2

 

 

“Are you telling me the paralysis is all in my mind?” Scott glowered at the white-coated figure seated behind the impressive walnut desk. His fingers itched to yank the cord on the blinds behind the man and shut out the glare of the mid-May sun seeping between the half-closed slats, but he resisted.

“No. Your hand suffered extensive nerve damage. If you continue to do the exercises the physical therapist prescribed, you should see steady improvement—and complete recovery isn’t out of the question. Assuming that’s what you want.”

Scott narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean? Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life like this?” He lifted his left hand and tried to flex his unresponsive fingers.

“Not on a conscious level, perhaps, but the trauma you sus­tained in the accident was psychological as well as physical.” The gray-haired doctor leaned forward. “You lost more than the use of your left hand, Scott. You lost two friends. You lost the future you’d prepared for. You lost the dream that had been your singular focus for what...ten, fifteen years? After your hand heals, you’ll have to rebuild your life. Come to some decisions about your future. Find a new direction. You may not be ready to think about that yet.”

“I didn’t know you were a psychologist, Doctor.”

If the man was insulted by his sarcastic tone, he didn’t let on. Leaning back in his leather chair, he steepled his fingers. “You learn a great deal about what makes people tick in this business. But someone trained in psychology could offer you more insights than I can.”

That was not what he wanted to hear.

“Are you saying I should see a shrink?”

“You’ve been through a huge trauma. Professional counseling could be helpful.”

“What about the headaches? Are they all in my head too? Par­don the pun.”

“No. You had a severe concussion. The headaches will dimin­ish, but that could take months. How often are you getting them?”

“Every day.”

“On a scale of one to ten, with ten being debilitating, how bad are the worst ones?”

“Eight. Sometimes nine.”

The doctor leaned forward and pulled a prescription pad toward him. After scribbling on it, he tore off the sheet and handed it to Scott. “This should help.” He wrote on a second sheet and handed that over too. “If you change your mind about seeing a psychologist, here’s the name of one I recommend.”

After a brief hesitation, Scott took the sheet and stuck it in his pocket. “Thanks.”

The doctor tapped his pen against his palm as he assessed Scott. “You’re not going to call him, are you?”

“I’d prefer to get through this on my own.”

“It’s not a sign of weakness to admit we sometimes need help coping with the challenges life throws at us.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

With a sigh, the doctor rose and extended his hand. “Call me if any issues come up before our next appointment.”

Scott returned the handshake. “Thanks.”

As he left the office and walked toward the elevator, every footstep sent a reverberating ripple of pain through his temples. An attractive young woman in a lab coat gave him a discreet once-­over as he passed, but he kept walking. Entered the elevator. Closed the door. In his old life, he’d enjoyed that kind of attention. Had worked hard to get it, in fact. Thanks to a strict regimen of exercise and diet, few people would put his age at thirty-eight. All he would have had to do to encourage the woman in the hall was smile and strike up a conversation.

But he didn’t care about the dating game anymore.

Or much else.

Emerging from the elevator, he scanned the lobby.

It didn’t take long to locate his mother. Dorothy Walker always stood out in a crowd. She looked like no other sixty-year-old woman he knew. With her slender build, short, stylish salt-and-pepper hair, propensity to jeans—plus her youthful attitude—she could pass for someone twenty years younger.

He watched her animation as she sipped a cup of coffee and spoke with a young mother who was bouncing a baby on her knee. When the infant grabbed her finger, a tender yearning softened her features—and sent a pang of remorse through him. She’d have been a wonderful grandmother. But his passion had always been music, and his nomadic lifestyle wasn’t conducive to marriage.

If she’d been disappointed by his choice, however, she’d never let on. In her typical style, she’d filled the void by volunteering as a foster grandparent at a local day care center. That was how his mom was. Always making lemonade out of lemons.

Too bad he hadn’t inherited that ability.

He started toward her, placing each step with care to avoid any unnecessary jostling, struggling to swallow past the bitter taste of the lemons life had handed him. Maybe, if he hung in, sweetness would return to his world. Maybe the shadows would clear and the hollow, empty, nothing-matters-anymore feelings would go away.

But he wasn’t holding his breath.

