“The movers had me sign some paperwork,” he started.
She didn’t answer. With her hands resting on her knees, her ponytail no longer quite as tidy as it had been, he figured he’d let her decide when to break the silence.
It didn’t long for her to find her voice again.
“You know, my friends might as well have called me heartless to my face for selling the family farm. I took a lot of heat for that decision. I don’t know, maybe I was, heartless, maybe I’ll regret it one day, but when it came time to getting rid of anything that belonged to Leo and Riordan, I couldn’t do it, not even their toys. I know I should…”
He picked a spot next to her on the ground and tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear that had come undone from her ponytail. “There’s no rule book to follow. You do what feels right for you. Not what other people say. You don’t need their input. Hell, you don’t even need mine.”
“I want yours. But now I have two rooms with their stuff in there, stuff I’ll have to look at and deal with all over again.”
“Leo and Riordan…” He made sure he used their names. “…were never in those rooms upstairs, though. This isn’t their house. They never lived here. They lived back in New Glarus with a mom who loved them.”
“No parent should have to bury their children. It’s wrong, somehow unholy.”
“You’re right. We live in an imperfect, shitty world.”
“Everything is so hard without them.”
“I know, baby.”
She put her head on his shoulder. “I’m not any better, am I?”
“Why would you think that? Because you are…better. Look where you’re sitting. Look around and see what you’ve done.” He thought of Bette and all the people who needed someone to talk to about their sorrows in life. “Compared to others, you’re getting there, better each day. Don’t believe otherwise.”
“No, I flaked out. I was so excited to get my stuff and then one look at Leo’s bedroom furniture and I just couldn’t handle seeing it again. I should be past that stage by now.”
“Who says? Experts? Have they lost children? Have they survived a violent crime? You’re the expert on this, not some psychotherapist who’s never lost a thing.”
“You’re too good to me.”
“Come on, I’ll buy you and Barkley lunch.”
“I could use a burger.”
“Good. We’ll order three and stuff our faces.”
“Barkley can’t have people food.”
“Does Barkley know that?”
She hooted with laughter. “Barkley is a work in progress.” She leaned in and slid her arm around Gideon’s neck. “Thank you for showing up when you did. Why aren’t you at the hospital?”
“Even doctors take a morning off once in a while. This was my turn.”
“I’m okay now. You don’t have to hang around and buy me lunch. I need to get after unpacking, and you need to go back to work.”
“Bossy, aren’t you?”
“I’m trying to give you an out. You don’t need to babysit me.”
“So, I don’t even get a meal out of this deal, huh?”
“You can have anything you want.”
“Now that’s my kind of offer. I got rid of that air mattress you had on the floor to make room for the nice king-sized bed. I even helped the movers put it together.” He brought her into his lap to nuzzle her neck. Their lips met, her mouth compliant and surrendering to his. There under the oak, with the sound of the waves as a backdrop, they necked and made out like a couple of randy teenagers.
Coming up just short of undressing her under that tree, Gideon pulled himself together before it happened. Instead, he whispered in her ear, “Lunch. Burgers. You’re buying.”
Sixteen
By Friday night, Marley had almost everything unpacked. She’d worked hard to get the house in order, especially the kitchen. She’d dug out her fancy china and set the table at four-thirty. Silver-rimmed plates sat on top of her mother’s white cotton tablecloth with small purple daisies in the pattern.
She wanted the room to look like spring, to bring a little of the outdoors indoors. “I think we have liftoff, Barkley,” she said to the dog. “Now all I need is to bring in the vase full of flowers for the ultimate icing on the cake.”
For a centerpiece, she’d picked a handful of purple coneflowers and used baby’s breath intermingled in the bunch to stuff down into a tall, wooden tabletop crate with painted splotches on the sides. Smiling at the memory of Riordan going wild with her paintbrush one afternoon in an attempt at drawing flowers and decorating the box, Marley’s heart did a little flutter. She stared at Riordan’s handiwork longer than she should have.
