossing a tile floor, the refrigerator opening and closing, and the pop-fizz of Mitchell opening a can of soda. Moments later, Mitchell entered his studio carrying a diet soda and unbuttoning her white lab coat. She commented on the watercolor on his easel.
"Ah, that's what I like to see: the working artist turning out more inventory. What is it this time?"
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"Boats. The gallery says all the tourists want boats." Jean continued to paint.
Mitchell studied the canvas. Something seemed familiar. "Is that the marina at Dinner Key?"
"Dinner, breakfast, lunch, I don't know. I just thought of boats, and this is what came."
"Hmm," she said. "Oh, I talked to Hector. He says he'll help us build our booth."
"Great!"
"Yeah," said Mitchell and sipped at her soda. "So, I'm going down to the library on Saturday to get the paperwork finished. Arts Festival, here we come!"
"Dan wants to help, too."
Mitchell stopped in mid-sip. "Dan Kavanaugh?"
"Oui."
"The guy who beat the stuffing out of you – and vice versa – at the Daycare? That Dan Kavanaugh? Are you nuts?"
"He's okay. He's in counseling."
Mitchell had no response.
All she could think to do was drink her soda and enjoy the scenery: the tight shorts made from cut-off jeans, the sleeveless muscle shirt, and the muscles under it. Personally, she liked the shaggy hair and the five o'clock shadow. Professionally, she appreciated that the rebuilt left knee was itself a work of art.
He painted, and she watched him, until the light from the window began to fade. Then, while he cleaned his equipment and brushes, she went downstairs to prepare dinner.
