In November, Max Griffen resigned from his job at the clinic in Toronto. Again and again he had counselled patients complaining of depression to take chances and make changes in their lives. The time had come for him to take a spoonful of his own medicine. His life was in flux. The usual arguments for staying on the treadmill were much less compelling in light of his divorce.
He had found a house on Bridge Street in Almonte, a village that captured his imagination and catered to his fantasy of becoming a distinguished, silver-templed, small-town doc. The house was two rambling storeys of classic red brick on a corner lot, wrapped in a white porch and tied with ivy ribbons. The kitchen had been modernized with stainless steel and tile, but the bedrooms were antique, wallpapered, one in st
