Chapter 1 - Starting Over

Arthur stood in the narrow hallway of his rental house, scrutinizing his reflection in the oval mirror that hung crookedly on the wall. The glass was speckled with age, but it still served its purpose, showing him a tall man with neat sandy hair and a white collar that needed just one more adjustment. He smoothed it down with practiced fingers, the gesture almost surgical in its precision.

At forty-two, Arthur Hall carried himself with the straight-backed confidence of a man who had spent decades in operating rooms where posture translated to authority. His sandy hair was slightly longer than ideal, though trimmed shorter on the sides. Light brown eyes gazed back at him from a face that women often found attractive, although he viewed it with a sense of detachment. Standing at 1.95 meters, he was taller than most, a trait that had initially helped him command attention in hospital hallways globally.

"Time to shine," he whispered, his voice breaking the silence of the yet unfamiliar home.

The rental was decent enough – two bedrooms, a functional kitchen, and this hallway with its dated wallpaper featuring faded roses climbing invisible trellises. Arthur had been here for exactly five weeks, just long enough to replace the sheets and towels with his own and stock the refrigerator, but not long enough to remove remnants of the previous tenant's life. The ugly oak dresser looming in the hallway was evidence of that – a hulking thing with brass handles that caught his sleeve whenever he passed.

He reached for the worn leather bag resting on the dresser's edge. Inside was a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, a 2015 vintage he'd selected carefully – not ostentatious enough to seem like showing off, but good enough to indicate respect for his hosts.

The move to Ellingwood hadn't been planned. When Steven Moffat had called six months ago, Arthur had been between contracts, contemplating a position in Singapore. "They're building a state-of-the-art orthopedic wing," Steven had explained, the excitement evident even through the international connection. "It's funded by a tech billionaire who wanted his sister to receive treatment for a rare bone disease locally. The facility is state-of-the-art, Archie, and they're looking for a top-tier expert to lead it."

Arthur's fingers trailed along the leather of the bag, the texture familiar and reassuring. Steven was the only person who still called him Archie, a nickname from their university days when they'd shared textbooks and instant noodles. While Arthur had continued into medicine, Steven had veered into healthcare finance, but their friendship had persisted across continents and decades.

This evening marked his first formal meeting with Steven's family. He and his old friend had occasionally met for coffee and shared a couple of nights at a burger joint with beer and sports on TV, but the demands of hospital arrangements and securing a place to live had left limited opportunities for socializing. This dinner felt strangely important – as if it marked the real beginning of his life in Ellingwood.

Beside the bag sat a bouquet wrapped in brown paper – pink roses, daisies, and some purple flowers he couldn't name. The florist at Ellingwood's sole flower shop had assured him it was "perfect for a family dinner" when he'd stopped in after finishing rounds at 5:30.

Arthur checked his watch – 7:20 PM. He was reasonably sure Steven had said 7:30, which would put him right on time if he left now. Punctuality was another surgical trait he couldn't shake.

He adjusted the strap of the leather bag on his shoulders, picked up the bouquet, and successfully maneuvered past the dresser without bumping into its protruding edge this time. The house still felt temporary, a waystation rather than a home. But then, most places had felt that way to Arthur throughout his adult life. His career had taken him from New York to London, Tokyo to Berlin – always moving, always the visiting expert, always temporary.

Catching his reflection one last time, Arthur saw a flicker of something unfamiliar in his eyes – expectation, perhaps. Ellingwood represented something new: stability, continuity, perhaps even community. A smile tugged at his lips as he realized to his surprise that he was absolutely open to the possibility.

"You've got this," he said softly to his reflection, the three words serving as both encouragement and a check against the gnawing social anxiety that occasionally plagued him despite his professional confidence. He slipped his mobile into the pocket of his navy slacks, feeling its reassuring weight and stepped outside, turning to lock behind him.

The evening air carried the scent of freshly cut grass and the street was quiet, lined with modest homes and mature maple trees whose branches formed a canopy overhead.

As Arthur began the short walk to Steven's house five blocks away, he felt a lightness in his step that had been absent for longer than he cared to admit. The wine in its leather bag swung gently at his side, and the bouquet's paper wrapper crinkled with each step.

The Moffat residence glowed against the deepening blue of evening, its porch lights casting warm pools of gold onto the neatly trimmed lawn. Arthur paused at the end of the brick pathway, taking in the two-story colonial with its white trim and rocking chairs arranged in conversational clusters. It looked like the kind of home people created over decades – so different from the temporary spaces he'd inhabited throughout his nomadic career.

