“You want a sandwich?” Sam asked, pointing to the last one.

“No, thanks,” I answered. There was far too much cheese and mayonnaise on that sucker for me. But I poured myself a glass of lemonade and sat at the counter next to him. There were a few catalogs, and I opened one for flowers, idly flipping through the pages, wondering aloud what might look nice in window boxes for my little house. Sam made a few suggestions, and I scribbled down names in the margins.

“What are you doing on the house these days?” Sam asked, ripping open a package of Oreos. I steeled myself against the temptation, forcing a mental image of myself in a bathing suit into my head. Could I actually do it? Appear in public in a bathing suit? It would be the first time in my adult life. It would take a great deal of courage….

“Millie? The house?”

“Oh. Sorry.” I gratefully extracted myself from thoughts of cellulite and pasty skin. “The house is great. Very cute. I’m almost done painting the other bedroom. You should come see it.”

“I’d love to,” Sam answered. He popped an Oreo into his mouth, whole, like a giant black communion wafer, grinning at me as he chewed. “How’s work going?”

“Oh, it’s great,” I said. “I love it. I just hope…”

“Just hope what?”

I drew my initials in the condensation on my glass. “Well, I hope Dr. Whitaker will take me on in the fall. The clinic is only open till October, and if he doesn’t want to hire me, then I don’t know what I’m going to do. I mean, I think he’ll take me on, he hasn’t said anything negative. But if he doesn’t, I’ll have to think about something else. I just got an offer from a doctor in Wellesley, but I don’t want to live off-Cape.”

The offer had come as a surprise to me. Alan Bernstein was one of the nicer supervising doctors I’d met when I’d been a resident, and he had a growing practice with two other doctors. They wanted to expand, and Alan had called me last week. Wellesley was a lovely, affluent suburb of Boston, and if I hadn’t been so determined to stay on Cape, it would have been perfect.

“You could move, couldn’t you? Come up here on the weekends and stuff?” Sam asked.

“I could. But I just got back here,” I answered. “And I don’t want to live anywhere else. I mean, how could I? You didn’t want to stay out in Indiana, did you?”

“Landlocked? You kidding? I couldn’t wait to get back,” Sam smiled. “Curse of the Cape.”

It was true. Once you’ve lived on the Cape, you’d be hard pressed to move. The natural beauty of the place, the loveliness of so many neighborhoods, the smell of the air, the sound of the ocean…it was unsurpassable. Even when I’d lived in Boston, just a couple of hours away, I’d yearned for Eastham. It was my dream since childhood to be a doctor in my hometown, and I was determined to make that work.

And of course, there was Joe. Even though my plans were going nowhere at the moment, I couldn’t quit now. I had been putting this plan into effect for quite some time, dreamed about it for years. Surely, something would have to give, and he would finally, finally notice me, fall in love with me and marry me. Hopefully before my fiftieth birthday.

CHAPTER TWELVE

BY THE MIDDLE OF JUNE, cars crowded Route 6, people waited at least a half hour at any restaurant, and the T-shirt and gift shops were hopping. Our clinic was quite busy, and though the cases I saw weren’t that challenging, it was great to be bustling around, writing out prednisone prescriptions for the never-ending stream of poison-ivy victims, stitching up booboos, and shipping patients down to Cape Cod Hospital. We had a nice rhythm going, Jill and Sienna and I. The mysterious Dr. Bala was quite cordial, having gotten over his initial formality. Now that it was busy, we really clicked along, and I was more than holding my own.

I loved working at the OCSC, too. Mr. Glover and I had had a little chat, and he’d been quite well-behaved since our initial visit. There, the cases were often more complicated, and with that came the deep satisfaction of really getting to know the patients and their families. Even though I was just covering for Dr. Whitaker, it was an honor to be taken into their confidence, to be trusted with making them feel better, to be a part of their lives.

I was even becoming a better cook. I invited my parents over for dinner and made a vegetable lasagna that did not nauseate any of us. I brought a chicken casserole over to Sam and Danny one night and stayed to eat it with them. But it was no fun cooking for one person. Most recipes served at least four people, and more often than not, I’d end up throwing the leftovers away. I ended up making salads or omelets or quick, one-person vegetable dishes and eating them while I read.

I continued to run; Sam’s athletic advice had come in handy, and I wasn’t suffering quite so much anymore, regularly covering four miles with my sweet black-and-white doggy. And I worked on my house, filling window boxes and putting out little pots of flowers. The lilac trees Sam had planted bloomed, and all in all, it was a lovely time. Except for Joe. Aside from our little moment at the Barnacle, I had hardly seen him.

One Friday night, I planned to hang out at the Barnacle while Katie worked, something I did from time to time. The restaurant was noisy and crowded, and when I walked in, my energy suddenly flagged. In a few weeks, I would turn thirty, and I was tired of hanging around bars. Suddenly, all the single women in the restaurant looked much younger than I was. The women in my age group all seemed to have adorable children with them, or were radiant in pregnancy, or held hands with their husbands. Nearly thirty years old, and I was still stalking Joe, just as I had been at twenty-two…and nineteen…and fifteen….

Speaking of Joe, there he was. Tonight, the sight of his beauty made me feel…tired. Exhausted. Would my love for him ever be reciprocated? Would he ever discover that he could be very happy with me, and not the willowy, red-haired out-of-towner he was currently flirting with?

Katie came up to me. “Hi,” she said, glancing Joe’s way. Her expression was sympathetic. “Sorry. Squeeze of the week.”

“Yeah, except he was with her last week, too,” I said, feeling my heart grow leaden. I looked around the restaurant. “Katie, I think I’m gonna go,” I said. “I’m not up for this.”

