Книга - The Husband Lesson
The Husband Lesson
Jeanie London
There's been a mistake!Karan Reece has no other explanation for this situation. Being assigned to work with her ex-husband, Dr. Charles Steinberg? She really must have offended someone to be forced to spend her days with him. The only good thing she can say is at least this arrangement has an expiration date.Funny thing, though, is that working together for a shared cause forces them to look at each other differently. She's learning a lot about him and his strengths. And those discoveries are causing her to see him in a new way…a very attractive, can't-wait-to-get-my-hands-on-you way. Seems that life with Charles is a lesson she's willing to study again!
He could feel her full-length against him
Karan’s every curve was familiar as Charles wrapped his arms around her and held her. And suddenly, he knew this was right. On some level, he’d known—had always known—that if he touched her, he could never convince himself he was content without her.
He’d known.
“Charles.” Her voice filtered through him, the activity around them fading away. For this moment there was only the two of them. The way she fit completely against him until he was aware of only her.
So right.
No history. No complications. Just them and a simple, unavoidable truth.
It didn’t matter whether they were married or divorced, whether he was avoiding her or she was demanding the impossible of him—their bodies knew each other.
He didn’t want to let go.
Dear Reader,
Life is a matter of perspective. Half-empty? Half-full? Karan thinks her luck is all bad. I think her luck is all good—she simply doesn’t realize that yet. When Karan is forced out of her comfortable world, she experiences an entirely new side of life. Of course, this blessing feels like a curse at first, but as she opens her eyes to the people around her and their circumstances and needs, she discovers purpose and meaning that redefines her own place in the world. She discovers ways she can help and the fulfillment that comes from giving.
This journey brings her back to the man she never stopped loving. Charles has already discovered the secret of helping others, but when he sees his ex-wife through his own evolving perspective, he finds a woman with the honesty and courage to face her issues. And he finds the courage to face his own so they can be together again.
Ordinary women. Extraordinary romance. That’s Harlequin Superromance! I hope you enjoy Karan and Charles’s love story. Let me know at www.jeanielondon.com.
Peace and blessings,
Jeanie London
The Husband Lesson
Jeanie London
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jeanie London writes romance because she believes in happily-ever-afters. Not the “love conquers all” kind, but the “we love each other so we can conquer anything” kind. It’s precisely why she loves Harlequin Superromance—stories about real women tackling life to find love. The kind of love she understands because she’s a real woman tackling life in sunny Florida with her own romance-hero husband, their two beautiful and talented daughters, a loving and slightly crazy extended family and a menagerie of sweet strays.
For all those who volunteer their time and talents to help others.
Real-life heroes and heroines.
May you all live happily ever after;-)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER ONE
“I DON’T HAVE A DRINKING problem, Your Honor. I have a problem drinking,” Karan Kowalski Steinberg-Reece explained, though it positively hurt to justify herself to this woman.
“I’m listening, Ms. Kowalski Steinberg-Reece.” The judge gazed down from her superior height on the courtroom bench. She emphasized the Ms. and dragged out each syllable as though implying the marriages hadn’t lasted as long as the names.
“I have low blood sugar.” That was all Karan would say. The toxicology results would speak for themselves.
Her attorney, a close friend of her second husband, had coached her at length about behavior during the sentencing since she and the judge had a history.
Honorable Jennifer Sharpe-Malone had once been known as Jenny, a wannabe cheerleader who hadn’t made the cut in four years at Ashokan High. Of course, Karan had made cheer captain all four years, so she’d been a judge at tryouts. It had been hard enough finding positions for her inner circle of friends.
Wannabe Jenny hadn’t been in her inner circle.
Just Karan’s luck that with all the judges in New York’s Catskill Mountains she’d wind up in court before this one.
“I’m well aware of your medical condition,” Wannabe Jenny informed her. “I’ve reviewed the deputy’s report. The deputy also stated you appeared more impaired than the results of the field sobriety test and the toxicology report revealed.”
More luck. Karan had gambled by cooperating with the deputies because she hadn’t wanted her license automatically revoked for refusing the test. One glass of champagne. One stupid glass and her blood alcohol content had been .05. A fraction of a percent lower and she wouldn’t be in this courtroom at all.
“State law doesn’t require my client to consent to a field sobriety test, Your Honor.” Her attorney seized the opportunity. “Only the chemical test, yet Ms. Kowalski Steinberg-Reece cooperated with law enforcement and consented to both.”
“Noted, Mr. James, and for the record I’m aware of the law.” Wannabe Jenny turned a peeved gaze to Karan. “Did it ever occur to you to call a taxi?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Keep things simple and straightforward,” her attorney had said. “Don’t offer explanations unless the judge asks.”
“Why didn’t you?” the judge asked.
“Leaving my car at the resort presented a problem.”
“Oh?”
“I didn’t have anyone to drive it home for me.”
“You were at the Inn at Laurel Lake, isn’t that right?” Wannabe Jenny glanced down at the documents before her.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“The Inn does have a parking garage. For a reasonable fee, they would have attended your vehicle until you were able to safely retrieve it.”
No question. But retrieving her car hadn’t exactly been the issue. Drawing attention to the fact that she hadn’t driven her car home was. But Wannabe Jenny wouldn’t want to hear that. She was already mentally filling in the blanks. Karan could see it all over her crab-apple expression.
“If you weren’t happy with the idea of taking a taxi back to the Inn to rescue your car the next day, you might have refrained from drinking.”
She made it sound as if Karan was a lush. “I didn’t drink per se, Your Honor. I only toasted the senator when he announced his bid for reelection.”
Her attorney shot her a withering glance. Entirely unnecessary. Karan knew the instant the words were out of her mouth that defending herself was a mistake and dropping the senator’s name a wasted effort.
Wannabe Jenny was out for blood.
“If one obligatory toast impaired you to this degree, then you might have considered waiting for your liver to process the alcohol before you left the party, Ms. Kowalski Steinberg-Reece. Or booking a room for the night since you were at a hotel.” Her tone dripped with a sarcasm that couldn’t possibly be considered professional courtroom behavior. “If that didn’t suit, you might have asked the senator to drive you home.”
It took every ounce of Karan’s considerable willpower to keep her mouth shut.
“Since you obviously don’t have any friends in this town who could have taken you.” Wannabe Jenny seemed to be talking simply to hear herself. “Whatever the excuse, your decision to drive while alcohol impaired wasn’t a good one. You should be thankful you didn’t hurt yourself or, God forbid, someone else. Tragedies happen all too often on the roads.”
A tingle started behind Karan’s left eye, a familiar tingle that signaled an oncoming headache. She was very grateful she hadn’t caused any accidents, in fact, but wasn’t about to admit that to Wannabe Jenny. Another explanation wouldn’t pass her lips.
The tables had turned in the decade and a half since high school, and Karan wasn’t the judge anymore. Wannabe Jenny would assess the offense during this hearing and consider the mitigating factors before sentencing. The long-ago past aside, Karan was an upstanding member of this community.
She hoped that would count for something.
A fine would be best-case scenario. But even if she was ordered to attend a substance-abuse education class, she would smile graciously, thank Wannabe Jenny and hope the class was available online like other traffic violation programs.
This situation was humiliating enough without sitting in a windowless room with drug addicts and real alcoholics for hours on end. She already had a mug shot on the sheriff’s website. One that anyone could pull up to view. Fortunately she’d been dressed for the senator’s event. If not for the identification number around her neck, she might have been posing for any head shot.
“Ms. Kowalski Steinberg-Reece,” Wannabe Jenny addressed Karan in that I’m-so-enjoying-the-upper-hand tone. “Are you aware that one-third of the traffic fatalities in New York State involve impaired or intoxicated drivers?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And that New York State has a STOP-DWI law?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Do you understand the difference between driving while ability is impaired and driving while intoxicated?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“What is it exactly?”
“DWAI is a traffic infraction. DWI is a criminal misdemeanor.”
The smile suddenly playing around Wannabe Jenny’s mouth, a mouth tinted with a shade of red that drew attention to the fine lines that could have benefitted from a good cosmetic surgeon, made Karan swallow hard.
“Very well then. Ms. Kowalski Steinberg-Reece, the State of New York finds you guilty of driving while ability impaired. It is the judgment of this court that your driving privileges be suspended for ninety days. You’ll pay a five-hundred dollar fine to the clerk when you are remanded into custody to serve fifteen days in the county jail.”
Karan’s best friend gasped behind her. Her attorney cursed under his breath, but she could only stare. Had Wannabe Jenny just said jail?
“Your Honor.” Her attorney didn’t bother to hide his annoyance. “That’s the maximum sentence allowable.”
“Again, I am aware of the law, Mr. James.”
“This is Ms. Kowalski Steinberg-Reece’s first offense.”
“It’s not her first offense with low blood sugar,” Wannabe Jenny replied. “She seems well aware of the potential effects of alcohol on her condition.”
So was Wannabe Jenny. Not even the shroudlike black robe could hide the effects of sitting on the bench. Once upon a time Wannabe Jenny had been petite and fit. Not so much anymore.
On the other hand, Karan’s condition forced her to eat small meals every few hours to steady her sugar, which had the added benefit of running her metabolism at full tilt. No complaints there.
“Yet even knowing the potential effects,” Wannabe Jenny continued, “your client chose to toast the senator then get behind the wheel of her car before her body had adequately processed the alcohol. By serving the full sentence, I hope her first offense will also be her last.”
Karan waited for her attorney to earn his astronomical fee—a fee she’d insisted on paying even though she’d hosted him in her homes many times throughout her three years of marriage to his close friend.
“May I approach the bench, Your Honor?” Her attorney waited until Wannabe Jenny nodded and then he crossed the courtroom.
Karan waited, too, barely daring to breathe, not allowing herself to react in any visible way. She reminded herself that her attorney was more than competent. The only thing she could do was trust him to do his job.
This situation was a nightmare. Of course she should never have gotten in her car tipsy. Not even to drive the few miles of lonely highway to her house. If she could relive the night over, she would make a different decision. Because Wannabe Jenny was right about one thing—Karan knew the limitations of her condition. She didn’t go near alcohol for that very reason. She drank club soda with lime to keep the servers busy at functions, but the only alcohol that ever passed her lips was the odd glass of champagne for toasts. And then only the very best champagne.
Sometimes she toasted with no trouble whatsoever and barely felt the effects of a glass, but when her sugar was low, even a few sips could hit her like a truck. So she always sipped cautiously until she knew what the effect would be.
