Professor MacAfee

A short story- word count: 7,539

“Mrs. Whittenour,” Professor McAfee called.  “Mrs. Whittenour!” He bellowed coughing violently.

At last she entered the study pushing a tea chart laden with teacups, a piping hot teapot. The cart was also filled with luscious cakes, and cookies, and of course, Professor McAfee’s favorite plum jam.

“You’ll cough yourself to death yelling for me like that, Professor,” she scolded him.

“Well, blast it woman, if you would answer me when I call I wouldn’t have to cough myself to death,” he complained.  “You probably want me to die anyway.”

“That’s right, Professor, nothing would give me greater joy then to have you meet your maker.”

Actually no statement could be further from the truth. Mrs. Whittenour had been in the Professor’s service for nearly forty years, and was quite fond of the old man.

“Hand me my pipe, woman,” he demanded. She did as he requested pulling his favorite pipe from the rack on the mantelpiece. “Don’t forget the tobacco,” he instructed, pointing at his desk on the opposite end of his study. She gathered his things and presented them to him.

“And would you like for me to smoke it for you?” she asked, her hands folded in front of her, resting low on her apron. Her sarcasms were wasted on him.

“Smoke it? What, what is that you say?” He packed his pipe and struck a match to it, puffing hard to get the fire stoked. “Don’t forget the box of Kleenex.”

But, he didn’t need to remind her. She was already reaching for one in the small closet beside the bookcase.

“You know Sarah Marie will be here tonight and the woman has a nose that never stops running. Disgusting affliction,” he muttered as he puffed on his pipe.

“I know Professor. You can stop bossing me around, I have been setting up for your Thursday night tea social for five years now, and it is the same every time.”

She checked the tea cart again to make sure she had not forgotten anything, and realizing she had forgotten the cream, rushed from the room as the Professor was in mid sentence. He was instructing her to assist at the door as his company arrived; his rheumatism was inflamed tonight, what with the bad weather and all. But he did not need to worry about such small details. Mrs. Whittenour rushed to the kitchen, fetched the little pitcher of cream, and hurried back to the study before the first knock on the door.

It was Sarah Marie Newton, the famous romance writer, although she certainly did not fit the expected stature of one who wrote passion and love. She was forty-six if she were a day, and often tried to pass for thirty, although Mrs. Whittenour thought the woman looked at least fifty. Sarah Marie wore thick, black glasses that constantly slid down her nose. And just as the Professor had mentioned, she had a nose that dripped constantly. The poor woman made every effort to keep a tissue in her hand, but there were times when she merely used the back of her hand to wipe.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Whittenour cried as she opened the massive entrance door. The rain was pouring now, and poor Sarah Marie was drenched. Her hat hung drooping over her eyes; her hair was straight and wet, with water dripping off the ends. Her coat was soaked and her feet were sloshing in her shoes. Sarah Marie was a frightful sight, and as she raised her sad eyes to Mrs. Whittenour she also raised her hand, and with the back of it wiped her running nose.

“Oh, you poor dear, come in at once!” Mrs. Whittenour pulled Sarah Marie in by her elbow and immediately stripped off her coat and hat. “You’ll catch your death on a night like this!” She fussed at the woman. “Where is your umbrella?”

“I’m not sure; I can’t remember where I put it.”

“Well, we have to get you out of those wet things, you poor dear.” Mrs. Whittenour led Sarah Marie straight to her room, beyond the kitchen, and laid out a large, fluffy, blue robe. Of course on Sarah Marie’s small figure the robe wrapped twice and the belt just as many times. Mrs. Whittenour gave her a warm pair of socks fresh from the dryer, and a pair of her own slippers. Mrs. Whittenour wrapped Sarah Marie’s wet hair in a towel and marched her straight out to the fire, and a hot cup of tea.

“What have we here?” The Professor questioned as they entered.

Mrs. Whittenour guided her charge straight to the couch and ordered she put her feet up. Fetching a quilt of patchwork greens she covered Sarah Marie before handing her a cup of steaming, hot tea.

“She was caught in the rain, poor thing,” Mrs. Whittenour answered the Professor. To Sarah Marie she said, “Now don’t you worry about a thing dear, I will have your things dried by the time you go. You just stay warm there.”

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Whittenour, you are such a dear,” the woman sneezed, spreading liquid spray from her bothersome nose.

The Professor covered his pipe and Mrs. Whittenour handed Sarah Marie the tissue box. The doorbell rang.

“There’s the door. That will be Mr. Theeb.”

Daniel Theeb arrived under a large, black, umbrella looking dapper as ever in his three-piece, vested suit.

“Why Mr. Theeb, you look positively handsome this evening,” Mrs. Whittenour stated as she took his overcoat and umbrella.

“Ah, my favorite wench, Mrs. Whittenour, you are the one that looks positively handsome this evening, as you always do.”

She knew he was a notorious flirt with the ladies, and she was old enough to be his mother, and strong enough to turn him over her knee for his boldness, but she was inclined to giggle slightly and allow him to flatter her.
“The others are inside waiting for you, Mr. Theeb.”

