Y THE MIDDLE OF JUNE, cars crowded Route 6, people waited at least a half hour at any restaurant, and the T-shirt and gift shops were hopping. Our clinic was quite busy, and though the cases I saw weren’t that challenging, it was great to be bustling around, writing out prednisone prescriptions for the never-ending stream of poison-ivy victims, stitching up booboos, and shipping patients down to Cape Cod Hospital. We had a nice rhythm going, Jill and Sienna and I. The mysterious Dr. Bala was quite cordial, having gotten over his initial formality. Now that it was busy, we really clicked along, and I was more than holding my own.

I loved working at the OCSC, too. Mr. Glover and I had had a little chat, and he’d been quite well-behaved since our initial visit. There, the cases were often more complicated, and with that came the deep satisfaction of really getting to know the patients and their families. Even though I was just covering for Dr. Whitaker, it was an honor to be taken into their confidence, to be trusted with making them feel better, to be a part of their lives.

I was even becoming a better cook. I invited my parents over for dinner and made a vegetable lasagna that did not nauseate any of us. I brought a chicken casserole over to Sam and Danny one night and stayed to eat it with them. But it was no fun cooking for one person. Most recipes served at least four people, and more often than not, I’d end up throwing the leftovers away. I ended up making salads or omelets or quick, one-person vegetable dishes and eating them while I read.

I continued to run; Sam’s athletic advice had come in handy, and I wasn’t suffering quite so much anymore, regularly covering four miles with my sweet black-and-white doggy. And I worked on my house, filling window boxes and putting out little pots of flowers. The lilac trees Sam had planted bloomed, and all in all, it was a lovely time. Except for Joe. Aside from our little moment at the Barnacle, I had hardly seen him.

One Friday night, I planned to hang out at the Barnacle while Katie worked, something I did from time to time. The restaurant was noisy and crowded, and when I walked in, my energy suddenly flagged. In a few weeks, I would turn thirty, and I was tired of hanging around bars. Suddenly, all the single women in the restaurant looked much younger than I was. The women in my age group all seemed to have adorable children with them, or were radiant in pregnancy, or held hands with their husbands. Nearly thirty years old, and I was still stalking Joe, just as I had been at twenty-two…and nineteen…and fifteen….

Speaking of Joe, there he was. Tonight, the sight of his beauty made me feel…tired. Exhausted. Would my love for him ever be reciprocated? Would he ever discover that he could be very happy with me, and not the willowy, red-haired out-of-towner he was currently flirting with?

Katie came up to me. “Hi,” she said, glancing Joe’s way. Her expression was sympathetic. “Sorry. Squeeze of the week.”

“Yeah, except he was with her last week, too,” I said, feeling my heart grow leaden. I looked around the restaurant. “Katie, I think I’m gonna go,” I said. “I’m not up for this.”

“Okay,” she said, giving my shoulder a squeeze as a customer waved impatiently. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I stopped at the market on my way home and bought a jumbo bag of Cheetos, the ultimate self-pity food. Changing into my pajamas, I turned on the TV and tore into the bag. What was the point? I thought, sucking orange powder off my fingers. I had no one to impress. There was nothing on the three channels that my antenna picked up. Maybe I should invest in a satellite dish, since I obviously wasn’t going to have a boyfriend.

I tossed Digger a Cheeto, which he caught midair and swallowed without apparent chewing. Digger and I could have lots of fun together, eating Ben & Jerry’s and cheese curls and Hershey’s bars. I could become fat again. I would just eat and eat, all sorts of grossly delicious things, like an entire Pepperidge Farm coconut cake, and six scrambled eggs with cheese, and a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts, and so what? Who would care? It wasn’t as if all this work had paid off one tiny iota. Joe paid just as much attention to me now as he had when I’d been fat and worn braces.

Digger stood up and put his head in my lap. I stroked his silky ears and gave him another Cheeto. Who needed stupid Joe Carpenter? I had a dog. I didn’t need anybody. Even as I thought it, I felt the ultimate humiliation: tears pricked my eyes. Oh, fantastic. Here I was, 8:30 on a Friday night, relentlessly stuffing my face, while the love of my life, the man I knew better than anyone, was probably making out with his girlfriend at my favorite restaurant. It just sucked. I started to cry in earnest, choking a little on the soggy orange mass in my throat. A good cry would make me feel better, wouldn’t it? But I felt stupid, crying by myself, and besides, Digger kept trying to climb up on my lap and lick the delicious combination of salty tears and Cheetos dust off my face. I pushed him down and blew my nose.

