Читать книгу Against The Odds - Laura Drake - Страница 10
ОглавлениеBEAR TOOK THE sweepers into Santa Maria slow. His classic Harley-Davidson Fat Boy rode great on the straights, but the raked front end got squirrely through the turns, especially at high speeds. The sun’s heat tattooed his arms, but the salt breeze off the ocean buffeted his beard. The road whispered a siren’s song of freedom. There was a great cliff-hanging burger shack outside Big Sur. Maybe...he shoved the daydream aside.
You have to go through this to be free.
His leather gloves tightened over his knuckles. He forced the bike to lean in the turn to the crowded parking lot of Marian Regional Medical. No motorcycle parking here. He finally found an open space, pulled in, shut down the engine and lowered the side stand. He threw his leg over and studied the white Spanish-style facade as he unbuckled his skullcap helmet. He’d rather be rolling asphalt in a Vegas summer than walk into that group. But since that wasn’t an option the parole board would accept, he dropped his helmet into the leather side bag and headed for the door.
The old man at the information desk directed him down a series of rat-maze hallways that echoed his boot-falls. Outside the door, he took a deep breath and forced himself to turn the knob.
The room was small and windowless. The yellow paint was probably chosen to be cheery, but in the fluorescent lights, looked nauseous. Five of the six plastic chairs pulled into a cozy circle were occupied. Four of the attendees looked up at him with various shades of alarm.
He forced his face muscles to relax. He didn’t mean to scare people, but between his size, the ponytail, wild beard and heavy brows hooding his eyes, his natural look came off as crazed. And that was okay; it kept people out of his face. And his life.
Only one didn’t flinch. A small soft coffee-skinned woman with long black hair checked her watch. “You are late.” She had a light, floating, East Indian accent.
“Yeah.” He wasn’t saying he was sorry, when he wasn’t. It wasn’t as if he had to get a passing grade for this thing. He just had to attend. He slouched to the only open chair beside her, slid it a foot back from the circle and sat.
“Well.” She uncrossed her legs. “We were getting started. My name is Bina Rani, and I’m a family psychologist with the hospital. This is a new group, and an unconventional one at that, so let me detail how all this works, so you’re not apprehensive.”
He let the blah-blah flow around him as he checked out his classmates. He glanced to his left. At least he wouldn’t be the only guy in the group... The twentysomething kid was lean to the point of stringy. Legs crossed like a girl, he twirled a lock of limp strawberry blond hair on one finger. When he saw Bear watching, he dropped him a wink.
Lovely.
Bear didn’t have anything against being gay. Live and let live. But he didn’t like having it shoved in his face either.
He moved on to a large mousy woman, squirming in her chair as if trying to make herself smaller. Lifeless hair and baggy clothes, she had the flat, not-too-bright stare of a soap opera addict.
Directly across the circle sat a guy with his nose smashed flat, and a worm of red scar tissue bordering a trench-like depression running from his forehead, across his pancake nose, through his upper lip. The scar distorted one eyelid, making him look constantly surprised. Noticing Bear’s stare, the guy looked away.
Bear looked to the last chair beside the Rani woman. His breath reversed, sucking in so fast he choked. He coughed into his fist, but couldn’t look away. Shoulder length white-blond hair framed ice-blue eyes. His angel’s eyes. He felt his blood throbbing at his throat. He heard it in his ears. The resemblance sucker punched him, then rolled him along in a shock wave.
Watching him, her eyebrows disappeared into her bangs.
No, not your angel.
His artist’s eye compared the differences: her jaw was broader, her face not as heart-shaped. Though small, she was built more sturdy than willowy, and there was no balm of peace in this woman’s eyes. Quite the opposite.
“Douglas... Hello, Douglas.”
Bina Rani’s stare didn’t penetrate his agitation any more than her calling his name.
What does it mean, meeting a woman who resembles— “What?”
“Would you like to begin?”
“Begin what?”
She huffed a breath, not quite a sigh. “Introduce yourself, and tell us what brings you to trauma group.”
Even before his prison stint, the thought of “sharing” made him want to puke. He swallowed acid at the back of his throat and shifted in his chair. Shit. He had to say something. “I’m Bear.” He put his elbows on his knees, laced his fingers and looked to the dude to his left to pass the introduction baton.
