by Becky Wade
They both had hazel eyes, ivory skin, and their mother’s cheekbones. When they were young, they’d had matching golden blond hair, but their hair had darkened during their college years. Nowadays, Natasha highlighted hers to keep it light. She either wore it in a ponytail or parted down the middle, tucked behind her ears, the ends breezing against the base of her throat.
Genevieve’s features sloped to a pointy chin, giving her a narrower but still heart-shaped face. Natasha’s face was more square, her jawline pronounced.
Genevieve’s body introduced her as someone who had thin genes but very little muscle. Natasha’s body introduced her as someone who began every day by walking, a la Elizabeth Bennet.
There were differences between them in temperament and personality, too.
Genevieve was an extrovert. Natasha, an introvert.
Genevieve was passionate. Natasha, steady.
Genevieve felt things deeply. Natasha reacted to things with practicality.
Genevieve second-guessed and worried. Natasha cut a path through life with certainty.
Both were driven, high-achievers. Natasha metabolized stress well. Genevieve did not.
Both of them knew that their sister had their back.
After the earthquake, when Mom had become overprotective, their family’s dynamic shifted. It was no longer one sister competing with the other for the attention of their parents but both sisters commiserating as a team against their mom.
“Nada,” Natasha announced almost two hours after they’d started searching. “I can’t find anything amiss.”
“Me neither.”
No clues.
No suspicious items or documents.
Since their mother’s powers of observation could have been a great asset to Scotland Yard, Genevieve and Natasha put everything back exactly as they’d found it.
“Do you now believe that Mom and Dad are as normal as they seem?” Natasha asked as they walked downstairs.
“No.” After sitting on the floor, Genevieve’s bad ankle had stiffened. She paused to shake it out and continued down carefully.
“What’s our next step?” Natasha asked.
“I think I’ll see if I can find records on them. I went online and hunted around a little after the letter arrived. I couldn’t find anything then, but I’m willing to give it a more thorough try.”
“A lot of counties haven’t made their records available online. Rabun County records are stored in a building in downtown Clayton. You may have to stop at a few different offices inside. One for vital records. Another for court records.” Natasha had been a practicing family law attorney until three years ago, when her oldest was born and she chose to stay home with her.
“In that case, I’ll head to Clayton.” Clayton was less than twenty minutes from Misty River.
Natasha held the front door open, and they made themselves comfortable on the porch’s wicker chairs as they waited for their mom to return with Natasha’s kids.
“I want to come see your cottage,” Natasha said.
“Come by after this.”
“’Kay. We won’t be able to stay long because the all-important nap time beckons, and I’d rather swallow glass than miss nap time.”
“Yes. I know this about you.”
Natasha poured the last of the liquid from her mug into a potted plant. “You know, Mom can’t decide whether to be thrilled that you’re spending the next few months in Misty River or despondent over the fact that you’re staying at the cottage and not with her.”
“I do know.”
“What do you think of your landlord?”
The mention of Sam triggered a picture of him from last night, standing in front of her. Those grave features spoke of caution. His body, of easy strength. Mentally, she clasped the image to herself, dwelling on it because it filled her with warm pleasure. “I think he’s very . . . direct. But he seems to have a good heart.”
“He’s hunky.”
“You think so?”
“Of course I do. I haven’t officially met him yet, but I’ve seen him at his restaurant. I think he’s hunky, and you think he’s hunky, too. As you should.”
“But you shouldn’t because you’re married.”
“I’m a married person with twenty-twenty vision and there’s just something about Sam Turner.”
“We struck a bargain when he agreed to rent the cottage to me, and his final condition was that I not fall for him.”
Natasha’s mouth sagged open. “You’re kidding.”
“No.”
Natasha snorted. “That’s preposterous! Objectively speaking, you’re a nine out of ten.”
“May you receive a crown in heaven for your tremendous generosity—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Natasha interrupted good-naturedly. “You’re a nine, so it seems narcissistic of him to assume you’d want to fall for him.”