“I don’t know about you, Barkley, but those look like violets to me.”
For ambiance, she added three tall glass candleholders and put votives down in the base. She’d even ironed the festive cloth napkins in mint green. She’d never been afraid to mix colors that pop, and tonight was no exception.
Her idea of décor was a little bit of everything. No coherent theme, just odd pieces of this and that thrown together in an eclectic display of her personality.
The dining room consisted of the same farmhouse table that she’d eaten off of as a kid. Underneath the fussy tablecloth was a hickory-stained top. The wood matched the slatted-back chairs that her grandfather had made himself in his workshop. Same with the china cabinet that had been in her family since the early 1900s.
By five-thirty she’d done the best she could. If the queen of England walked through the front door instead of Quentin and Sydney, she was as ready as she would ever get.
She headed into the kitchen to start the roasted shrimp and orzo she planned to whip up. She caught Barkley sniffing the air. “No people food for you. Unless they don’t like it. Then you get to lap up the whole shebang that’ll probably make you sick.”
“Who’s sick?” Gideon asked as he entered the room, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. Even though she’d been working like a dog for three days getting the house all set up, he noted she looked radiant. In a cropped top and flowing skirt running around in bare feet, she looked like an exotic mermaid who’d just come up for air. Her hair was slightly damp, and she’d painted her toenails a sharp pink.
“No one yet. But it’s early.”
He came up behind her, slid his arms around her waist, began planting kisses on her neck. “The dining room looks great. You didn’t need to go to so much trouble.”
Leaning into his body, she lifted her head up to his. “I want your friends to like me. Besides, what else do I have to do? I’ve become very good at puttering around the house.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Nothing. I think we’re all set. I hope they like shrimp.”
“Stop worrying. Which wine are we serving?”
“The red.” When the doorbell rang, she traded looks with Gideon and grinned. “Showtime.”
“I’ve been by this house every day since I’ve been here but never been inside. It’s gorgeous,” Sydney crowed as she took the tour of the first floor.
“Thanks. Let me show you the sun porch. It’s the best room in the entire house. Gideon and I hung the swing ourselves.”
Sydney had to agree as she plopped down to test it out. “I see now why you bought this place. The view is spectacular.”
Playing bartender, Gideon passed around beers while Marley toted out a tray full of finger foods, simple jalapeno cream cheese poppers and lemon pepper potato shells.
“These are delicious,” Quentin said, in between bites. “You can leave the whole plate right here with me.”
“Look at him,” Sydney remarked. “You’d think I never cooked a proper meal.”
Quentin rolled his eyes. “You need to get this recipe. Beckham would clear out this entire tray in under fifteen minutes or less. Am I right?”
“He is,” Sydney conceded. “Teenagers have hollow legs. We’re thinking of taking out a s
econd mortgage just to feed him. Nothing I fix seems to fill Beckham up. That boy starts his day hungry and ends it by taking whatever leftovers he can grab from the fridge to his room. Speaking of which, Beckham and Faye did a good job for you, right?”
Marley nodded. “Those two kids worked together like fiends for a couple of days here and not once did I hear them squabble about anything. That impressed me. You should be proud. They seem like two very hardworking kids.”
Quentin puffed out his chest. “They are. Not only does Faye work at the pizza place after school while Beckham works at the grocery store, they also pick up odd jobs here and there. My kid just happens to be the next generation of MD. That’s what he says he wants to do and I’m all for getting him there. But now the kid wants a car.”
Marley snuck out a laugh. “Typical teenager. He made sure to tell me that. I upped his tip because of it.”
“He’s a charmer, that one. Neither of us looks forward to the day when Beckham is driving,” Sydney added. “But it’s coming. And soon.”
“Dinner’s about ready,” Marley announced. “Why don’t you guys head to the table and I’ll grab the food.”
When Sydney got settled around the dining room table, she recognized the furniture’s antique quality and asked about its history, running her hand across the grain of the hutch. “Where did you get this? How beautiful is that wood? What’s it made from?”