Bina jumped in. “So it’s Bear, not Douglas. Bear Steele.”
The boy beside him laughed, but when Bear glared, he stopped, midtitter.
“I think it fits you.” Bina gave the kid a stern look. “Now, Bear, what brings you here?”
“The state correctional system,” he growled.
With a look of horror, the kid scootched his chair away.
Bina did sigh this time. “I mean, what trauma brought you to us?”
He sat back and raised his face to the ceiling, hoping for a way out. “Well, prison is pretty traumatic. But you probably mean my Afghanistan tours.”
“Yes, that’s what I was referring to. You were a soldier. What did you do over there?”
He challenged her with his glare. “Not going there, Oprah.” They could force his attendance, but no one could make him talk.
She sat relaxed, unintimidated by his death ray. That was odd. “I understand. Hopefully once we all get to know each other, you’ll feel more comfortable opening up. Next?”
The kid beside Bear perked right up. “I’m Bryan. I’m gay,” he chirped in a crisply enunciated voice.
Now there’s a news flash.
“I was the victim of a hate crime. My boyfriend and I went to dinner. A gang of mouth-breathers jumped us in the restroom.” His voice got wobblier as he went. “Curtis tried to fight them off, but...” He sniffed. “It was horrible. I just don’t understand how people can...” He put his fingers to his mouth and shook his head, eyes liquid.
Great. A drama queen.
“Bryan, thank you. Hopefully this group will help you come to terms with your experience.” Bina looked to the soap opera woman. “Next?”
The woman stared at the carpet, her oily hair curtaining her face. She mumbled something unintelligible.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
“I’m Brenda. I don’t need to be here.”
“And what brought you to us?”
“The court made me come, too.” She slanted a skittish glance in Bear’s direction, then focused again at the floor. “They gave me a choice—this or a battered women’s program. But that’s not me, so I came here.”
Bina allowed the silence to spin out until Brenda looked up. “Thank you, Brenda. I look forward to hearing more about that.” She looked to the scarred dude. “Next?”
“I’m Mark. And no, I’m not wearing a mask.” He looked around, his weak chuckle dangling in the air.
No one laughed.
“I was in a car wreck. Went through the windshield.” He raised his hands. “There goes the shaving cream commercial.”
Silence.
His shoulders slumped. “I can’t sleep. Going out in public is excruciating.” He tucked his hands in his armpits and shrugged. “I’m to have a series of surgeries, but in the meantime, I have to...deal.”
“Good, Mark. Congratulations on getting here today. That in itself is a big step.”
When Bina looked to his angel, Bear leaned in.
“I’m Hope. I’m a...was a bank manager.” She sat straight, hands working in her lap. “I was kidnapped and—”
“I heard about that!” Bryan chirped. “Oh, honey, what you went through!”
Bina’s eyebrow lifted. “Let’s let her tell it, shall we?”
“Sorry.”
“Go ahead, Hope.”
“Three men broke into my apartment and after a long, awful wait until morning, they made me drive to the bank and open the safe. There was a standoff with the police and I was shot. I was released from the hospital ten days ago.” She spoke as if discussing the weather.
Bina said, “That’s a very traumatic thing to go through. Hopefully we can help you put it behind you.”
“I don’t want to put it behind me. That’s not why I’m here.”
Bina lowered the pen she’d been taking notes with. “So why are you here?”
“Because I think I’m going crazy.”
Bear knew a bit about PTSD. He studied the woman for signs. Her hands shook a bit, but he didn’t note a startle reflex or jerky movements. But then, he’d known this woman all of ten minutes, all of them silent.
“What makes you think that?” Bina’s soft voice was calming, but it wasn’t working on this girl.
She threw up her hands. “I can’t go back to my apartment. I can’t go back to my job. I can’t go back to my life. Not after everything that’s happened.” She rolled her lips in and down, thinking a moment. “I feel like I’ve got amnesia. Except I remember everything.” She glanced around the circle. “My old life isn’t mine anymore. The future is a blank wall.”
