“Andrea?”
“Buddy!”
He peered over the counter, straining to see down to her feet. She looked puzzled. “Just checking to see if the Avatar is with you,” he explained. She laughed. He smiled, glad his joke had gone over well. “Actually, I have a prescription that needs filling. But what a surprise! I had no idea you were a pharmacist.”
“It’s my alter ego. Neat, clinical, business-like. You were bound to find out sooner or later. Nothing remains secret in a town the size of Chemainus.”
“So what’s your alter-alter ego, then? And which of them is the real you?”
“Grrr! You shouldn’t ask, unless you really want to know.”
“An Avi type, perhaps? Straining at the leash? Protective? Always on the lookout?”
Her smile was inscrutable but not offended. “What can I do for you in a professional capacity?” she said. He couldn’t tell if her curtness was real or put on.
Then he wondered, What will she be able to learn about me, filling this prescription? What kind of explanations might that entail if we become friends?
“Zoloft.” Buddy slid the prescription over the counter for her to scrutinize.
She looked up from the rumpled scrap of paper briefly as she scanned it, an inquiring glance, not unfriendly but reserved. “Can I see your Care Card?”
Buddy thumbed through the plastic in his wallet, extricated the card, and handed it to her.
What could she learn about me from that official wafer with its DOB and barcode? He cringed.
“Born October, nineteen-fifty-nine,” she smirked. “What does that make you? Sixty-one years old?”
His smile stiffened.
She flipped the card over. “Licensed to drive a motorcycle, I see.”
“Haven’t been on one for at least twenty years,” he amended… if you don’t include the scooter I crashed a couple of years back, trying to avoid a cyclist on Douglas Street. He couldn’t help thinking it appropriate that the accident had happened a couple of blocks from Mile Zero on the Trans Canada Highway. “Besides, what does a driver’s license have to do with a man’s health?”
She ignored his ennui. “Sunnyside! Nice neighbourhood. I used to jog and cycle along the Galloping Goose Trail in my university days, not far from your place. So we’ve sort of been neighbours already.”
She leaned over the counter, looking straight into Buddy’s eyes. “Yup. Blue alright.”
He bottled up the urge to laugh but couldn’t suppress a blushing smile.
“So, what brings you to Chemainus, Mr. Hope, and why have you been prescribed Zoloft?” she asked, turning toward a computer screen, where she began entering his information.
“Do you think it out of the ordinary for a retired journalist, who’s stretching the definition of middle-age to fit his current status, to wind up living in a camper in Chemainus?”
“Just the fact, man. Just the facts.”
“Or that, in the jumble of facts that make up his life story, he has suddenly discovered he’s asked just about every question imaginable except the truly important ones?”
“See those seats?” She pointed over the counter to a waiting area where customers could park their butts while their prescriptions were filled.
“Yeah.”
“That’s the closest thing we have to a couch in here.”
They smiled. He was having fun!
“Or who dare-not drive a motorcycle anymore because his reflexes get bogged down in the porridge of his aging brain?” Buddy pressed on. “Is it out of the ordinary for such a being to wind up here in Chemainus, getting a prescription for Zoloft filled at the local Rexal?”
“You should really keep your voice down, Mr. Hope, if you don’t want other customers to overhear you.” She looked coyly over his shoulder.
Embarrassed, he twisted round. There wasn’t a soul in sight. They laughed. This time out loud.
“Depression?” she read. “Who’s Dr. Blinkhorn?”
“He’s my family doctor in Victoria. I’m sticking with him for the time being.”
“I see. Probably a good idea. Finding a doctor in the Cowichan Valley is a challenge, especially a male doctor, if that’s your preference.”
“It is,” he said, slipping his Care Card back into his wallet. “Unless I can find a doctor who would prescribe shortbread doggie biscuits as a universal cure for depressions and impressions of all sorts.”
“Come back in ten minutes or so, and I’ll have your prescription ready,” she ignored his quip. “The Willow Café’s just up the street,” her slender goddess-like finger pointed him in the right direction, “or the Owl’s Nest if you’re in the mood for a coffee and some breakfast.”
Buddy looked puzzled for a moment, wondering if he should wait, or go and grab a coffee.
“I’m a bit behind this morning. Normally we’d have your prescription ready for you more quickly,” she consoled, sensing his indecision.
“I’m not here for a quickie,” he blurted, then, flustered, he groaned in exquisite agony.
Andrea shook her head disapprovingly. “Go on!” she bossed. “Come back in ten.”
Next: Fetching Harry