“Hickory stained dark. When he wasn’t farming, my grandfather was a cabinet maker.”
“Lucky you.”
“Been here during an earthquake yet?” Quentin asked Marley as he got comfortable at the table.
“Not yet. What should I expect?”
“Things start shaking and falling off the walls. That’s if it’s a small five-pointer. Stand under a doorway if you can.”
“We usually see a few people in the ER that come in suffering from anxiety afterward,” Sydney explained.
“What about the animals?”
Gideon leaned back in his chair and took this question. “There’s no doubt in my mind that animals seemed to know it’s coming. Reputable studies claim that animals in the wild can detect the seismic activity several days before the actual event, leave the area, and move to safety before it hits.”
“What about their safety when it’s happening? I know dogs are perceptive and can pick up on emotions if you’re sad or happy. What happens over at the Rescue Center during a seismic event?”
“You should ask Keegan or Cord that question,” Sydney suggested. “I never thought about it much. It’s a good one to ask.”
The shrimp and orzo dish seemed to be a hit along with the spinach salad Marley served with it. She poured the wine and took a seat at the end of the table.
“By the way, how’s Bette doing?” Quentin asked Gideon.
“Who’s Bette?” Marley asked as she served up a plateful of salad.
Gideon glared at Quentin. “A patient.”
“Who attempted suicide earlier this week,” Quentin said, oblivious to Gideon’s scowl as a warning. “Gideon pumped her stomach in the ER. If not for that, I doubt she would’ve made it.”
Quentin might’ve been slow to get the message, but Sydney was not.
Marley felt a sudden movement come from under the table and realized Sydney had kicked her husband into quiet mode.
“Ouch,” Quentin responded. “What’d you do that for?”
Sydney cleared her throat. “Maybe now is not the appropriate time to discuss a patient’s problems.”
“Or suicide attempt?” Marley added, clearly understanding the trio’s angst about discussing things of that nature in front of her.
“I thought we agreed no talking shop tonight,” Gideon reminded their guests.
But Marley was having none of that. “Despite everything that’s happened to me over the years, I’m not suicidal. I might possibly be depressed but not enough to end it all. What happened to Bette to make her want to try something like that?”
Sydney glanced over at Gideon for any sign it was okay to proceed. When she saw him nod, she let out a sigh. “It sounds like gossip, but last Christmas, two days before to be exact, Bette’s husband Dan told her he wanted a divorce. He packed up his things and left her for a much younger woman. Bette’s been having problems coping ever since. I guess Monday she woke up and decided she was tired of the way things were. She had a breakdown back in January, neighbors found her sleeping on her front lawn.”
“What we need to do is get her into therapy,” Quentin suggested, eyeing Marley.
She looked straight at him. “That’s a good idea. Just because I don’t care for therapy doesn’t mean others won’t benefit from talking out their problems with a professional. You should contact a social worker and get her into the system.”
“Already done,” Gideon pointed out. “Carla Vargas is arranging to get her some help. The problem is, Bette will need to find a way over to Santa Cruz.”
“What about the town nextdoor? What’s it called?” Marley questioned. “The one where the DMV is located.”
Gideon buttered his roll and looked over at Marley. “San Sebastian? One mental health facility that’s already jam-packed with a waiting list as long as my arm.”
Marley stopped eating. “How old is Bette? Just a general guess.”
“Forty-four, I think, maybe forty-five. Why?”
“Because what her husband did happens to a lot of women during a midlife crisis and vice versa. The phenomenon of cheating isn’t gender-biased. Cheaters have never been exclusively male. The slick name for it in therapy is known as, ‘till gray do we part.’ The same thing happened to me, so I know from experience. And I hadn’t even turned gray yet. But the truth is, it can happen in forty-year marriages the same as couples who barely reach the old ‘seven-year itch’ mark or two weeks after the honeymoon. Let’s face it, even couples in long-standing relationships find themselves growing apart.”