“I think it was past experience more than narcissism that motivated that condition. Maybe women throw themselves at his feet all the time and it’s becoming a distraction?”
“Possibly,” Natasha allowed. “Single, good-looking men are as rare around here as Captain Ahab’s white whale.”
“Well, this white whale isn’t interested in me. Which is for the best, because I’m clearly not in a good enough place to embark on a romance at the moment.”
Mom’s five-year-old Lexus sedan pulled into the driveway. Genevieve and Natasha crossed the lawn to her.
“Make way for Aunt Genevieve.” Playfully, she elbowed Natasha behind her so that she could open the rear door and unbuckle her beautiful little niece and nephew from their car seats. She scooped them up, one in each arm, and gave them loud smacking kisses on their necks until they laughed. She exclaimed over the cuteness of their pink-cheeked cherub faces.
Natasha had attended Belmont University ahead of Genevieve. From there, she’d gone on to law school, where she’d met Wyatt MacKenzie. Red-haired and genuinely friendly, Wyatt had provided Natasha with a winning ticket in the dating lottery. He was a fan of all things Star Wars, but he was an even bigger fan of Natasha.
No slouch in the decision-making department, Natasha had married Wyatt at the age of twenty-six. At twenty-nine, she’d had their first baby. Three-year-old Millie was imaginative and social. Like her father, she’d taken to Star Wars. She also, more inexplicably, had taken to cows. When Millie wasn’t wearing Han Solo garb or toting a lightsaber, she dressed in cow-themed items. Today’s cow offering: a pair of boots covered in faux cowhide.
Owen, who’d recently celebrated his first birthday, tended toward quiet and serious. He typically had either a ball or a package of crackers clasped in his tiny dimpled hand.
When Owen had been born blond just like his sister, Natasha had whispered to Genevieve that she was probably going to have to go for a third because she could hardly marry a red-haired man and accept zero ginger-haired babies in return. Genevieve had no doubt that, before all was said and done, her determined sister would receive her ginger-haired offspring.
There were times—at Natasha’s wedding, on the days Natasha had announced her pregnancies—when Genevieve had struggled to quash her envy toward her sister. Ultimately, though, Genevieve liked Natasha too much to stew in that emotion for long.
“I missed you!” Genevieve exclaimed to her niece and nephew. It struck her that she’d been taking Oxy about as long as Owen had been alive. Looking into his face, she wondered if she’d missed any crucial details of his or Millie’s lives because of her painkiller haze.
“We missed you, too!” Millie answered, placing her hands on Genevieve’s cheeks.
“Ball,” Owen told her, cautiously opening his fingers to reveal a small hacky sack.
“I missed you,” Mom said. “It’s been so long.”
“You came by the cottage to check on me yesterday morning,” Genevieve replied.
“Surely it’s been longer than that. Come inside so we can visit.”
“Actually, Natasha and t
he kids are going to stop by the cottage so they can take a look. Would you like to join us?”
“I’ll join you if you’re sure that I won’t be a third wheel.” The look in Mom’s eyes reminded Genevieve of a malnourished kitten.
Natasha was more matter-of-fact and bolder with their mother. She didn’t cater to Mom’s neediness nor hesitate to articulate clear limits. Life would be simpler for Genevieve if she could be more like Natasha.
“Of course you won’t be the third wheel,” Genevieve assured her. “Let’s all go.”
Natasha loaded her kids into her own car.
Mom climbed into the passenger seat of Genevieve’s Volvo.
“Did you have fun at the museum?” Genevieve asked when they were on their way.
“It was a precious time. Millie, bless her, was so sweet to Owen, bless him. I’ll treasure this day every minute of my life.”
“Great.”
“The role of grandmother is such a sacred gift. I know of no other heart-to-heart relationship as tender, other than that of mother and daughter.”
“Mmm.”
“Now that Owen is walking, though, it’s challenging to keep up with both of them at once. I don’t dare take my attention off of them for even half a millisecond.”
