Chapter One
DAVIS
One month later
I jiggled the locked doorknob again and wished, not for the first time, that it was legal to use tranquilizer darts on adolescent boys. “Open the door, Brandon.”
“I’m not going to that stupid summer day care. You can’t make me.”
A theory yet to be proven. “I refuse to have this discussion with you through two inches of pine. If you have an opinion regarding the summer schedule, then I suggest you open this door immediately.”
The sound of paper shuffling bled through the door—no doubt from the sketchbook permanently affixed to his person. Heavy footfalls came seconds before the lock sprang.
Brandon appeared in the doorway, his wiry arms folded across his chest. A dark tuft of hair fell over his left eye, much like the pirate patch he refused to take off after his seventh birthday party. Only that child, the one with the toothless grin and tales of playground games, was a far cry from the scowling kid who stood before me now.
“Why can’t I just hang out with Uncle Shep while you’re at the clinic?” Brandon asked.
“You know why. He can’t keep his eye on you and supervise a construction site.”
“He works at a restaurant, not a skyscraper.”
“It’s not happening.”
He opened his mouth, but I could easily guess the direction of his next subterfuge. I cut him off. “And your grandma Carter is in the middle of her busiest gardening season. So, no, she’s not an option either.”
Brandon’s glower intensified. “I’m twelve! I don’t need a babysitter to watch me.”
“Your guidance counselor would disagree.” Especially after the monthlong in-school detention he served for vandalism of school property.
I cringed as the memory of that miserable day rushed back—the shock of Mrs. Bernard recounting my straight-A student’s confession that he’d tagged the outside of the school gymnasium building. “Mr. Carter, prior to this last trimester and today’s unfortunate events, we considered your son an exemplary pupil. He showed up to school on time and participated in classroom discussions. He never left his assignments incomplete and consistently tested above average in nearly every subject matter we offer. But that, unfortunately, has not been the case for months now.”
“Mrs. Barnyard doesn’t know anything about me,” Brandon huffed.
“Mrs. Bernard,” I corrected, “has some valid concerns. As do I.”
“I’m old enough to take care of myself. It’s not like you don’t work across the street.”
I blew out a slow breath and rubbed my forehead with my forefinger and thumb. It didn’t matter how close my clinic was to our house. I’d lost faith in his judgment. And maybe in mine, too.
“When we see this kind of altered behavior in a student of his age, it’s important to search out a root cause. And usually, the breakdown can be traced back to the home. Have there been any recent changes in your personal lives? Different work hours? A new dating relationship?”
As if I had the time to date, let alone the patience. Working sixty to seventy hours a week wasn’t uncommon for a veterinarian, especially considering I’d recently taken on a partner and expanded my business to offer house-call services.
“You seem to forget you’ve already shown me what happens when I give you too much freedom.”
Brandon jutted out his chin. “Then send me to Oma and Papa’s early this summer. It’s not like you want me here anyway, and they said they’d buy my plane ticket anytime I wanted to come out.”
Of course they did. Because Viv and Charles Lockwood would love nothing more than to swoop in and extricate my son from his small-town existence. “Your recent behavior has not earned you a one-way ticket to an early vacation. And until you show some actual remorse and a stark attitude adjustment, you’ll be staying in Lenox all summer.”
His eyes narrowed to a silent dare, a mocking challenge that seemed to say, You’d never actually do that. Hands tucked in the hollows of his armpits, Brandon balled his fingers into two tight fists. Despite my growing frustration, I managed to level my tone into an authoritative yet understanding tenor—the exact tone The Choice Method: Cultivating Truth with Your Preteen suggested in chapter three. Along with the dressing-down I’d received from Mrs. Bernard that fateful afternoon, she’d also given me and my delinquent son a parenting book that promised a turnaround in only three short months. At first, I’d chucked the paperback inside my nightstand. Now, I read it like gospel.
Give your child space to make choices for themselves whenever possible, even if it means pairing an obvious choice with a less desirable one. This practice will promote healthy autonomy and provide a foundation for mutual trust building.