Bina picked up her pen. “Since the past can’t be changed, all anyone can do is move forward. We’ll try to help you explore what you want your new life to be, Hope.” She clipped the pen to the small notebook and uncrossed her legs. “This group brings together people that normally wouldn’t be in the same group. As I said before, this is an experiment. I believe however, your diverse experiences can lend you all insight to help each other, as you seek solutions yourselves.”
Bina gave them her bio, and how she came to the idea of the group. More blah-blah, as far as Bear was concerned. Finally, she smiled at each of them. “I hope you prove me right. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”
All but the therapist stood and headed for the door. Bear waited until he could bring up the rear. They shot glances and smiles at each other as they walked down the hall in that awkward, what’s-appropriate-in-this-situation, getting-to-know-you, dance.
He watched his angel—Hope—walk away. She dressed a step above the rest—neat and tidy in slacks, a blouse and loafers. Clearly a “good girl.” What did it mean, meeting someone who so closely resembled a symbol that sustained him? He didn’t believe in fate any more than he believed in the saints, sacraments or shrines of his Catholic upbringing.
But he hadn’t believed in prophetic dreams before, either.
As if feeling his regard, she shot a nervous glance over her shoulder. He fell back a step or two, for once sorry for his size and appearance which kept people at bay. If he followed and tried to talk to her, at best, she’d think him a stalker.
Better he just watch and wait. It wasn’t as if she’d know the answer to any of his questions anyway.
* * *
TWO MINUTES AFTER Hope stepped into the sunny summer day, Jesse’s pretty black truck pulled up at the curb. Hope opened the door, tripped and stumbled into the blinding-bright poodle skirt–pink seat covers. “I appreciate this Jess, but I could have driven myself.”
Jesse, eyes hidden behind movie star shades, waved her red manicure. “Are you kidding? I have the afternoon off. Who better to spend it with? Besides, we’re on a mission.”
Hope buckled her seat belt, then stroked the pink fuzzy dice that hung from the mirror. “I’ve searched through the paper, Jess. The only places for rent are the same generic apartments I was in before.” Shivering, she aimed the A/C duct at the ceiling, though she wasn’t cold. “I can’t move into one of those.”
Jesse checked her mirror, then pulled away from the curb and headed for the exit. “Well, then it’s a good thing your cousin owns The Farmhouse Café, Widow’s Grove equivalent of the office watercooler.” She pulled onto King’s Highway and headed out of Santa Maria.
“You know of someplace else that’s for rent?” Hope squinted through the glare at the green hills she’d loved since the first time she’d seen them, six years ago.
“Not just someplace.” Jesse winked. “I know the place.”
“But how could you, when I don’t even know what I’m looking for?” All Hope knew was that everything she’d seen so far reminded her way too much of her old place.
“Trust me, sweetie. I know this place. It’s perfect. You’ll see.”
“I hope so. I feel bad, putting you and Carl out, taking up your guest room.”
Eyes on the road, Jesse felt for Hope’s hand. Finding it, she squeezed. “You’re my cousin, and I love you. Frankly, I wish you’d stay with us permanently.”
“Oh, heck, no. I overstayed my welcome last time.” When Jesse and Hope had ganged up on Hope’s mother, she’d finally agreed to Hope’s move to Widow’s Grove, providing Jesse keep an eye on her younger cousin. Apparently Jesse thought the vow extended posthumously, since Vivian Sanderson had given up her iron-fist grip on life two years ago.
“Shut up, we love having you. Besides, you dust.”
“Hello.” Hope rolled her eyes. “You met my mother, right?”
“Yes, hon, and you met mine. Did any of that domestic goddess crap rub off on me?”
“You have a point.” Jess may be a whiz mathematician who gave up Massachusetts Institute of Technology for her childhood sweetheart and his family’s business, but she wasn’t a housekeeper.
Hope looked past the beach houses to the light fracturing off the ocean’s chop. In the ten days since she’d been released from the hospital she’d slowly put her cousin’s house in order, down to organizing Jesse’s two walk-in closets and alphabetizing Carl’s considerable CD collection. Organizing her surroundings usually helped organize her thoughts. But not this time.
So far she’d resigned from her job, said goodbye to her baffled boss and looked for somewhere to live. Jesse had retrieved her clothes and personal items, since Hope still couldn’t face her apartment. She had no idea what career she wanted, moving forward. Like her apartment, going to work for another bank was out. Her palms sweated just thinking about it. What was she going to do for a living for the rest of her life?