“Okay,” she said, giving my shoulder a squeeze as a customer waved impatiently. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I stopped at the market on my way home and bought a jumbo bag of Cheetos, the ultimate self-pity food. Changing into my pajamas, I turned on the TV and tore into the bag. What was the point? I thought, sucking orange powder off my fingers. I had no one to impress. There was nothing on the three channels that my antenna picked up. Maybe I should invest in a satellite dish, since I obviously wasn’t going to have a boyfriend.

I tossed Digger a Cheeto, which he caught midair and swallowed without apparent chewing. Digger and I could have lots of fun together, eating Ben & Jerry’s and cheese curls and Hershey’s bars. I could become fat again. I would just eat and eat, all sorts of grossly delicious things, like an entire Pepperidge Farm coconut cake, and six scrambled eggs with cheese, and a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts, and so what? Who would care? It wasn’t as if all this work had paid off one tiny iota. Joe paid just as much attention to me now as he had when I’d been fat and worn braces.

Digger stood up and put his head in my lap. I stroked his silky ears and gave him another Cheeto. Who needed stupid Joe Carpenter? I had a dog. I didn’t need anybody. Even as I thought it, I felt the ultimate humiliation: tears pricked my eyes. Oh, fantastic. Here I was, 8:30 on a Friday night, relentlessly stuffing my face, while the love of my life, the man I knew better than anyone, was probably making out with his girlfriend at my favorite restaurant. It just sucked. I started to cry in earnest, choking a little on the soggy orange mass in my throat. A good cry would make me feel better, wouldn’t it? But I felt stupid, crying by myself, and besides, Digger kept trying to climb up on my lap and lick the delicious combination of salty tears and Cheetos dust off my face. I pushed him down and blew my nose.

I wanted to call someone. Katie was working. My mother would be horrified that I was crying and would no doubt rush right over, which I didn’t want. I just wanted someone to feel sorry for me, to share my misery. Trish? We’d never had that kind of a relationship. Sam? He didn’t know about my love for J.C., and I felt embarrassed at the thought of telling him. Mitch or Curtis? No, they would be busy on a Friday night, holding hands and exchanging pithy witticisms with their P-town friends. There was nobody. Nobody would understand. Boo hoo hoo.

Pulling the afghan over me, I fumbled for the remote and clicked on the TV, unaware that the next day, everything would change.

I WOKE UP LATE, STIFF and crusty-faced, cramped from spending the whole night on the couch. Digger was draped over my lower half, having cut off my circulation for God knew how long. I staggered into the bathroom, wincing at my puffy eyes ringed with smudged mascara. A smear of orange ran across one cheek.

Heaving a great sigh, I washed my face and made some coffee. Forcefully deciding to think of something other than Joe, I read the paper instead. I was off for the weekend. I had no plans. Maybe Mitch and Curtis had a room open, and I could visit them. Their place was so charming, and P-town so festive and cheerful that I would surely feel better if I got out of town for a night. I hadn’t seen the boys for a few weeks, and it might be fun to get all dolled up and show them the fruits of their labor.

But first, a run. After consuming about eight thousand grease-saturated calories in one sitting the night before, I felt rather ill. I had to exorcise all of that hideous, orange fat from my body and get my brain into gear. Plus, Digger was staring pointedly as his leash and wagging his tail.

I tidied up the living room, cringing as I balled up the empty Cheetos bag and stuffed it deep into the trash. Changing into running shorts and T-shirt (Al’s Slaughterhouse, Des Moines, Iowa), I decided to drive to Coast Guard Beach and run along the water with my pup. It would be harder than running on the road, and I needed the extra work. Besides, it was impossible to be sad if one ran near the ocean in June.

Digger was doubly joyful to be going in the car, and he thrust his head out the window, snuffling happily as we zipped down Ocean View Road to the beach. The air was clear and cool, and seagulls soared on the breeze. Because school had not let out yet, there was still parking at the beach available, and I pulled into a spot and got out of the car, Digger leaping excitedly next to me. Maybe today would be a good day, I thought. Couldn’t be worse than yesterday.

As I got out of the car, my heart sank. Joe’s truck sat in the parking lot. Damn it. I stared at the truck, wondering if I wanted to go down to the beach. Nope, I decided. I’d just run down the road instead. A Joe encounter would be too disheartening, and my heart was low enough.

So lost in thought was I that I didn’t notice Sam’s cruiser pulling in next to me.

“Hey, Millie,” he said. I jumped.

“Oh, hi, Sam. Hi, Ethel.” Sam’s partner glared balefully at me and nodded her gray head in greeting.

“Going for a run?” Sam asked.

“I guess,” I answered.

Suddenly, the cruiser’s radio crackled. We all listened obediently.

“Attention Eastham Fire and EMS. Signal forty-two. Report of woman in active labor. Coast Guard Beach. South of boardwalk, near lifeguard stand number four. Father will be waving a yellow towel.”

“Fuck me!” Ethel cursed, snatching up the radio to respond. Sam leaped out of the car.

“Help us out, here, Mil!” he called over his shoulder, running for the boardwalk.

“Here!” I said, thrusting Digger’s leash into Ethel’s hand. I sprinted to my car, grabbed my doctor’s bag out of the trunk and raced down the boardwalk, sliding on the sandy planks, and headed south down the beach. There was the dad about a hundred yards down, waving the yellow towel. I dimly registered the sand in my sneakers, the bright colors of the beach, the hiss and boom of the waves. A crowd clustered around the woman. Sam was a few yards ahead of me, and I raced up to him. Ethel trailed us with my dog, her decades of smoking not allowing her to run.