Three
Grace was glad William opened her door, as she wasn’t sure her trembling hand could manage the long metal key. After setting her trunk at the foot of the four-poster bed, William pushed aside the drapes and opened the window, allowing a cool breeze off the Sound to flutter the white curtains.
“Oh, could you keep the window closed, please? I’m chilled, I’m afraid.”
William complied and asked if she’d like a fire built in the coal brazier.
“No, I’ll be fine.” She handed him coins for his service. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw Dr. Millikan walk by her door just before William closed it. The man was attractive, but what should she make of his dismissive comments about the wasting treatment? Should she keep the dinner appointment? Maybe she should go down early or plead a headache. Jenny had said the only man at the sanatorium was Dr. Hazzard’s husband, Sam. Was Dr. Hazzard branching out, hiring new torturers? What kind of a reputable doctor would pursue treatments the locals described as starvation? People did fast, after all. Religious people especially. But they didn’t die of starvation.
She would use this dinner. She’d ask questions and try to find out what was going on at the hospital. It was a gift, her running into this doctor. She would glean from him what she could that would help her rescue Rebecca.
She unpacked and dabbed a wet cloth at the wrinkles on her dress. Then she napped without dreaming. Within an hour she was donning a yellow linen dress with a chaste scoop neck filled in with a cream lace inlay, the sort of dinner gown one might wear in Chicago or New York. Stylish but not provocative. Brown piping marked the neckline and, from bodice to waist, stripes of the same brown piping emphasized her twenty-four-inch waist. When she wore the slenderizing dress, she always felt taller, oddly, and more confident. She needed that tonight. She’d found herself slightly attracted to a man who might well be a cultist or charlatan at best, a destructive physician using his powers to harm rather than heal, at worst. She didn’t know which he might be, but she would find out and be strong, corralling her emotions in the process.
She descended the stairs at 7:25 p.m., according to the gold watch encircling her narrow wrist. It was a Tiffany design her parents had sent to her for her twenty-fifth birthday in February, with a note saying they had planned to give her the watch when she wed, but they weren’t sure they’d live that long. The less-than-subtle hint had not gone unnoticed.
She hoped to be a little early for dinner. Maybe she’d enter the dining room on her own, demonstrating her independence rather than have Claude Millikan escort her inside. But he already stood at the bottom of the steps, dressed in a dark brown suit with a yellow handkerchief that matched his yellow tie and perched like a flower out of his breast pocket. Yellow and brown. Good grief, it looked like they were . . . together, the exact same sunflower colors being worn by them both.
“You look lovely, Miss Hathaway.”
“Thank you. I see you like yellow too, Doctor Millikan.” She nodded as she walked toward the dining room. She rather liked the raised eyebrow of surprise on his face. She wasn’t at all sure how she felt about his touching her elbow as they entered the room of white-covered tables. A purple iris in a slender vase sat on each one.
“I’ve only eaten here this week,” Dr. Millikan said. “But I enjoy the evening light by that window table over there.” He nodded toward the side table and, when she didn’t resist, suggested those seats to the host. Claude continued his press against her elbow. She ought to have worn a dress with longer sleeves. Perhaps then his touch wouldn’t have shivered her skin nor would she have felt so cool when he left her side as the host slid in her chair.
“As you’ve eaten here before, perhaps you can suggest something?”
“The sea bass is wonderful as the desk clerk mentioned. I’ve had it twice this week and not been disappointed. Thank you,” Claude told the host as he accepted the large menu. “The berry sauce is perfect.” He took out small glasses to read the menu, then returned them to his inside breast pocket.
“I understand the town itself is named for a kind of berry.”
“That, and from a short story by the famed novelist and travel writer Robert Louis Stevenson. Are you familiar with his work, Miss Hathaway?”
Grace nodded. “But I’ve never heard of a work called Olalla.”
“Published in 1885. Lovely short story of overlooking our flaws to find true happiness within each other. He’s a Scot and this place has the look of Scotland if I do say so myself. The story even has a doctor as a principal character, always a fine addition to a tale.” He smiled, those hazel eyes boring into hers.
“You failed to mention your profession when you introduced yourself earlier.”
“Some are put off by the medical moniker and I didn’t want to risk that with such a lovely new acquaintance.”
Grace looked back at the menu, grateful it was so tall she couldn’t see over it once she held it up to read.