The edge of town was easy to discern. It was where the line of Victorian houses began, standing like colorful titled ladies in a receiving line. Jesse pulled over, consulting a scrap of paper before peering out the window.
“Oh, Jess, this can’t be right. You know I can’t afford to rent a house.” Hope traced a scrolled fretwork with her finger on the window. “But what a dream. Look at the paint on that one. Who would have thought to use light gray, French blue and rose together?”
Jesse turned off the engine, snatched her purse from the floor and cracked her door. “Honey, if the local jungle drums are in tune, your dream is about to come true.”
They stepped into the hammered Central California sunshine. Jesse waited until Hope came around the car, then grabbed her hand, checked both ways, and crossed the street, low-heeled sandals clacking.
“I think I’m capable of walking across—oh.” Hope breathed.
The home they approached was in the ornately spindled Eastlake-style Victorian in lavender and white. The frothy gingerbread on the porch also adorned the tiny balcony on one second-story corner.
Jesse adjusted her huge sunglasses. “A little foo-foo for me, but whatever makes your hips wiggle.”
“This from the woman with Pepto-Bismol–inspired seat covers.”
Jesse just tsked and led the way up the steps to the covered porch. When she pressed the doorbell “God Save the Queen” chimed through the interior.
“That is too adorable for words,” Hope whispered.
The door opened. A tiny old lady in a flowered dress and orthopedic shoes stood on the other side of the screen, a messy bun of white hair on top of her head. “Yes?”
“I’m Jesse Jurgen. I called about your guest cottage?”
Guest cottage. Hope even loved the sound of the words.
“Oh, yes. Please, come in.” She unlatched the screen door and ushered them in. “I’m Opaline Settle.” She led them into a formal sitting room scented with old furniture–mustiness and old lady dusting powder. “Would you like some tea?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” Hope settled on the ornate but faded wingback sofa and looked around. “What a delightful home you have.” Threadbare antique rugs covered wooden floors. Dusty floor-to-ceiling damask drapes were drawn back.
Opaline perched on the edge of a wingback chair. “Why thank you. Mr. Settle bought it for me as a wedding gift over sixty years ago. He’s gone, but the old lady abides,” she said in a soft, wobbly soprano. “Both of us.”
“I’m Hope Sanderson. Jesse’s cousin. I’m the one looking for a place to rent.” She shot an optimistic smile across the ornate wooden tea table. “You have marvelous antiques, as well. I have a few Tiffany pieces myself.” She nodded at the stained glass lamp on the gateleg table in front of the window.
Opaline’s faded blue eyes sparked. “You have antiques?”
“Yes, quite a few that I inherited from my mother. She—eeep!” Hope jumped up when something bounced out from behind the sofa.
The old lady tittered. “Oh, that’s just Euphengenia. She’s named after Mrs. Doubtfire.” She bent and lifted a large buff-colored rabbit into her lap.
A flop-eared black-and-white rabbit hopped in from the hall, followed by a black one. Soon there were ten.
“They’re curious. We don’t get company often. I won’t bore you with introductions.”
Hope scooted back into the couch, wishing she could lift her feet onto the cushion. She wasn’t afraid of animals, exactly. She’d just never been around them much. Her mother wouldn’t even allow Hope a goldfish, declaring that animals in the house were filthy, disgusting and unmannered.
“They’re just bunnies, for cripes sakes. Deal,” Jesse whispered out of the corner of her mouth. “Is the cottage still for rent?”
Don’t they carry fleas? Hope watched the rabbits to be sure none ventured close. The plague?
“Oh, yes.” She watched Hope like a bird eyes a scarecrow. “I have to be careful to choose the correct tenant. I don’t want any wildness back there. You know—” she lowered her voice to a wavery whisper “—that sex, drugs, and rock and roll stuff.”
Jesse coughed into her hand to cover a laugh.
Hope smiled. “I don’t do any of those things, I assure you, Mrs. Settle. I live a very quiet life.” But the words pinched, coming out. That was her old life. Her new one would be different. Different how, she didn’t know, but different.