“Why, what is this?” Mr. Theeb was inspecting Sarah Marie stretched out on the couch.

Sarah Marie Newton looked up at him, pleased with her special treatment from Mrs. Whittenour and promptly sneezed.

“Here dear,” Mr. Theeb fetched a Kleenex for her before addressing the Professor. “Good evening, my good professor, I trust you are feeling well tonight?”

“No, Mr. Theeb I am not.” The Professor grumbled, “I am eighty-six years old, and my rheumatism is acting up, what with this blessed rain, and all.”

Mr. Theeb smiled; he was accustomed to the Professor’s grumbling. Over the years he had come to find them endearing of the old man. He crossed the room to the fireplace and stoked the fire, adding a new log to the blaze. Mrs. Whittenour handed him a cup of tea with a pinch of cream, just as he liked it. She poured a fresh cup for the Professor and walked to the liquor cabinet by the desk, pulled down a bottle of bourbon and added a shot for the Professor.

“Bring the bottle over here, woman,” he demanded as she handed him the cup.

“No, Sir, I will not,” she placed her hands in front her again, folded against her starched white apron, “you’ll be tipping it all night if it’s in arm’s length of your reach. No, Sir, I will not.” And then ever so sweetly she turned to Sarah Marie and asked if she needed a refill.

“Please,” Sarah Marie offered up her cup and, “one scoop of sugar?”

A crack of thunder and a flash of lighting cut through the night, piercing the room with a boom. Mrs. Whittenour nearly dropped the teapot; Sarah Marie covered her ears with her hands, and the Professor cursed.

“What a marvelous night,” exclaimed Mr. Theeb, “A perfect night for a murder, eh, Professor?”

Professor MacAfee was a world-renowned mystery writer, having some fourteen novels to his credit. He had once won the coveted Edgar Allen Poe Award, and five of his novels remained on the New York Times’ Best Seller list for three months straight, but that was ten years ago. Since his beloved wife, Ellen, passed away the Professor had not written a novel.

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Theeb, a perfect night for a murder.” He accepted a small plate from Mrs. Whittenour piled high with two of her best sugar cookies and a sweet muffin with plum jam.  “Murder is always good on a stormy night.

The sound of rain beating against a window, running down in sheets of water, a booming, thunder crash and DOWN comes the swing of the axe. Yes, indeed a fine night for a murder.”

Sarah Marie jumped as he emphasized the word DOWN with a blow of his hand on the arm of his chair.

“Tonight is more than a good night for a murder, Mr. Theeb,” Mrs. Whittenour handed Sarah Marie a plate with cheese and crackers. “I have a strange feeling about this evening.”

“Mrs. Whittenour, must I have cheese and crackers again?” Sarah Marie was diabetic, and Mrs. Whittenour watched the woman’s sugar intake. When Sarah Marie requested a scoop of sugar for her tea, she was given a scoop of Equal.

“Perhaps the only thing tonight,” Sarah Marie pouted, “will be that it is like any other Thursday night meeting.”

“No, No. I’ve had a strange feeling all day. I can’t put my finger on it but, oh well- Mr. Theeb, what can I get for you tonight?” Mrs. Whittenour asked.     
   
“Mrs. Whittenour, I believe that you have fretted over us enough tonight, if there is anything I require, I shall attend to it myself. Please, Woman, have a seat.” He offered her a chair and she blushed, backing away from it.

“Oh, No Sir, I couldn’t join your discussion group, why I have never written anything in my life.”

“Don’t be absurd, woman. You needn’t have written anything, just have an opinion concerning the topic of discussion.” Mr. Theeb insisted again that she sit.

“An opinion?” Mrs. Whittenour folded her arms over her apron again, a sign of her authority over the Professor. “You shouldn’t ask for my opinion unless you are fully prepared to accept the full measure of it. Opinion, I should say I have a few opinions, all right.”

She was looking at the Professor as she spoke.

“Oh, please, Mrs. Whittenour, he’s quite right.” Sarah Marie agreed, “You do so much for us, please join us tonight, there’s an extra chair already pulled up in front of fire.”

And so there was. Mrs. Whittenour was so busy attending to the Professor’s requests that she hadn’t noticed the extra chair. She looked at the Professor puzzled. “Sir?” she questioned.

“I put the chair there, Mrs. Whittenour,” and then to her hurt expression, “I don’t tell you everything woman, you are not my Mother.”

Mrs. Whittenour was quite hurt. She mumbled something about checking on Sarah Marie’s clothing and hurried from the room. Sarah Marie and Mr. Theeb turned to the Professor. He hadn’t meant to hurt her feeling. He lowered his head, ashamed that he had allowed his sour mood to injury such a sweet creature as Mrs. Whittenour. He would have to find a way to make it up to her.

“I am a stupid, old man,” he mumbled, “stupid thing to say. Mr. Theeb, would you fetch me the bourbon and pour another shot in my tea?”