A literary man, well-traveled it seemed, and one not uncomfortable discussing matters of the heart. This was not a good sign for a woman wanting to keep an emotional distance while interrogating him as subtly as she could.
They placed their dinner orders, and Grace said she understood he was employed at the sanatorium.
He choked at the water glass he’d just lifted to his mouth, apologized, and with his napkin, wiped his lips, generous lips on a smooth face with no whiskers. “You’ve done some detecting about me.”
“Not really. I eavesdropped as I was removed to my room.” She remembered Caroline’s “evens-dropped” word and smiled.
“Ah.”
“I’m quite intrigued. What do you do at the hospital, Dr. Millikan?”
“I . . . I’m doing research, actually. And please, call me Claude if you would.”
“All right, Claude. What sort of research?”
“Extending my credentials by working with Dr. Hazzard. I . . . have an interest in digestive matters, as does the apothecary company I work for. Her patients come from all over the world. There are two British women there now, just arrived. And why are you in Olalla?”
“I’ve come to Olalla to . . .” She stopped herself. She’d planned to say to visit a friend, but perhaps there was a better way to get into the inner workings of the sanatorium and in so doing find a path to get Rebecca out. She coughed to cover her hesitancy, took a sip of her water. He’d changed the subject deftly from what he was doing there to what she was doing here. “I have a friend staying at the sanatorium. I’m bringing her greetings from her daughter. I’ve come to bring her a little assistance in her healing.”
“You’re a nurse?”
“No. A musician. It’s my belief that music comforts the soul, opens it in fact when other methods falter. Music promotes healing. I would propose that music increases digestion which is, of course, what Dr. Hazzard’s theory hopes to do through fasting, I believe. Fasting until one reaches health, am I not correct?”
“By all means.”
Was he saying “by all means” one needs to fast or agreeing that “the end result is health . . . by all means”?
“What is your friend’s ailment, if I might ask?”
“A broken heart. Her husband drowned some months back and she is grieving.”
A frown, small as a horse shivering a fly from its flank, crossed Claude’s face. “Dr. Hazzard is unlikely to have accepted someone for treatment who lacks a physical problem.”
Grace hadn’t considered that Rebecca might actually be ill.
“No one spoke of any ailment.”
“Have you chanced to read Dr. Hazzard’s book?”
“I have. She’s quite outspoken, saying ‘Appetite is Craving; Hunger is Desire’ and that ‘Craving is never satisfied; but Desire is relieved when want is supplied.’ I think my friend is craving love and she is attempting to find it in this unusual way.”
Claude sat back in his chair. “You’ve memorized a portion of her book.”
“I don’t hold with all she says.” Grace decided to be neutral about Dr. Hazzard, not express her deepest worries based on Jenny’s visit. She wanted Claude as an ally. “But I agree with her that eating without hunger can pander to appetite at the expense of good health. I’m not sure that it necessarily leads to desire or that fasting is the way to meet that desire. Health is what matters to me. I’m sure it’s what matters to you as well, as a physician. Emotional and spiritual health count too.”
“Most definitely. But your friend must have a physical need or how else would the doctor determine when the fasting is complete?”
“Yes . . . I see what you’re saying.”
Could Rebecca have developed some disease? Was that what had caused her to lose the weight Jenny had described? Perhaps a cancer. How would she determine if Rebecca should leave and should she find another hospital for her, to treat what truly ailed her?
Grace unfurled the white linen napkin. “What are the procedures at the sanatorium, if I might ask?”
“They conform closely to Dr. Hazzard’s writing. Reduced food intake. Massage treatments, hiking, extensive exercise, and other . . . activities.” Claude looked past her as he spoke. “They’re quite scheduled there.” He looked back at her. “Have you made arrangements to visit?”
“I didn’t think that was necessary. I just intend to arrive and see my friend. Surely there can be no problem with that.”
Again that slight frown. “I would be happy to let your friend know that you wish to see her. Sometimes people don’t want visitors. I could convey your concerns to her.”
“That’s kind, but I’ve come all this way so of course I’ll see Rebecca myself. I have things to share with her. I—”
“It was only a suggestion.” His voice crooned. “To save you discomfort.”
“I don’t need saving, sir.” She sounded firmer than intended and was relieved when oysters on the half shell arrived, followed by a watercress salad with tiny red berries on top. When she looked at Claude again, he stared back with eyes full of curiosity beneath those arched eyebrows. It bothered her no end that she was pleased by the attention of someone condoning these obscure and possibly dangerous treatments.
