Home to Harmony (6 page)

She found him on the top step of the side porch and sat close by, bracing her back against a post.

He shot her a quick smile, taking her in with his eyes, while still playing. “David all right?”

“I have no idea. He won’t let me in, he won’t answer me, he won’t talk.” She kicked off her athletic shoes and pressed her toes into the warm wood, worn smooth by passing years and feet.

“He knows you care. He might need privacy to think.”

“When I was his age, I’d have given anything for Aurora to come to me to talk through a quarrel.” She shrugged. “So you’re saying it’s a good thing I didn’t use a battering ram on his door?”

“Very wise move.”

She sighed. “Meanwhile, I picked a fight with Aurora.”

“One step forward…” He lifted an eyebrow.

“Two steps back? Thank you Dr. Folk Wisdom. I keep trying to not let her hurt my feelings, but I can’t seem to resist.” She glanced at him, but he was focusing on his guitar, playing the Beatles’ song “Blackbird.”

“That sounds so nice,” she said, breathing out. “Wish you’d been there when I was talking to her. What’s that saying? Music hath charm to soothe the savage…daughter?”

He laughed his low, masculine laugh and sexual desire washed through her. Jeez, all the man had to do was laugh to turn her on.
Get over it.

“I definitely need to be more Zen.” She crossed her legs, hands upturned on her knees in a lotus pose, eyes closed.

“Sorry. I don’t see that happening.” When she opened her eyes, his were teasing and twinkling. More lust washed through her. What would Marcus be like in bed? Quiet or noisy? Fire or ice? Gentle or rough?

Stop that this minute.

“You’re probably right. I’m so not Zen.” She broke the gaze and dropped her pose. “David’s problem is Brigitte. And it’s my fault they even met. I nagged him into this writer’s club and there she was, too old, too smart, and David hung on her every word.” She scratched the bites on her neck, then the one on her shin.

Marcus kept playing.

“You know what she told me once? She doesn’t wear underwear because it blocks the root chakra. Can you believe that?” Marcus laughed.

“You wouldn’t find it so funny if you were the parent.”

“Perhaps not. No.”

“Do you think David might run away?” The thought sent a jolt of fear through her.

Marcus stopped playing. “He seems to be exploring the power he wields in your relationship.”

“By scaring the crap out of me?”

“Typically, an outburst like the one in the kitchen re-lieves the tension, especially if the parent doesn’t escalate the stressors.”

“You mean if I keep my mouth shut?”

He just smiled.

“Okay, I’ll try not to overreact. Any more advice? And, please, no folk sayings. I’m serious.”

“A couple of things, I guess. When he erupts, acknowledge the emotion he’s displaying without criticism.
You seem angry…. You sound hurt…
.
I can hear how upset you are….
Once he feels heard, he’ll calm down and handle the problem more reasonably.”

“That makes sense…until I’m in the middle of it with him. He pushes all my buttons.”

“That’s because he installed them,” he said.

“I thought we agreed no more folk wisdom tonight.”

“Sorry. Also, you might try not engaging over every poorly chosen word in an argument. If you can take a moment to catch your breath, you’ll be less likely to exacerbate the conflict.”

“Easier said than done.”

“If it were easy, there would be no psychiatrists.”

“Ah, so this is job security for you?” She smiled.

“I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know or do, Christine. Trust your instincts and you’ll be fine.”

She liked Marcus’s attitude. He didn’t judge her or discount her ideas, or make too much of her mistakes. And when she talked, he listened so closely, tracking each hesitation, every change in her tone.

She’d bet he’d been a damn good shrink. Which reminded her of David and Dr. Mike. “By the way, Dr. Mike turned out to be a bust, so do you know any therapists in Preston?”

“Sorry, no. My friend Carlos lives there though. He runs the New Mirage clinic. I can ask him for you.”

“That would be great,” she said, then decided to take a stab at Plan B. “I was thinking, though, about what you said about the therapist needing to be someone David relates to…?”

“Yes…?”

“I’ve seen David talking with you in the garden and I know he likes you, so I was wondering if you’d consider maybe—”

“Treating him? I don’t see clients, Christine. I told you that.”

“It wouldn’t be official or anything. An informal chat, you know? Every few days maybe?”

“Listen to me. I’m not who you want for your son. Period.” His words were abrupt, almost angry, which startled her.

“Okay,” she said. “I guess I have a hard time with no.”

“Yes, you do.” He shot her a brief smile to ease the moment. “I’m sure there are fine therapists in Preston.”

“And plenty of quacks, too.”

“Most therapists will set up a phone interview so you can assess their approach. You’ll find someone, I’m sure.”

That was that. Worth a try, but no dice.

Marcus went back to his guitar, playing something Celtic, fast and wild, the melody line flying from deep despair to soaring ecstasy.