Mr. Theeb did so.

“Who’s the extra chair for?” Sarah Maria asked.

“Well, I have a surprise for you both. Tonight I have invited someone to join us, a bright new star on the writing circuit so to speak, a lovely young lady; my niece, Jennifer Albright. She just arrived from the coast this morning and I have been keeping it a secret from Mrs. Whittenour.”

Mrs. Whittenour stood in the doorway. “I have your clothes dried and ready for you, Miss Newton, whenever you want.”

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Whittenour. I think I will change before Jennifer arrives.” Sara Marie hurried to Mrs. Whittenour’s room off the kitchen.

“Jennifer?” Mrs. Whittenour looked at the waiting chair beside the Professor and knew at once what he had done. “Why, you old goat!” she cried, “You didn’t tell me Jenny was coming? I have to bake her favorite cake at once.”

“There’s no time, woman, she’ll be any minute,” the Professor protested. But, it was no use; Mrs. Whittenour was already headed for the kitchen.

Mrs. Whittenour swung open the kitchen door just in time to see Sara Marie dipping a spoon into a small bowl on the counter; what she believed to be sugar.

“No!” Mrs. Whittenour screamed so loudly, that Sara Marie dropped the spoon back into the small bowl. “That’s sleeping medicine not sugar.”

“Sleeping Medicine? Why would you keep sleeping medicine in a bowl?” Sara Marie was still shaking from being startled.

“Because I dropped the bottle and it cracked, just enough to make a nuisance for me, so I put it into the bowl until the glue settled on the bottle and I could replace the medicine. Now there, go on and change your clothes, I have to get to work.”

Mrs. Whittenour pulled out pans, flour and eggs, and all the ingredients she needed to whip up Jennifer’s favorite dish, Apple Brown Betty. She didn’t hear Sarah Marie’s mumblings as she left the kitchen to change.

“Keeping medicine in a bowl, the professor would find that very suspicious. Sure, bake Jennifer a desert with sugar, me, me you give sleeping medicine.”  Sarah Marie was returning to the study as Jennifer knocked on the door. She opened the massive, oak door with the brass hinges, and a young girl of twenty-two hurried in out of the rain.

“Well, Hello,” Jennifer said.

“Hello, you must be Jennifer. Come in, your uncle is in the study waiting your arrival.” Sarah Marie took the girl’s coat and hung it carefully in the hall closet and then wiped the back of her hand against her nose.

“Uncle David!” She cried as she entered the study, “Oh, it is so good to see you.” She bent and gave him a kiss on his cheek. Mr. Theeb and Sarah Marie exchanged glances at the mention of the Professor’s first name. They had known him for five years and were completely unaware that his name was David.

“Jennifer,” the Professor’s eyes sparkled in the young girl’s presence, “let me introduce you to my guests, this is Mr. Daniel Theeb.”

Mr. Theeb took her hand gingerly and kissed the back of it.

“Very impressive Mr. Theeb, now you can stop charming my niece,” the Professor warned. Jennifer smiled at him, she couldn’t help it, but she did feel charmed. “And it was Sara Marie Newton who greeted you at the door.”

Sara Marie nodded at the young girl.

“Not, The Sara Marie Newton, the romance writer?” Jennifer inquired. “Why, I have read all of your books, they are quite wonderful.”

Sara Marie beamed from the praise and wiped her nose, this time using a tissue.

“And of course, Mr. Daniel Theeb, I am well aware of your novels.” Jennifer said and offered little else.

Mr. Theeb frowned. Why had she not mentioned any praise with her acknowledgement of his work?

“I am honored to be in the company of such esteem writers. Do you get together often, or just to greet young hopefuls?” Jennifer inquired taking her chair.

“We meet every Thursday evening, my dear, to hash out story lines and critique each other’s work, or just enjoy the writings of some of the finest writers in the world.” The Professor indicated the books on the table. “Tonight we are discussion the possibilities of murder, mayhem, and strange occurrences.”

“Things are never what they seem, Professor,” Sarah Marie interrupted. “Just because there is a storm beating against the roof the indication is not always a murder, I could turn such a night into a lovely evening by the fire. Why my hero would be carrying the young lady through the door, dripping wet of course, and…”

“Yes dear, we are well aware of what comes next,” Mr. Theeb interrupted.

The kitchen door swung open and a whiff of apples, cinnamon, and nutmeg filtered into the study.

“Mrs. Whittenour?”  Jennifer hurried to the woman and embraced her. “Oh, Mrs. Whittenour, I have missed you.
Are you making an Apple Brown Betty?”

“I would have had it made, if I’d known you were coming,” she glared at the Professor. “Jennifer, my girl, it is so wonderful to see you again. Are you able to stay this time?”  The young girl nodded and Mrs. Whittenour hugged her again.  “Good. Then the house will be filled with life again.” She took Jennifer’s suitcase up to her room and laid out her things, insisting on setting her room up at once, and she hurried back to the kitchen to inspect her baking.

