The Late Bloomer's Road to Love

by Marie Ferrarella

“That’s beside the point,” he said dismissively. “And for your information, a new therapist is coming over today. So why don’t I accompany you to my restaurant and then later, you can meet and grill my new therapist. Is it a deal?”

  She eyed him skeptically. Her father had conveniently “forgotten” things before, or gotten things confused. “There’s really a therapist coming this afternoon?”

  “Yes,” he answered tolerantly. “There’s really a therapist coming this afternoon.”

  “What’s her name?” Rachel asked, thinking that her father was just paying lip service to the whole situation. This so-called therapist could conveniently be a no-show, or forget to come.

  “The therapist’s name is Wyatt Watson,” George answered with a smile, pleased with himself that he recalled the name that Maizie had told him.

  Rachel looked at her father in surprise. Up until now, all the therapists her father had seen—and dismissed—had been women.

  “The therapist is a man?” she questioned.

  George recalled the words that Maizie had told him. She had suggested that they might be helpful in winning his daughter over. “The agency thought I’d have more luck with a man.”

  Rachel thought of all the therapists her father had found fault with for one reason or another. “You know, they might have a point.”

  “So, is it a deal? Can I come to the restaurant?” he asked eagerly.

  It almost broke her heart. But she knew she had to stay strong for his sake. She was doing this for her father’s own good, not because she wanted to control him.

  “What time is the therapist coming?” she asked.

  “He’ll be here before noon,” he told her.

  She hadn’t thought the therapist would be coming so soon. She wouldn’t get a chance to meet and observe this latest candidate. “All right, then you can come to the restaurant this afternoon, after your session. Just make sure you bring a note from this Wyatt person.”

  “You are definitely a hard woman to bargain with,” George said to his daughter.

  Rachel acknowledged his comment with a smile. “Yes, I know. Now I’ve got to get to the restaurant to get ready for the lunch crowd,” she said, walking away from the table.

  “I could help,” her father offered.

  She turned around and gave him a look. “You can help by seeing your new therapist—and not terminating him in the first twenty minutes.”

  “How about the first half hour?” George deadpanned.

  Part of her felt he wasn’t kidding. “Dad,” she said in a warning voice.

  George raised his hands as if fending off an overzealous puppy. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he told her. And then he became serious. “I’ve got a good feeling about this one.”

  Rachel allowed a tired sigh to escape. “Well, I certainly hope so,” she said. “Because I have no intentions of letting you wiggle out of this. You are going to see a therapist and listen to whatever he has to say, then follow up with the exercises he wants you to do.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He said it so solemnly that Rachel almost believed him.

  Or maybe she just wanted to.

  She paused by the front door to issue a warning.

  “I’m holding you to that.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less,” George assured his daughter.

  Flashing him a smile, Rachel lost no time in flying out the front door.

  * * *

  “You know, this has to be a first, Aunt Theresa,” Wyatt told the woman who was technically his mother’s cousin and not her sibling. But somehow, it just didn’t seem right calling her “cousin.” Especially not since she was a good twenty-five years older than he was. “I have to admit, it feels rather nice not to have to deal with that disappointed look that always slips over my mother’s face every time she has an occasion to ‘discuss’ my chosen profession.”

  Theresa laughed. “Your mother grew up watching a lot of doctor programs. I think she had a crush on one or two of the main actors in some of the series.” She smiled, pausing and patting his hand. “I’m sure that she’s very proud of the therapist you’ve become.”

  “Well, that makes one of us because if she is, she’s kept it a big secret,” Wyatt confessed. He saw that the woman was about to protest his assessment. “That’s okay, Aunt Theresa, I get my satisfaction from helping my clients.”

  Theresa was moving around the kitchen of her catering business, checking on various things. Wyatt followed her around, keeping a respectful distance. “Speaking of which, how did you happen to get this man’s name you’re asking me to see?”

  Theresa flashed him a smile, not wanting to get into it. When she lied, she had a tendency to slip up. “It’s a long story, dear,” she said, checking on the cake that was in the oven. “He’s one of Maizie’s friends and when I heard that he was in need of a good physical therapist, I immediately thought of you. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Theresa was confident that Wyatt wouldn’t turn her down. Ever since he had been a small boy, he had always been all about helping people. He had a heart as big as all outdoors.

  “Mind? I don’t know if you know this or not, but I’ve started up my own company recently. That’s always been my ultimate goal,” Wyatt explained.

  She smiled warmly at him. She couldn’t understand why her cousin Ariel wasn’t proud of this hardworking son of hers. “Sounds ambitious.”

  “Practical, actually,” he clarified. “Having someone standing and looking over my shoulder was good when I was learning my way around all this, but once I grew more confident—once I knew what I was doing—having someone second-guessing me and redirecting what I was doing just undermined my clients’ confidence in me. No conceit intended, but I knew that I was doing the right thing. Being monitored by a ‘superior’ interfered with the way I was connecting with my clients,” he said as he continued to follow her around the kitchen area. Wyatt had to admit that the aroma was getting to him, whetting his taste buds.