Opaline looked her over from her headband to her hands, clasped in her lap. “You appear to be a well-brought-up young lady.” She gathered the rabbit, bent and returned it to the floor, then stood. “Would you like to see the cottage?”
“Oh, yes, please.” Hope and Jesse stood.
They followed the little woman through the front hall, to the kitchen, then through the door that led to the back porch. Hope counted eight more rabbits on the way; she’d had to hug the wall to avoid two that chased each other toward her in the hall.
I’ve heard of crazy cat ladies before, but never a crazy bunny lady.
But when they stepped through the back door, all her concerns blew away. In the corner of the huge yard sat a cottage—a perfect, tiny gingerbread Victorian cottage. It looked like one of the painted ladies, only one-fifth the size, dressed in the same lavender and white trim as the main house.
“Ohhhh...” Something in Hope’s chest moved. It was her heart, cracking open. “Oh, my gosh, it’s precious!”
The tiny covered porch wrapped around a bay window, with room only for two painted white rocking chairs. Fretwork graced the roof’s peak, and window boxes spilled bright pansies and geraniums.
As they walked the flagstone path to the cottage. Jesse asked, “How many square feet is it?”
“Five hundred and fifty, I believe.” Opaline took the one step, crossed the porch, and unlocked the door. “It’s small, but I think you’ll find it has everything you need.”
Hope followed her inside. Light from the bay windows shone on the polished wood floor of what she’d call a “sitting area,” since it was too small to be a living room. To the right, a diminutive fireplace with a stone hearth sat, wood laid, awaiting only a match. She walked toward the kitchen at the back of the room.
My little dining table would be cute as a divider between the two areas.
Behind a door on her left, a cubby guest bath had a round window which saved the tiny space from feeling like a closet.
She stepped to the kitchen area. Matching yellow tieback café curtains hung in the windows over the kitchen sink in the corner, and over the Dutch door that led to the backyard.
Sighing, she took in the ambience. Snug and sweet. It was a happy place; she felt it in the empty spaces within her.
Opaline pointed to a tight spiral wrought-iron staircase that disappeared into the ceiling. “You’ll need to climb up to see the loft. The stairs are beyond me, I’m afraid.”
Hope led the way, Jesse on her heels. The stairs rang with their steps. At the top, Hope looked around. “Oh, wow.”
Jesse’s fingernail poked her butt. “If you’d move, I could see, too.”
Hope took the last stair and moved aside. This floor had the same footprint as the house below, so it was a large room, with small windows at either end. But it was the skylights on either side of the sloping ceiling straddling the painted brick chimney that caught her eye. “Jess, if I put the head of my bed against the chimney, I could see the stars through those skylights at night!”
“It’s like a little Hobbit house!” Jesse walked to the door at the far end of the room. “Come see this.”
Hope walked over and stuck her head into an old-fashioned bath, complete with a deep claw-foot tub and faux Tiffany lights over the washbasin sink.
She and Jesse looked at each other and squealed. Hope grabbed her cousin’s arms and waltzed her carefully across the bathroom floor, singing, “I feel lucky. I feel lucky. I feel—”
“It’s perfect, sweetie. But if you keep caterwauling, Mrs. Settle is going to think you’re into that rock and roll stuff.”
Hope giggled for the first time in... I’ve never giggled. “Jess, that song is country, not rock and roll.”
Jess grinned. “Let’s hope Opaline knows the difference. Now, get down there and offer a deposit before she rents this baby out from under you!”
This place would be way more than an out-of-work bank manager could afford, if not for her mother’s estate. Hope hadn’t touched the money, but not needing it was only part of the reason. Every time she’d thought about spending it, her mother’s voice haunted from the grave: you’re spending my hard-earned money on that? Surely I didn’t scrimp and do without so you could squander...
This time, Hope wasn’t listening. The money would give her time to get her feet back under her, and find a new career. A new life.
Thank you, Mother.
She took one last look at her new bedroom before she walked down the spiral stairs. Her old life may be gone, but her new life yawned like a black hole, but she now knew where it would take place.
In a world where nothing was familiar, inexplicably, this cottage somehow fit.
“Home,” she whispered to the room. The word felt right on her lips.
