When my diagnosis of laryngitis had essentially restricted Molly Patterson from singing in her high school musical, I never dreamed I would find myself there instead. How Louisa had ever convinced me to attend tonight's play, God only knew. Although I wasn't all that keen on the performing arts, when I'd lived in London it was hard to avoid attending a play or musical with at least some frequency. And, I did enjoy a fine professional performance, often intrigued at the similarities between a dramatic theatre and the operating theatre. As a result, during my many years in the city, I'd attended my share of Andrew Lloyd Weber, Agatha Christie, and various other "must see" shows.

One of the problems with growing up on London plays was that everything else paled in comparison. That included the Cornish summer stock productions of such staples as Camelot, The Sound of Music, and Cats, with performers who could neither act nor sing, at least when compared to their London counterparts. It was painful but, absent a trip to the West End, the only option for the entertainment-minded in Cornwall. They endured; I ignored. An evening home by myself, or now with Louisa and James Henry, was infinitely preferable to whatever the locals could conjure up to put onstage.

The only thing worse than the semi-professional productions, at least to my mind, was a school play, which was exactly what I was enduring at the moment – the Portwenn Secondary School's spring production of Les Miserables, to be precise. The title adequately described my state of being at the moment, miserable. I'd seen the musical in London years ago and, even with a professional cast, the musical score was challenging. In the hands of teenagers, it was an unmitigated disaster: off-key, off-pitch, just . . . off.

My situation was made worse by the fact that I was crammed into one of the tiny seats of the school auditorium, with my knees bunched up to my chest and my large frame pouring over the armrests. The play had been running for only a short time and I was already counting the minutes until intermission when I could at least stretch my legs.

I restlessly shifted my position without actually becoming more comfortable, tapping my feet to restore some circulation in my lower body. Tuning out whatever lines were being muffed or songs being ruined, I fumbled with the program and thought about constructing a paper airplane.

I felt Louisa's hand touch my right knee. A glance at her face revealed that one of us seemed to be enjoying the performance, which was probably because many of the actors had been her students in their primary school days. I'd recognized a few names from the program as current patients, not that I had any interest in watching my patients participate in the performing arts. An understudy had taken Molly Patterson's role, and I wondered in passing whether the girl was attending tonight's performance. Probably not. No doubt she and her mother were home cursing me for being unwilling to prescribe useless antibiotics.

A glance at the man sitting on my left suggested he was as uncomfortable as I was. It was Ethan Brown, the local estate agent, who'd been trying to find us a new place to live and work. Brown was quite successful and held a virtual monopoly on estate sales in Truro and the surrounding villages.

As I recalled, the man didn't have children, which made me curious as to what had brought him to tonight's performance. Seated on his other side was a woman who, even in the darkened auditorium, cut a striking figure. As I watched, Brown's hand ran up and down the woman's leg almost reaching under her short skirt, an activity he quite understandably seemed to find more interesting than the moronic play. And, given that the woman didn't seem to mind his attention – and the fact that Brown was wearing a shiny new wedding band – I decided that he was recently married, hopefully to the woman sitting next to him. One never knew.

Brown coughed, covering his mouth with one hand while keeping the other firmly attached to the woman's leg. Good man.

Seeing as that tactic had apparently worked for Brown, I turned my attention back to Louisa and gently placed my hand on her left knee, letting it rest there comfortably. Her hand covered mine and we gently intertwined our fingers. Maybe there were some advantages to mindless school musicals.

On stage, two students were singing a duet, which was only slightly less awful than the last number. Beside me, Brown coughed again, this time into his handkerchief and, as I observed, swallowed several more small hacks. Given the choice between listening to more of the musical or trying to diagnose Brown, not surprisingly I found the latter more productive. Louisa, still entranced in the play, was probably happy that I was no longer squirming in my seat or being disruptive.

When, a few minutes later, Brown started coughing yet again, some of our fellow patrons finally made their displeasure known. Several "shushed" him, while a few more advised in whispered voices that he step outside until he was feeling better.