  Theresa nodded. “You were right, of course. Practical,” she pronounced. She took out a folded piece of paper from her pocket and handed the paper to Wyatt. “This is the address. I was hoping that you might be able to get started right away.”

  “What’s the hurry?” Wyatt asked, glancing at the address. He was familiar with the area. “Is this George Fenelli having a lot of difficulties functioning?”

  Theresa glanced at him over her shoulder. “Actually,” she admitted, “this has more to do with his daughter.”

  Wyatt frowned slightly. “I don’t think I understand.”

  “Well, George is her only parent. As I mentioned when I called you, he had a heart attack a few years ago. George is a workaholic—and the doctor wanted him to have some good physical therapy under his belt before he returned to work.” She stopped working for a moment to give the matter her full attention. “Well, George bent the rules. He would start therapy, but then find an excuse to part ways with his physical therapist of the moment. After going through eight therapists, Rachel told her father that he needed to stick with a program before he could come back to work. She is convinced that working so hard was what caused his heart attack in the first place.” She offered Wyatt a smile. “I’m afraid that she’s probably going to grill you to make sure that her father isn’t going to try to get rid of you for some trumped-up excuse or other. If she likes you, you’re going to be more than halfway there.”

  Wyatt grinned. “I’m not that easy to get rid of.”

  Theresa’s eyes crinkled as she smiled at him. “I certainly hope you’re right. Now, can I feed you before I send you off on this endeavor?”

  “That’s not necessary,” he protested, although he was tempted.

  “Maybe not for you,” she allowed. “But for me, it’s a different story. I’d feel better about this whole thing if I sent you off on a full
stomach.”

  Theresa didn’t have to bend his arm, he thought. “I never argue with a lovely woman.”

  She smiled at him. “Oh, you’ll do, Wyatt Watson. You’ll definitely do just fine. Come,” she said, beckoning him to follow her into a small dining area. “Follow me to where the magic happens.”

  “Magic?” Wyatt questioned, amused.

  “Magic,” Theresa repeated. She prided herself on all the dishes she created. “I see that you and I need to get better acquainted, Wyatt.”

  “I am definitely looking forward to that happening,” he said as he followed her to where “the magic” happened.

  Chapter Three

  Rachel sighed, looking around the restaurant one last time to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything in her haste to get back home.

  It seemed to her that these days she was always trying to catch up. Ever since her father had had his heart attack, she had decided to remain home so that she could handle everything until he was back on his feet. Rachel had categorically refused to believe that her father wasn’t going to recover, but she felt as if she was forever running behind by at least several hours, if not an entire day.

  She had made up her mind to catch this Wyatt person off guard and meet him while the man was working with her father. This way, he wouldn’t be expecting her and she could see for herself just how good he really was.

  As usual, the restaurant ended up demanding more of her time than she had anticipated. So, instead of eleven o’clock the way she had initially planned, it was almost twelve and she was still finding things that needed her last-minute attention.

  Finally, she felt as if she was ready to leave. “Okay, you’re in charge, Johanna,” she said, addressing Johanna Donnelly.

  Johanna’s husband, a soldier, had been killed overseas years ago, and Rachel’s father had hired the woman despite the fact that she had absolutely no experience in anything except being kindhearted. Once hired, Johanna did her best not to ever make George regret his decision. She was loyal to a fault and could be counted on to work whatever hours were needed. Eventually, she had risen in the ranks and was now the assistant manager. But she never got in Rachel’s way.

  Rachel thought of her more as family than as her father’s employee.

  Johanna smiled at Rachel. “Yes, I know. We’ve already covered that. Twice,” the tall, thin woman added with a wink. “Go,” she urged. “Go check out this therapist. Make sure that dad of yours isn’t pulling your leg.”

  Rachel nodded her head. Johanna knew her father as well as she did, and was aware he could say and do anything just to get back to the place he loved so dearly: the restaurant that he had initially started with his wife and that he now felt gave his life meaning.

  “Okay, I’m going,” Rachel said. And then she thought of one more point she wanted to cover. Turning on her heel, she said, “Oh—”

  “No, no ‘oh,’” Johanna told the little girl whom she had watched grow up over the years. Placing her slender, capable hands against Rachel’s back, she gently pushed the young woman toward the front door. “Go,” she ordered sternly.

  Rachel sighed, knowing that her father’s assistant was right. She needed to get going. “Okay, okay, I’m going.”

  “You won’t mind if I walk you to your car and watch you pull out of the parking lot, will you?” Johanna asked, still pushing Rachel toward the front door and matching her step for step.

  Rachel attempted to turn around and look at the woman behind her. “Don’t you trust me?”

  “Rachel...” Johanna looked at her with unmistakable affection. “I know you,” she said as if that answered the question and left no doubt. “You have a way of getting caught up in things. Don’t worry. Everything is under control here. You just make sure that this therapist is the real deal and that your father hasn’t found a reason to fire him the way he has all those others.”