I wanted to call someone. Katie was working. My mother would be horrified that I was crying and would no doubt rush right over, which I didn’t want. I just wanted someone to feel sorry for me, to share my misery. Trish? We’d never had that kind of a relationship. Sam? He didn’t know about my love for J.C., and I felt embarrassed at the thought of telling him. Mitch or Curtis? No, they would be busy on a Friday night, holding hands and exchanging pithy witticisms with their P-town friends. There was nobody. Nobody would understand. Boo hoo hoo.

Pulling the afghan over me, I fumbled for the remote and clicked on the TV, unaware that the next day, everything would change.

I WOKE UP LATE, STIFF and crusty-faced, cramped from spending the whole night on the couch. Digger was draped over my lower half, having cut off my circulation for God knew how long. I staggered into the bathroom, wincing at my puffy eyes ringed with smudged mascara. A smear of orange ran across one cheek.

Heaving a great sigh, I washed my face and made some coffee. Forcefully deciding to think of something other than Joe, I read the paper instead. I was off for the weekend. I had no plans. Maybe Mitch and Curtis had a room open, and I could visit them. Their place was so charming, and P-town so festive and cheerful that I would surely feel better if I got out of town for a night. I hadn’t seen the boys for a few weeks, and it might be fun to get all dolled up and show them the fruits of their labor.

But first, a run. After consuming about eight thousand grease-saturated calories in one sitting the night before, I felt rather ill. I had to exorcise all of that hideous, orange fat from my body and get my brain into gear. Plus, Digger was staring pointedly as his leash and wagging his tail.

I tidied up the living room, cringing as I balled up the empty Cheetos bag and stuffed it deep into the trash. Changing into running shorts and T-shirt (Al’s Slaughterhouse, Des Moines, Iowa), I decided to drive to Coast Guard Beach and run along the water with my pup. It would be harder than running on the road, and I needed the extra work. Besides, it was impossible to be sad if one ran near the ocean in June.

Digger was doubly joyful to be going in the car, and he thrust his head out the window, snuffling happily as we zipped down Ocean View Road to the beach. The air was clear and cool, and seagulls soared on the breeze. Because school had not let out yet, there was still parking at the beach available, and I pulled into a spot and got out of the car, Digger leaping excitedly next to me. Maybe today would be a good day, I thought. Couldn’t be worse than yesterday.

As I got out of the car, my heart sank. Joe’s truck sat in the parking lot. Damn it. I stared at the truck, wondering if I wanted to go down to the beach. Nope, I decided. I’d just run down the road instead. A Joe encounter would be too disheartening, and my heart was low enough.

So lost in thought was I that I didn’t notice Sam’s cruiser pulling in next to me.

“Hey, Millie,” he said. I jumped.

“Oh, hi, Sam. Hi, Ethel.” Sam’s partner glared balefully at me and nodded her gray head in greeting.

“Going for a run?” Sam asked.

“I guess,” I answered.

Suddenly, the cruiser’s radio crackled. We all listened obediently.

“Attention Eastham Fire and EMS. Signal forty-two. Report of woman in active labor. Coast Guard Beach. South of boardwalk, near lifeguard stand number four. Father will be waving a yellow towel.”

“Fuck me!” Ethel cursed, snatching up the radio to respond. Sam leaped out of the car.

“Help us out, here, Mil!” he called over his shoulder, running for the boardwalk.

“Here!” I said, thrusting Digger’s leash into Ethel’s hand. I sprinted to my car, grabbed my doctor’s bag out of the trunk and raced down the boardwalk, sliding on the sandy planks, and headed south down the beach. There was the dad about a hundred yards down, waving the yellow towel. I dimly registered the sand in my sneakers, the bright colors of the beach, the hiss and boom of the waves. A crowd clustered around the woman. Sam was a few yards ahead of me, and I raced up to him. Ethel trailed us with my dog, her decades of smoking not allowing her to run.

The woman was lying on her beach blanket. There was a dark stain of fluid underneath her, but it was not blood.

“Okay, folks, let’s give her some room,” Sam called out, gesturing the crowd back.

“Hi, I’m Millie,” I panted, kneeling by the woman’s side and squeezing her shoulder gently. “I’m a doctor. How are you doing?”