“Still the same old, Mrs. Whittenour, fussing over everything,” Jennifer said. “Has her memory gotten any better?”

“Her memory?” Sara Marie was startled.

“Sorry, it is just a family joke. One time Mrs. Whittenour was baking and forgot to put in baking soda.”

“Tea?” Mr. Theeb asked.

Jennifer nodded, “Yes, please Mr. Theeb.”

“Jennifer writes poetry,” the Professor announced proudly, “and really quite good poetry, at that.”

“Oh, Uncle,” she took her place in the chair next to his. “You would think that even if it were the worst poetry ever written.”

Another crashing boom thundered overhead, and the lights flickered for a moment. Mr. Theeb stood to light the candles on the mantle, just in case.

“I’m curious, Miss Albright,” Mr. Theeb began.

“Please, call me Jennifer.”

“Thank you and you may call me Daniel.” She nodded she would. “I am curious Jennifer, earlier you said you were familiar with my work, but you offered no comments about your like, or dislike of that work.”

“Oh, Daniel, I am sorry,” she looked at her uncle anxiously.

“Go ahead my dear, we are brutally honest here.”

“Well, Daniel, I have read some of your novels, not all, I am not sure that I really like your work,” she spoke slowly hoping that she would be interrupted, and not have to finish. 

A crack of thunder and a flash of lightening jolted the room again. Sarah Marie looked up at the ceiling to make sure it had not penetrated the roof.

“Go ahead, dear, tell the man why.” Her uncle encouraged.

Jennifer could see no way out it; she would have to be honest about her feelings. “I don’t like the type of stories that you write, Daniel. Not the writing itself, per say, just the content of the story.”

“Very diplomatic,” Sarah Marie stated.

“Yes, very diplomatic,” Mr. Theeb agreed. “Jennifer, please say exactly what you mean.” Mr. Theeb was jingling the loose change in his pockets.

“In your stories, you always seem to carry one theme that the world is a terrible place in which crooked politicians, and men of power have corrupted and destroyed our hopes. That our government is responsible for the pain and suffering of the poor, hungry, and desolate of the world.” Jennifer quickly raised her cup of tea to her lips.

“I see.” Mr. Theeb was obviously injured.

“It’s true,” Sara Marie said, using a tissue to wipe her dripping nose again. “You do just that, it is very depressing.”

The Professor held up his pipe, and Jennifer smiled at him. She took the pipe, crossed over to his desk and packed it with tobacco.

“Hand me that flask while you are over there, dear.” The Professor called after her.

She picked up the flask, raised it to her nose and sniffed, and then gave him a disapproving glance. She brought him the flask and handed him his pipe. He reached for the flask, but she tipped it, pouring a little in his teacup, and then returned the flask to the desk.

“She’s a smart girl,” The Professor offered.

“Jennifer, I am quite injured by your remarks.” Mr. Theeb said.

“Oh, dear, I am sorry, I was hoping it would not come up at all, but I couldn’t lie to you, and just tell you that I enjoyed reading your work, because truly I do not.” Hurriedly she continued, hoping to explain her opinion, “You are a fine writer Daniel; I am not saying you are not. It’s just that the stories you write are so depressing and bleak, as though you have no hope for mankind.”

“We can’t all write Love Stories,” Mr. Theeb said with a sarcastic tone.

She smiled at him, studying his face muscles as they moved, his mustache twitching up and down in the corners of the mouth.

“You don’t believe in love stories, Mr. Theeb?” Jennifer inquired.

“An Idealist! I should have known, The Professor said you were a poet.” Mr. Theeb said, glad that he had an explanation for her dislike of his work. He could expect nothing more from an idealist. “And, I’m sure you are now going to tell me that this is a fine night for falling in love at first sight?”

“What’s wrong with love stories?” Sarah Marie asked. “They have provided quite well for me in the past.”

“You haven’t written a new story in over four years,” Daniel Theeb threw back at her.  Mr. Theeb was jiggling his change as he stood by the fire. He exchanged his teacup for a scotch and soda, and with one hand jiggling his pocket change, and with the other, swirling the ice in his glass.

Again the thunder cracked loudly, and the lights flickered.

“What a night!” The Professor exclaimed. “Jennifer dear, would you refresh my cup, please?”

“Not another drop for him,” Mrs. Whittenour said. She brought in a fresh teapot and more cream. Sarah Marie saw her opportunity to gain support on her side with Mrs. Whittenour’s entrance.

“Mrs. Whittenour, they are attacking my love stories, tell us, do you believe in love at first sight? Love in the form of a romantic story?”

Everyone looked at Mrs. Whittenour. She was quite embarrassed, but she had an opinion on this subject. 

“Yes, I DO. I most certainly do believe in love at first sight and love romantic and I beg that you, Mr. Theeb never try to convince me otherwise.” Mrs. Whittenour turned abruptly and left the room.

“Woo! Daniel she knew it was you, now didn’t she?” The Professor was delighted. He began coughing harshly after his outburst.

