As he drove into the township of Water’s Edge, Anthony Petersen’s heart sank. The sleepy seaside town south of Sydney was even tinier than he’d expected.
Ugh. Being a small-town doctor wasn’t what he’d hoped for in his first job after graduating, and he wouldn’t even be the primary doctor. He’d be working under Dr. Samuel Turner, a physician the town had relied on for years. Wonderful. Just wonderful. Did this sleepy joint even have enough people to justify two doctors?
He peered left and right as he passed a strip of shops and cafés, many brightened by cheery awnings, hanging baskets, and planter boxes filled with colourful blooms and serving as a buffer between the footpath and the road. Quaint. But he wasn’t after quaint.
The clinic was at the far end of the strip, and his heart sank further as he parked his Mazda 3 hatchback in front of a house. A freshly painted teal-blue house, but a house, nonetheless. A far cry from the modern city hospital he’d expected to be working in after six long years at university.
But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and he should be grateful he had a job. At least, he’d told himself that often enough. Maybe he’d start believing it soon.
Peeling his long legs out of the car, he stepped onto the footpath and stretched, then moved aside as a young woman pushing a pram walked by. She offered a shy smile.
He gave a nod. Hmm. Through the gap between the shops across the road, a sliver of blue sparkled. The ocean. If he strained his ears, was that whoosh the sound of waves? He might be imagining it, but he wasn’t imagining the salty tang in the air.
Hmph. Living near the sea might compensate for being overlooked for the research scholarship he’d wanted. Unlikely, but it had to be better than living in a town with no redeeming features.
Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself and loped up the four timber steps to the front door while eyeing the switchback ramp access off to the side. Ideal or not, he needed this job. With a hefty student loan, child support payments for his two teenage children, and parents needing financial help, he had no option but to stick it out until something better came along, whenever that might be.
At the top of the steps, he studied the church along the road, only recognisable as such because of the cross, a beacon high above the surrounding buildings.
Shouldn’t such a small town have an equally small, old-fashioned church? This construction was slick. He craned to see how far back it stretched. Wowsers. It seemed to be a community centre. Perhaps it was. How many churches had a basketball court out back?
Maybe the town wasn’t so sleepy after all.
And maybe God brought him here for a reason. A groan escaped. How many times had he argued with God about this, pleading with Him to release a position, any position, at the hospital where he’d trained, where he belonged, although a research scholarship was his preferred option? After all, that alone motivated him to sacrifice six years of his life, pulling eighteen-hour days, wearing himself thin. It even cost him his family.
At this point, any job in the hospital would have been acceptable.
But God had remained silent, and a hospital position hadn’t materialised.
To stifle a groan, Anthony huffed the air from his lungs. Okay, maybe that was a groan. Lord, I’m sorry for my attitude. Help me to be grateful for this job and to embrace this town You’ve brought me to. You know me better than I know myself, and You know what’s good for me, although I can’t help thinking You’ve made a mistake.
His shoulders drooped. There I go again. I’m sorry, Lord. Please help me understand why You’ve brought me here.
Adjusting his tie, he lifted his chin and stepped into the clinic’s empty waiting room.
A young dark-haired woman behind the reception desk looked up. “Hello. Can I help you?”
Anthony returned her smile. “Ah, yes. I have a meeting with Dr. Turner.”
With a frown, she peered into the computer monitor before turning back to him. “I’m sorry. I don’t seem to have any appointment booked. Could you tell me your name, please?”
He cleared his throat. “Anthony Petersen. Dr. Anthony Petersen.”
Her face pinked. “Oh. I’m so sorry. Dr Turner’s expecting you. Take a seat, and I’ll tell him you’re here.”
“No need, Emily.” An older man of medium height, his silver-rimmed glasses accentuating his greying hair and neatly clipped moustache, stood in the hall entrance. Dr. Turner. Stepping forward, he extended his hand. “Anthony, welcome to Water’s Edge.”