That night Karan had broken all her usual rules and now paid the price. Resisting the urge to turn around, she sensed Susanna’s presence behind her, a good friend who’d taken time off work to be moral support. At the rate they were going today, Karan might need Susanna to post her bail.
But she refused to react, refused to give Wannabe Jenny the satisfaction. So Karan stood her ground and watched silently as judge and attorney spoke in hushed tones, discussing her actions and punishment without any input from her. The minutes were marked only by the sounds in the courtroom.
A whisper of polyester from the bailiff’s pants as he shifted restlessly from side to side.
The mechanical hiss of a vent when the air-conditioning cycled on, barely keeping the summer heat outside.
The creak of a hinge from the rear of the courtroom as a door opened and shut again.
The muted patter of footsteps as someone strode confidently between the rows of seats, nearer and nearer.
The sound of Susanna’s urgent whispering was the final straw, and Karan glanced over her shoulder to find her best friend talking to Jack Sloan, who looked as handsome as ever in his official blue-and-brass uniform.
Well, well, well. Bluestone Mountain’s police chief had decided to grace her with his presence.
Back in the cheerleading captain/Wannabe Jenny days, Karan had envisioned a brilliant future with this man. They’d dated through to the end of high school and well into college. Then Jack had switched his career from law to law enforcement. Karan had no intention of becoming a cop’s wife when she’d been born to be a society bride to a high-powered husband.
Such a shame, too, as Jack had only grown more handsome in the years since college. And if his defection hadn’t been criminal enough, he’d recently married the very woman who’d been a source of major irritation to Karan all through high school.
As far as Karan was concerned, Jack owed her big, and she’d told him as much at the station during booking. Of course, he’d promised to help but hadn’t done a thing as far as she could tell. In all fairness, Karan knew he couldn’t simply make her situation vanish as easily as he might have a parking ticket. Still, she’d hoped for something more than the busy, newly married police chief’s appearance in the courtroom. Men. Not a damned one of them ever delivered.
Wannabe Jenny glanced up and noticed the new arrival. “Chief Sloan. Nice of you to join our little reunion.”
Only Wannabe Jenny would point that out. What were the chances that her thirst for blood would be quenched after this nightmare was finally over?
Jack only inclined his head and said, “Judge Malone.”
“Your ears must have been ringing because we were just talking about you. Thought for sure you’d decided to skip today.” She motioned him forward. “Please approach the bench.”
Jack came through the gate the bailiff held open. “Didn’t want to miss the fun.”
Fun? Karan positively hated this small town, hated the gossip mill and everyone knowing everyone else’s business. Having everyone know hers. She had a gorgeous apartment in Manhattan and a bungalow on the Connecticut shore, so why did she even bother keeping a house here again?
A good question that she didn’t have an answer for. But as she watched the Ashokan High reunion, Karan vowed to call a real estate agent as soon as she walked out of this courtroom. She’d had enough of this nonsense. Quite enough.
She waited for her invitation to the bench, but one never came. Obviously, she was expected to stand by while everyone else made decisions about her life. She tried to squelch her annoyance, knowing there was no one to blame but herself. But knowing didn’t take the edge off. Not her anger at herself for this mess. Not her fear that Wannabe Jenny wanted blood for long-ago wounds to her pride. Not Karan’s annoyance that the years hadn’t turned Jack from high school football star into a balding cop with a doughnut belly.
Then Susanna’s fingers slid against Karan’s and gave a light squeeze. She wasn’t much for overt signs of emotion, and her best friend since middle school knew it. But Susanna also knew Karan better than anyone in the world. She knew how much Karan hated feeling out of control because they’d been weathering life together—boyfriends, graduations, weddings, divorces and funerals. Susanna didn’t mind sharing how she felt. She actually liked overt signs of emotion. Unexpected hugs. Reassuring touches.
She seemed to like them even more since her husband had died. Karan wished she could be as open as Susanna. Always there. Always caring for the people she loved. Even when life threw devastating curves.
Of course all that emotion came with a dark side, and Susanna could worry like no one Karan had ever met. She got positively insane sometimes, but life wouldn’t be life without Susanna. They were as close as sisters—or what Karan imagined a sister would be like given she was an only child.
“Ms. Kowalski Steinberg-Reece,” Wannabe Jenny announced in her I’m-the-shark-in-the-fishbowl voice. “With Chief Sloan’s help, I think we’ve worked out an arrangement that may be more to your liking.”
Susanna gave another squeeze then her hand slipped away. Karan faced the firing squad stoically. Her attorney narrowed his gaze, warning her to stay quiet. He didn’t have to because Karan had a gift for reading people. She kept her mouth shut.
“Since you’re a low-risk offender, there is an alternative sentence that, if you agree, will take the place of your jail time.”
Karan didn’t dare to breathe. So far so good. The thought of living behind bars for more than two weeks made her faint. She looked dreadful in orange. So not her color.
“In lieu of incarceration,” Wannabe Jenny continued, dragging out the suspense. “you’ll be required to complete three hundred and sixty hours of community service.”
Karan mentally calculated. Three hundred and sixty hours translated into fifteen days. Okay, still good.
“Chief Sloan has been working with Mayor Trant and a number of community leaders to launch New Hope, Bluestone Mountain’s first domestic violence shelter. You can assist their efforts by completing your service hours under the supervision of one of the program directors. You can complete the hours at your convenience, Ms. Kowalski Steinberg-Reece, but be aware you’re also required to attend weekly group and private treatment sessions for the duration and your driving privileges will remain suspended until you complete the mandated hours and appear back in court before me.
“At that time I’ll review your case and reinstate your privileges if you’ve satisfactorily met the terms of this ruling. If you do choose this alternative sentencing, I’ll waive the three-hour substance-abuse education class you’re otherwise required to take by law. Would you like a few moments to speak with counsel?”
Waive the three-hour class? How generous. But visions of windowless rooms filled with drug addicts danced in her head, so she managed to say politely, “Yes, Your Honor.”
Her attorney returned to the table, and Karan sank to the chair for a powwow.
“Paris Hilton only got two hundred hours of community service and she’s gone way past her first offense,” Karan hissed in his ear.
“Don’t forget she got a year’s probation.” He shot a glance at the bench as if worried they might be overheard. Jack and Wannabe Jenny were too busy chitchatting to pay attention. “Japan wouldn’t even let her enter the country.”
Like Karan wanted to go to Japan. “Is this honestly the best you can do?”
He scowled. “I don’t know what you did to this woman, but I promise you won’t get a better offer. Jail or alternative sentence. Your call.”
Visions of Lindsay Lohan’s latest trip to the pokey replaced images of windowless rooms. The local press would have a field day if Karan went to jail since the woman who ran the Bluestone Mountain Gazette was another Ashokan High alumnus who hadn’t had any use for Karan and her circle of friends.
At least she could spin community service in a domestic violence shelter into something not as humiliating as jail. “Alternative sentence.”
“Good choice.” Her attorney popped to his feet. “Your Honor, my client would like to accept the alternative sentence in lieu of jail time and thanks you for your consideration.”
Wannabe Jenny looked smug. “Good luck then, Ms. Kowalski Steinberg-Reece. I’ll look forward to reviewing updates about your progress.”
No doubt. Probably didn’t have anything else to do while eating her microwave-frozen dinners at night.
“Thank you, Your Honor.” That was as polite as Karan could manage. Wannabe Jenny might have the gavel in her hand right now, but the accompanying black robe washed out her sallow skin. She needed to either invest in decent makeup primer or have a conversation with whomever had chosen black as the color of choice in the courtroom.
Karan jumped when the gavel cracked with aggressive finality and Wannabe Jenny said, “Court adjourned.”
For today, anyway, because Karan would be back.
Unfortunately.
CHAPTER TWO
CHARLES STEINBERG WHEELED HIS Jeep Wrangler into the parking lot behind the three-story Victorian where he’d spent more time during the past eight months than he had anywhere but in the operating room. Releasing the clutch, he pulled up the emergency brake, noticing how the sun sparkled on the newly installed windows, as bright and promising as the place itself.
He felt a satisfaction as if he’d personally installed those windows rather than cutting the check that released funds to the contractor who’d done the job.
Charles’s contribution had been in the coordination and decision making, in determining essential need to balance the budget, in the long-range planning and development of outreach programs. He’d done his fair share.
And though he hadn’t originally chosen to become one of the directors of this project, Charles prided himself on living by his grandmother’s oft-spoken saying: “Bloom where you’re planted.”
He had. With the help of other dedicated volunteers, New Hope of Bluestone Mountain, Inc. had been born. The town’s first certified domestic violence prevention and emergency shelter.
The front porch light now shone 24/7, a welcome to families in crisis and the promise of help. Behind freshly painted gingerbread trim, every room had been transformed to become a multiservice facility with offices, counseling rooms and two complete floors of suites that served as temporary shelter for women and children in need.
For such a noble endeavor, the neighborhood wasn’t all that much to look at. In the years since Charles had come to town, the large property lots in this area had attracted enough businesses to be zoned commercial. Still, there were a few residences like this one tucked away on forested acreage between auto repair shops and convenience stores. The out-of-the-way location was what made the house perfect as a shelter.
Charles got out, noticing the sleek gray Jaguar that looked out of place in a parking lot separated only by a security wall and evergreens from the loading docks of Bluestone Mountain’s only Walmart Supercenter.
He didn’t bother pulling on the Jeep’s cover. There wasn’t a hint of uncertain weather in the summer sky. Besides, he wouldn’t be here that long, and only had to touch base with his codirector about some volunteer scheduling decisions that couldn’t wait until Monday.
He’d already had a long day in surgery, having arrived at the hospital way before the sun had come up this morning. Five surgeries later then rounds and he’d earned the right to this weekend’s fishing trip.
Charles had made it to the flagstone path when the security gate ground open again. A familiar white Toyota Camry appeared, slipping into the space on the opposite side of the Jaguar and coming to a sharp stop.
Rhonda Camden, Ph.D., New Hope’s codirector and his partner in crime. Running late as usual.
The door swung open and she hopped out, dragging a briefcase that overflowed with papers. She looked as windblown and hurried as she always did, and after eight months of working together, Charles knew why—she juggled more balls in the air than most people between her job as director of the town’s crisis center and her private practice. Add volunteer endeavors such as New Hope…
Smiling broadly, Rhonda gestured to the house and all they’d accomplished together in the past eight months.