“Uncle David?” Jennifer was concerned. The Professor waved her off. Mr. Theeb retrieved the flask and spiked his tea again.

“Thank you,” The Professor said.

“Is he alright?” Jennifer asked of Sarah Marie.

“I believe so, dear. Mrs. Whittenour takes good care of him, and,” she aimed her comment at Mr. Theeb, “I will tell her you keep tipping the flask in his tea, if you don’t stop that.”

Daniel walked over to the couch and bent down to Sarah Marie. “It’s not a problem; Mrs. Whittenour told me once that she puts sugar water and just enough brandy for him to smell the liquor.”

Sarah Marie wiped her nose again and Mr. Theeb rattled the change in his pocket. Jennifer suddenly felt that she had caused a riff between the friends.

“I’m sorry,” she offered. “I seem to have stirred up some controversy and that is not my intention on visiting, perhaps I should retire and allow you to continue.”

“No, no, that will not be necessary, dear,” The Professor, said.

“Don’t go. I like having another female’s opinion. Please stay,” Sarah Marie encouraged.

The storm outside was intensifying. The wind was now beating the rain against the window and small pit-patting sounds suggested there might be small hail mixed in.

“Oh my, what a storm!” Sarah Marie exclaimed. “Mr. Theeb could you place another log on the fire?”

Daniel Theeb did so, and remained facing the fire in a pouting mood. Jennifer stood and crossed to his side, lightly touching his elbow.

“Mr. Theeb, what I believe is that you are a fine writer capable of writing many things, perhaps even love stories,” Jennifer flirted.

The Professor was smiling; enjoying the snare he had help to set for the unsuspecting bachelor, Mr. Theeb. It was the Professor’s hopes that the two of them would connect. He liked Daniel Theeb and having him date Jennifer would be just fine. The Professor liked ends that were neat and complete, like the endings in his novels. After a delicious murder it was important to tie up all the loose ends, the same could be said of life, before the end- one must tie up all the loose ends.

“But Jennifer, relating a story can sometimes be ugly, dealing with a character is not always going to be a sweet, kind, and wonderful like, like Mrs. Whittenour,” Mr. Theeb was almost whining in his effort to feel reassured.

“No,” Jennifer began. There was softness in her voice. Sara Marie had heard it; the Professor heard it, and Mr. Theeb was afraid he was imagining it.

“Because even if you are not aware of it, the world is a harsh place, not everyone is sweetness and sugar. There are bad people out there,” he defended himself.

Jennifer smiled at him. Excitedly Sara Marie grabbed another tissue and dabbed at her nose, she wished she had her notebook to jot down this scene. It would be wonderful between her newest characters, Jeb Calley and Nancy Michaels in Lust after Dark.  She had been searching for a new angle on her story, and here it was, the strong, sexy Jeb Calley torn between going to America and leaving behind his new found love, Nancy Michaels, or stealing her away from her doting and demanding father.

Daniel Theeb could be Jeb. Tall, lean, muscular, and Jennifer was the exact fit to the beautiful heroine type. Slender and delicate, eyes that sparkle and tease, she was a beautiful young woman. Sarah Marie thought that Daniel was far more stirred by Jennifer’s beauty then her dislike of his novel’s subject matter.

He stopped jiggling his change turning so he faced her straightforward.

“You are not naive enough to believe that all people are capable of love are you?” Mr. Theeb asked. “You know, there are hideous murders, serial killers, and habitual criminals in our midst, you do know that don’t you? You can’t possibly be naïve enough to think all of mankind is sweet and wonderful?”

“No, Daniel, I am not. And you know,” Jennifer moved back to her chair, “you bring up a very good point. I mean about the criminals and the connection of love.”

Daniel shot her a puzzled look.

“I mean, look at how many people are in love and still kill-- crime of passion, for example. What do you think about that, Uncle David?”

“I think, well, if you will excuse me,” The Professor stood shakily at his chair, stretched his legs and headed out of the room to the hallway powder room. “Fix me another drink, Mr. Theeb, I shall return shortly.”

“It’s empty,” he told the professor.

“Can you refill that please?” The professor asked, not waiting for a reply. He made his way down the hall to the bathroom.

Mr. Theeb did as he was asked. In kitchen he found the housekeeper absent, so he filled the flask himself and hurried back to the living room discussion.  The thunder boomed again, crashing in a fierce thud against the house.  Lightning jolted across the darkness, flaring light across the yard outside and illuminating the windows.

Sarah Marie thought she saw a man standing at the great oak on the lawn.

“There!” she cried. “Did you see that?” Again the yard flared in a glow of white light. There was a shadowy figure standing beside the tree barely visible through the drenching downpour. “See!” Sarah Marie cried. “Someone is standing out there.”

“In this storm?” Jennifer asked.

“He must be up to good, you can be sure of that,” Mr. Theeb cried.

He raced to the door, grabbing his umbrella as he went. The man standing beside the oak was quickly ushered inside, with Daniel Theeb assisting by holding the man’s elbow.