Lest an earthquake swallow them. Genevieve’s brain inserted the rest of the sentence.
“I want to know everything you’ve been up to yesterday afternoon and this morning, sweetie,” Mom said. “Don’t leave anything out.”
Sam had spent a fair amount of time at psychologists’ offices, back when he’d been trying to deal with everything that had gone down with Kayden. Now here he was, once again inside a psychologist’s office, remembering just how dark his days had been during the year he’d been paralyzed by grief.
He stood near the waiting room’s door, hands in his pockets.
Gen sat on the sofa, looking at a magazine. She’d invited him to sit, but he’d declined. He’d driven her here, and his goal was simply to wait until her name was called and he’d watched her walk into the psychologist’s office. Then he’d head to The Kitchen, just a mile from here, and catch up on office work until he needed to drive her home.
This practice was small. One secretary for one counselor. At the moment, the secretary’s attention was centered on her computer as she tapped her keyboard.
The door to the doctor’s office abruptly swung open, emitting an older man and woman. The man said his good-byes and left. Sam assumed the remaining woman was Dr. Kai Quinley. “Genevieve,” she said affectionately.
The two hugged, then tried to outdo each other with their It’s so good to see yous.
The doctor’s blond-gray hair curled outward and upward in every direction. Her square face was tanned, lined, and without makeup. She looked to Sam like someone who’d probably been at Woodstock back in the day.
He edged toward the commercial building’s hallway.
“Come in, come in,” Dr. Quinley said to Gen. Then her vision snagged on him. “Are you here with Genevieve?” she asked warmly.
“Sort of.”
“Lovely. Sir, please,” she called, beckoning him forward with a deep, easy smile. “Join us.”
Something like horror bolted down his chest. He motioned toward the parking lot and his escape. “I’m just her ride.”
“Come.” She continued waving him forward. “Just for a few minutes. Please. I insist.”
What in the world?
“I insist. Nothing to be concerned about. C’mon.”
Reluctantly, he passed the secretary—still tapping her keyboard—and followed Gen into Dr. Quinley’s office.
The room was decorated in furniture that would have been modern in the 1950s. Several plants hung from holders made from what looked like twisted white rope. Stacks of books and papers cluttered the desk. The second-story windows framed a view of an outdoor atrium at the center of the complex.
Instead of sitting behind her desk, Dr. Quinley selected one of the four leather and wood chairs positioned around a circular brass coffee table, like camp chairs around a bonfire. The doctor wore a loose shirt and pants. She tucked one of her moccasins underneath herself and began chewing on seeds she scooped from a small bowl. “What’s your relationship?” Her brown eyes twinkled with interest.
He sat there stiffly, with no idea what to say.
“Um.” Genevieve shot him a humorous glance. “One notch above strangers?”
“Oh?”
“Yes. You see, I broke into his cottage while under the influence of OxyContin. And . . . he found me there, sleeping in a pile of my own clothes wearing my robe backward.” She started to giggle at the absurdity of it. “He searched my purse and found my Oxy, and it was mortifying. And then I realized I needed to get clean and asked him if I could rent his cottage, and he said no. So then I sort of stubbornly charmed him into it, and one of his conditions was that I get psychological counseling. Which, clearly, I do need. And he’s—” her giggles increased—“a health nut so he very kindly brought me all kinds of organic GM whatever—”
“Non-GMO,” he supplied. “I hate GMOs.”
“Of course you do.”
“And pesticides.”
“Yes. Anyway, because of him, I survived on organic, non-GMO foods for a week while going through withdrawal.” Tears of amusement fell over her eyelashes. “He drove me here because he doesn’t trust me to follow through on our bargain. And that”—she swept out both arms like a conductor—“is our relationship.”
Dr. Quinley placed her seed bowl in her lap and threw back her head to laugh along with Gen.
Dr. Quinley might need psychological counseling.
“He’s not very fond of me at all.” Gen bent forward, a forearm across her stomach, shoulders shaking. “I think Sam views me as an enormous”—more giggles—“pain in the booty.”