His mother spotted him, and after a parting word to the young woman with the baby, she rose and met him halfway.

“Everything okay?” She laid a hand on his arm, a trace of anxiety playing counterpoint to her mild tone.

“Yeah. He said to keep doing the exercises, and that the headaches were normal. He gave me this for the pain.” Scott with­drew a sheet of paper from the pocket of his jeans and handed it to her.

She read it, a puzzled frown creasing her forehead. “All it says is Dr. Lawrence Matthews.”

Blast.

He’d given her the name of the shrink.

“Sorry.” He plucked it from her fingers and fished in his pocket again. “Do you think we could get this filled here?”

Sharp pinpoints were beginning to prickle along his scalp, and he knew that within minutes they would ricochet with piercing intensity through his skull. The bright lights of the lobby were accelerating the process.

“Sure. There’s a pharmacy down the hall.” She took the script and urged him toward a chair. “Wait here.” He fumbled for his wal­let, but she stopped him with a touch. “We’ll settle up at home. Sit.”

Her ten-minute absence passed in a haze of pain, and when she rejoined him she had both a bottle of pills and a paper cup of water. By then, his headache was in full throttle, and the simple motion of shaking out the pills was excruciating. After he downed them in one gulp, his mother took the cup out of his unsteady hand.

“Must be a bad one.” At his silent, almost imperceptible nod, she took his arm. “Come on. I’ll get the car.”

He didn’t argue. The pain was approaching ten on the scale his doctor had referenced, throbbing through every capillary in his head. All he wanted to do was lie down.

Instead, he had to endure the long drive back to Washington from St. Louis.

They didn’t talk much during the trip. His mother asked only one question as they left the city traffic behind.

“Scott, who’s Dr. Matthews?”

Adjusting the air conditioner vent gave him an excuse to avoid eye contact. “A psychologist.”

In the silence that followed, he could feel her scrutiny.

“You may want to talk to him.”

“I’m not crazy.”

“No, but life can be. Sometimes it’s difficult to cope without help.”

“You managed alone after Dad died.”

“I wasn’t alone. God was with me every step of the way.”

Lucky her.

But even if his relationship with the Almighty hadn’t faltered somewhere along the road to success, he doubted it would have held up in the face of the senseless tragedy that had taken three lives and destroyed his dreams.

“Are you saying people of faith never need human help?” He didn’t really care about her answer, but neither did he want to be rude. Not after all she’d done for him.

“No. God often uses third parties to help guide us if we’re lost.”

“It wouldn’t help, Mom. Trust me.”

A few more beats of silence passed. “I know your world seems dark now, but I also know the sun will shine for you again. And I have faith that one day you’ll play the saxophone with every bit of your former skill.”

Instead of responding, he leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes.

He wasn’t in the mood for any more lemonade.

 

* * *

 

One hand on the refrigerator door, Val sighed as she perused the contents. How could a house contain so little food of nutritional value? Everything was either high carb, high fat, or loaded with sugar. Her mother’s eating habits had never been very sound, but they’d bottomed out with age.

A quick trip to the grocery store to stock up on some essentials jumped to the top of her Thursday priority list—right after her mother’s first physical therapy session.

Val closed the refrigerator and opened the freezer. A sausage and egg biscuit would have to do for her mom. For herself, a whole-wheat anything would do—bagel, muffin, slice of bread.

Not to be had. Processed white bread was the only option.

And the pineapple juice in the fridge was far too sweet.

So much for breakfast.

By the time she got her mother up and to the table, she felt as if she’d already put in a full day—although her restless night could have contributed to her fatigue too. Getting by on six hours of sleep was manageable, but three didn’t cut it.

She retrieved the sausage/egg entree from the microwave, set it in front of her mother, and poured herself a cup of coffee. A potent shot of caffeine should help energize her.

“Is that all you’re having?” Her mother gave the coffee a disapproving perusal.

“I’m not a breakfast person.”

“You’re too thin. There’s plenty of food in the house. Sit down. Eat.”

“This is all I want.” Val propped a hip against the counter. “According to the schedule Karen left, you have your first physical therapy session at nine o’clock. We’d better get you dressed.”

“I don’t want to go.”

“Sorry. Doctor’s orders.”