He was halfway up the path when the front door swung open, revealing Steven Moffat's familiar stocky silhouette.

"Archie, you finally made it, old chap!" Steven boomed, his voice carrying easily across the yard. He bounded down the steps with the enthusiasm of a man half his age, arms outstretched. "The prodigal surgeon returns to the provinces!"

Arthur found himself enveloped in a bear hug that nearly cost him his grip on both the wine and flowers.

"Careful with the merchandise, Stevie," Arthur laughed, extracting himself with practiced ease. "Some of us still have to use our hands for precision work."

"And some of us earn our keep through honest work, like crafting the perfect cocktails," Steven retorted, "I'll be right on that as soon as we step in."

"I always assumed you relied on your sharp wit," Arthur chuckled, effortlessly slipping back into their familiar banter. "Honestly, how does Lauren manage with you?"

"Selective hearing. Married fifteen years and she's mastered the art of tuning me out entirely. It's quite impressive, really." Steven guided Arthur toward the door. "You should try it sometime—marriage, I mean. Its unbelievable you're still evading domestic bliss like it's a communicable disease."

"Some of us had to work for a living instead of playing with spreadsheets and calling it finance," Arthur shot back, ducking slightly to enter avoid a hanged plant pot next to the entrance.

"Yes, because orthopedic surgeons are so notoriously underpaid. You must be positively destitute after all those years of fixing celebrity ski injuries in Zurich."

The interior of the Moffat home was just as Arthur had imagined—warm colors, comfortable furniture, and walls lined with family photographs that charted the years. A woman with auburn hair twisted into an elegant knot stepped forward, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.

"So this is the infamous Dr. Hall," she said, her smile genuine and warm. "I was beginning to think you were some elaborate fiction Steven had created to explain his wild university days."

Arthur extended the bouquet toward her. "All too real, I'm afraid. And not nearly as wild as Steven likes to pretend. Lauren, I presume? These are for you—to apologize in advance for any embarrassing stories your husband might share tonight."

Lauren accepted the flowers with a delighted expression. "Oh, these are lovely! And completely unnecessary—I've been collecting Steven's embarrassing stories for decades. Yours will just add to my anthology."

She leaned in to kiss Arthur's cheek, a gesture so casually familiar that he was momentarily taken aback. In London or New York, such warmth would have taken months to develop.

"I've set out some appetizers in the living room," Lauren continued. "Violet! Come, meet your father's friend!"

A teenage girl with her mother's auburn hair and her father's sturdy build appeared from an adjoining room, smartphone in hand but attention surprisingly present. She gave Arthur a curious once-over.

"You're the bone doctor," she stated matter-of-factly. "Dad said you once reset his nose after he walked into a lamppost while checking out a girl."

Steven choked slightly. "That's, ah, not exactly how I phrased it, sweetheart."

"That's exactly how you phrased it," Lauren corrected with a smirk.

Arthur extended his hand formally to Violet. "Guilty as charged. Though your father neglected to mention he was legally blind without his glasses, which he'd broken the day before."

Violet shook his hand with surprising firmness. "I like you better than Dad's other friends. They all talk to me like I'm five."

"Violet is thirteen going on forty," Steven explained. "And brutally honest at all times."

"Honesty is the foundation of good medicine," Arthur replied seriously to Violet. "Your father would have made a terrible doctor."

"Hey now!" Steven protested, but he was already leading them toward the living room, where a spread of cheeses, olives, and small pastries occupied a coffee table.

The space was as inviting as the rest of the house—bookshelves lined one wall, family photographs another, and large windows looked out onto a backyard where garden lights illuminated flowering shrubs. Arthur handed over the wine, which Steven accepted with exaggerated reverence.

"2015 Cabernet—you remembered!" Steven examined the label. "Lauren, he remembered my weakness for overpriced grape juice."

"I remembered you spilling a 2010 Bordeaux all over my anatomy textbook during finals," Arthur corrected, accepting a tumbler of amber liquid that Steven pressed into his hand.

"Water under the bridge. Or wine under the textbook, as it were." Steven raised his glass. "To Archie Hall, the finest bone-setter this side of the Atlantic, who's finally decided to grace our humble town with his considerable talents."

"To old friends," Arthur countered, "who somehow convince you to move to places you can't find on a map."

They clinked glasses, and Arthur felt the burn of good whiskey as he took a sip. Lauren settled into an armchair, while Violet curled up on the window seat with her mobile glued to her fingers.

