It took only one afternoon without Morwenna to remind me that it was impossible to run a surgery – or at least my surgery – without a receptionist.

I had to find, fetch and file all of my patient notes. The surgery phone went unanswered unless I happened to be between patients. Patients in the waiting room argued over who was "next." Consultant notes and results of scans piled up in the fax machine. Patients with "emergencies" that may or may not have been urgent simply showed up with a demand to be seen immediately. And every patient wanted to know what had happened to Morwenna. As Aunt Joan had once described the situation after I'd temporarily sent Pauline away, it was bedlam.

As a result, it took nearly two hours after surgery should have ended to clear out the last of my patients, return phone messages, and finish up patient notes. Between the lunchtime row with Louisa and the chaotic afternoon in the surgery, I was in a foul mood. The last thing I wanted was to go another round with Louisa. We'd made our differences clear and nothing either of us said was likely to change our respective positions.

This was one of those times when I fervently wished for a larger cottage. One of the side effects of Ethan Brown's illness was that it had stalled our search for a new home. Ours was perfectly fine when Louisa and I were speaking civilly to each other and the baby was well behaved. When either of us needed distance, the cottage seemed small and confining, and there was nowhere to go to be alone other than the outdoors. And, given today's blustery weather, that wasn't an option for me.

I walked toward the living room, determined to avoid confrontation, which meant conversation, at any costs.

Louisa and James Henry were sitting on the sofa, Louisa reading to the baby from a book that apparently made sounds if one pushed on the right spots.

"The cow is in the field," she read. "Press the bell to hear the cow moo." She covered James's finger with her own and helped him press the book to obtain the desired sound. Our son seemed to find it fascinating as he giggled loudly in response.

"In the field next to the cow is the sheep," Louisa said, and was shortly thereafter was rewarded with a loud "baa." She glanced up as I crossed the threshold, probably trying to assess whether I was still angry with her.

"Louisa," I said formally.

"Martin, how did it go this afternoon?"

"How do you think it went?" I asked rhetorically. "And I'm sure you're going to tell me that too was all my fault."

"You obviously did what you thought was right."

"And yet you still think I was wrong."

"As you made clear, my opinions on the subject don't count, so let's not argue again."

"Right."

She held James out to me. "Maybe you could finish reading his story so I can get dinner ready."

I wanted to take out the day's frustrations on someone or something. But, when I looked down at James Henry, smiling at the sight of me, it was hard to stay angry. Louisa had found my weak spot and, as I took James from her, the look she gave me said she knew it.

I stared with dismay at the plastic book with its simplistic sentences and stupid sounds. "Isn't there a more . . . educational book than this?"

"Children at his age love sounds," she called over her shoulder. "He especially likes the pig and the rooster."

"Oh God," I mumbled as James settled contentedly in my lap. I took a deep breath. "Next to the field is the barn and in the barn is the pig," I read, wondering how this drivel could be remotely beneficial to a baby's educational development. I dutifully helped James press on the pig's tail, producing a loud "oink." James squealed with pleasure and, feeling like an idiot, I pressed the stupid tail a second time.

We were only halfway through the moronic book and I vowed to skip a few of the pages. At his age, James wouldn't notice. After we'd covered the rooster, chicken, owl and dog, I put the book aside, surprised that I actually had calmed down quite a bit. "Has he had his supper?"

"I fed him about an hour ago. Maybe you could put him down while I finish making dinner?"

"Right." If nothing else, being in separate rooms would keep up from arguing for at least a few minutes. I carried James Henry upstairs for his evening ritual and, a short time later, returned to the kitchen with our son securely asleep in his cot. I found Louisa at the stove stirring the rice.

"Any trouble getting him to go to sleep?" she asked, turning her attention to the steamed broccoli.

"No, he seemed almost eager to go to bed."

"Probably all the fresh air from our stroll."

"Probably," I agreed. While we were talking about nothing of any importance, at least we weren't having a row.

"So Martin, now that Morwenna's gone, what are you going to do for a receptionist?"

Her tone was more inquisitive than accusatory and I was pleased that Louisa finally seemed to have accepted my actions, even if she didn't fully agree with them. And it was a fair question. This afternoon had convinced me that I needed a new receptionist immediately, someone to at least answer the phone and book consultations.

I poured mineral water to drink with our dinner. "I suppose I'll have to advertise for the position."

"I could help out in the meantime."

Louisa's first stint as my receptionist had been a challenge, and it probably wouldn't bode well for our marriage to repeat that experiment. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea," I said with some hesitation. "Uh, James Henry keeps you very busy."

To my relief, Louisa smiled at me. "I know exactly what you mean, Martin, and I'm not suggesting it as a permanent solution."

I put on an apron and retrieved the broccoli from the steamer, reflecting on what I would do come tomorrow morning. Until I could interview and hire someone, I might have to rely on Louisa.

"You know," Louisa said, her voice becoming a bit more animated. "I know someone who might work, at least for a short time."

"Right," I replied warily. Just once I'd like to choose my receptionist through a proper process of resumes and interviews instead of their simply showing up in my surgery and assuming the job.

"Mrs. Potter," Louisa said with confidence.

"Who?"

"Mrs. Potter. She was the librarian until she retired about a year ago. When I ran into her in the market the other day, she was saying how she was looking for something to do. Wanted to know if she could help out at school or whatever. I'm sure she'd make a fine receptionist – until you find someone permanent, of course."

I had to admit that it wasn't the worst idea I'd heard all week. If the woman could run a library, surely she could handle making appointments and filing patient notes.

"And," Louisa continued as she pulled the roasted chicken from the oven, "she's certainly not one to gossip. I've known the woman for years and she can keep her mouth shut."

"Alright. Have her stop by the surgery first thing tomorrow morning. But—" I held up a hand. "I can't guarantee I'll hire her at all, let alone on more than a temporary basis."

"I'll tell her. But I do think you'll like her."

At this point, I would settle for someone who was competent at her job and respected patient confidentiality. Anything else would be an unexpected bonus.

As Louisa and I sat down to eat, I realized that we'd actually managed to work through our disagreement. It hadn't been pretty. It hadn't been easy. But, it was progress.