Home to Harmony. Dawn Atkins

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СКАЧАТЬ the terrace. “He’ll be seeing a counselor in New Mirage, which I hope will help. Michael Lang? Do you know him? Is he good?”

      “I don’t know him, no.” It surprised him to learn the tiny town had a therapist of any kind. His friend Carlos Montoya, a GP, offered the only medical care, a three-daya-week clinic, with Carlos driving over from Preston.

      “It should help, right? I mean, the counseling?”

      “It can,” he said. “If the therapist’s style suits the client. Assuming your son wants to be treated.”

      “I was afraid you’d say that. David’s not exactly into it. He agreed to it to keep from getting expelled. Plus, it was my idea and he hates me lately.” She sighed.

      “The transition to adulthood can be difficult,” he said, moving to the trunk, wanting to get on with the task.

      “We never used to fight like this,” she said, joining him in surveying the load of office equipment, again standing too close. “We always talked, you know? About everything. He came to me with his problems, talked about school and friends. Now every conversation is a minefield. One wrong word and he explodes.”

      “It can be that way.” And so much worse. He leaned in to shift a computer into position.

      “Do you have kids, Marcus?”

      The question startled him and he jerked upward, banging his head on the trunk lid. “Not of my own, no.”

      “I didn’t mean to pry.”

      He realized he’d spoken sharply. “It’s fine.” He braced the CPU on the rim of the trunk with his hip so he could rub the knot on his head.

      “Sorry about that. Wait, we need the cart.” It sat empty outside the room David had chosen. “David, the cart!” she called. “I swear I taught him better manners.”

      She dashed after it. It was impossible not to watch her run, graceful and quick, even in heels. The sight of her firm curves and long legs in motion set off an unwelcome reaction below the belt. He was human, of course. And a man.

      No excuse to gawk. He started emptying the trunk.

      The rattle of wheels told him she’d returned and he began stacking items onto the cart. “He’s excited about the room,” she said, as if he’d asked the question. “This is just a rough patch, you know? Most parents and their kids survive the teen years, right?”

      “Most, yes.” But not all.

      Not all.

      She stared at him, clearly wondering what he meant.

      Afraid she’d pry—the woman seemed to have no boundaries—he put the last item, a fax machine, on top and pushed the cart toward Harmony House. “Where to now?”

      “Toward the back of the house. Through the courtyard.”

      They walked together, with Christine placing a steadying hand on the stack. “I hate that David’s room is so far from mine. Of course, you’re next door, so can I count on you to make sure he keeps curfew?”

      He stopped moving and blinked at her.

      “Joking. I’m joking, Marcus. Jeez.” She laughed, then her smile went rueful. “I just wish I could get in his head and make him make better choices.”

      “How does David feel he’s doing?” The question was an automatic one, something he’d have said to a client.

      “Fine, of course. Everyone else has the problem, not him. When he’s disrespectful at school, it’s the teacher’s fault. When he loses his temper, someone else made him. Smoking pot is no big deal, so that’s my problem, not his.”

      She shifted to block the cart from moving and faced him. “I can’t get through to him. I feel so helpless, you know?”

      “I do.” Marcus had been as close as Nathan would permit him to be, but he’d never forgive himself for not doing more, for not intervening somehow, no matter what Elizabeth wanted, no matter what his own training and intellect told him was possible.

      Christine resumed walking. “I can’t believe I dumped all that on you.” She shook her head and her dark hair shivered over her shoulders. “You’re easy to talk to.”

      “I don’t mind.” Not as much as he’d expect to. Christine was so direct, so in-your-face. Elizabeth had been intense, but quietly so. Angry, Elizabeth smoldered. Christine would no doubt burst into flames. The idea made him smile.

      “Probably all that listening training, huh?” She stopped to scratch her calf. He noticed insect bites on both her legs and her arms. He could mention the salve he had upstairs, but then she’d know he’d been staring at her body. He sighed.

      “What I really need is a shower,” she said, shaking her top as if to fan herself. “How’s the water pressure these days?”

      “Acceptable. Not strong, but steady.”

      “In the old days it was a hopeless trickle. Which made it no picnic trying to wash off the smell of goats. This way.” She turned them toward the rear entrance to the courtyard.

      “I can imagine. So you grew up here?”

      “I was seven when we came and when I left ten years later, I was all Scarlett O’Hara about it— ‘As God is my witness, I’ll never go smelly again!’”

      Marcus smiled. She joked about things that he could tell clearly troubled her. “And you haven’t been back since?”

      “No. It’s been eighteen years. That sounds bad, I know, but Aurora and I have a rocky history.” The cart stalled in the grass of the courtyard. Chickens squawked their objection to the interruption. He used force to get it moving again.

      “My whole goal is to help her without getting into heavy battle.” She bit her lip, clearly worried. “I’ll be walking on eggshells—free-range eggshells.”

      He smiled at her quip. “She clearly needs your help, so maybe if you focus on what you’re here to do…”

      “‘Busy hands are happy hands’?” She grinned. “Is that your professional advice?”

      “It works.” He paused. “Frankly, a psychology practice built around folk wisdom is as sound as any other.”

      “So, ‘a stitch in time saves nine…people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones…an apple a day keeps the doctor away’? Like that?”

      “All valid, depending on the issue.”

      “Interesting, Doctor B.” She tapped her lips. “Got one for David? ‘Straighten up and fly right’ maybe?”

      “Too directive perhaps.”

      “Also very military-schoolish. Then how about a parenting one for me?”

      “Hmm. Maybe ‘a watched pot never boils.’”

      “Nice СКАЧАТЬ