“Matthew impressed yet?” she asked, referring to the chief at St. Joseph’s Hospital where Charles was on staff.
“You’d think. I’m either in surgery or I’m here. But the man is a hard sell. Maybe you should put in a good word for me.”
Not that he thought anything would impress St. Joseph’s chief. Matthew West was going to make Charles sweat out an invitation to join the Catskill Center for Cardiothoracic Surgery, the most professional and highly regarded team in the area, and projects like New Hope were a part of the process. He’d already reconciled himself to running the gauntlet until the chief was satisfied. Or until he found another candidate to join the coveted team. Whichever came first.
She rolled her eyes. “Right. Your boss has even less of a regard for my field than you do if that’s possible.”
Charles thought it might be, and he couldn’t deny her claim, either. He hadn’t known much about, or had much use for, clinical psychology before seeing Rhonda in action. He was a surgeon. His interest was all about what was happening inside the body, not speculation about why.
“I told you I’ve revised my opinion of your field.”
She passed him and headed up the steps. “You mentioned it. I’m not convinced I should believe you.”
“You read minds for a living. You should know if I’m lying.”
She didn’t take the bait, only laughed, and he launched himself up two steps at a time to reach the entrance before she did. After inputting his security code, he held the door for her.
“Thank you, Dr. Steinberg.”
“My pleasure, Dr. Camden.” He stepped inside. “So what’s this new program that needs immediate attention?”
Turning around, she peered pointedly over the rim of her glasses. “See that showy Jag parked between our cars?”
“I do.”
“I suspect that belongs to our court-ordered volunteer.”
Charles came to a stop with the door still half-open. “Court ordered? I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Some folks need a little help recognizing the merits of helping others.”
“You’re killing me with suspense.” Actually, the suspense wasn’t killing him, but the need to get home, pack a bag and get the hell out of Dodge was.
This was Rhonda’s expertise, and after working beside her, Charles had the utmost of confidence in her decisions. If she said they should take on a court-ordered volunteer program, then Charles accepted her word.
“No felons or pedophiles, I promise,” she assured him.
“Never even crossed my mind.” He pulled the door shut until the lock clicked tight. Another thing about Rhonda—she was crazy invested in helping women. So much so that he’d wondered more than once whom she knew or what might have happened in her life to make her such a passionate advocate.
“Hey, Deputy Doug,” she greeted the sheriff as they passed the room that had been transformed into the on-site Sheriff’s Department substation.
The deputy, spit-polished in a uniform that lent an air of authority and safety to New Hope, glanced up from the desk where he monitored video surveillance of the property with the phone cradled against his ear. He waved.
Charles inclined his head as he passed. “Our resident deputy is okay with you inviting criminals onto the property?”
“Not criminals.” Rhonda huffed over her shoulder and headed down the hallway toward the administrative offices. “They’re women the court feels have something to offer and deserve a chance to get back on more productive paths.”
“That’s very…politically correct.”
“I couldn’t say no, Charles. It’s a worthy cause and we need the help. Our volunteer base is a third of what it needs to be, and with the screenings, orientations and training, that won’t change for some time.”
Charles was personally acquainted with the duties around here and wondered what these formerly upstanding women might have to offer. He didn’t bother asking since they had arrived in the office and the administrative volunteer sitting at the desk said, “Your appointment is here, Dr. Camden.”
“Thanks.” She motioned Charles into their shared office. “Close the door.”
He did as she asked, surprised when she dropped her things on the desk and went straight for the observation panel on the wall. Sliding the shutter open, she peered through the viewing glass into the reception area.
“Nicely dressed felon,” Rhonda said drily.
The observation panel had been established as a security measure in a place filled with them. They’d modeled New Hope after other domestic violence programs around the country. The unfortunate truth was that domestic violence could erupt anywhere and often followed its victims.
Precisely why New Hope’s security measures were top-notch. Not only was there a fully-staffed sheriff substation, but the facility was hardwired to the Bluestone Mountain Police. A silent alarm would dispatch officer backup and SWAT resources within minutes. From state-of-the-art internet security to detailed precautionary procedures that involved other domestic violence agencies around the state, New Hope, for its remote location in Bluestone Mountain, was a cutting-edge facility.
Rhonda motioned him over. Charles honestly could not have cared less, but the path of the least resistance was the fastest way to get out the door and up to the river. Crossing the room, he peered through the glass at the woman standing in the reception area, idly thumbing through a magazine.
A tall, slim woman with sleek blond hair and delicate features that would be right at home on the cover of the magazine she held. Nicely dressed was an understatement. This woman’s wardrobe could feed a developing nation.
“Jesus.” He staggered back, nearly tripping over Rhonda.
She jumped out of his way, steadying herself on the desk. “What’s wrong?”
For a moment he could only stare. The words were in his head but wouldn’t come out. He blinked. He took a deep breath. He tried again. “You invited my ex-wife to volunteer here?”
“Excuse me. What are you talking about?” Rhonda was clearly confused.
Charles wasn’t talking about anything because he was still too busy trying to reason through why one all too familiar and very unwelcome blonde was standing inside this facility.
Court-ordered community service?
Rhonda stepped around the desk and thumbed through the folders that had slid half out of her jam-packed briefcase. “Here it is. Her name is Reece.”
Sure enough, the folder tab had Reece printed in bold black letters.
“Karan Kowalski Steinberg-Reece.”
Rhonda’s frown melted and she glanced at the folder again. “Guess that will teach me to read what’s inside. Gosh, I’m really sorry, Charles. The program sounded like such a great deal when Chief Sloan mentioned it.”
“Chief Sloan?”
She nodded.
A freaking setup if ever there was one. “He obviously suggested it because he didn’t want to deal with her himself.”
Rhonda sank onto the edge of the desk with the closed folder neatly in her lap. She looked at him with an inviting, psychoanalyzing expression on her face. “Chief Sloan knows your ex-wife, too?”
It took Charles another speechless moment to reason that through. Rhonda wasn’t from Bluestone Mountain. Like himself, she’d come to the area to attend Van Cortlandt College, an elite private university in the valley. She’d wound up settling here after completing grad school. Unlike him, or Chief Sloan for that matter, she’d managed to avoid running into Karan.
“They have a history,” he said.
“I see. And you think Chief Sloan sent her our way because he’d rather we dealt with her?”
“Jack sits on the board of directors. He was involved with this project long before I was, and he didn’t ask me to let her volunteer here because he knew I’d say no damn way.”
Rhonda conceded the point with a nod then flipped open the folder and scanned the documents inside. “Okay, I’m reading. Not seeing what the big deal is about her. I also don’t see… What does she do for a living?”
“Professional social climber.”
Rhonda frowned. “Come on, Charles, you married her. How bad can she possibly be?”
He had no words. Just a knot in his stomach.
Rhonda tossed the folder onto the desk and returned to the security panel. “Hmm. I’d say she’s getting impatient because I’m running late. But she is very beautiful. I guess you must have been blinded by her beauty.”
He had been. No question. Charles could still remember the first time he’d ever set eyes on Karan. He was in med school in the midst of a particularly brutal stretch. He hadn’t slept in over forty-eight hours. The autumn sun seared his eyeballs after being holed up in the medical library for he couldn’t even remember how long. The quad was packed with booths and students, and he wished like hell he was headed home for a few hours of shut-eye. No such luck.
The Feminization of Poverty event beckoned.
Dr. Nan Bryson was a popular anthropology professor from Harvard who toured the country speaking on an alarming trend gaining speed in academic circles. The fact that she was coming to Van Cortlandt was a big deal, particularly as one of the undergrads had managed to do what the deans of the anthropology and sociology departments combined hadn’t been able to do—get Dr. Bryson to speak while traveling through the Catskills. To honor this visiting professor, the faculty had pulled out all the stops to ensure the talk was well attended.
Charles had zero interest in sociology, anthropology or women’s issues but after bombing an exam, he’d appealed to the professor for mercy. Charles hadn’t had time to study because he’d been invited to observe surgeries at St. Joseph’s Hospital—no way could he pass up the opportunity. The professor had offered an opportunity for some extra credit.
Charles wouldn’t have missed the event if he’d had to be carried here on a gurney. He needed every dime of his scholarship money so he didn’t have to spend the rest of his life paying off student loans. That meant keeping up his GPA.
He was assigned to work the book booth and did nothing but try to keep his foggy brain functioning. While using hands that were learning to perform delicate maneuvers on organs and arteries to count out ones, fives and tens, he saw her.
Hot. The hottest. Details didn’t register. The punch to his gut did. Suddenly, all the tired vanished and his pulse pumped at warp speed. Blurry vision instantly saw with clarity as if he'd sharpened his sight on the edge of a scalpel. Only after he could breathe again did he notice details.
Blonde. Lean. Tall. She barely looked real with that pale silky hair blowing around her face. A face as exquisitely feminine as the rest of her. He couldn’t see the color of her eyes, but they were lighter. Blue or gray, maybe.
Then she smiled.
That full pink mouth made him think about kissing.
He had no idea who she was but even sleep deprived, he knew she was someone important. She walked with the college president, several of the deans and a woman he recognized from the jacket of the book he was selling—Dr. Nan Bryson. Then she disappeared backstage with her group and was gone.
But not from Charles’s thoughts.
He couldn’t get the image of her out of his head. He sold books, made change, but his brain replayed every detail he could remember, ached with trying to remember more. And the most important detail of all: who was she?
He intended to find out.
Once Dr. Bryson’s talk started, the book booth would quiet down and he could slip away to grab coffee. No one would miss him for ten minutes and he’d make a few calls on the way.
When the president took the stage and announced the beginning of the program, the noise level on the quad dropped. Charles tucked the cash box under his arm and timed his exit. While listening to the president welcome their guest to Van Cortlandt, he slipped the cell phone from his pocket. Then the president introduced the person responsible for Dr. Bryson’s visit, the person privileged with introducing their speaker.
The blonde walked onto the stage.
She wore a blinding smile, seemed completely at ease in front of the crowd as she began the introduction in a honeyed voice that matched up with every sleek inch of her.
Charles set the cash box on the table. He slipped the phone into his pocket.
Karan Kowalski.
Now, here she was again, two husbands later. Standing in New Hope’s reception area, which was exactly the last place on the planet she should be.
And he had that same knot in his stomach. Only the years had turned anticipation into dread.
“Charles?” Rhonda’s voice penetrated his brain. “Charles, are you all right?”