Whether or not in response to their suggestions, Brown stood up from his seat and, with a soft "Excuse me," started to climb over my legs to reach the aisle.

That was never going to work and I took the opportunity to stand up as well. "I'm going to get some air," I said softly to Louisa, who frowned in response. If she was still irritated with me later for leaving in the middle of the play, I'd explain I was attending to a patient.

In corridor outside the auditorium Brown leaned against the wall and continued to cough loudly. In the light, I noted he wore a dark blue suit that draped nicely over a frame that was a head shorter and slightly thinner than my own. His black shoes were freshly polished and had the stiffness of a new purchase. Given that he was about a decade my senior, I envied his full head of hair – still mostly black with fine lines of silver. Only his crooked nose and pockmarked cheeks prevented him from having the distinguished appearance of a television actor.

Finally coughed out and wheezing heavily, he helped himself to water from the fountain, cleared his throat and appeared to notice me for the first time.

"Ah, Doctor Ellingham. What brings you to this august event?"

"Louisa," I replied simply and truthfully.

"The play is ghastly, isn't it?"

I wasn't interested in discussing the merits of the play. "How long have you had that cough?"

"I'm still searching for the right cottage for the both of you," he said, ignoring my question. "There's one coming on the market that may be exactly what you're looking for."

I also wasn't interested in discussing local real estate. "How long have you had the cough?" I persisted.

He looked down at his kerchief then back at me and shrugged. "I sometimes get a tickle in my throat. At least tonight it gave me an excuse to escape for a few minutes. Just a cold," he added.

To my experienced ear, it didn't sound anything like a URI. "I don't think so. I'd like to see you Monday in my surgery. You can call my receptionist for an appointment."

"Afraid I can't Monday. Have a full schedule of appointments of my own. Booked up all day."

"Reschedule them."

He stared at me as if trying to decide whether I was serious. No doubt my granite expression provided the answer, even if it wasn't the one he wanted.


I waited outside of the auditorium until intermission and then met up with Louisa in the lobby. She was wearing a navy form-fitting dress that she'd purchased last week in Truro and her hair was tied back in a chignon. As I walked toward her, I decided she was without a doubt the most beautiful woman in the room and still had trouble understanding what she saw in a sod like me.

"Martin," she said, greeting me with a smile. "Everything alright?"

"Fine."

She pointed to some tables covered with assorted baked goods. "Would you like something to eat?"

I glanced over at the platters and boxes filled with an assortment of biscuits, cakes, and candies and frowned with disapproval.

"There's nothing but sweets, all of which are exorbitantly high in sugar, fat, and calories while simultaneously lacking any nutritional benefit whatsoever. It's no wonder half the children in the UK are obese. And there's no telling the unsanitary conditions under which those items were prepared. Look!" I pointed. "She's touching the biscuits with her bare hands, which I sincerely doubt have been washed recently."

"Martin," she said with a pointed sigh, "a simple 'no' would have sufficed."

I merely stared at her.

"Oh, Doctor Ellingham!" Someone was calling me from halfway across the room. "Doctor Ellingham!"

As the elderly woman made her way towards us, I recognized Mrs. Walker, who had the distinction of being my very first patient in Portwenn and remained one of the most frequent visitors to my surgery. Although I wasn't particularly good with patient names, it was hard to forget hers.

"Mrs. Walker," I said formally.

"Doctor, I'm so glad I found you here. I wanted to tell you about my bursitis. You said it would be better in a month. It's not better."

"Has it been a month?"

She frowned. "It's been three full weeks."

"Three weeks is not a month."

"It's close enough and I'm no better at all."

"Excuse me." Louisa was suddenly at my arm. "Martin, I think we need to find our seats. Intermission's almost over and we don't want to be late for the second half, do we?"

"Uh, no. Of course not." I turned to Mrs. Walker. "If you're not better in a week, call my receptionist." I turned away. "Come on, Louisa."

As we walked away, hand in hand, I realized not for the first times that there were indeed many unexpected benefits in having Louisa as my wife.