"So," Lauren began, "Steven tells me you've worked in hospitals all over the world. What made you choose our little Ellingwood?"

Arthur glanced at Steven. "A very persistent friend who wouldn't stop sending me photos of your new hospital's equipment until I agreed to at least look at the offer."

"The man needed roots," Steven explained to his wife. "Forty-two years old and still living like a medical mercenary. I did him a favor."

"You bribed the hiring committee," Arthur said dryly.

"I influenced the hiring committee," Steven corrected. "There's a difference. Besides, Ellingwood deserves world-class care. And you deserved a break from the rat race."

Lauren leaned forward. "He was unbearable after they approved the hospital budget. Kept saying, 'Now we just need a surgeon worthy of the equipment.' I think he called in favors from two continents."

"Three, actually," Steven said proudly. "I had to get testimonials from that Saudi prince whose knee you reconstructed."

Arthur shook his head, but couldn't hide his smile. "You're still the same meddling optimist from university."

"And you're still the same workaholic who forgets to have a life. Or is there a significant other waiting somewhere you have yet forgot to mention?"

Lauren gracefully redirected the conversation. "Arthur, you'll have to tell us about some of your travels. Steven says you spent six months in Tokyo?"

"Nearly a year," Arthur confirmed gratefully. "Working with a team developing minimally invasive techniques for spinal fusion."

The conversation flowed easily after that, moving from Arthur's travels to Steven and Lauren's life in Ellingwood. Arthur found himself genuinely enjoying the evening, relaxing into the warmth of family life that had always existed at a distance from his own experience.

"You should see the house Archie's renting," Steven said, refilling their glasses. "Mrs. Pendleton's old place on Maple. Complete with all the original furniture from 1975."

"The dresser in the hallway has it out for me," Arthur admitted. "I'm convinced it moves an inch closer to the walkway every night."

"Mrs. Pendleton was ninety-seven when she moved to the assisted living facility," Lauren explained. "I think that furniture was ancient even when she was young."

"It's just temporary," Arthur said. "Until I figure out if Ellingwood is going to stick."

"It'll stick," Steven said with certainty. "You need this place more than you realize."

There was something in his friend's tone that made Arthur pause. Before he could question it, Lauren set down her glass with a deliberate motion.

"Speaking of people who belong in Ellingwood," she said casually, "my sister is joining us for dinner tonight. I very much hope you don’t mind, Arthur."

"Aunt Ivy is amazing," Violet added enthusiastically momentarily shifting her attention from the little screen towards them. "She painted the mural at my school and taught me how to sketch people without making them look like potatoes."

Arthur caught the look that passed between Steven and Lauren, recognizing the subtle choreography of a setup. He'd been on the receiving end of well-intentioned matchmaking before. Usually, it annoyed him, but tonight, warmed by whiskey and nostalgia, he found he didn't mind.

"Ivy's been single for a while now," Steven added, confirming Arthur's suspicion. "Brilliant, beautiful, bit of an introvert like someone else I know." He gave Arthur a pointed look.

"Subtle, Steven. Very subtle."

"I've never claimed subtlety as a virtue," Steven laughed.

The conversation was interrupted by the chime of the doorbell, a melodic sequence that sent Violet leaping from her seat.

"That's Aunt Ivy!" she shouted, accidentally toppling a couple of decorative pillows as she rushed to the door.

"Those two are inseparable," Steven explained, watching his daughter dash from the room. "Have been since Violet was tiny. Evelyn does not have kids of her own,” at that, Steven gave him a wink, “yet. So, Violet gets all the fun aunt energy. They spend every Saturday together in Ivy’s studio."

Arthur felt a curious anticipation as the sounds of the front door opening echoed down the hallway, followed by Violet's excited chatter and another voice—melodic and warm—responding. He set his glass down and straightened almost imperceptibly in his seat.

"Fair warning," Steven murmured, leaning close. "Ivy tends to have a rather dramatic effect on people when they first meet her."

Before Arthur could question what that meant, Violet reappeared in the doorway, practically vibrating with excitement as she turned to beckon someone forward. "Come on! No way back now. Also, he seems nice!"

Arthur rose to his feet, a gesture of politeness ingrained by years of formal hospital functions. However, nothing could have prepared him for the woman who stepped into the warm light of the Moffat living room, a covered dish in her hands and a smile that seemed to reconfigure the atmospheric pressure of the entire house.