It was wonderfully distracting, she realized, and sank into the moment, the music, the man beside her. She smelled eucalyptus, the metallic scent of the river and traces of creosote. River toads were carrying on, croaking and chirping and groaning out their needs. Crickets rasped away from beneath the porch.

Moonlight cascaded over the front yard, making it look exotic instead of dusty and abandoned as it had when she’d arrived. She felt better, she realized. “It’s nice out here, huh? I was so miserable as a kid, I never noticed.”

“Home always seems different when we’ve changed.”

She blinked. “Wow, good one. That was yours, right?”

He shrugged.

“I have changed, I guess. Grown up some anyway. Though around Aurora my thirty-five years seem to melt away.”

She focused on Marcus’s fingers, so confident on the strings. There was that empty ring finger again. Was he seeing someone? It was only natural to wonder. “Do you get lonely way out here?” she asked. “I mean compared to L.A.?”

“Why would I? There’s plenty to do.”

“You can be busy and lonely at the same time, Marcus.”

He didn’t respond, merely played something quieter.

“I liked what Aurora said at dinner tonight.
May we all find here what we need.
” She studied him. “What about you, Marcus? I know you’re working on a book and all, but why here?”

He dropped his fingers from the strings and looked at her. “It was Carlos, I guess. I needed a quiet place and he thought I’d like Harmony House. The physical labor clears my head and at night I have the time and space to think and write. The stars are nice.” He looked up at the sky.

She looked up, too. “Kind of scary,” she said. “All that space and blackness, the stars so tiny. It makes me feel small.”

“Yeah?” When she looked over, he was watching her face.

“What do you want from Harmony House? You’re here for your mother and David, I know, but what about for you?”

“Me? I don’t know….” His close attention made her want to really think about her answer. “I want to make a difference here, make things better. I’m in advertising and I love when my work boosts a company’s profits, so I’d like that. Mainly it’s David I’m concerned about.”

She scratched absently at her new mosquito bites. “I feel so at sea with him. In the old days, we got along great. David was kind and thoughtful, a good friend, reasonably responsible, and he
talked
to me…about everything. Now…” She shrugged, feeling as lost and small as she did surveying the cold black sky with its icy spikes of stars.

Marcus watched her, waiting for her to speak.

“I’d heard puberty was hell, but I didn’t expect this. It’s like someone switched off the lights in a strange room. I keep banging my knees on sharp corners I can’t see.”

“That’s an interesting image.”

“I wish it weren’t so apt.” She slapped at a mosquito that had landed on her upper arm, then scratched at the other bites. “Mosquitoes are driving me nuts.”

“You’ve got quite a collection of bites, I see.” Marcus reached for her arm, turning it this way and that. “Six just on your forearm.” She liked the gentle warmth of his fingers.

“Only the beginning. Twenty-five yesterday, plus five news ones tonight.” She showed him the places. “And the calamine I bought is useless.”

“In that case…I make a salve that works pretty well.”

“You
make
a salve? Really?”

“I grow some herbs at home and mix a remedy or two.”

“You have some with you? Here?”

“In my room, yes.”

“Then let’s go.” She jumped to her feet.

Marcus sat there blinking at her.

“Come on. This is an emergency.”

Upstairs, Lady waited outside his door. When they approached, she let out a gut-wrenching howl, then galloped away, down the stairs and across the yard toward the trees.

“What was that about?” Christine asked.

“She misses…her previous owner.” He opened the door and strode inside.

“So how did you get her?” She moved in front of him, wanting the whole story. There was no point evading her.

“Lady belonged to my stepson, Nathan. He died a year ago and my ex-wife couldn’t bear to have her around.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She looked as though she’d been punched.

“It’s all right. You had no way to know.” He shouldn’t have been so blunt. “So, about the salve…”

“How terrible for you both. Were you close to Nathan?”

“As close as he’d allow me to be. He was thirteen when I began dating his mother. He was fifteen when he died.”

“Fifteen?” She covered her mouth. “That’s David’s age.”

“Yes. And, actually, David resembles Nathan in physical appearance. I think that might be why Lady was so drawn to him. Since Nathan’s death, she’s been inconsolable.”

He wouldn’t tell her the rest—that Lady’s mournful cries burned through him like fire-tipped arrows, a fitting punishment for believing he had anything to offer Elizabeth or Nathan in the first place.

“Let me get the salve.” He started forward, but she stopped him with a hand at his elbow.

“I’m so sorry, Marcus. What happened? A car accident? Illness? I mean, unless you don’t want to talk about it…”

Of course he didn’t. But after all the nights he’d lain awake rehashing the events while Lady howled, telling the story could hardly make him feel worse.

“It was an accidental drug overdose. Heroin and fentanyl, which is very easy to OD on, especially for a new user.”

“Oh, no. Was he living at home at the time?”