Was she joking?
He dragged his gaze from the observation panel, and found Rhonda watching him, seeing way too much with her trained psychotherapist gaze.
“Are you going to be able to handle this?” she asked.
“Do I have a choice?”
“You always have a choice.”
“One that doesn’t involve abandoning my post and losing my shot to join the Catskill Center?”
She shrugged, and he could tell she was fighting a smile. “We’ll have to figure that part out. I’m curious, though. Does your ex-wife know you’re affiliated with this program?”
“I have no idea. I never see her.” He stopped short. “Correct that. I run into her at the hospital on occasion.”
“Hmm. I just wondered. From what I understood from Chief Sloan, she had to agree to the alternative sentencing. I’m interested to know if she knew you’d be here.”
Interested? There was only thing Charles wanted to know. “What are you planning to do with her?”
“I have no idea until we talk and figure out what she can do.”
“Good luck with that. We didn’t install a tanning bed, so I can’t imagine—”
Rhonda stopped him with a raised hand. “No opinions please. I’m intrigued enough. I’d rather form my own impressions without yours coloring my professionalism. Your ex-wife has been ordered into counseling. I thought it made sense for me to treat her since she’s our trial run with alternative sentencing.”
He nodded, still struggling to pull the pieces together to decide what he was going to do with this. Running into Karan each and every time he walked through the door wasn’t going to work. That much he did know.
“Why is she in court-ordered community service and counseling?” he asked. “What in hell did she do?”
“DUI? DWAI? One of them.” Rhonda twisted around and flipped open the folder on her desk. “Driving while ability impaired.”
“Drugs?”
She shook her head. “Alcohol.”
“That’s about the last thing I would have expected.”
Rhonda waved him off again. “Shh.”
Karan didn’t drink. Never had. When other college students had been getting plowed during rush week, she’d made it her life’s quest to find other ways of unwinding and having fun. Picnics. Boating. Trips into the city for gallery showings.
He remembered how much he’d once liked that about her.
Karan’s dislike of alcohol was deep-rooted, physical and psychological, the result of a low blood sugar condition and an alcoholic mother. Throughout their marriage, she wouldn’t pick up the phone at night without screening the call. She’d never said why, but Charles had known she was avoiding her mother, who normally started drinking after the sun set.
DWAI. That didn’t make sense for the woman he’d known. Then again, he hadn’t known Karan in a long time. He had heard she’d gotten divorced again, which was probably why she was back in Bluestone Mountain. Maybe the divorce had driven her to drink.
Had she cared that much for husband number two?
Charles couldn’t reconcile that with the woman he’d known. Karan didn’t care about anyone but herself. She used men then jettisoned them. Charles had come home from the hospital one day to find a key in an envelope and a storage facility filled with everything he owned. Jack Sloan hadn’t fared much better—only he’d been smart enough not to marry her, so he hadn’t had to retain an attorney and sign papers.
But DWAI? Was it possible, by some miracle, Karan had actually cared for husband number two?
The way she hadn’t cared for him.
“So how does this work in your field, Rhonda?” He did not want to be thinking about Karan, feelings he didn’t know he still had being dredged up without permission. So what if she cared for her second husband? “Do we have conflict of interest?”
With any luck they could get out of this whole alternative sentence thing. Let Jack handle Karan and her grief instead of dumping the problem onto New Hope. Charles had done his time. He’d earned a break from Karan and her drama. For the rest of his life.
“I don’t see conflict, but there’s only one ethical thing to do.” Depressing a button on the intercom, Rhonda said, “Lori, you can show my appointment in now.”
“Damn it.” He couldn’t get away without running into Karan in the outer office.
Rhonda shrugged. “Nothing left to do but deal with her.”
Deal with Karan…wasn’t he supposed to be fishing?
CHAPTER THREE
KARAN FLIPPED PAGE AFTER PAGE of the celebrity magazine, trying to interest herself in the current state of high-profile marriages and who had or hadn’t been invited to the latest A-list playgroup outing. But she couldn’t seem to get past the fact that she was inside the childhood home of the woman who’d managed to get Jack down the aisle.
Frankie Cesarini. Ugh. The very thought of her was enough to make Karan twitch. Fortunately, they’d had only limited contact since Frankie had come back to town.
Of course, Karan could have gotten Jack down the aisle years ago, if she’d wanted to be a cop’s wife. No, thank you. Still, to her knowledge, Jack hadn’t even come close to marriage in all the years since Karan had dumped him. The man obviously had never gotten over losing her. Who could blame him? They’d been so good together. With her by his side, he could have been running for senate himself by now.
What admittedly surprised her was who had finally gotten a ring on his finger—a woman who’d once been the antithesis of everything Karan considered relevant. No family. No money. No friends. No chic whatsoever.
Nowadays Susanna worked for Jack’s new wife and swore the woman resembled nothing of the girl who’d once been nothing more than bad hair and a smart mouth. Karan had trouble believing that and would have dismissed the possibility as nonsense from any other source. But she couldn’t dismiss the reality of this house. Or the fact that she was inside it and would be for another three hundred and fifty-nine hours and forty-six minutes.
From what she understood, the entire structure had been extensively renovated, which meant she couldn’t blame the generic furnishings on Jack’s new wife. The outside wasn’t bad. The house itself was a three-story Victorian with lots of windows and gingerbread trim. Fresh paint, new windows and proper landscaping had only brought out the character. Karan did wonder if there had been conflict involved with the hamlet of Bluestone Mountain purchasing the police chief’s wife’s childhood home.
Wouldn’t surprise her in the least. Also wouldn’t surprise her to learn there hadn’t been a cop in town willing to drag the police chief before a judge. As if that would have done any good with a judge like Wannabe Jenny. She, like the rest of the girls at Ashokan High, had thought the sun rose and set on the former football star.
How could Karan have forgotten how much she hated this town?
A door cracked open and a woman close to her age appeared. “Dr. Camden will see you now if you’ll follow me.”
Only fifteen minutes late. Any other doctor and Karan would have waited closer to an hour, so no complaints here. She cautioned herself to start finding reasons to smile through this nightmare, no matter how small. Guaranteed there would be precious few in the weeks ahead.
Tossing the magazine onto a table, she started her trek into hell bravely, glancing at the woman’s name badge.
“You’re a volunteer,” she said. “Is your job greeting the visitors?” Playing hostess for the duration of her sentence might not be too terrible. She could deal with people.
The woman smiled. “That among other things. Switch board detail and lots of administrative duties for the counselors.”
“I see.” Karan wasn’t interested.
They entered a smaller reception area and the woman went straight to the door marked Director, tapped lightly and pushed it open. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” Karan smiled. Then, taking a deep breath, she moved past the woman and into the office, ready to deal with this situation head-on.
The sooner she started the sooner she’d finish.
Karan noticed the blonde woman standing behind the desk, but it was the man in front of the desk who stopped her cold.
“Charles?”
He looked the way he always did. So handsome that the very sight of him startled her. There was just something about his chiseled features, the way his dark eyes contrasted with his lighter hair. Not blond, but not quite brown, either. A sandy in between. His closely trimmed beard and mustache only emphasized the maleness of his face.
His expression was the same, too. So arrogant that she crashed right back to reality.
Dr. Disdain, she’d once called him. At least that had been his attitude toward her.
“Karan.” He didn’t even have the grace to utter any social niceties. No “Pleased to see you.” No “You look well.”
Of course not. The man stood there looking as if he was above everyone and everything and wished he was anywhere in the world rather than facing her.
Karan’s feelings might have been hurt had she not been so surprised to see him. And had she cared what he thought about her. She didn’t.
Of course, she wasn’t rude. “I’m surprised to see you. What are you doing here?”
“I’m Dr. Camden, Karan. Please call me Rhonda.” The blonde behind the desk extended her hand. “Turns out we have an unexpected situation.”
She shook the doctor’s hand. Rhonda wasn’t a natural blonde like Karan herself, but Karan did approve of the highlighting job. Skillfully done to look natural. Not like so many of the streaky chicken-yellow horrors on the streets nowadays.
“I’m bracing myself.” Karan meant it. Bracing herself for the shock of yet another unexpected situation. Bracing herself to be standing two feet away from this man.
And darned if her heartbeat hadn’t already kicked up a few notches. He’d always had that effect on her. He was too attractive. Tall with that baseball player’s body. A perfect blend of athletic and muscular. And darned, too, if she didn’t remember exactly what the terrain beneath his lightweight black sweater and gray pants looked like.
Far too attractive for her good.
Rhonda’s mouth quirked. “I wasn’t aware of your history with our director when I agreed to participate in the alternative sentencing program.”
“You’re the director?” she asked Charles, surprised. “Not spending every waking moment in surgery anymore?”
Where he’d spent the majority of their marriage.
“Codirector, actually,” he replied in that deep voice she remembered so well. He inclined his head at Rhonda. “We’re partners in crime around here.”
Karan bristled, unsure exactly what he meant by that. Was he taking a jab at her legal trouble? Or referring to something personal between him and his codirector?
“So you didn’t know Charles was involved with New Hope, either?” Rhonda asked.
As if Karan would want him to witness her humiliation. The woman must be as crazy as her patients. Karan managed to say politely, “No. I’m afraid I didn’t.”
Charles and Rhonda exchanged a glance.
Personal, definitely.
“Okay then,” Rhonda said. “We need to decide how to proceed.”
“Conflict of interest,” Charles offered, pointedly ignoring Karan.
Rude man.
Rhonda ignored him, which pleased Karan to no end. “Karan, how do you feel about all this? What are your thoughts about volunteering at New Hope now you know Charles is on staff?”
Any possibility of getting a gun? She wasn’t sure yet whether she’d shoot herself or him. “I can’t answer that until I know how he might impact my…work.”
As good a way as any to phrase it, she supposed.
Rhonda folded her arms over her chest. “I’m in charge of the program, so you’ll report to me. But Charles is often around. There’s no question about whether you’ll run into him.”
“Any idea how often?” Karan pointedly avoided looking at him. Two could play this game.
“I’m not sure how we can put your skills to use yet, so I can’t say if you’ll run into each other a lot or a little. Depends on where you’ll be. He’s kind of everywhere.”
“Conflict of interest,” Charles repeated.
Rhonda scribbled something on the outside of a file folder with Karan’s name. “I still don’t think so. Not if all parties are aware of the situation and are consenting. But I can always check with the police chief to be sure.”