“I think I’m having the baby,” she gasped, her eyes wide, her hands clutching fistfuls of sand.

“Your first?” I asked, opening my bag and pulling on latex gloves.

“It’s my second,” the woman answered. I glanced up. There was a little boy about two years old holding on to the towel-waver’s leg.

Sam knelt next to me. “What can I do?”

“Keep those people back, okay?” I murmured. “I’ll need you in a second.”

As in so many emergency situations, there were about twelve things going on at once. Sam pushed back the quickly swelling crowd. I heard him talking on the radio to the ambulance. Music was playing nearby. The woman gave a low moan, and her husband came up and clutched her hand. I felt her abdomen. It was rigid with the strength of her contraction.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Heidi,” she panted.

“The ambulance is on the way, Heidi,” I said. “I’m going to check you and see where we are, okay? Do you have a clean towel?” I asked the dad. He grabbed one out of their beach bag and thrust it at me, and I slid it beneath her bottom.

“Will she be okay? Is the baby coming?” he asked.

Using the bandage scissors from my bag, I cut through the woman’s bathing suit.

The top of the baby’s head was clearly visible. “Your baby wants to see the ocean,” I said, smiling at Heidi. Her brown eyes grew even wider and she looked at her husband.

“Is your son okay?” I asked. The little boy looked terrified, eyes popping, chin trembling.

“Mark, watch him,” panted the mom, extricating her hand from her husband’s grip. “Can I push? I want to push. I think I need to push.”

“That’s fine, Heidi. Wait for the next contraction. Sam!” I called. “Give me a hand!” The crowd murmured collectively, and Sam was at my side in a flash. He took Heidi’s hand and slipped his arm under her shoulders to prop her up a little.

“I’m Sam,” he said kindly. “Looks like you’re a pro at this.”

“The baby’s not due for three more weeks!” she cried.

“Don’t worry, Heidi,” I said, giving her a quick smile. “Your body knows what to do.”

“It’s not a show, people!” Ethel barked in her rusty, crackling voice. “Back up!”

“Okay,” I said, feeling her abdomen begin to tighten again. “Here comes the next contraction, so give us a big push. One, two, three…”

She pushed, her face scrunching with effort. The baby’s head emerged a few centimeters more. Heidi gave a high, keening cry, and the crowd gasped.

“You’re doing great,” I said, easing a finger next to the baby’s wet, dark head. An ambulance siren wailed. “We’re almost there.” Her abdomen tightened again. “The head is the hard part, remember? Okay, here’s another contraction. Push, Heidi, a really big push now…”

She pushed again, and the baby’s head slid out, covered in blood and vernix and black hair. “Got a brunette here, just like you,” I said. “Now don’t push, okay? Hold on one second and just pant.”

I slipped my gloved finger into the baby’s mouth and slicked out a wad of mucus. Gently turning the head skyward, I could see that the baby’s face was blue.

“Oh, God,” said the father, dropping to one knee and clutching his son against him. “Oh, Jesus, please.”

“What’s wrong?” Heidi sobbed.

“Got a tight nuchal here,” I muttered. Sam nodded. The umbilical cord was wrapped once around the baby’s neck.

“Hang on, Heidi,” he said. “You’re doing great. Just give Millie a minute, okay?”

I worked my finger under the cord and carefully, carefully eased it up over the baby’s head.

“Please, God,” the husband choked.

“Is everything okay?” Heidi asked breathlessly.

“Everything is fine. One more second…okay. One more push, Heidi. Nice and easy.”

She pushed and the baby slid into my hands. I scooped out the baby’s mouth again. The infant gagged and another wad of mucus and liquid came up, and then, that most wonderful of all sounds, the first cries of a new life. “It’s a girl!” I announced, and the crowd gave a mighty cheer and began to applaud. Even as I rubbed the infant with a clean Scooby-Doo beach towel, her face began to turn pink. Leaving the umbilical cord for the paramedics to deal with, I placed the baby on her mother’s chest. The crowd cheered again as Heidi sobbed happily.

“Trevor! Come see your sister!” she wept. The father and little boy knelt by her side, and Sam eased away.

“Need me to do anything, Millie?” he asked as I placed another towel over the mother’s belly.

“I think I’m all set,” I said, smiling up at him. At that moment, the paramedics arrived with a stretcher. One of them came up to Sam.