“This isn’t necessary. I’ve been doing the exercises they gave me in the hospital. I’ll eventually get better on my own.”

“Eventually is too long. Physical therapy will speed up the process.”

“So you can go back to Chicago sooner?”

Val took a sip of coffee and kept her tone neutral. “I have the summer off except for a couple of modeling commitments. I plan to stay as long as I’m needed, but you should be well on the road to recovery long before I have to leave.”

“And I suppose we won’t see you again for another year or two.” Margaret poked at her food, a sulky pout dragging down the corners of her mouth.

“I lead a busy life.” She took another unhurried drink of her coffee. Thank heaven she’d learned long ago to give no visible evidence that her mother was getting under her skin. It helped preserve her own sanity. Too bad Karen hadn’t developed the same skill.

“Your sister’s busy too, but she finds room for me in her schedule.”

She would. Karen had always been the perfect daughter. No sense trying to compete with that kind of ideal.

Pushing off from the counter, she changed the subject. “Let’s pick out a comfortable outfit for you to wear.”

With minimal assistance from her mother, Val got her dressed, into the car, and delivered to the physical therapy center with minutes to spare. Less than two days into her caretaker role, she was already wearing out. How did her sister manage to cope with their high-maintenance mother while dealing with the demands of her job, an adolescent, and the stresses of post-divorce life?

But she’d always been the type to dig in her heels and get the job done, whatever it took. No shirking of responsibilities for her.

Val quashed a twinge of guilt as they entered the waiting room. She was already full up on that particular emotion, thank you very much.

Once seated, her mother kept her busy retrieving a glass of water and scrounging up a selection of magazines after rejecting the first two Val offered as “trashy.”

As she dropped into a chair, a sandy-haired man came to the door, clipboard in hand.

“Margaret Montgomery?”

No rest for the weary.

“Here.” Val lifted her hand and stood to help her mother up. Despite her weight training, this was a two-person job. Too bad Karen wasn’t on hand to work in tandem with her.

Val was still struggling as the man in the doorway joined her on Margaret’s other side.

“Let me help.” He spoke over the top of her mother’s head.

Man, he had the greenest eyes.

And that tiny dimple in his cheek—

“On three. Ready?”

Val dipped her chin to hide the telltale flush creeping across her cheeks. “Yes.”

While she gave the effort her all, the man across from her did the lion’s share of lifting, based on the impressive bulge of muscles below the sleeves of his T-shirt.

Once her mom was on her feet, he gave Val an engaging grin. “Mission accomplished.”

“Thanks.”

“Not a problem.” He held out his hand to her mother. “Margaret, I’m David Phelps. I’ll be working with you for the next few weeks.”

“How do you do?” Margaret took his hand. “This is my daugh­ter, Val.”

“Nice to meet you. Will you be staying for the session?”

“I can, but I’d hoped to do some grocery shopping.”

“There’s plenty of food at the house.” Her mom scowled at her over the top of her glasses.

“I want to pick up a few other items.”

“No worries. Margaret and I will be fine by ourselves. Won’t we, Margaret?” The man fixed his charming smile on the older woman.

Soft color suffused her mother’s cheeks and she patted her hair. “Yes, I expect we will. You go along, Val. I can see I’m in very capable hands.”

Reprieved!

She grabbed her purse. “I’ll be back in an hour—unless that’s too long?”

“An hour will be fine.” David took her mother’s arm. “Once Mar­garet and I are finished, I’d like to spend a few minutes with both of you going over her therapy routine.” He directed his next question to his patient. “Do you have a walker?”

“No. I’m not an invalid. I have this cane—but not for very long, I hope.”

“That’s the spirit. If I had more patients like you, I’d be out of a job.”

Preen was the verb that came to mind as Val watched her mother flutter her lashes at David.

Amazing.

Chalk one up for the therapist’s boy-next-door good looks and laid-back charm.

“You run along.” Margaret gave a regal, dismissive wave with her operative hand. “We’ll see you later.”

Without giving her mother a chance to have second thoughts, Val zipped out the door.