She wasn’t wrong. Yet, he found he couldn’t look away from her.
Gen was so . . . vivid. He’d been living in a black-and-white world. She was Technicolor. Her shirt was bright pink against the fall of all that hair. Light sparkled against her big gold earrings. Her pretty face creased with uncontrollable laughter.
Humor tugged at his own lips in response. He gave in to a small smile.
Dr. Quinley continued to laugh. “In all my years of counseling, this is a first.”
“We’ve managed to shock my counselor, Sam.” More crazy giggles. “Congratulations!”
“Congratulations, Gen,” he replied.
“I told my sister about the Oxy yesterday,” she said to Dr. Quinley. “But why in the world would I want to bring her here, when I can have my disgruntled landlord here with me instead?” Gen wiped her eyes. “Whew!”
“Laughter is good medicine,” the doctor stated.
“My emotions are taking me on such a ride! Every minute of the day, I feel like I’m on the verge of crying or laughing.”
“That’s normal at this stage.”
Sam wasn’t convinced that normal and Genevieve belonged in the same sentence. Still, he was having trouble focusing on the doctor and not on Gen.
“How do you feel about everything Genevieve just said, Sam?”
He snapped his attention to Dr. Quinley. “I feel it was pretty accurate. Can I go?”
The doctor regarded him as if he’d said something delightful. “Not just yet. We’re having too much fun.”
He looked from side to side, wondering if he was being filmed secretly for a show that pranked people. Was this a setup?
“Tell me about your Oxy usage,” the doctor said.
Gen gave her a recap of the past year.
“And you took your last pill on which day?” Dr. Quinley asked.
“August nineteenth.”
“Well done, Genevieve. And you, Sam! I have to compliment you on the support you’ve given Genevieve, and, of course, on the non-GMO foods. Excellent call.” Dr. Quinley drew her other foot under herself so that she now looked to be doing a yoga
pose on the chair. She wore an irregularly shaped piece of sea glass on the hard silver circle of her necklace. “What we’re working toward now, as a team, is assisting Genevieve as she strives to reach the ninety-day mark.”
Why was the doctor including him in Genevieve’s “team”? He couldn’t afford to get any more involved with her recovery than he already was.
“You’ve been free of opioids for ten days now,” Dr. Quinley continued. “Eighty days free of opioids to go. If we can make it to that important mark, your chance of relapse will decrease sharply, and your brain chemistry will have likely found its balance.” She crunched some seeds. Hunger twanged inside Sam’s stomach. How come he and Genevieve didn’t get snack bowls?
“Opioids turn off dopamine,” the doctor informed them. “Dopamine’s a neurotransmitter. It regulates emotional responses, among other things. Thirty days into your recovery, some of your dopamine will get back to work. At sixty days, even more. At ninety days, it should all be back at work and clicking right along.” She snapped the fingers of both upraised hands. When he expected her to drop her hands, she didn’t. The snapping formed a pattern. “‘Like a bridge over troubled water,’” she sang, smiling, in time to the beat.
The psychologists who’d treated Kayden and him back in the day had been very serious people. They hadn’t sung Simon and Garfunkel.
“You’re awesome,” Genevieve announced.
“You’re awesome.” The doctor seemed to mean every syllable. Unlike him, Kai Quinley was comfortable voicing affection. She set aside her bowl, planted her moccasins on the carpet, and leaned forward. “Every day will get a little bit easier than the last. But we can’t ever underestimate the power that these narcotic medicines have to draw us back in. Tremendous power. Are you tracking with me?”
“I’m tracking,” Genevieve told her.
“We’ll need to be very careful today, tomorrow, the next day, and every day after that.”
“What do you recommend I do?”
The older woman began counting things off on her fingers. “If I’m going to help you, I’ll need you to be totally honest with me.”
“All right.”
“You’ll have to take exceptionally good care of yourself, mentally and physically. Healthy food, exercise, water, sleep. Those things will quicken your body’s ability to rid itself of the drugs.”