  Rachel smiled. Johanna definitely knew how her father operated. He was a very good man, but when he made up his mind about something, he was maddeningly stubborn.

  “You’re right,” Rachel agreed. “I’m on my way.” She glanced at her watch. Her eyes widened as the time registered. “Oh, Lord, how did it get to be so late?”

  Johanna laughed. “In my experience, that usually happens one minute at a time, dear. One minute at a time.”

  True to her word, Johanna accompanied the owner’s daughter not just to the parking lot, but right up to Rachel’s aging secondhand sports car.

  “You know you can go back in now. You don’t have to watch me go,” Rachel told the woman.

  “Yes, I do,” Johanna replied complacently. And she remained just there, her arms crossed before her chest, until Rachel drove out of the parking lot.

  Rachel could still see the woman in her rearview mirror until she turned into the street. The second she was on the road, Rachel pressed down on the gas pedal.

  Hard.

  She would have liked to get annoyed with Johanna, but she couldn’t, not with a clear conscience. The woman was right. If Johanna hadn’t insisted that she be on her way, Rachel would have still been there, verbally checking things off a list she carried around perpetually in her head. She kept a list because she knew how much the restaurant meant to her father—and to her—but nothing meant as much as making sure that her father got back to being his former self.

  Rachel abruptly blew out a breath, forcing herself to come to a stop at the traffic light. Preoccupied, she had almost gone right through it.

  She pressed her lips together, silently upbraiding herself. She couldn’t allow herself to get distracted like this. Her father had given her quite a scare, but with any luck, all that was now in the past.

  Still, she wasn’t about to be lax and let her father go back to working in the restaurant full-time unless he followed every single condition that the doctor had laid down for him.

  There was no question that Rachel dearly loved her father and she knew how much the restaurant meant to him, but she wasn’t going to give in and let him come back to work until she felt that he was 110 percent back to his old self—not even just 100 percent but a 110, she thought with a smile.

  Driving quickly and barely squeaking through lights that were in the process of turning red, Rachel made the trip back to her house in eleven minutes rather than the usual eighteen.

  Turning her vehicle onto her block and toward her house, she was about to pull up when she suddenly hit the brakes, just in time to stop from hitting a small, jazzy-looking electric-blue sports car that was right in her usual spot.

  It took a moment for her heart to stop racing. She could feel it pounding hard in her chest. Her hands were clammy as she did her best to release her grip on the steering wheel.

  Wow, that was close, she thought, utterly relieved that she had managed to avoid hitting the other car.

  Idiot! She directed the comment at the owner of the vehicle rather than herself. The car had to belong to the therapist. Just how bright could this guy be, parking like that? He was taking up at least half the entrance to the house.

  She parked close to the intrusive vehicle, and barely pulled up her hand brake before she threw open the driver’s-side door and hurried out of her car.

  Far from being in the best frame of mind, she all but marched into the house and loudly declared, “You’re going to need to park your car somewhere other than right at the front door.”

  The words were out of her mouth before she even had the opportunity to make eye contact with the newest therapist that the agency had sent over.

  “Sorry,” she heard a deep male voice apologize from the next room. “I didn’t want to be late. There was a three-car collision on the freeway on my way over here. I was afraid I was going to miss my appointment. It won’t happen again,” the man promised.

  Her father’s therapist paused to turn around and looke
d at her over his shoulder, adding sincerity to his apology.

  The moment she took the full impact of the man in, Rachel’s breath caught in her throat. At six-two, with sky-blue eyes, slightly shaggy dark blond hair and wide shoulders, Wyatt Watson looked more like a body builder than a physical therapist.

  The word gorgeous flashed through her mind before she could stop it.

  Rachel had to remind herself to breathe again. It took her a moment before she could go through the motions of doing just that. Belatedly, as silence continued to hang heavily between them, she realized it was her turn to respond, or at least to say something.

  Her mouth felt bone-dry as she tried to form words. Finally she told him, “That’s all right, just try to remember to park off to the side next time you come.”

  Or at least she thought she said that.

  Maybe the words were just echoing in her mind but unable to materialize. She caught her father looking at her, the corners of his mouth curving in amusement. What was that all about, she wondered.

  Meanwhile, Wyatt was putting his hand out to her, a warm smile on his lips. “Maybe we should start fresh. I’m Wyatt Watson.”

  “Yes, I know.” It took her a long moment to snap out of the haze that was floating around her brain. “I’m Rachel—Fenelli.”

  The smile on his lips widened, making her knees feel like pudding.

  “Yes, I know,” Wyatt said. “Your dad told me your name.”

  At the mention of her father, Rachel managed to come alive a little more. Her father. Of course. Her eyes darted toward George for half a second before returning to the therapist.

  “My father,” she echoed. “How is he doing?” She made prolonged eye contact with her father, the reason she had come racing home in the first place.

  Her father seemed completely at ease, which was a pleasant change. Normally, in this kind of situation, he couldn’t wait until the therapist of the moment was on their way out the door.

  Maybe this would work out after all, Rachel thought. Maybe after a total of eight therapists, they finally had a winner.