“The police chief is the one who suggested the alternative sentence, remember?” Charles was positively scowling. The man obviously didn’t care if he hurt her feelings.
Rhonda only shrugged. “The judge then.”
“I’d rather not if you don’t mind.” The last thing Karan needed was Wannabe Jenny taking another stab at her. She’d already had to beg permission to drive her car to New Hope.
Rhonda shifted her gaze between Karan and Charles. “Then what’s it going to be, people? We need all hands on deck. Are we up to working together for the benefit of families in crisis or would we rather cut our losses now?”
If nothing else, Karan appreciated the woman’s frankness. And the fact that she’d hadn’t mentioned the mandated therapy sessions. Karan’s sentence wasn’t governed by state privacy acts or confidentiality. Anyone could visit the sheriff’s website and get a good chuckle at her expense.
Charles didn’t reply.
Neither did Karan. The therapy part of the alternative sentence was contingent upon a facility offering the services, which was precisely why Wannabe Jenny had waived the three-hour substance abuse class. She didn’t have too many choices that didn’t involve wearing orange.
“So, Charles and Karan,” Rhonda said brightly. “Does silence mean we all agree to play nice?”
Karan almost smiled. She wasn’t sure why. The playground metaphor, maybe. With every fiber of her being she knew Charles wanted her to agree there was a conflict of interest to save him from forcing the issue. He’d been here first.
Unfortunately for him, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. If he wanted her off his turf so badly he could help her get time off for good behavior.
“I’d like this nightmare over with,” she told them. “If that means dealing with Charles Steinberg for three hundred and fifty-nine hours and—” she glanced at her watch “—thirty-one minutes then so be it.”
Rhonda inclined her head in approval. “Charles?”
He nodded, still refusing to look at her. Honestly. How juvenile could a grown man be?
“You’re done with me, Dr. Camden?” he asked.
“I am, Dr. Steinberg. Thanks for making the time.”
“No problem at all.”
Charles meant what he said. Karan could tell he liked Rhonda. The sentiment appeared to be mutual, which made Karan wonder again if these two were involved in more than work. Wouldn’t that be the icing on the cake?
But she didn’t care about Charles’s love life. No way could she have possibly kept up with him. Not according to the Bluestone grapevine. Apparently, he dated anything that moved, and Karan couldn’t exactly say she was surprised. He’d have to look far and wide to replace the wife he’d thrown away.
Why should she care what the man did with his life? She didn’t. She also couldn’t help but notice how tired he looked with dark smudges beneath his eyes. The way he used to look when he was operating on little or no sleep for too many days running.
“I’m out of here,” he said. “Ciao.”
Rhonda smiled. “Enjoy your trip. I love rainbow trout.”
“Noted.” Charles finally met Karan’s gaze, and his smile faded fast. “Welcome to the New Hope and good luck.”
He headed out the door without another word. Karan watched him go, all contained energy that shouldn’t have been so familiar this many years after the fact. Funny the things that stuck in her brain.
And who knew the man did volunteer work? That bit of news hadn’t made it around the grapevine the way news of his many conquests had. Did Wannabe Jenny know Karan had once been married to a codirector of this program? That would have her cackling over her microwave frozen dinners.
Jack had known, no question.
Add one more no-good ex to the growing list. Maybe Karan should address how she’d become such a loser magnet since she was forced into therapy anyway.
“Okay. Now that’s settled.” Rhonda shoveled folders into an open briefcase then deposited the whole thing on the floor. “Let’s get to business. Please have a seat and make yourself comfortable.”
Karan glanced at her choices—two upholstered chairs in front of the desk or a leather sofa that looked like the perfect place for New Hope’s overworked codirectors to catch some shut-eye. Or enjoy a few stolen moments together.
Karan knew doctors so well.
Sinking onto a wing chair, she watched Rhonda continue to clear space on the desk. The blue blazer fit the therapist nicely and complemented her highlighted hair, but she’d obviously purchased the white blouse beneath it off some rack in a department store.
“That’s much better.” Rhonda sat and peered across the now clean surface. “So what’s been going on?”
The casual question came as a surprise. But only for a moment. The question was only deceptively casual, Karan knew, a trick to gain a patient’s confidence.
“I’m in a bit of legal trouble.”
Rhonda upped the smile a notch. “So I hear. Let’s talk about that.”
The moment of truth. “I’m not sure what to say. I’ve been ordered by the court to explain my actions to a stranger, and I resent the intrusion in my life. But, that said, I also acknowledge how my actions invited the intrusion. I made a bad decision one night and I’ve been paying for it in spades. Starting with a judge who’s still mad she didn’t make the cut on the high school cheerleading team. She’s suspended my driving privileges with the sole exception of coming here. And I had to beg for that concession. If this isn’t bad enough, I walk through the door to find my ex-husband, who can’t stand the sight of me, and a therapist who I’m not sure isn’t involved with said ex.”
“Great, we’ve got a place to begin.” Rhonda didn’t miss a beat. Leaning forward, she propped her elbows on the desk. “First of all, I’m not involved with your ex-husband in any way but professionally. Everything said in any session between us is bound by confidentiality. However, if you’re not comfortable, we can ask the judge to reassign you. There are several good therapists on staff here. I only took the job because you’re our first foray into using community service hours. But having met you, and given your connection to Charles, I’m good with turning you over to someone else if you want. The choice is yours.”
Karan was inclined to take Rhonda at her word, even though she wasn’t wearing a wedding band. The only ring she wore was a rather attractive topaz set in silver on an index finger.
“Thank you, but that’s not any choice at all. As you said, we’d have to ask the judge for permission and I’d rather not subject myself to that until I absolutely have to.”
“You feel as if the past has influenced the judge?”
“She threw the book at me for a first offense.”
Rhonda flipped through some papers. “Well, no denying that. What role did you have in her not making the cheerleading team?”
“I was the captain.”
“I see. And how do you feel you might have been sentenced with a different judge?”
“I don’t think I warranted the maximum allowable sentence.” Karan tried not to sound petulant. “The judge thought that because I’m aware of the effects of alcohol on me given my condition that I should have erred on the side of caution, which I usually do.”
“So what was different about that night?”
Karan supposed she should have expected the question and had a ready answer. This woman was a therapist, after all, digging deep to root out problems—or to be convinced there weren’t any brewing in Karan’s psyche.
There weren’t any, thank you.
“I drank too quickly. It’s that simple. Those first few sips usually tell me whether or not I’m going to have a problem. If my blood sugar is steady then I can enjoy a glass of champagne. Never more than one. And my friend, the senator, had announced his bid for reelection, so I wanted to share a toast.” She shrugged. “By the time I realized I was feeling tipsy it was too late.”
“How soon afterward did you leave the function?”
“Too soon,” Karan said drily.
“Okay, so something was different that night. I’d be curious to know what it was.” Rhonda glanced at the wall clock. “Well, we don’t have a lot of time left today. Largely my fault, so my apologies. I was already running late from my day job when I discovered your connection to Dr. Steinberg. So, let’s shift gears now.”
Fine by Karan. She took a deep breath and settled in the chair, willing herself to relax.
“I’d like to know a little more about you, Karan. About where you feel you might fit in around here.”
“That’s a very good question.”
Rhonda seemed to understand the significance. “We have all sorts of things going on around New Hope. Lots of services for our families and outreach programs, which translates into the need for a lot of volunteers. We’ll find something suited to your particular skills, I promise. So, what kind of work do you do?”
“Well, I don’t really have time for a conventional job. My days are too full and require too much flexibility to make rigid commitments like that.”
Rhonda was too professional to openly show emotion, but the surprise was there. “With what exactly?”
That question was a little more difficult to answer. “Social engagements. Projects. Sometimes I feel like all I do is run around putting out fires. You know how it is—something’s always up with one of the houses, or the finances need attention, or I’m asked to coordinate some event.”
Rhonda was silent for a moment, clearly considering. “Okay then. Let’s start with what you think you’d like to do around here. Any ideas?”
“I’m gifted with interior design. My last husband’s Manhattan offices were featured in an international medical magazine.” The generic interior of this place could certainly use some help to make it look welcoming and homey, which Karan thought should have been the whole point of an emergency shelter. She kept that opinion to herself.
“I’ll certainly keep that in mind as we work around here. We are hoping to build another structure on the property for offices, so we can devote more of this house to sheltering families. But that’s still down the road. We just finished renovating everything and have tapped out our resources. Only temporarily, I hope. How about administrative tasks?” Rhonda asked hopefully. “We’ve got wonderful people in place but they could use a hand.”
“I don’t think I’m your person,” Karan admitted. “I have a personal assistant who handles my administrative tasks at home.”
Rhonda wasn’t deterred. “Medical experience?”
“I’ve married two doctors.”
That got a chuckle. “Any hobbies? Gardening perhaps?”
Honestly. In her Louis Vuitton ballerina flats from the summer collection, did she really look like someone who enjoyed playing in dirt? “I hire lawn crews for all my properties.”
“Do you like children?”
They were getting warmer. “My best friend has two. I’ve taken her daughter into the city for shows and her son to see the Yankees play.”
“Okay, great.” Rhonda flipped through the folder again, this time scanning more closely. “I see here that you have a Masters in public relations from Van Cortlandt College. I did my graduate work there.”
Karan nodded. Not such a surprise. The Ivy League school was a popular draw to the area.
Well over a century ago, people had surged to Bluestone Mountain when miners had discovered feldspathic greywacke, the rare, dark blue sandstone that made her hometown a unique location, and a wealthy one. Now the area appealed to an elite and eclectic crowd because it lacked the commerciality of the nearby hamlets of Woodstock and Bearsville.
When most of the Catskill region had been earmarked as part of New York’s Forest Preserve, not all of that land was publicly owned. Private colleges like Van Cortlandt owned property along with people of means who wanted a fast escape from Manhattan. Precisely why she kept a home here.
Until she could talk to a real estate agent, that is.
Add another project to her list.
Rhonda closed the folder. “All right, Karan, let me mull on this a bit. I’m sure we can come up with the perfect something.”
“I hope so. We need exactly three-hundred and fifty-nine hours’ worth of perfect.”
“Trust me. You’ll be an asset to our program. I can feel it, and I’m big on trusting my feelings.”
It was hard not to like this woman. Even though that was the last thing Karan wanted to do with her court-appointed therapist. Especially a woman who worked closely with Charles.
“So let’s wrap this up for today,” Rhonda said. “I’d like you to keep a journal for your homework.”