“Let go of me, you swine,” the man demanded.

“Just who are you?” Mr. Theeb inquired.

“I am Dr. Henry Morehouse, physician to the Professor and who are you, may I ask?”

“Daniel Theeb. I’m sorry, I thought you might be dangerous, or something, hovering outside in the rain.”

“Young man, I never hover. I dropped my keys and I would have found them with the next lightening strike if you hadn’t forcibly mustered me in the door, like a common criminal!” Dr. Morehouse’s anger was not well hidden. 

“I’m sorry, Doctor,” Daniel Theeb, offered. “I thought you might have been a criminal, lurking about for some evil purpose.”

“Henry,” Mrs. Whittenour hurried down the hallway, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Dr. Morehouse glared at Daniel but said nothing about the occurrence. “Mrs. Whittenour, what a pleasure to see your kind face,” Dr. Morehouse was practically flirting with her.

“It’s always a pleasure to have here, Henry, how about a cup of coffee?”

“I love your coffee, dear woman, and on a night such as this it will be just the trick to warm an old man’s bones.”

Mrs. Whittenour hurried back to the kitchen, as Sarah Marie came in from the sitting room. “The police are on their way,” she announced.

“You called the police,” Dr. Morehouse said, “on me?” He shook his head in disbelief.

“Again, I apologize, Dr. Morehouse, there was no way we could have known,” Daniel tried again to persuade him to accept his regrets.

“Well, it will be quite alright Mr. Theeb. I know the sheriff very well, he’s a fishing buddy of mine and it serves him right to get out on a night like this. He stays cooped up in his office all the time,” the Dr. suddenly noticed Jennifer. “Well, I’ll be, Jenny, how are you? It’s wonderful to see you.”

“Oh, Doc, I forget how long I’ve been away until I see a familiar face like yours. I have missed you.”

“What a kind thing to say. Come on now, there’s no reason to stand here in the hallway. Sheriff Day won’t be here right away. The man doesn’t move too fast.”  He took Jennifer’s arm. “I don’t believe we’ve met?”

“Dr. Henry, this is the famous romance writer, Sarah Marie Newton,” Jennifer held her hand out to indicate Sarah Marie.

“Nice to meet you,” the doctor offered.

Sarah Marie, not having a Kleenex with her, sniffed-- trying to keep her runny nose in control, but unable to, quickly nodded at the Doctor, turned her back to him, wiped her nose with the back of her hand and rushed to the sitting room for her Kleenex box.

Jennifer patted the Doctor’s hand in answer to his perplexed look. She decided to explain Sarah Marie another time and instead introduced Daniel Theeb. “And you’ve met Daniel Theeb, novelist of such fine works as, The Government Zone, and Who Hides the Counter Spies?”

Doctor Henry Morehouse suddenly brightened, apparent admiration in his voice, “You wrote The Government Zone? Well, now I forgive you everything. That is one of my favorite stories!”

Daniel Theeb tugged at his lapels, his chest pushing out slightly, and a smile pressing broadly into the corners of his mustache.

“Thank you, Doctor Morehouse. I am so pleased to hear that I have a fan here this night.”

Professor MacAfee entered the sitting room as Mrs. Whittenour came down the hallway with another cart, filled with coffee and the Apple Brown Betty.  “Henry,” the Professor asked, “when did you arrive?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Whittenour,” the doctor accepted a cup of coffee. “Well, Professor, I’ve been here about fifteen minutes now, I was wondering where you might be.”

The doctor eyed his patient as he made his way back to the chair. Doctor Morehouse noticed the effort his old friend made to conceal the pain, but the doctor said nothing. It was Professor MacAfee’s request that no one know how serious his condition had become.

“So,” Professor MacAfee settled slowly into his chair. “What brings you out on a terrible night like this?”

“I was in the neighborhood thought I’d stop in and I’m glad I did. You never told me you knew Daniel Theeb the author of my favorite book,” the doctor raised his cup at Daniel, an honorary toast.

“Well, I had no idea you were so well read,” Professor MacAfee answered, noticing that Daniel looked as proud as a rooster with his chest stuck out. “But, I’m glad to hear it. Poor Daniel was taking quite a beating earlier from the girls here, on writing styles.”

“Is that so?” The Doctor asked. He looked inquisitively at Daniel and then at Sarah Marie and Jennifer.

Sarah Marie was sniffling again and blew her nose; this time she held the entire Kleenex box in her lap, rapidly pulling out tissues to combat the dripping. Aware that the Doctor was inspecting her, Sarah Marie ducked her head away from his glare.

Again the thunder crashed creating an enormous boom, so loud that no one heard the front doorbell.

“You know, dear, I can fix that for you,” The Doctor spoke to Sarah Marie in a whisper. He was sitting next to her on the couch. A large man, resembling the actor Raymond Burr, he dwarfed little Sarah Marie, and most every one else in the room. Daniel Theeb matched him in height but not in body statue. When he mentioned to Sarah Marie that he could help her, she blushed at first and then leaned over to him.