“You have two options.” I held two fingers in the air. “You can come to work with me at the clinic this summer like you’ve always done and earn some extra money for helping with the kennels, or I can enroll you at the day camp at Lenox Elementary starting Monday. It’s your choice.”
His arms dropped from their pretzel position, and for an instant, his cool-kid mask slipped away. “But that isn’t fair. I’d be the oldest kid at that stupid camp! They play baby games and have snack time and do sing-alongs! Collin told me the only reason those high schoolers even sign up as counselors is because they need makeup credits so they can graduate.”
“Then come to the clinic with me.”
The flare of his nostrils ticked like the second hand of a clock as I waited for him to make the only obvious and rational choice.
Things were rough between us now, but once he settled into a solid routine at the clinic, everything would right itself again. Brandon simply needed to find a new rhythm.
Much the way I’d done last year.
With a heavy step backward, Brandon gripped the edge of his door and snapped his favorite mask of indifference over his face once again. His hardened expression triggered a handful of unbidden words to scroll through my mental hard drive. The teacher comments from his last report card.
Withdrawn.
Keeps to himself.
Won’t complete assignments.
Doesn’t participate in class.
Seems unfocused and distracted.
Angry.
And then, as if to prove every accusation true, he spoke in a voice so controlled it could have been my own. “I choose the day care.”
Overlooking the darkened backyard from the steps of my patio, I unbuttoned the choke hold of my collar and listened to the hoot of an owl not far away. How many summer nights had I carried my boy out here, wrapped in his favorite Superman blanket, to count the stars when he couldn’t sleep? More times than I could even recall.
Where had I gone so wrong with him?
The backup alarm I’d set on my phone chimed from inside my pants pocket, reminding me of the to-do list I’d left unfinished at the clinic—to-dos that couldn’t roll over into tomorrow’s already packed schedule. No matter how many staff we added, there were certain responsibilities I didn’t like to delegate, and answering inquiries from loyal patrons about their pets was one of them. I slipped my phone out and scrolled through my unread e-mails, my gaze singling out one sender’s name immediately.
With a hard tap, I opened the message, knowing I’d likely regret the decision an instant later.
I wasn’t wrong.
To: Davis Carter
From: Vivian Lockwood
Date: June 10, 8:53 p.m.
Subject: Brandon’s summer visit
Dear Davis,
I never heard back from you last week regarding this year’s dates for Brandon’s summer visit, which is why I’ve resorted to writing to your work account. I’d like to think my unanswered e-mail was a simple oversight, but our communication over these past couple months has been greatly lacking.
While I’m certain you remain busy at the clinic, not to mention all the other small-town activities you engage in throughout the year, you know as well as I do that Stephanie would never wish our time with Brandon to suffer due to poor scheduling. As you recall, it was our daughter’s utmost desire for her son to remain close to us after her passing. He’s told us on many an occasion that he looks forward to his visits with us in California with great enthusiasm. That said, we are more than happy to extend his stay this summer by a week, or perhaps by several weeks. This offer is of no imposition to us as we relish in our grandson’s joy and well-being.
Please note that the deposits we put down on Brandon’s private art lessons will remain in good standing through the end of August, but we’d much prefer his visit be closer to the week of July Fourth. You know how much he enjoys the firework show in the valley.
I would appreciate a response at your earliest convenience.
xoxo
Vivian
I forced out a slow breath—and then another—allowing myself a moment to imagine the reply I would never send.
A minute later, I tapped out a response.
To: Vivian Lockwood
From: Davis Carter
Date: June 10, 9:14 p.m.
Subject: RE: Brandon’s summer visit
Dear Vivian,
I trust you and Charles are doing well.
I apologize for my delayed response time on your previous e-mail, but unfortunately, I’m not ready to commit to any summer visitation dates for Brandon as of yet.
I’ll keep you updated.
Davis
I hit send and then immediately powered off my phone. I might not be able to avoid them for long, but at least for tonight, I would have the last word.