Rhonda didn’t respond. Instead, she starting playing with the food on her plate, taking another bite and chewing slowly. Charles knew exactly what she was doing—buying herself time to think up another argument.
He scanned a letter, had no choice but to agree with her assessment. The letter was cordial, professional and written by someone with an obvious skill for getting what she wanted. No surprises there. Karan had a long history of networking. It was what she lived for.
“It’s a good letter,” he said. “I agree with you about that, but I don’t think a stack of these is worth the risk.”
“We could also argue that without Karan’s mistake, we’d have no clue Amy’s husband was looking for her and getting quite clever about it. But we do know now and can take evasive maneuvers to protect her and the boys.”
Charles couldn’t argue that, either. He set the letters on the desk.
“Listen, Charles. Will it help if I give you my word that if this doesn’t pan out for any reason, I’ll drop the program? Chief Sloan can find some other place to implement alternative sentencing with his so-called special cases.”
He considered that, didn’t want to unnecessarily criticize a colleague he’d come to respect a great deal. “I’d say yes, except I’m not entirely comfortable with your partiality. You said you didn’t want my opinions coloring your views about Karan, but it seems that you’re swinging in the opposite direction and cutting her more slack than she deserves.”
“You think I’m overcompensating?” Rhonda eyed him hard. “Are you sure this is really about Karan’s mistakes? I’m sensing a lot more going on here, and I’m usually pretty good at sensing that sort of stuff since I make a living at it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you don’t want Karan here. Obviously you two didn’t part on the best of terms. I understand that. If I’d had any clue about your history with her, I’d never have agreed to take her on. But Charles, you do realize I have her in session, right? I’m privy to a lot more than you think. I’m asking that you trust me to do my job.”
He couldn’t argue. He did have more emotion happening here than he should have. So much more. That wasn’t Rhonda’s fault. But once Karan was gone, he wouldn’t be feeling all this anger anymore. Life would return to normal.
“I’m not questioning your ability.” He sounded completely calm. “Please be clear about that. But you’re handling Karan differently because I have a history with her.”
“I could say the very same about you. We’ve been working side by side since the inception of New Hope. I’ve never once seen you act unfairly, even in the face of some big snafus with staff, with contractors, with licensing. I’ve respected your patience and tact in handling all these situations. Even admired the way you dealt with that woman from the inspector’s office.” She gave a short laugh. “I’d have wrung that one’s neck. Yet you thought the best way to handle Karan was to pack her off to work at the thrift store.”
“It’s the perfect place for her, trust me on this. It’s a store, and she’s made a science out of shopping. She’s no less skilled than I am in the O.R. Maybe even more because she’s been at it longer.”
Rhonda narrowed her gaze. “If you’re trying to be funny, you’re not even coming close.” Silence echoed.
He wasn’t getting off so easily. He could tell by the look she leveled at him. “I would think the fact that Karan’s trying to identify some difficult issues might mean something to you. If for no reason other than basic human compassion. Forget that she was once your wife.”
Here he’d been under the impression that psychotherapists always answered questions with questions. Mistake.
But he had no defense. He had wondered what was going on with Karan, hadn’t bothered to find out. He’d let his curiosity die a natural death and kept trying to forget about her until he had no choice but to deal with her.
“I know you care about helping people,” he said, “so I’m asking you not to pass judgment on me and the way I feel about Karan. You’re right. We didn’t part on the best of terms.”
“I’m not passing judgment. I’m trying to figure out how to handle the situation effectively. That’s my right. Remember, you’re not my patient. Karan is.”
He knew better than to respond. Smiling, funny, usually professional Rhonda had her back up. Because of him.
“So we have a problem,” she continued. “You can’t send Karan anywhere because she’s my patient.”
“That sounds so dire. Is there something Karan’s dealing with I should know about?”
Rhonda stonewalled him with a glower.
“I’m not asking you to break confidentiality.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I just wondered.”
“Really? I’m wondering something, too,” she said in a tone he’d never heard before as she stood and collected her plate.
“What’s that?”
She met his gaze and arched an eyebrow skeptically. “If it doesn’t matter, then why are you wondering?”
With that she headed toward the door. He watched her leave. Damned psychotherapists. Whoever said they weren’t real doctors? Those leading questions could open veins.
KARAN HAD KNOWN THAT SHOPPING at New Hope Thrift Store would not be in the same league as a trip to Bergdorf Goodman. Or any other store she’d ever had the privilege of shopping in. The sum total of the entire showroom didn’t equal what she’d spent on the foyer during her recent remodeling.
Mismatched glassware sold for ten cents apiece.
Paperback books with lots of life left sold for fifty cents while hardcover books went for a whole dollar.
Gently used clothing sold for anywhere from a quarter for a pair of used socks to a pricey five dollars for designer jeans.
Then there were sofas and recliners priced between ten and twenty-five dollars, depending on condition. All furniture prices were negotiable.
Karan knew because she’d been pricing these treasures, thanks to Charles Steinberg. Curse his black soul. He wanted to make her run screaming from New Hope and the whole alternative sentencing program. And while she wouldn’t deny that jail was looking better and better with the way things had been going, to hell with Charles Steinberg.