“You can?”

“Sure can,” he winked at her. “Come to my office tomorrow and we’ll talk about it.”

“God Bless, you,” Sarah Marie whispered back.

Daniel was explaining the conversational attack of his writing while the doctor whispered to Sarah Marie. When he reached the part about writing love stories, the doctor objected.

“No, No,” the doctor declared. “There’s enough mushy stuff out there. You keep writing that hard hitting way you have, I like it.”

Daniel Theeb glanced over at Jennifer. She still sat beside her Uncle David and the candles on the mantle gave her a soft glow, enhancing her beauty. At one point she saw his focus on her and slyly winked at him. It gave him chills and warmed his blood at the same moment.

“Mr. Theeb,” Sarah Marie called loudly at him.

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry. Sarah Marie, you were saying?”

“I was asking you if you heard something peculiar.”

“What?” Daniel asked. And a great crash of thunder cracked above them, at the same time the front door to the home crashed open. Sheriff Carl Day rushed into the entranceway; his wet shoes hitting the tiles made him slide across the hallway.

“Sheriff Day,” Doctor Morehouse snickered, “how nice of you to drop in.”

The Sheriff adjusted his gun belt and inspected the room. There appeared to be no threat, just a comfortable setting of folks having coffee and cake, why had he been summoned?

“Why didn’t someone answer the doorbell?” The sheriff asked.

Sarah Marie and Daniel exchanged glances of, ‘ah, that sound.’ 

Mrs. Whittenour pushed the entrance door shut and rushed to bring a chair from the dinning room for the Sheriff.

“Sheriff Day?” Professor MacAfee was puzzled by the sheriff’s arrival- as the sheriff was for the call that brought him out in this storm.

“Professor MacAfee, I received a call…”

“Here, Sheriff,” Mrs. Whittenour was behind him with a chair, “I’ll make sandwiches!”

The Sheriff acknowledged the chair but did not sit. He was on duty after all, and before he sat he wanted to know what was going on. Calling in a false report was against the law.

“Have a seat, Carl, and we’ll explain everything. Here have a cup of coffee.” Doctor Morehouse stated.

“David?” The sheriff asked.

“I am as clueless as you, Carl, better sit so we can find out what is going on.”

Sheriff Carl Day stood as Daniel Theeb and Doctor Morehouse began their explanation of the storm, the lightening illuminating the good Dr. in search for his dropped keys by the tree and mistaking him as a prowler. By the time they reached the end, Sheriff Day was sitting in the chair and drinking a cup of coffee.

“So who actually made the call?” Sheriff Day asked.

“I did,” Sarah Marie said, waving her hand.

Sheriff Day hadn’t noticed Sarah Marie on the other side of the doctor. She leaned forward to wave at him, and that’s when he noticed her.

“And you are?” The Sheriff asked.

Sarah Marie needed to wipe her nose again, but not in front of him, no matter what, she couldn’t wipe in front of him. She had noticed the look he gave her. It was the kind of look that Jeb Calley would give to Nancy Michaels in her book. Sarah Marie would never match Nancy Michaels’ looks. Her character Nancy was beautiful, with flowing blonde hair, and Sarah Marie Newton thought of herself as skinny with brown hair, more of an Olive Oil type, but

Sheriff Carl Day was no Barney Fife, or Jeb Calley either, but somewhere in between and that fine specimen of a law man was eyeing her, Sarah Marie Newton.

“Sar,” and her voice cracked. At a moment when she was the star of a romantic scene-- her voice cracked, her nose ran, and in habit she raised her hand to wipe. At that moment a flash of lightening, a thunderous boom and the electricity was gone. Bathed in firelight and candlelight from the mantle, Sarah Marie Newton went unnoticed as she wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

“Well, there go the lights,” Daniel Theeb stated.

“I’m going to check on Mrs. Whittenour and see if she needs any help in the kitchen,” Jennifer announced.

“That’s a good idea,” Daniel Theeb followed her on the pretense of assisting Mrs. Whittenour.

Doctor Morehouse moved over to Jennifer’s chair so he could speak quietly with the Professor, leaving the seat next to Sarah Marie available. The sheriff did not hesitate.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” the sheriff said as he slid into the doctor’s place.

“Sarah Marie Newton,” she introduced herself.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sarah, I’m Carl.”

“Sarah Marie,” she corrected him.

“Sarah’s enough.” There was something about the way he said, ‘Sarah’s enough’ that made her sigh. Not even Jeb Calley had stated anything that gut thrilling to Nancy Michaels. They spoke quietly, sitting on the couch in candle light, Sarah dabbing at her nose with a Kleenex and Sheriff Day staring straight into her eyes.

“How are you feeling, David?” The doctor asked Professor MacAfee.

