Last Licks

He launched into a spirited version of “When I’m Sixty-Four.” Some of the older audience members didn’t know the words, but Gardner Scatterwell joined in. So did Mike, and then Ollie. Finally Sunny picked up the chorus. She noticed one woman who wasn’t singing, but still tapped out the rhythm on the armrest of her wheelchair. Luke played a selection of tunes from several generations, from hits to standards to children’s songs. It was kind of silly, but Sunny found herself chiming in with as much gusto as the older members of the audience. The grand finale was “On Top of Spaghetti,” where Luke did a sort of call and response routine. It was obviously a favorite of the regulars in the group, drawing hearty applause.

“I’m afraid that’s it for today,” the guitarist eventually said. “Thanks to all of you for coming. I’ll be back here in a couple of days. And especially thanks to Oliver, Mike, and Sunny. I hope I’ll see you again.”

“Count on it,” Mike said heartily, and then looked embarrassed. After all, he was only a guest.

Gardner Scatterwell laughed. “Well, I need someone to wheel me in here. You volunteering, Mike?”

As they rolled back to Room 114, Sunny was glad to see that Ollie looked a little more animated. “He seems like a nice guy.”

“Hell of a guitarist,” Gardner said. “Did you listen to those little snatches of song he plays between the sing-alongs? Folk, jazz, rock, classical . . . this kid would have been a big help on the Cosmic Blade, right, Mike? Why’d the band ever break up anyway?”

He continued with funny anecdotes about the high school band’s musical career until they reached the room—and a mean-looking heavyset man leaped up from the visitor’s chair to loom over Ollie.

“Where the hell have you been, Barnstable?” the man demanded in a gravelly voice that was all too familiar. This could only be Mr. Orton. “What are you trying to pull?”

3

The one certainty that Sunny had found in her work relationship with Oliver Barnstable was his uncertain temper—or rather, the certainty that sooner or later he would erupt over something. An unworthy part of her was just glad that this time around, she wasn’t the one he was unloading on, but the unpleasant Mr. Orton.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Ollie the Barnacle demanded. “Dancing Gangnam Style?” His normal red color came flooding back to his face as he pointed at his injured leg. “I busted this, and they doped me up to keep me out of it while they screwed with my leg—screwed in it, actually. So I haven’t paid much attention to our deal, Orton. I’ll get to it when I get to it.”

“Then you should have read this more carefully.” Orton jerked a thumb at the overstuffed envelope still sitting on Ollie’s hospital table. “If you had, you’d know that the option for that parcel of land you want has a time limit on it. Go over the time limit, and you’ll have to renegotiate the whole agreement. And I promise you, the longer you jerk me around on this deal, the more you’re going to end up paying.”

With that, Orton stomped out of the room, leaving Ollie to chew his lips in silence for a moment. Then he turned to Sunny. “Have you got the number for my lawyer?”

Luckily, Sunny had that one memorized. She recited it to Ollie, who punched it into his bedside phone. The conversation was brief and definitely unpleasant, with Ollie demanding his counsel get up to Bridgewater Hall as soon as possible. He hung up still angry. “We’ll have to go over this damned contract,” Ollie said as if it were all Sunny’s fault. “I’ll want you here in the morning to pick it up.”

Before he could complain any more, a woman in a white lab coat entered the room. From the way she walked, Sunny suspected this was a woman who didn’t put up with much. She didn’t look more than ten years older than Sunny, though a few gray strands were beginning to appear in the brown hair she wore pulled back. Her skin was pale, her cheekbones high, and her lips were full—or would be if she relaxed them from that tightly pursed expression—and her eyes were a stony gray, set on either side of a proud beak of a nose.

“Evening, Doctor,” Gardner Scatterwell said, his voice sounding like a fawning grade school student.

The doctor paid no attention to him, nor to Sunny and her dad. “I am Dr. Gavrik,” she announced to Ollie in a slightly accented voice. “I have read your charts from the hospital and will perform an examination now.”

With a few brusque movements, she got Ollie back into bed and then pulled the curtains around them. “Your blood pressure is much higher than it has been at your other readings,” they heard her comment from behind the gaily patterned fabric.

“He just had a rather tense business discussion,” Mike called in explanation.

For just a second, Dr. Gavrik’s face appeared from behind the curtain, her expression withering. “Did I ask you for a diagnosis?” she all but hissed at him.

Mike glanced at Sunny and his own face reddened.