And she took full advantage of her hour break. She indulged in a latte at the coffee shop next door to the grocery store, picked up a supply of fresh fruit, vegetables, whole-grain bread, and lean meat sufficient to get them through the week, and downed a container of yogurt as she waited in the checkout lane.

Fifty-five minutes later, she returned to the therapy center feeling much more relaxed.

She picked out a magazine and found a seat—only to have David summon her from the door of the waiting room.

“How did it go?” Val replaced the magazine in the rack as he ushered her in and closed the door behind her.

A man with decent manners.

Nice.

“We had a productive session. Your mother was very coopera­tive, and she has plenty of spunk.”

Val could think of many adjectives to describe her mother. “Co­operative” and “spunky” weren’t among them.

“Mom can be quite determined about going after what she wants.” It was the kindest adjective she could come up with short of lying.

“That’s a helpful quality—under these circumstances, at least.”

“True. But to be honest, I’m surprised. I almost had to drag her here.”

“That’s true for many patients. Part of our job is to help them see the value of therapy, persuade them it will speed up their recovery.”

That argument might work with most people, but she wouldn’t have expected it to sway her mother. Speeding up her recovery meant less dependency. It meant her daughters wouldn’t have to care for her with quite the same level of attention—and Margaret Montgomery liked to be taken care of, sick or well.

Why else would she have sold the car twenty years ago, after Dad died? She could have learned to drive, become more independent. She’d only been fifty. But no. She preferred relying on other people to take her places, then felt sorry for herself if they couldn’t—or wouldn’t. It fed into the long-suffering martyr complex she nurtured.

“Am I picking up some skepticism?” David kept one hand on the doorknob as he regarded her.

The man was perceptive too.

“On the contrary. I’m admiring your powers of persuasion.”

“And don’t forget my charm.”

Though his comment had been made in jest, he was charm­ing. She could see why her mother had fallen under his spell. Not that he was Val’s type, of course. He was too wholesome, too all-American for someone like her.

Besides, she wasn’t in the market for romance.

“Shall we join your mother? Third door on the right.”

He motioned down the hall, and Val preceded him, slipping into a chair beside her mother once they entered the tiny office.

As David took a seat behind a small desk, her mom leaned toward her. “I did very well.”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Margaret certainly helped me get my new job off to an excellent start.” David flashed the older woman a grin. “I hope it’s an omen.”

“You’ll do fine.” She leaned over and patted his hand. “David is new here. I’m his first pa­tient in Washington. He moved from St. Louis after deciding to leave the big city behind.” She arched her eyebrows at Val. “Some people appreciate the charms of small-town life.”

David flicked a glance between them and changed the subject. “I’m going to give you some sheets that describe the exercises we did today, Margaret. Val, I understand you’ll be supervising the program at home, and I want to be sure you understand them to,.”

For the next few minutes, he explained the exercise plan he’d developed. After he finished, he put the sheets in a folder and handed it to her. “Any questions?”

“It sounds straightforward.”

“Margaret? How about you?”

“No—but I hope Val won’t be a hard taskmaster.” She shot a dark glance her direction.

“The best coaches push their players to the limit. That’s their job. You thought you couldn’t do one more rep today, yet you managed to pull it off with some encouragement. You’ll do fine with Val too. And I’ll want a full report on Tuesday.”

“Could you go over that finger exercise once more? I think I may be doing it wrong.”

“Sure.”

While David worked with her mother, Val inspected his office. Diplomas hung on the walls, and a shelf behind his desk was filled with medical and exercise books bookended by two framed photos. One showed David with a beautiful blonde-haired woman who was holding a baby. The other was of a blonde girl about four or five years old who had David’s merry green eyes and a captivating smile. She was the kind of little girl meant for tea parties, bedtime stories, and snuggling on your lap during a summer thunderstorm.

The kind of little girl Val would never have.

“Val! I’m ready.”

She shifted gears. “Sorry. I-I was admiring the photo of the little girl. Your daughter?”

“Yes. Victoria. She’s five.”

“Oh, such a lovely child!” Margaret leaned forward and adjusted her glasses. “What an angelic face!”

One corner of David’s mouth hitched up. “Don’t let appearances fool you. Much as I love her, she can be a handful.”

“Don’t I know it.” Margaret gave a long-suffering sigh. “I raised two daughters of my own.”