“Keep a journal, as in writing?”
Rhonda nodded “You don’t have to share what you write. The journal will help you reflect on our discussions and give you a place to refer to when we talk again. Sound good?”
Not what Karan had expected, but it didn’t sound difficult. “Not a problem.”
“Great,” Rhonda said. “Please bring it with you. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy. A spiral notebook will do the trick. I’ll give you a question after we talk. You’ll be in charge of remembering it.” She glanced at her desk with a wry smile. “I’ll write it down. I won’t be able to find it again.”
Karan did smile then. Rhonda must have gotten to be codirector of New Hope on sheer personality because she was clearly an organizational nightmare. Maybe Karan should refer her personal assistant, who was a positive genius at organizing.
She didn’t get a chance because Rhonda said, “I’d like you to reflect on what was different about that night. Okay?”
“Okay.” Karan would have plenty of time to reflect since she wouldn’t be driving anywhere until her next visit to New Hope.
CHAPTER FOUR
Karan’s Journal
What was different about that night?
THAT NIGHT WAS NOTHING SPECIAL from what I remember. No different than the thousand other parties I’ve attended. Great food. Even better conversation. I can always count on Brent to host a decent party, which is one of the reasons why he’s such a successful politician. I never even blinked while writing my check for five thousand dollars to his campaign. I’m sure most of his supporters don’t. Two terms in office, work on the Banking and Finance Committees—he’s more than proven his good sense and character.
And he has been a good friend. He ran interference when that busybody Ginger Downey commented on my solo arrival. Brent grabbed my hand and twirled me and announced how delighted he was that he’d get a chance to dance more with me. When he wasn’t dancing with Annette, of course.
Annette was so sweet when she caught me in the powder room to ask if I was okay. I wouldn’t have missed this party for the world. Only the most influential names were on the guest list. Mine, of course, had been one of the first.
Certainly well above Ginger Downey’s.
Now that I think about it, I was also excited about getting out. The past few months…well, I haven’t felt settled anywhere. When I’m in the city, I’m out-of-sorts because I miss my routine with Patrick. But I’m not settled in Connecticut, either. Being at the beach makes me feel as if I’m on vacation. I need to be rebuilding my life, establishing new routines.
That leaves Bluestone Mountain.
On the upside, I’m close to Susanna.
On the downside, I’m close to Mom, which is always a mixed bag. But she hasn’t been too difficult lately, so no complaints. I thought she might be going to Brent’s party because she likes the Inn at Laurel Lake—one of the few places around Bluestone she cares for—but she was in the city for another event.
I remember being excited. I made a special trip into the city to shop for evening wear and completely lucked out when I found the most darling Akris appliqué dress. I spent the better part of the day at Mill Hill Resort and Spa preparing for the night with the usual workout, massage, mani, pedi and facial.
I put my hair in a ponytail to show off the gorgeous tulle inset shoulders of the dress. I was excited, no question. More excited than I can remember being in quite some time. Since before Patrick left.
I can’t remember when things started to change, but somewhere between the Russian caviar, the Wagyu rib eye and the conversations with an A-list of local, state and federal officials, the sparkle of the night dulled. All the laughter and discussions about the cigarette tax and small business loans, all the reconnecting suddenly lost its appeal.
Maybe that was my first clue. After all the preparation, all the careful attention to detail, I wanted to leave long before the party had ended. I remember thinking that all the preparation felt like an enormous waste of time. I was bored at best, distracted at worst, and after asking Congressman Bruij to repeat his question not once but an appalling twice, I was more than ready to say my goodbyes and head home.
Yes, now that I think about it that definitely should have been my first sign of trouble.
But how could I leave until Brent made his announcement? I couldn’t. Ginger would have certainly drawn attention to my early departure and started up talk about how I was rebounding after my latest divorce—nosy woman. Now there’s someone who needs a hobby. Crocheting maybe, so she stays home and I won’t run into her as often at social events. But I absolutely refused to give her ammunition to use against me. Not to mention that leaving before the announcement would have been rude considering how Brent and Annette had gone out of their way to be nice.
No, even upon reflection, I really had no choice but to tough it out and pretend to be interested.
I suppose the Dom Perignon Rosé helped me do that.
One sip and I managed to nod in all the appropriate places whenever Judge Townsend stopped his soliloquy about the unique responsibilities of probate, adoptions and guardianships long enough to draw air.
Another sip and I directed leading questions to State Assemblywoman Whaley, who argued emphatically for the property tax cap and against an increase of income and excise taxes as an alternative to educational cuts.
I seem to have kept right on sipping, raising an almost-empty flute when Brent finally made his announcement. Then I kissed him and Annette and headed for the door.
My small misstep at the entrance was another sign of trouble. The doorman saved me from disaster, un ceremoniously hauling me upright when the heel of my slingback caught on the runner. I slipped entirely out of my shoe and was forced to cling to him to stay upright.
Of course he asked if he could call me a taxi. I recognized the code for: should you get behind the wheel?
It was one stupid glass of champagne. Besides, leaving my car wasn’t an option, not when Jessica’s husband was the general manager of the Inn. If he saw my Jaguar in his parking lot overnight, he’d tell Jessica, who would tell Marietta, who would tell Becca…and so on until every cheerleader who’d once been on my team would start the Bluestone gossip mill grinding.
Everyone would speculate about who I’d spent the night with. Or assume I’d had too much to drink. Then word would make its way back to my mother, who never missed anything that happened in this town. I did not want to get that phone call.
I produced my claim ticket and told the doorman I was fine to drive. He looked doubtful, but I just flashed him my most reassuring smile and told him the truth—only one glass of champagne.
I headed outside to wait, so the night air would help clear my head.
Why had I been looking forward to seeing all these people again? I couldn’t remember. I should have probably just sent Brent the check.
The valet took forever with my car, and I wondered if he’d gone to confirm how much I’d had to drink. With liability being what it is nowadays I couldn’t fault a business for being cautious. Even though I was left outside shivering. That had been my choice. I could have waited indoors.
Or better yet, I could have stayed in Manhattan. Then leaving my car wouldn’t even have been an issue. I’d have simply tipped the valet and let the doorman call a taxi.
I wasn’t sure what I’d have done if the doorman gave me trouble. What could I do? Call Susanna? Still would have meant leaving my car. Unless Susanna brought along Brooke, who's now driving even though Susanna is awfully tight-fisted with the car keys considering Brooke's heading off to college in a few weeks. But that’s just my opinion. And Brooke’s, of course.
I didn’t want to be used as a nonexample for my beautiful, impressionable goddaughter. And Susanna wouldn’t be able to contain herself and resist the chance to drive home a life lesson. She couldn’t resist mothering on a good day let alone when I drop a perfect opportunity in her lap.
Being between husbands at the moment, I had no one else to call and my mother wasn’t an option. All I wanted to do was get home. And home was only a few miles down a long, very lonely stretch of highway late at night.
CHAPTER FIVE
OKAY, SO KARAN HAD GOTTEN HER initial therapy session and her first homework assignment behind her in less than twenty-four hours. That left the rest of her alternative sentence looming before her like an endurance test. With any luck, Rhonda had come up with a brilliant job for Karan and when she arrived at New Hope today, she’d be able to clock some hours to speed this process along. Today would be the perfect day for it—since Charles wouldn’t be there based on the conversation she’d overheard between him and Rhonda yesterday.
Karan decided to pop into her mother’s on her way into town. Technically, she would be on her way to New Hope as her mother lived on the same lake. Couldn’t get to New Hope without passing the house where Karan had grown up so she wouldn’t be violating any sentencing conditions. And there really was no point in dodging the visit. Not when her mother had made it a point to call to find out how the interview had gone yesterday.
Karan drove toward the main road that led down the mountain, maneuvered up her mother’s driveway and parked in front of the house. The place dominated a hilltop with a steep-pitched driveway her father used to joke was better left iced in the winter so they could slide their cars to the road. Of course driving back up had required chains.
But he’d chosen this property because it boasted a spectacular view of Mohawk Lake, which nestled in the forested mountainside north of Bluestone proper. He had his own boat dock, lots of room to snowmobile and several acres on all sides padding him from the nearest neighbors, which had pleased him enormously. The house was her mother’s creation, a showcase as majestic as her father’s view.
Karan’s own house was situated on a modest half acre on the eastern shore. Close, but not too close. And her house didn’t remotely resemble her childhood home. Not in size. Not in design. Not in any way except the view.
“Abigail, hello,” Karan called as she stepped in the foyer.
Her mother’s housekeeper appeared quickly from the direction of the kitchen. “Karan, I thought I heard your voice. Had the radio too loud. I’m getting as deaf as a rock.” Her good-natured laughter echoed in the cavernous foyer. “But don’t mention that to your mama.”
There would be no need, Karan knew, since her mother probably already knew. She didn’t miss much. But Karan didn’t point that out as she leaned over and hugged the soft, round little housekeeper. With her apple cheeks and twinkling blue eyes, Abigail looked like Mrs. Santa Claus.
But looks could be so deceiving. This sweet-faced lady might wear her white hair in a bun, but she called things exactly the way she saw them. And anyone who dared to give her a hard time would get beat with the rolling pin. She had to have a spine of steel to care for Karan’s mother.
“Mum’s the word,” Karan agreed.
“Beautiful, and gracious, too. Are you okay?” That bright blue gaze could have sculpted ice. No question about whether or not Abigail had been brought up-to-date on Karan’s troubles.
“No worries. You’ve got your hands full enough here.”
“Pshaw. Nothing I can’t handle. It’s practically still the crack of dawn. Would you like coffee? What about breakfast? Now’s the time if you do. Before you head up to see your mama.”
That was code for: your mother is in a mood.
She would want to be briefed on Karan’s situation, give her only daughter advice and be motherly. Of course Karan had timed the visit so she could stay only a limited number of minutes.
“Thanks, but I’ve stalled long enough. I’ll head up.” And with any luck get this over with quickly.
Abigail inclined her head stoically. “The sitting room.”
Karan heard the unspoken “Good luck.”
Making her way up the stairs, she headed toward the room where her mother enjoyed coffee in the mornings while reading the paper, handling correspondence and otherwise preparing herself to join the living.
Karan tapped on the door then pushed it open.
Years ago, when Karan and Susanna had been in high school, they’d read Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice for a lit class. Thus began a love affair with Mr. Darcy that had weathered decades. No matter where they were, no matter what was happening in their lives, they’d drop everything and get together to watch whatever new version hit the television or theaters.