They finished the main course and Claude was right about the sea bass. She’d never eaten such a flavorful dish. The sauce was tangy yet sweet. Then came the dessert, a frothy meringue tinted with lemon strips that ended the perfect meal, satisfying her food appetite. She wasn’t so sure about her appetite for information. Every time she asked for more detail about Wilderness Heights or Linda Hazzard, Claude answered with brief replies, then changed the subject. She found herself telling him about her life. Usually she could get men to talk about themselves, but this time he had her speaking of her time in New York at the Third Street Settlement House where she’d trained in music and worked serving lower eastside immigrants. “It was both a place to nurture neighborhoods through music but also create a kind of family for me by helping young children and their parents. I loved the work there,” she told Claude.
“Why did you leave?”
“Oh, I like adventure too. I left New York for Minneapolis teaching music at a conservatory there. Then to Cincinnati and on to Chicago and finally to Oregon.” Rebecca had urged her west. She hadn’t told Claude that, only that a friend had asked her to bring her love of music and children and teaching west.
“And you came to Olalla from where?”
“The very high desert of Oregon,” she told him. “I teach piano to the children of the vast ranches there.” She sipped her coffee. Both had declined wine or after-dinner liquors.
“You don’t stay long in one place then.”
“A week at each ranch, then I return to the beginning of the circuit, you might say.”
“No, I mean it sounds like you don’t stay at any one venue for very long. New York. Minneapolis. Cincinnati. Chicago. The high desert . . .”
“Well, I . . . A year or so isn’t exactly running away.” But in a way it was. She’d always been restless, hungry for something but she wasn’t sure what. Her parents lamented her difficulty in putting down roots, in not allowing a place or its people to satisfy her. His insight bothered her and his audacity at pointing it out with them having only just met made her want to tug at her corset where drops of perspiration had formed.
“And where did you come from?” She could change the subject too.
“California,” he said, adding nothing beyond.
“Most of it.” He pushed shards of meringue around on his plate and didn’t look at her. He certainly wasn’t a braggart but a little more information would have been nice. She’d have to draw him out.
“Do you have any patients from California at the sanatorium?”
“I’m not sure where the patients are from.” He motioned for the check. “And they aren’t really my patients.”
She didn’t remind him that he’d told her there were British patients there. But maybe their accents gave them away and he really didn’t have any idea of a patient’s background.
“It would seem helpful to know something of patients’ lives and families before coming for . . . improved health. One would think such knowledge would facilitate the treatments.”
“One would think so,” Claude said.
“Will you be returning to the sanatorium in the morning?” Grace asked as he escorted her to her room.
“Most definitely. Would you care to meet me early in the lobby? We could make the crossing together.”
“Thank you. I would appreciate that.” They climbed the stairs. “And might I impose upon you to make the introduction to Dr. Hazzard for me? I do so want to meet her and find out how she thinks Rebecca is doing.”
“I’m not so . . . Certainly. It would be my pleasure.” With that he opened her door, then stepped away, thanking her for a lovely dinner. Then he moved down the hall to his own room.
Inside Grace sat at the dressing table thinking of the evening. She opened Dr. Hazzard’s book and reread the short section she’d quoted to Claude.
Appetite is Craving; Hunger is Desire. Craving is never Satisfied; but Desire is relieved when Want is Supplied. Eating without Hunger, or pandering to Appetite at the expense of Digestion, makes Disease inevitable.
Grace thought about the word “desire.” She loved the Proverbs’ definition of desire, coming from the words “Desire accomplished is sweet to the soul.” She didn’t think food hunger was the only way to look at desire. Everyone had desires, it was part of how we were created. It was a natural inclination to dream: to hunger, to reach. And when one accomplished one’s goal, the result was sweet to the soul. That was satisfaction. But certainly desiring to “be well” by voluntarily refusing food until one actually became ill was not healthy even if it did remove corpulence. Surely Rebecca hadn’t come all this way to eliminate a few pounds, and no one had said she had any physical ailments. She hungered for something else, something that couldn’t be satisfied by food, and now the lack of food may well have touched her decision-making so she couldn’t take food in, even if she wanted to.
Grace wanted more than anything to bring Rebecca home to relieve the suffering of her child and relieve Rebecca’s suffering too. That was surely a desire worth pursuing. She only hoped Dr. Claude Millikan would be a help—and not get in her way.