“Yes. I broke down the door to the bathroom to get to him. Elizabeth was away, thank God.”

“I can’t imagine how awful that must have been.”

“I had no idea he was using needles. He’d had a scare snorting heroin and talked to me about it, so I thought he’d turned a corner. I was wrong.”

“You can’t read their minds, I know that for sure.”

He should have done more, intervened somehow. Irrational as it was, the idea hounded him. “It was much harder on Elizabeth. She didn’t want to believe he’d been using drugs at all, let alone heroin.” His throat tightened. Enough of this. “Let me get the cream.”

He went to the cabinet over the sink, where he kept the salve, and handed her the jar, tilting his head toward the door, suggesting they leave. She studied him, absorbing what he’d told her, no doubt, looking concerned.

“Here. Let’s give it a try.” He took the jar, opened it and held it out to her.

It took her a few seconds to notice. She scooped some onto a finger and sniffed it. “It smells good. Green. Herbal.”

All he smelled was Christine’s spring scent.

She rubbed a little on the bites on her forearm. “Oooh, that’s better,” she said, breathing out in relief.

She scooped more and applied it to her other arm, moaning the whole time. After that she braced one bare foot on his chair to rub it into her long, long leg. To avoid the hypnotic sight of all that stroking of attractive body parts, he pretended to study the items on his desk.

Eventually she finished with her legs. “Oh, this really helps!” She bobbed on the balls of her feet. “Would you get my neck and back?” She handed him the jar, spun around and lifted her hair off her shoulders.

He groaned inwardly.

“Marcus?”

“Yes, uh, certainly.” He lifted a blob of salve and rubbed over the red areas on the back of her slender neck, her skin supple and soft.

She gave a little moan, something like how she might sound making love. “That’s so
niiice
,” she said.

“Glad to hear it,” he said and cleared his throat.

She dropped her hair, sending a wave of sweet smell his way, then lifted the back of her top, revealing a black bra.

He sighed and scooped out more salve and began to gingerly apply it to the crop of bumps on her upper back.

“Hang on,” she said, fingering the clasp. “Underneath are more.” She flicked the thing apart, exposing three more bites and her entire back to his gaze. “That’s easier, right?”

“Mmm-hmm.”
And so much harder.
He used his entire palm to smooth the balm over her back, using circular motions, the muscles sliding beneath his fingers. She relaxed into the pressure, making appreciative sounds, hums and moans and breathy sighs. He found himself rubbing longer than strictly necessary, picturing her naked with him, imagining the sounds she might make then….

“Thanks,” she said breathlessly, stepping away from his hand, which felt as warm as if he’d been clutching a hot coffee.

He had to clear his throat again to speak. “Very welcome.”

She pulled the two sides of her bra together, but struggled with the hooks, so he took over, aware that this was the kind of intimate favor that lovers did for each other.

He did miss holding a woman close.

He pulled her top down and gave her a chaste pat. Physical needs merely complicated things. He was far better off keeping his distance. He never wanted to hurt anyone again. The medical directive fit him perfectly: Above all, do no harm.

She turned toward him, her eyes shining, her pupils dilated, her color up. “That felt great,” she breathed. “I can’t believe how much better I feel.” She swayed closer, so near he could kiss her with the slightest dip of his mouth.

“I’ve been testing various, um, ratios of aloe to unguent,” he said slowly, caught by her closeness, how lovely she was, how the pigment in her irises seemed to swirl with the same energy he felt pulsing in his veins.

“You nailed it,” she said softly. “The formula’s perfect.”

He broke her gaze to screw the jar lid on and hold it out. “You can keep this.”

“But what about your bites?”

“I don’t seem to be as irresistible,” he said.

“That depends on who you ask,” she murmured, then seemed to catch herself and turned away. She seemed to inventory the room—his made bed, desk and computer, shelves of books and reports and file boxes of research. “It’s so weird,” she said. “The paint’s darker and the posters are gone, but I think the furniture’s the same as back then.”

“You stayed in this room?”

She gave a short laugh. “I’ve been here, let’s say. This was the room of a guy who was here for a while when I was sixteen. Dylan. He was older—twenty, I think.” Her features tightened, but she forced a smile. “I lost my virginity on that very bed.”

“Oh. Well.” Her words startled him.

“It was kind of an accident. I was flirting, but he took me seriously. It kind of happened faster than, um, I intended.”

“You were assaulted?”

“I didn’t say no. And I didn’t want to chicken out. Afterward, I cried. Which was dumb. I mean what was the big deal? At a certain point, virginity is stupid. Dylan took off the next day. I guess he was afraid I’d make a fuss.”

“Did you talk to anyone about what happened? Your mother?” The experience was clearly more traumatic than she was letting on. Her smile was tight with pain.

“Are you kidding? She would have lectured me about how stupid it was to give up my power to a man.”