Their absolute favorite to date was a television miniseries that had run on the Arts and Entertainment channel. They would submerge themselves in Regency England and watch all five hours straight through.
It had become such a tradition that Susanna’s kids had joined the party, and even her late husband, Skip, had been known to walk through the family room, catch a bit of dialogue and sit to finish the episodes with them.
Mr. Darcy’s venerable aunt, Lady Katherine, was the epitome of a regal lady, no matter what version of the story. Karan always thought of her mother as Lady Katherine incarnate.
“Hi, Mom.”
Georgia Madden-Kowalski sat at a Rococo-style table, the china coffee set neatly within reach, four newspapers before her, keeping her current on events from local to global so she could converse easily about any topic at social functions.
She gazed over the rims of reading glasses, face fully made up, even though she still wore her lounging robe, preferring to ease into the day.
When Karan had been young, she’d thought her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world with her spun-silk hair, porcelain skin and striking light eyes. Adulthood hadn’t changed that opinion. Her mother was still one of the most beautiful women Karan knew.
“Good morning, dear.” Her mother smiled in welcome. “You look very lovely this morning.”
“Thanks, Mom, you look well, too.”
“Come sit. Tell me how everything went yesterday. Would you like coffee? I’ll have Abigail bring more.”
“Thanks, but no. I’ve had some.” Setting her purse on a side table, she sat across from her mother, who folded a paper and set it aside to give Karan her undivided attention.
“How did everything go?”
Karan met her gaze across the expanse of the table and gave a casual shrug, determined to do her part to keep this conversation light. “Well, I’m happy to say the people were welcoming. I’m not exactly sure yet what I’ll be doing there, but the program director seemed eager for me to start.”
One of them, anyway.
Karan weighed the merit of mentioning Charles. Did she roll the dice and chance that her mother didn’t find out?
“So it’s a big place then? I haven’t seen much about it in the papers. Only public budgetary reports and minutes from the town council meetings. And that exposé, of course. They must have run a full week of stories about women, and men surprisingly, who’d broken away from abusive relationships. Apparently, domestic violence is epidemic.”
Her mother was clearly interested, so the odds of her not discovering Charles’s involvement at some point weren’t looking good. If she did find out and Karan hadn’t mentioned it…
“I did get a surprise while I was there.”
“Really?”
“Turns out Charles is one of the program directors.”
Her mother stopped with the cup poised at her lips. “Your Charles?” Karan nodded.
She took a small sip, considering, then said, “Well, that is news. Why is a cardiothoracic surgeon involved with a domestic violence program?”
“I have no idea. But from what I’ve been told few people are actually paid employees. The majority are volunteers. Charles shares managerial responsibilities with a psychotherapist who has a local practice.”
“Is this the psychotherapist you’re seeing for your…treatment?”
“It is. A lovely woman. I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect.”
“No. I imagine not,” her mother said slowly. “Not as a patient, at any rate. Socially, I’ve met several and have had positive interactions.”
“True, true,” she said lightly, leaning over to brush some invisible dust from her Prada loafers.
“And what does Charles think of you being a patient in a facility he manages?”
Karan groaned inwardly and braced herself. “He welcomed me, didn’t say much more. I’m not sure he knows specifically what I’m doing there.”
The cup settled in the saucer with an audible sound, and her mother said derisively, “Karan, everyone knows you’ve been court-ordered into treatment.”
“Thank you, Mother. That’s helpful to know.”
Georgia frowned thoughtfully. “You don’t think everyone will assume you divorced Charles because he was abusive?”
“Why would anyone assume that?”
“Why wouldn’t anyone assume that? You’re in treatment in a domestic violence facility. Ordered by the court. Charles is there volunteering his time. Seems rather obvious.”
“Mother, he’s an upstanding surgeon who’s been a part of this community for years.”
“But you were ordered there by the court rather than go to jail, dear. Not so upstanding, I’m sorry to say. Your life has become quite the sordid affair.”
Not a mention of the champagne that had gotten her in this mess. Of course not. Her mother had nothing to say about that. Not when the pot would be calling the kettle black.
But Karan had no intention of engaging, so she didn’t say anything. There could be no right response with her mother looking for a reason to argue.
“I have no way of knowing what people might think,” her mother continued. “I do know I’ve received many condolences from friends and acquaintances because you’re reflecting poorly on this family.” God, Karan hated this small town where there was nothing better to do than gossip. “I’m sorry for that.”
“Add your latest divorce, and I look as if I didn’t do my job properly as a mother.”
Except at this stage of the game, Karan was an adult who was entirely responsible for her own behavior.
She didn’t point that out.
“Drinking and driving, Karan. Honestly. You really should have had more sense.”
This from the woman who spent half her days working out and sweating in a sauna to reverse the effects of the alcohol from the night before.
But, in all fairness, her mother kept social drinking social. The rest of her drinking she did in the privacy of her own home so she didn’t get behind the wheel.
“No argument there, Mom,” Karan said carefully, trying to project sincerity. Too flip and her mother would go off all over her. But she couldn’t seem too eager to commiserate with the inconvenience her mother was enduring as a result of Karan’s mistake. She was, after all, the cause of the inconvenience, and her mother was nowhere close to stupid.
No, Karan’s only course of action right now was not to engage, weather the storm and flee as soon as she could.
Her chance came only blessed moments later when Abigail knocked at the door and slipped into the room, holding up a rolled linen napkin.
Blessed woman! This was a staged visit if ever Karan saw one. She seized the opportunity with both hands.
“Got to run, Mom.” Popping up from the chair, she hurriedly gave her mother a kiss on the cheek. “I’m taking a chance even being here with my restricted driving privileges.”
Seriously restricted.
Karan caught Abigail’s gaze on her way out and that one winked cheerily.
Then Karan was skimming down the staircase and out the front door. She had reached her car when her cell phone vibrated. She was almost afraid to look, fearing that her getaway wasn’t a clean one after all, but the display revealed a welcomed caller.
“Good morning, Susanna.” Karan cradled the phone against her ear and slid into her car.
There was a relieved sigh on the other end. “You sound completely awake for the crack of dawn on a Saturday. I would never have called you at this hour, but your message said—”
“No worries. I wanted this day off to an early start.”
“Really? Does this have to do with your first visit to New Hope? Tell me what happened.”
“It’s official, Suze. I’m in hell.”
A beat of silence. “Things didn’t go well yesterday?”
Karan turned at the end of the drive. “Whew, I’m back on the road and I wasn’t caught. Made a quick pit stop at my mother’s—”
“Are you crazy?”
Karan was about to reply that her mother had that affect on her as Susanna well knew, but Susanna didn’t give her a chance.
“I was in that courtroom, Karan. I saw Judge Jenny in action. Why would you give her a reason to send you to lock-up and throw away the key? Do you want to be incarcerated?”
“Actually might be the lesser of two evils at this stage of the game.”
“Things didn’t go well yesterday.” Not a question anymore.
Karan braked to slow her descent and maneuver a switchback curve, enjoying the way the sun dappled the road through the overhead trees. She had a flash of memory of how much this road had once felt like coming home. It had been one of the reasons she and Charles had decided to buy a place so close to Karan’s parents. She liked the welcoming feeling, and he’d liked the idea of being close to family.
Of course, her father had been alive then.
And she and Charles had been in love then.
“Let’s just say things didn’t go as expected,” Karan said. “You will never guess who’s a director at New Hope.”
“Not someone else who has it in for you, I hope.”
“Charles.”
“Your Charles?”
Karan chuckled. “That’s exactly what my mother said. Yes, I’m afraid. My ex—Charles.”
“Oh, you really are in hell.”
“Officially. Jack set me up, Suze. I know it. That rat. Mr. Police Chief probably felt the need to pound his chest and entertain his new wife by torturing her high school nemesis. Honestly. Don’t you think there should be some sort of statute of limitations on retribution?”
“That’s silly. Jack was trying to help you out. Are you sure he knew about Charles’s affiliation?”
“Quite sure.”
“Then he probably thought you were better off with Charles than Judge Jenny. That’s all.”
Karan gave a harrumph, unwilling to concede the point yet unwilling to argue. While she had dated Jack, her involvement with the man had ended in college. Susanna, on the other hand, had married her high school sweetheart, Skip, who had happened to be Jack’s best friend. That friendship had lasted right until Skip had died from non-Hodgkins lymphoma barely three years ago.
“Let’s move past Jack,” Susanna coaxed. “I want to hear everything about Charles.”
Karan knew exactly what Susanna was trying to do. She was too firmly entrenched with Bluestone Mountain society nowadays to be comfortable with this little trip down memory lane. She worked for Jack’s wife. Maybe not technically, but they both worked for the same management company, so they inhabited the same workspace forty-plus hours a week. Susanna didn’t want to discuss anything to do with Frankie Cesarini. And as Karan was on a time frame, she conceded with a sigh and let her best friend win this round.
CHAPTER SIX
“MAN, IT’S A DIFFERENT WORLD out here,” Charles whispered into the morning calm, his voice the embodiment of contentment.
The words were out of his mouth before he could catch them, inviting a reply and intruding on this alternate reality, where the only sounds were from nature. The forest buffered civilization, and though Charles knew Route 42 was out there somewhere, all he could hear was the current splashing over rocks and lapping the hull of the boat as this mountain tributary rushed toward the river.
The sun had been steadily rising. The light filtered through the trees on the riverbank and shone off the water, making him peel away a layer of clothing as the early-morning chill yielded to a perfect summer day.
Charles supposed he had Karan to thank since she’d introduced him to hiking on Devil’s Path so long ago.
Karan?
The thought of her came at him sideways. His fingers froze on the grip of his fishing rod.
How the hell had she intruded on his perfect day?
Okay, so maybe she’d been the first one to lead him on an expedition through the craggy trails of this mountain range. The high peaks and deep gaps themselves had spawned in him a love of the Catskills that didn’t look like it would be wearing off anytime soon.
Charles could also argue that growing up on the flat terrain of Florida had primed him for a change of scenery. That was, after all, exactly why he’d chosen Van Cortlandt College. To finally live somewhere with real seasons, although his mother always swore after a few winters up here, he’d come home again appreciating Florida’s temperate climate.
He hadn’t proven her right yet, and Karan had absolutely no place in his quarterly weekend trip with fellow anglers during the middle of trout season.
Or anywhere else in his life, for that matter.