He thought she couldn’t handle pricing some trinkets? True, her secret hope to make him feel bad may have backfired in a big, messy way, but she would not give this man the satisfaction of thinking she couldn’t handle whatever he threw her way. He had such a low opinion of her abilities, and she was determined to prove him wrong. So when some random man showed up and asked for her help, a power lifter by the looks of him and apparently well-liked by the other volunteer, she’d agreed without even asking what he needed.
She should have asked.
Now she was sitting in the passenger side of a large truck with no air-conditioning, or any doors that didn’t slide for that matter. This vehicle creaked and groaned and bucked so hard over speed bumps and potholes that Karan was convinced she would hit the roof and wind up concussed. If she didn’t fall out of the open doorway and land on the side of the road with the way Tom, who was indeed a competitive power lifter, whipped around corners.
Knowing her luck, she’d wind up in Charles’s operating room, and he’d put an end to her once and for all.
“I did everything humanly possible to save her…”
Yeah, right.
So Karan clung for dear life to the overhead handle as they drove toward a suburb in the valley, where a donation collection had been scheduled. She reminded herself that penance wasn’t supposed to be pleasant. Community service was penance for her poor decision to get behind the wheel after a toast.
Exile to New Hope’s thrift store was penance for jeopardizing the safety of everyone in the shelter because she’d emailed her letters to the wrong computer.
Driving in this truck was penance for trying to prove herself to Charles Steinberg when she should have kept pricing trinkets and gotten into the spiri
t of a thrift store.
Raising money for a good cause.
How come she kept forgetting the part about the good cause? Now there was a question for her journal.
Tom chatted nonstop. “You wouldn’t believe some of the crazy things people donate.”
No, likely Karan wouldn’t.
“Usually it’s clothes and small appliances. Stuff that people have lying around taking up space. But sometimes we luck out with really good stuff. Few months back, someone put a commercial-grade elliptical machine outside. Couldn’t believe it. Was practically brand-new with the instruction manuals and everything.” He flashed a charming grin. “That’s why I need you. To help me get some of this stuff in the truck.” As if she could help him lift a commercial-grade elliptical machine.
“I bought that one myself.” He paused, waiting for a response.
“Sounds as if you got quite a bargain.”
He nodded then was off and running with the conversation again. “We send the notices out in the mail a good two weeks in advance. Gives people time to get their donations ready, but not long enough to forget we’re coming. Not a bad deal, actually. They get the stuff to the street and we pick it up. Saves them from making a trip to the collection center. That’s convenient. Especially for the bigger stuff.”
She nodded.
“It has to have the purple tag on it,” he explained. “We schedule the collections for the days there isn’t trash service. Sometimes you can hardly tell the difference between the two. That’s why the purple tag is so important. We know it’s ours.”
She wondered what he’d think to arrive at her house on collection day after she put every stick of furniture by the mailbox. Everything. She wouldn’t need any of it since she was selling the house and moving far, far away. Might as well support a good cause.
There, she’d remembered.
But how much would the volunteers ask for her five-thousand dollar Italian leather platform bed? Would that go for a cool thirty bucks or would they let it go for less?
When they finally arrived in a residential suburb with a secure entry, the guard in the gatehouse apparently expected them and waved them through. The electronic gate ground open and Tom drove into a neighborhood with nicely maintained lawns and roomy houses, six models that were variations of the same design obviously built by a single builder.
She never understood why builders didn’t use different architects so developments didn’t look so cookie-cutter. If not for the numbers on the identical mailboxes and the street signs on each corner, they could have been driving in circles on the same streets and Karan would have had no clue. Tom seemed to know exactly where he was going, though, and he slowed the truck and ground to the first stop in front of a mailbox.
He left the truck idling and instructed her to climb into the back. “You’re the perfect person to collect with. That’s why I asked you to help. Small, so you can get around inside.”
Wouldn’t her personal trainer be thrilled to hear that?
“I’ll toss the stuff in to you,” he continued. “You don’t need to be too fussy about where it goes, just use a little sense to make sure things are where they won’t get broken.”
He hopped out of the truck, and Karan slid between the seats into the cavernous back, wishing she’d known what she’d signed on for in her haste to get out of the thrift store. At least she could have dressed for grunt labor. As it was, her cropped pants and strappy sandals weren’t exactly ideal for mountain climbing over donation bags and boxes.
It was stifling back here, which didn’t make much sense to her given the cab of the truck was wide-open. When Tom pulled the large back doors open, some air did get through, thankfully.
He was right about one thing: the donations ran the gamut. Of course there were bags upon bags filled with clothing.
There were microwave ovens that she struggled to push against a wall on one side of the truck. Small furnishings that she made homes for on the other. A crib and toddler bed some child must have outgrown. An ottoman covered in dog fur. A particle-board television stand missing a few screws.
Out of the truck. Back into the truck.
Into gear for a short ride.
Jerking to the next stop.
Back out of the truck to start the process all over again.