“I find that unlikely.”

“Let’s put it this way, when I was ten I begged for a Barbie doll and she ranted about how the dolls distort a girl’s body image, portraying women as nipple-less, dehumanized sluts and she would not allow one anywhere near her or me.”

“She would not have blamed you, Christine.” In difficult relationships, memories could be distorted, negative incidents mythologized. That seemed to be how Christine felt about her mother. “She would have wanted to reassure and comfort you.”

“Well, anyway, I survived. And, believe me, ever after, no meant no.” She laughed, but her eyes held sadness. “You know, Bogie secretly bought me that Barbie doll. He felt sorry for me.” She shrugged, then looked at the ceiling over his bed. “Dylan had a poster of the Doors taped up there. I do remember that.”

He wanted to ask a question, give her time to let deeper feelings surface, but that was not his place. She was not a client. Worse, he had the primitive urge to find this Dylan and beat the crap out of him for hurting her.

Christine moved on—to his desk, where he’d printed out the seventy-five pages he’d eked out after all these weeks. “So this is where the magic happens?” she asked.

“Not so much lately.” Why admit that? Something about Christine. How open she was, how direct. She seemed to have conquered his usual reticence as neatly as his salve had soothed her insect bites.

“What? You’ve got writer’s block?”

“I’ll work through it.” The truth was, he was dead-on stalled. Just sitting down at the desk made his skin crawl and his muscles itch to move.

Back in L.A., after the firestorm over his journal report, fury had driven him through a first draft. Once the dust settled on his anger, his momentum slowed, then ground to a halt.

“So tell me about the book. That’s what I do when I get stuck on an ad project. Maybe that will help.”

If it were only so simple. “It’s about the stranglehold the insurance companies have on mental health care in this country. Therapists are virtually irrelevant to the treatment plan, almost to the point where they’re committing malpractice.”

“Malpractice? Really? That sounds extreme.”

“It’s a controversial premise. The research I published last year created a stir, so the book will more comprehensively lay out my ideas.”
Stir
was an understatement.
Tsunami
was more like it. He’d been prepared for the insurance companies to squawk, but the attacks from his colleagues had shocked and wounded him.

“So what’s your solution?” she asked.

“Reform. I want to put control of care where it belongs—in the hands of practitioners in consultation with their clients.”

“That’s certainly a big issue in Washington. How are you organizing the book?”

“I’m using an extensive literature search, in addition to my own research. I’ve examined shifts in suicide rates, psychiatric hospitalizations, relapse rates, malpractice cases due to misdiagnosis and—” He stopped. “I’m boring you.”

“Not at all. We have to get you unstuck.”

“It’ll take more than a conversation for that, but thanks for—”

“You said your research caused a stir? In what way?”

He should end this, walk Christine out of his room—and his troubles—but he found himself wanting to answer. Her earnest concern touched him. “I was criticized extensively and from unexpected quarters.”

“What do you mean?”

“I expected insurance companies to try to discredit me, but I was also attacked by colleagues I expected to support my theories. And, even worse, Nathan’s death occurred in the middle of the storm and it was used to defame me in the media.”

“You’re kidding! That’s outrageous.”

He shook his head. “I was portrayed as a self-named savior of psychiatry who callously ignored my stepson’s deadly drug use.”

“But that’s so unfair.”

“Fairness is rarely the point in these situations. The media exposure was torture for Elizabeth. Nathan’s picture in the paper, his death rehashed on TV over and over.”

“Torture for you, too, Marcus.”

“But Elizabeth was blameless. It was actually a relief when she asked me to leave.” He no longer had to wake up to her stricken face, the resentment in her eyes.

“Jesus, Marcus. Look at what you’ve been through— Nathan’s death, a divorce, your work attacked. No wonder you’re stalled. You’re not a writer on retreat. You’re a refugee seeking sanctuary.”

“That’s melodramatic. I’m hardly innocent here. I made mistakes. I should have shored up defenders before I released my report. I failed both Elizabeth and Nathan. I was arrogant and bullheaded and—”

She put a finger to his lips. “You’ve been through hell. You get to feel bad about it. Really bad.” He couldn’t take his eyes from her face. She was so pretty and she smelled so good and he wanted to kiss the finger she’d pressed to his mouth.

To resist, he gripped her hand and held it against his chest, though that only made him want to wrap her in his arms and hold all of her. “I don’t know why I told you all that.”

“Because I asked.” Her eyes swirled with emotion. “Because you needed to talk to someone. I’m glad I was here.”

Was she right? He’d talked with Carlos about what happened, but only superficially. Evidently, he was still in turmoil or he wouldn’t have told her the sordid details.

“I know how it is to fail someone you love. I joke about it, but I’m really scared I’m losing David. This trip feels like my last chance. Part of me believes he could end up—” she swallowed hard “—like your stepson.”