The Professor knew what his old friend was asking. The same question that he had asked at each visit, in the office or at his home, ‘how are you feeling’ was just a nice way of asking, ‘feel like your dying?’  The Professor smiled weakly. His eyes were old, smoky gray, slightly clouded with cataracts, and yet Doctor Morehouse could still recognize the boy who once fished with him on the banks of the local river. The Doctor nodded. He understood the smile; he patted his friend’s hand and settled back to sit with him.

“And your plan? How is that coming?” The Doctor asked.

“I was hoping to get Daniel and Jennifer together, didn’t count on that love match,” the Professor said, nodding toward the couch.

Doctor Morehouse glanced over at the couple on the couch and tried not to laugh. It was Barney Fife and Olive Oil talking softly to each other like cooing birds.

“You should get extra points for that one, David,” The Doctor chuckled.

“Aw, yes, Oh, and did I tell you what I did for Mrs. Whittenour?”

The Doctor shook his head no, packing his pipe and lightening it, grinning wildly at the secret. “No, you have not.

What have you done for the dear old woman?”

“I’ve named her as the main beneficiary of my will, she will inherit this house, and half of my fortune, and the rest of course goes to Jennifer.” The Professor winked to punctuate his point. “But, I wanted to ask you, do you, uh,” the Professor cleared his throat, “are there any indications as to how long?”

“I would guess, two months,” the doctor could smell the professor’s tea cup from his close range now, “maybe three if you lay off this tea.” 

The professor winced. “Mrs. Whittenour keeps pouring it into my cup, thinks it eases my pain or something.”

The Doctor eyed him skeptically.

“Of course she does,” the doctor patronized. “You are looking a bit sleepy tonight, Professor, bags under your eyes, maybe this is too much excitement? Have you thought of calling it an evening?”

“Calling it an evening?” the Professor scoffed at his friend. “And miss out on this drama? Not on my life, old man.”

The doctor and the professor remained by the fire as the rest settled around the table.
Mrs. Whittenour, Jennifer and Daniel were setting the dinning room table with candles, sandwiches, and a lovely arrangement of fruits and snacks. Sheriff Carl Day and Sarah Marie were still locked in a quiet conversation on the couch. At one point, Jennifer brought a fresh cup of tea to the Professor and of course, tipped the flask slightly for him. Sheriff Day inquired about the flask, upon learning the contents he urged Sarah Marie to have a slight amount added to her tea as well.

“It will help with your cold, Sarah,” he urged.

Jennifer carefully tipped the flask to Sarah’s teacup, exchanging glances, she was sure Sarah Marie was begging her not to let on to Sheriff Day that she did not have a cold. Jennifer did not.

“He’s right,” Jennifer smiled graciously, “the best thing for a cold.”

As the night passed, Jennifer was coaxed into reading some of her poetry. She stood by the fire with a candle on the mantle providing the light, and read of her work. Mr. Theeb gazed at her dreamily, studying the way her mouth formed each word. The Professor drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

The rain slowed to a gentle drizzle, the thunder and lightning passed on. The Doctor and Sheriff Day left soon after. Sheriff Carl Day tapped his pocket as he descended the front porch steps assured that the note paper with Sarah Marie Newton’s phone number on it was safely tucked away. He smiled as he got in his patrol car and glanced back at the house.

“That was one burglary call that really paid off,” he said. He sang all the way back to the station.

Sarah Marie curled up on the couch and happily drifted off to sleep. Mrs. Whittenour covered her before leaving for her own bed. Jennifer and Daniel were soon sitting on the floor, in front of the fireplace. They talked for hours, about their dreams, and passions, and their hopes for the future.

“Look,” Jennifer said, as the first rays of morning broke the windowsill, “it is morning already.”

“Let’s go get some breakfast,” Mr. Theeb suggested, “I know a wonderful spot, not far from here where they make the best blueberry pancakes.”  They left quietly, closing the huge oak door with the brass hinges, careful not to wake the others. On the landing Daniel Theeb stopped and pulled her into him to accept a kiss.

Mrs. Whittenour came into the study with her robe fastened securely around her. She placed a few of the cups on the teacart and picked up the pillows in front of the fireplace. She heard the door quietly shutting, and parted the curtains to look out the window. There on the landing a young couple stood stealing a morning kiss.

“He is a nice young man,” Mrs. Whittenour said, “a nice young man.”

“Good Morning, Mrs. Whittenour,” Sara Marie said as she stretched and rose from the couch. “Oh, my! I am late.
No time for breakfast, Mrs. Whittenour, thank you anyway, but I have a date for breakfast and I must run. Thank you for a lovely evening.” 

She rushed out the door without looking at Mrs. Whittenour. If Sara Marie had not been in such a hurry she might have noticed that Mrs. Whittenour was on one knee before the Professor’s chair. Tears fell quietly as she stared at him.  She would miss him. Mrs. Whittenour pulled the cover up on his chest, tucked it in and walked to the phone.
She had to call someone and report the Professor’s passing.

She looked at him sitting so peacefully by the dying embers of the fire.  “I’m going to miss you- you old goat.” And then she smiled at him again.