“Taking over my job?” he asked amiably as his co-workers loaded Heidi and the baby onto the stretcher.

“Hey, Dave. Better talk to Dr. Barnes,” Sam answered.

“Thirty-seven weeks, para two, nuchal times one, spontaneous cry. No placenta. I saved that for you.” I grinned at the paramedic.

“Nice work,” he said. “Lucky you were here.”

As Heidi was bundled off, her husband and son in tow, the crowd once again began to applaud. I grinned, suddenly euphoric, my heart filled with joy. I turned to Sam for a hug.

“Well done, Officer,” I said into his shoulder, my throat tight with emotion.

“You’re the one who did everything, Mil,” he answered. “Great job.” We looked at each other for a moment, grinning. Sam’s eyes were warm…and a little wet. My heart squeezed. Could there be any better man to have at your side during an emergency than Sam Nickerson? I thought not.

Ethel came up and handed me Digger’s leash. “Thank the Christ I didn’t have to do that,” she grated. “Goddamn gross, if you ask me.”

“I thought it was beautiful,” said a familiar voice. I turned around.

Joe Carpenter, his blond hair glowing in the sun, wearing some old cut-off jeans, smiled at me. “Wow, Millie. You were amazing.”

“Thanks, Joe,” I said, smiling back. “Can’t take any credit, though. The mom did all the work.”

A baby! I had delivered a baby on Coast Guard Beach! Even Joe Carpenter’s golden beauty couldn’t touch that one.

The crowd was beginning to break up. A few people came up to Sam and me, congratulating us or making jokes.

As I bent down to pack up my medical bag, I noticed I was rather messy, my T-shirt smeared by the fresh-from-God baby. Oh, well, who cared? Badge of honor. I patted Digger and let him lick my face before standing up. My heart was so full that it actually caused a pleasant ache in my chest.

I stood up. Joe was still there.

“So, Millie…you doing anything tonight? Want to get a beer or something?”

For a minute, I just soaked it in, the cries of the seagulls and the roar of the waves and the voices of the people blending into a beautiful summer melody. The sun was warm and the breeze gentle, and this was clearly the best day of my life. I smiled again. “Sure, Joe.”

He smiled back, dimples appearing. “How about if we meet at the Barnacle around eight?” he suggested.

“Sounds great,” I answered, strangely calm.

“See you later, then,” he said and walked off.

Still beaming, I turned to go. Sam approached me.

“Amazing, huh, Millie?” he asked, running his hand through his short-cropped hair.

“You don’t get to deliver a baby every day, do you?” I laughed.

“Hey, you want to grab dinner later?”

I remembered belatedly that Danny was with Trish this weekend. “I can’t, Sam, I have plans. Sorry, bud.” I was sorry. It would have been nice to relive this glorious morning with him.

“No problem. Maybe I’ll see you later.” Sam grinned and went off to make his report.

As I walked off the beach, I was congratulated and complimented eleven times. Finally reaching my car, I drove home, filled with gratitude that life could be so sweet.

THE REST OF THE DAY PASSED in a dream. I called Katie and my parents and Mitch and Curtis and Janette in Boston and Dr. Bala and even Trish. After telling the story six times, it was starting to feel real. I sat outside on my tiny deck and went over every detail again and again. How lucky I felt to have been part of that baby’s birth! How proud I was of that mother, who’d managed to deliver a healthy baby on a beach in front of a crowd! How proud I was that I’d done everything right! How proud I was of Sam, so gentle and caring and calm! And of Digger, who’d been so well-behaved during the whole event! And then, after despairing last night, after eating all those Cheetos, after crying pathetically and being a loser, Joe Carpenter had asked me out! When I was unshowered and when my hair stuck up in odd places and when I was covered in blood and vernix and amniotic fluid, Joe Carpenter had asked me out.

I got a few calls from people telling me I did a great job and asking how the baby was. I called Heidi at Cape Cod Hospital to check on her, and she tearfully thanked me and “that wonderful officer.” Then I just floated around my house and yard, grinning and laughing and thrilled.

The baby had made me feel like a winner. Joe’s asking me out merely confirmed that feeling. Yesterday, I would have been deeply grateful to be noticed by J.C. the C.; today, it was merely what happened to competent, friendly, quick-thinking doctors who cleverly delivered babies on the beach.

Joe Carpenter was what I deserved.