Home to Harmony

MARCUS ROLLED THE clay-spattered dolly toward Christine’s car, not certain what bothered him more: how much David looked like Nathan or how abruptly he’d been caught by Christine.

She was pretty, of course, and lively, a coil of energy ready to spring into action. It had to be the contrast to his quiet life. She was like an explosion of confetti, a surprise that made you smile.

And when she’d burst in on him dressing, he’d all but expected her. He’d felt abruptly alert. Awake.

Which made him realize he’d been numb for a while, since long before the divorce. The sensation almost hurt, like the tingling ache of a sleep-numbed arm regaining circulation.

Then there was her son. The last thing Marcus needed was a walking, talking reminder of his stepson. His memories and regrets were difficult enough.

He got to the car as Christine staggered beneath the huge suitcase she’d dragged from the overhead luggage rack. He lunged to catch it before it hit the gravel. If she’d waited… But, then, Christine Waters didn’t strike him as the kind of woman who waited for much at all.

She jumped in with both feet, which at the moment were clad in heeled sandals, not exactly stable on uneven ground. She was dressed for the city in a filmy top, white shorts and flashy jewelry. It was as if she hadn’t wanted to admit she was coming to a commune. Her mother was clearly a source of tension, too.

What the hell was he doing analyzing the woman anyway?

“That’s David’s bag,” she said, nodding at the one he held, her face flushed from exertion. “Let’s load his stuff first.”

Marcus put the bag on the cart and David added an electric guitar case. “You play?” Marcus asked.

David nodded. He had the same long blond hair, scrawny frame, soulful eyes and narrow face as Nathan. Even Lady had been fooled, barreling at him with joy, her owner home at last.

“His teacher says he’s gifted, but he hardly practices,” Christine said. “He’ll have time when we’re here to—”

“I’m not gifted,” David blurted, glaring at his mother.

“I didn’t practice much until I got into a band,” Marcus said to smooth the moment.

“You play, too?” Christine locked gazes with him. Her eyes were an unusual color—a soft gray.

“Acoustic these days, but yes, I play.”

“Maybe you and David could jam.” Her face lit up, but her son’s fell, clearly mortified.

“God, Mom.”

“If you’re interested, of course.” But he was certain the boy would decline. A good thing. Marcus would prefer to keep his distance.

“David…? Answer the man!”

Easy, Mom, Marcus wanted to warn her.

“Maybe, whatever,” David mumbled, clearly fuming. He yanked the cart forward just as Christine tossed a bag. When it hit the ground, she teetered and Marcus steadied her arm.

Balance restored, Christine stepped back, her cheeks pink. He noticed that in the swelter of early summer the woman smelled like spring.

“Sorry,” David muttered, tossing the fallen suitcase onto his load and shoving the cart toward the house.

“Everything I say pisses him off,” she said with a light laugh, though she looked sad and confused.

“That’s not uncommon with teenagers.”

“Really? So, in your opinion, he’s normal?” She faced him dead on, standing too close, digging in with her eyes. “Aurora told us you were a psychiatrist.”

“I’m a partner at a mental health institute near L.A., yes.” Until they offered to buy him out, which he expected when he returned. Better for everyone.

“But you’ve treated clients, though, right?”

“In the past, yes, but—”

“I mean, I wasn’t asking for free therapy…well, not yet anyway.” Another grin. “I bet that happens at parties a lot, huh? People hitting you up for advice?”

“At times.” Not that there had been any parties after all that had happened—the controversy over his research, Nathan, his crumbling marriage. Fewer phone calls. A handful of e-mails and cards. Mostly silence.

Christine had turned to watch David drag the dolly to the terrace. “He’ll be seeing a counselor in New Mirage, which I hope will help. Michael Lang? Do you know him? Is he good?”

“I don’t know him, no.” It surprised him to learn the tiny town had a therapist of any kind. His friend Carlos Montoya, a GP, offered the only medical care, a three-daya-week clinic, with Carlos driving over from Preston.

“It should help, right? I mean, the counseling?”

“It can,” he said. “If the therapist’s style suits the client. Assuming your son wants to be treated.”

“I was afraid you’d say that. David’s not exactly into it. He agreed to it to keep from getting expelled. Plus, it was my idea and he hates me lately.” She sighed.

“The transition to adulthood can be difficult,” he said, moving to the trunk, wanting to get on with the task.

“We never used to fight like this,” she said, joining him in surveying the load of office equipment, again standing too close. “We always talked, you know? About everything. He came to me with his problems, talked about school and friends. Now every conversation is a minefield. One wrong word and he explodes.”

“It can be that way.” And so much worse. He leaned in to shift a computer into position.

“Do you have kids, Marcus?”

The question startled him and he jerked upward, banging his head on the trunk lid. “Not of my own, no.”

“I didn’t mean to pry.”

He realized he’d spoken sharply. “It’s fine.” He braced the CPU on the rim of the trunk with his hip so he could rub the knot on his head.

“Sorry about that. Wait, we need the cart.” It sat empty outside the room David had chosen. “David, the cart!” she called. “I swear I taught him better manners.”

She dashed after it. It was impossible not to watch her run, graceful and quick, even in heels. The sight of her firm curves and long legs in motion set off an unwelcome reaction below the belt. He was human, of course. And a man.

No excuse to gawk. He started emptying the trunk.

The rattle of wheels told him she’d returned and he began stacking items onto the cart. “He’s excited about the room,” she said, as if he’d asked the question. “This is just a rough patch, you know? Most parents and their kids survive the teen years, right?”

“Most, yes.” But not all.

Not all.