He was relieved for the distraction of the inevitable reply when it finally came.
“Damned straight it’s another world,” Jay said. “Personally, I vote for not returning to the real one.”
Matthew gave a snort—laughter maybe.
That’s the way it always went on these fishing trips. Quiet reverence for the dawn eventually accelerated into excitement as they woke up, or whenever one of them hooked and landed a catch. And, of course, as the day heated they were forced to break open the beer cooler.
The guys were always the same, too. Matthew West, chief of staff at St. Joseph’s Hospital, had been hosting these seasonal trips for half a dozen years now. He owned the cabin. Jay Reiber, Internal Medicine, owned the boat. Henry Hyatt, ob-gyn, had the wonderful wife who always spent a week cooking so they wouldn’t starve while they were away. Summer. Autumn. Winter. Spring.
Charles wasn’t sure what his contribution was beyond filling the coolers with beer, but he wasn’t complaining.
“I thought that was always the plan?” Henry was still half-bent over the tackle box, spending more time knotting his fly than actually fishing because he insisted the lighter line would give him an edge.
Another unproven theory.
“Can’t swing it for a few more years,” Jay admitted. “Not unless Matthew puts me up in the cabin rent-free.”
Another snort from Matthew. Laughter definitely.
“You really think you can pay off those student loans in a few more years, Jay?” Charles reeled in for another cast.
“Shouldn’t be a problem. I’m good with budgeting, and I don’t live beyond my means like others I won’t mention.”
“You general docs must not run up loans like we specialists do.” Henry laughed. “But I don’t think you’re going anywhere soon. You’d miss us too much.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Charles said. “Jay can always watch the videos if he gets lonely. Or did you miss that he brought the camcorder again?”
Henry glanced up from his line and followed Charles’s gaze to the photographic equipment in question, packed in pricey waterproof gear for the boat ride. Jay and his camcorder were also becoming a tradition.
“He didn’t notice because he never gives Jay anything to record and put on YouTube,” Matthew weighed in, earning a scowl from Henry.
“I am a man with a plan.” Jay dragged his line. “Angling Amateurs is getting quite the following on the internet, thank you very much. And when it grows up, I’m changing the name to Accomplished Anglers and spending my early retirement charging clowns like you big bucks to be taken to the best spots on every river and stream in the Catskills.”
“You go, Captain Jay.” Charles didn’t doubt the man would eventually accomplish mission objective. “But you might need a bigger boat.”
“I’ll have one. Or two. Or a whole damned fleet.”
“If you want footage to show your fan base, then you’d better grab your camcorder,” Matthew said. “I got one.”
It would be Matthew who scored first today, and with a quiet precision not unlike they used at the hospital when ambulances pulled into the E.R. and lives were on the line, they moved into action.
Jay grabbed the camcorder. Henry grabbed the net. Charles headed toward the gear as Matthew waged an exquisite battle with what appeared to be a sizeable catch.
“Brown,” Henry said, the first to spot the struggling fish on the end of the line.
“Henry called it,” Jay said. “Got a big brown here.” He was recording everything while narrating with educational, amusing declarations as he mocked Henry for his efforts while trying to net the twisting fish before it broke away.
Matthew cursed, and Jay howled with laughter as Henry fought to net the trout—a dozen pounder if an ounce.
“Watch closely, fellow anglers,” Jay’s radio-personality voice continued. “And see the amazing Henry net without netting. Looks like he’s tangling that fish. There you go—tangling. A brand-new technique and you saw it first on Angling Amateurs.”
He kept up the steady chatter while zooming in to watch Matthew work the brown free. Charles stepped in with the pliers and the gloves to assist.
Then came the display footage. They all knew the drill by now and Matthew stood in the official pose and held up the brown, who gasped obligingly for future viewers.
“A keeper,” Jay said.
Matthew agreed. “A worthy adversary.”
Since they were only allowed five catches a day by law, anything less worthy got tossed back to survive another day.
“Tangling.” Jay laughed after he stopped recording. “Tangling. Do you get it? Angling means fishing with a line and tangling means Henry got the whole thing tangled up in the net. Damn, I’m good. Any more questions about early retirement?”
Jay was talking to hear himself because no one else cared. Charles broke into the beer cooler to start the celebration.
“All hail Captain Jay.” Jay caught the icy beer Charles tossed his way and raised it high. “Another reminder of why I continue to sacrifice the comforts of a good woman and a home filled with little mouths to feed.”
“Sacrifice?” Charles winced. “That picket-fence lifestyle will drain you worse than the loans, dude.”
“And your ass would be eating beanie wienie from a can if not for my wife, I should remind you.” Henry pointed out before drawing deeply from the bottle of Bass Ale.
“Don’t waste your breath.” Matthew leaned against the bench seat and slanted an approving glance Henry’s way. “Playboy Charles here has commitment issues. He won’t hear a word you say. Trust me on this.”
“Like I even have time for a life anymore.” Not everyone was cut out to be a married man, and Charles had already learned the hard way that he wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t about to make apologies. Especially not to Matthew, who’d fared no better in the marriage arena with an ugly divorce behind him.
“Where you been, chief?” Charles said. “Just so happens I’ve finished my eighth month at New Hope, and if you haven’t heard, we’re launched and hosting families already.”
Matthew tipped the neck of the beer bottle in acknowledgement. “I’ve heard.”
“Impressed yet?”
“That you’re still at St. Joseph’s all these years later.”
Charles laughed. “And you doubt my ability to commit.”
Any less commitment and he would have run out the back door when he’d spotted Karan at New Hope. Now there was a real sacrifice—being forced to put up with his ex-wife for the term of her community service.
But St. Joseph’s chief of staff didn’t need any reminders about Charles’s commitments gone bad. Neither did Charles for that matter, because he resented that Karan was inside his head again, turning up like a bad penny as his grandmother always said—whatever the hell that meant—and disrupting his peaceful weekend.
Setting aside the bottle with a clatter, he reached for his fishing rod. He wanted his fifteen seconds of fame on YouTube. He wanted to commune with nature the way the Native Americans had when they’d used these streams and rivers to travel. This was his time to take a break from reality, to step away from the constant demands of the O.R., from New Hope, from the pressure of Matthew dangling the appointment in front of his nose like a worm on a hook.
He cast the line and projected the same focus he used in surgery onto the sound of the stream, on the wildlife in the trees and the shore, on the absence of demands on his time. Today was his. To relax.
And he did. Charles cleared his head into restful emptiness. The beer cooled his throat. He shed another layer of clothing as the sun rose, glinting off the gunwale as the boat rode with the current.
Then a phone vibrated.
All gazes swiveled toward the gear, toward the insistent tremor of sound that intruded on the quiet.
“Henry, you have any babies coming?” Matthew asked.
Henry shook his head. “Lawrence is on call. I’m not expecting anything he can’t handle.”
“It’s mine.” Charles reached for his BlackBerry and glanced at the display. New Hope’s main switchboard. With a sinking feeling, he depressed the talk button, knowing he wouldn’t be getting this call unless there was trouble. “Steinberg.”
“It’s Deputy Doug, Dr. Steinberg. Sorry to bother you, but we need a director.”
Charles could practically feel the gazes on him. He covered the receiver and whispered, “New Hope.”
Matthew nodded. Jay cast his fly. Henry went back to making knots.
Charles asked, “What’s up?”
“Smoke detection system went off. Security company called the fire department.”
“Is there a fire?”
More curious gazes. Jay mumbled something under his breath that sounded like: “To hell with real.”
“No, no fire.”
Charles exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Then what triggered the system?”
Deputy Doug hesitated long enough that Charles knew he wasn’t going to like the answer. “Burned popcorn.”
“Come again?”
“Burned popcorn. One of the volunteers didn’t know microwaves have popcorn buttons. She set the timer and got distracted. Place smells godawful.”
The adrenaline began to ebb like the boat’s wake behind them. “Any damage?”
That would be about the last thing New Hope needed.
“Microwave took a hit, and the place is going to smell for a while unless you’ve got money in the budget to call one of those disaster recovery services to air out the drapes and carpets. But maybe we can keep the windows open long enough.”
Which was good considering they’d almost broken the bank getting the place up and running, and he hadn’t budgeted much for maintenance repairs on a newly renovated house.
Instead, Charles had sunk the bulk of their assets into handling the monthly expenses until they reached out to the community to secure more funding. It had been a sound plan, but obviously he should have budgeted for stupidity.
“Who puts a bag of popcorn in the microwave and walks off?” he asked. But the instant the words were out of his mouth, Charles knew.
“The new volunteer with the Jag.” Deputy Doug didn’t sound amused. “One of the kids wanted a snack.”
Charles stared at the river ahead, an entirely different world, one where ex-wives weren’t lurking beneath trees that dipped leafy boughs into the water. “What do you need from me?”
“The fire chief is conducting an inspection now, but we’ve got everyone outside. The fire escape procedures all worked like a charm, too, so you know. Got everyone out safely and quickly, but the fire chief won’t let everyone inside until a director signs off on the incident report.”
“For burned popcorn?”
“It’s the emergency status of the shelter, fire chief says. Standard procedure.”
“Have you tried Dr. Camden?” Charles asked.
“Called her first, but she’s in the middle of some crisis at the center. Can’t get through, but I’ll keep trying.”
As director of the crisis center, Rhonda could very well be talking someone off a roof. Unfortunately, by the time Charles got ashore and to the cabin where his Jeep was parked… “I’m going to be an hour no matter how I cut it.”
“Then I’d get a move on. Got a bunch of little kids here who are going to start asking for drinks and bathrooms soon.”
Charles scowled.
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- Язык: Книги на английском языке
- Объём: 270 стр. 1 иллюстрация
- ISBN: 9781472027856
- Дата выхода книги: 10 мая 2019
- Версия: 📚 Электронная книга
There's been a mistake!Karan Reece has no other explanation for this situation. Being assigned to work with her ex-husband, Dr. Charles Steinberg? She really must have offended someone to be forced to spend her days with him. The only good thing she can say is at least this arrangement has an expiration date.Funny thing, though, is that working together for a shared cause forces them to look at each other differently. She's learning a lot about him and his strengths. And those discoveries are causing her to see him in a new way…a very attractive, can't-wait-to-get-my-hands-on-you way. Seems that life with Charles is a lesson she's willing to study again!
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Видео по теме - Sexist Husband Dominates Wife, But She Teaches Him Brilliant Lesson | DramatizeMe