“Relationships are hard under the best of circumstances,” Sydney acknowledged, picking up her wine glass.
“Exactly,” Marley muttered. “If only Bette could understand the statistics aren’t on the side of a successful marriage, that this is fairly common behavior during the lifetime of coupledom, she might be able to move on from the heartbreak of it.”
Quentin pointed his fork toward Marley and sent a salvo across the table. “See? Right there is why we need a therapist on staff like her.”
Gideon gritted his teeth. “We agreed not to bring this up tonight.”
It finally dawned on Marley what was happening. “You brought up poor Bette hoping I’d jump at getting back into the mental health game? Sorry to disappoint you, Quentin, but I’m done with counseling people. You want someone on staff who believes that therapy actually helps them. That’s not me.”
“But surely you aren’t suggesting that people stop going to a mental health provider?”
“Not at all. I think Bette needs help. But I’m not the person who’ll provide that for her on a professional level. You mentioned friends and neighbors. What about family? Are there any family members in the immediate area who she could talk to, help her get over the hump?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll find out,” Sydney promised.
As she stood up to clear the plates, Marley hoped the conversation hadn’t marred the entire evening. “Is anyone else ready for dessert? This morning I made a white Russian cake. Any takers?”
“I’ve got to try that,” Sydney said, getting to her feet to help clear.
But Gideon waved her back into her chair. “You sit. I’ll help Marley with whatever she needs.”
Gideon followed Marley into the kitchen. “I’m really sorry about that. Quentin promised me that he wouldn’t bring it up.”
“No, it’s a good idea except for one small problem. I’m not interested. And I’m not qualified. If it’s taken me three years to get this far, and I can safely say that I’m still having difficulty coping, why would anyone lis
ten to me? All the mechanisms that were supposed to work haven’t. So there. I’m okay with being a dogwalker versus a health professional.” She sent Barkley a sidelong glance. “I have a greater chance of helping him curb his jumping and bad habits compared to a human. So why not embrace my strengths?”
He got down dessert plates for the cake. “I think you’re selling yourself short. You’ve come a long way since it happened.”
“Is that right? Three days ago, I couldn’t cope at the sight of seeing Leo’s furniture carried into the house. You had to step in and oversee the rest of the unloading. That isn’t exactly a feather in the cap of my therapist. Now is it?”
“But you’re getting better.”
She cut a thick slice and then slid the generous piece onto a plate. “Getting better is an illusion. I outwardly appear fine until something triggers the loss of my children, something small that hits me in the face like a brick, taking down all my defenses. Look, Gideon. I don’t want to argue the point. I know you and your friends mean well. I do. And I appreciate it. But the truth is, I know I’ll probably never be the same person I was when I sat in my cushy office and listened to people’s problems. I’m fine with that, and I had hoped that you would be, too. But if you’re not, if you prefer the professional woman that I used to be over what I am now, then I completely understand.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t care what you do for a living.”
“Come on, Gideon. You’re telling me there wasn’t a small part of you that wished I’d jumped at the job Quentin just offered?”
How did she see through him so easily? “Maybe. But I was never that hopeful.”
She patted his cheek. “It’s okay. I’m not upset. I’m flattered you’d think I could still pack an office with patients. But the truth is, I don’t want to do it. I don’t want the responsibility of someone else’s mental health. I couldn’t live with that if it turned deadly…all over again.”
Gideon left it like that through dessert. All the while, he seemed the perfect host. He discussed new equipment and additions to the hospital with Quentin. He praised Sydney’s nursing staff and the great jobs they did. But he couldn’t let go of the conversation in the kitchen with Marley. In fact, he couldn’t wrap his brain around one aspect that Marley kept repeating. What had happened in therapy that had turned her off seeking help? If it was the mere fact that she believed she wasn’t any better, that was one thing. But if it was something else, he felt like he needed to dig further.
The Coast Road Home Page 19