“You can stay in the back if you want,” Tom finally said on the zillionth trip. “There aren’t any seat belts, so you don’t have to keep getting back into the seat.”
Oh, yes, she did.
He might be getting his daily workout back there, hefting junk her way, but he had to close the doors after each stop, so the junk didn’t slide into the street. With the doors closed, the interior felt like a sauna. Otherwise she would stay in the rear. The thought of being recognized in a truck picking up what appeared to be garbage was daunting. Not that she cared what people thought. Helping New Hope was a good cause. But Karan didn’t think her mother would feel the same way.
“I’m good,” she lied. “Getting my exercise. I don’t have a commercial-grade elliptical at home.”
He chuckled. “That’s the spirit. Hope the volunteers at the store are as good-natured. Lots to sort through today. We don’t have to do that part.”
Who in their right mind would choose to do this?
“This is your job?” Karan couldn’t resist asking. It was only June and she’d have sweat off five pounds by the time they finished. She couldn’t fathom August or the dead of winter with six feet of snow on the ground.
The thought of spending eight hours a day in this truck, rain or shine, was enough to send a chill up her spine—the only thing chilly on her right now.
“Nope. Today’s my day off.” Tom shook his head. “Get two days off a week—Sunday and Tuesday. Don’t mind sharing one.”
“So you’re a volunteer?” she asked incredulously. Not ordered by the court to help. “You do this for fun?”
He smiled pleasantly. He was a very pleasant man. “It’s a good cause. Not everyone is comfortable with driving the truck. Hopefully we’ll add a few more drivers. Start adding some shifts if we can drum up more donations.”
“I certainly hope so.” For his sake. “So what do you do for a living when you’re not driving a truck on your day off?”
He flashed that charming grin. “Drive a route truck for a uniform company.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHARLES STAYED IN THE OFFICE making phone calls to arrange for Amy’s transfer while Rhonda spoke with Amy and the boys in between her sessions. He was glad for the opportunity to cool off.
Rhonda had been annoyed, no question. Not such an uncommon occurrence between colleagues. He actually found the fact that they hadn’t had any run-ins during all these months of working with nonstop intensity more surprising.
Still, he’d come to respect her opinion. He’d watched her interact with people in so many capacities while getting New Hope up and running—with potential employees during the interview process, volunteers in screenings and training, with residents during group sessions.
Not only had he gained more of an understanding of her field, but a high regard for her personally. Yet she thought he was the one with an issue here. While he wanted to discount her opinion as nonsense, he couldn’t.
Not when so much anger had surfaced after Karan had shown up. He’d been surprised by her situation, interested even, but not compassionate.
Rhonda had been right about that.
And even Karan had managed that much for him.
“I’m not talking about the computer,” she’d said. “I’m talking about your patient. Whoever he or she was. I’m sorry you couldn’t help.”
That she knew him so well had angered him more.
He’d been at peace with the past. Or thought he’d been. But now he had to ask what his reaction might have been if someone other than Karan had been responsible for burning popcorn. He didn’t see anger as part of the equation. Inconvenience aside, the situation hadn’t
been a big deal. Unfortunate timing, definitely. But accidents happened. He knew that.
The computer situation was a more serious matter.
But Rhonda did have a few points there, as well. An hour ago he hadn’t wanted to hear about them. Even now it took a lot of effort to step back and admit her points might be valid. Why?
“So what did you work out for Amy?” Rhonda asked after her return. The air between them was still not quite right.
“Albany. Peekskill is almost at capacity, and I felt better knowing they’d have more eyes watching out for them.”
Rhonda inclined her head. “Albany is a good program. I’ve worked with the head of counseling outreach there before, and they’re doing good things. When?”
“Already on the way. Less than an hour, I’d say.”
“One of us needs to be on-site when they arrive. A director will have to sign off. I’m due in group soon, but I can start calling the therapists to see if one can cover.”
He shook his head. “Not necessary. I’ll stay.”
She was still eying him in that probing, psychotherapist fashion. Trying to read his mind. Or maybe she didn’t really need to. She seemed to see right through him. “You’re sure?”
“I’ve still got plenty to do, and I’m not due in surgery until eight in the morning. I’ve got it.”
“Okay.”
He didn’t need any mind-reading skills to know she was waging some internal debate. Probably gauging his mood and considering whether or not confrontation would get results.
“I won’t go off all over you,” he said. “I promise.”
That got a grin, a reassurance that they were heading back down the right track.
“Okay, I’ll take you at your word. We’ve got to come up with some resolution about our alternative sentence.” Not Karan, or ex-wife. He almost smiled back. Almost. “What do you have in mind?”
“Obviously I’ll address the situation with her. Our residents’ safety can’t be jeopardized for any reason. If she wants to continue being a part of our program, then she needs to understand that. The next step is orientation. Your point about the expense is valid since she is going to be here for only a limited time. The court has already absorbed the cost of the screening process. That leaves covering the training material, and we wrote it. I’ve got every bit on my laptop. I can put her through a personal version of the class for free.”
The Husband Lesson Page 12