“But I wouldn’t change a thing, would you? Victoria’s been such a blessing in my life—as I’m sure your daughters have been in yours.” Without giving her mother a chance to respond, he rose. “Well, my next patient awaits.” He came around the desk, and together they helped Margaret to her feet. “Don’t hesitate to call if you have any questions before our next session.” His last comment was directed to both of them as he opened the door.

“We won’t.” Margaret latched onto her arm.

Val held out her hand. “Thank you again.”

As David’s perceptive gaze connected with hers, the oddest feel­ing swept over her. It was almost as if he were delving straight into her heart, past her veneer of sophistication, and seeing far more than she wanted him to see.

Stranger still, when his lean fingers closed around hers, his sure, steady grip seemed to say, I care. You can trust me. I’m here for you.

Talk about an off-the-wall reaction.

What had gotten into her today, anyway?

Hard as she tried to dismiss her reaction, however, the impression lingered...and added to his charisma. Perhaps others picked up on it too. If so, it was an enviable skill to have in a profession that required him to motivate patients and push them beyond their comfort level.

Too bad he was married.

Not that it mattered, of course. Even if he was available, she wasn’t.

With an effort, Val retrieved her hand and took her mother’s arm. The trek down the hall was slow, but as she opened the waiting room door to usher Margaret through, she caught sight of David. He was standing by his office, watching them. After raising a hand in farewell, he drew back and shut the door.

The symbolism resonated with her.

Closed doors were the story of her life.

And she had no one to blame but herself.

 

* * *

 

David stopped in the middle of his office and took a deep breath. He did have another patient waiting. That had been the truth. But first he had to jot down some notes about his session with Marga­ret—and collect his thoughts.

Because these past few minutes had been interesting...and intriguing.

Not so much in terms of Margaret. She was simple to read. The woman was a master manipulator—but he’d dealt with patients like her and knew how to elicit cooperation.

Her daughter was another story. There were layers there, and deep, turbulent pools beneath the placid surface. Complexities and shadows and hidden corners, all safely concealed behind a beautiful face and fabulous body.

And safely was the appropriate term. He’d be willing to bet most people never got past Val’s physical beauty. Never delved deeper. Including her mother.

He continued to his desk, sat, picked up his pen—and turned it end-to-end on the blotter instead of writ­ing his session notes.

Margaret had referenced Val’s theater and modeling background, so it wasn’t surprising her daughter exhibited grace and poise. Or that her body language suggested confidence, conveying the message that she was in control of her destiny and certain of her place in the world.

Yet her melancholy demeanor told a different story—especially as she’d fixed her attention on the framed photographs that stood on the shelf behind him.

Swiveling in his chair, he studied the family photo, a familiar heaviness tugging at his heart. He might not understand Val’s reac­tion, but he did understand the sadness of wishing for something that would never be. They’d appeared to be a perfect family, he and Natalie and Victoria. Yet some essential element had been missing. While holding Victoria in her arms back in those early days, Natalie had never worn the soft, special expression Val had displayed a few minutes ago.

Of course Natalie had loved Victoria, in her own way. He’d never doubted that. It just hadn’t been how he’d always hoped his wife would feel about their child. And it certainly wasn’t how he felt. He cherished each day with his precious daughter.

He moved on to the shot of Victoria. His daughter was ador­able, and few people were immune to her charms. He’d often had patients and co-workers comment on the appealing photo.

Though Val had let Margaret do the talking, her eyes had spo­ken volumes. As she’d gazed at the picture, they’d been filled with longing. No surprise there. Victoria would appeal to the maternal instincts in any woman. But what was the story behind the sadness in their depths? The wistfulness?

It was as if what she longed for was beyond her grasp.

Why?

Sighing, he pivoted back to his desk and opened Margaret’s file. He couldn’t take on the burdens of the world, solve everyone’s problems, as Natalie had always reminded him after he’d made one too many commitments at church or to some worthy project seeking volunteers. And she’d been right.

Whatever Val’s issues, he should steer clear of them.

Because he had more than ample challenges of his own trying to settle into a new life and a new job, all the while doing his best to play both mother and father to a little girl who had plenty of adjustments of her own to make.