Читать книгу Mistletoe and Miracles - Marie Ferrarella, Marie Ferrarella - Страница 7

A few minutes later, Trent crossed the common area where Rita held court from the center of a round desk. Her position allowed her, at a moment’s notice, to turn her chair three hundred and sixty degrees to train her hawklike gaze on any of the four psychologists.

Looking in his direction, the small, dark-haired woman, whose short, sleek hair was just a wee bit too black to be real, obviously expected to have questions thrown her way. Ready for him, she opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again without uttering a word. An almost imperceptible hiss escaped through the slight gap in her front teeth.

Trent walked right by her.

It wasn’t Rita he wanted to talk to. Instead, he knocked on the door directly opposite his on the other side of the waiting area. Since the small red light, signifying a patient inside, wasn’t on, Trent didn’t wait for an invitation. He followed up his knock by opening the door.

Still holding on to the polished bronze doorknob, he stuck in his head and asked the room’s single occupant, “Got a minute?”

Kate Marlowe stopped making notes and looked up. Laying down her pen, she smiled, then gestured for him to come in.

“For you? Always.” As her stepson walked in and closed the door behind him, Kate pressed the intercom on her telephone. “Hold all my calls for a few minutes, Rita.”

In response, there was a rather audible sigh on the other end of the line. “All right, if that’s what you want.”

Kate laughed softly. She was positive that somewhere someone had coined the word crusty to describe Rita. The woman rarely, if ever, smiled and no one knew how old she was. Kate had inherited her from the man whose practice she’d taken over years ago. According to him, Rita had come with the building. Kate had no reason to doubt him. The woman was resourceful, loyal and utterly opinionated. And despite prodding on Kate’s part, completely devoid of a personal history. Kate felt a great deal of affection for her. It had something to do with her protective streak.

“Don’t pretend that putting people on hold isn’t one of your favorite pastimes, Rita. Don’t forget, we go back a long way.”

“If you say so, doctor,” Rita murmured. The line went dead. Kate expected nothing less. Rita wasn’t given to wasting words.

Taking her finger off the intercom, Kate glanced up at Trent. She didn’t need a degree in psychology to see that he was tense, that something was bothering him even though he tried to appear nonchalant.

Tall, with sandy-blond hair and sharp blue eyes, Trent had grown up into a handsome young man, just like his brothers.

Exactly like two of his brothers, she thought, suppressing a fond smile. Trent was one of triplets and to the untrained eye, each of them, Trent, Trevor and Travis, appeared to be carbon copies. It was only by paying strict attention that the subtle differences began to emerge. One’s smile was brighter, another held his head a certain way when he was making a point, a third’s eyes were just a wee bit bluer than his brothers’ when he became impassioned about a subject.

What all three shared—along with their older brother, Mike—was a huge capacity for love and empathy. Although she had come into their young lives at a crucial point, she didn’t pretend to take credit for the way they’d turned out. Their better traits had been there all along, she maintained. All she had done was to enable them to raise those traits to the surface.

She couldn’t love Trent and his brothers any more than if they had been products of her own gene pool instead of Bryan and his first wife’s. If pressed, in a moment of weakness she might have admitted to having a tiny, softer spot in her heart for Trent because he’d opted to follow her in her chosen profession.

“Does this have anything to do with Laurel?” she asked once Rita’s voice had faded from the room and he still hadn’t said anything.

Trent’s eyes widened, and then he laughed. “You know.” For some reason, he’d just assumed that Laurel had come and gone without anyone noticing—except for Rita, who made everything her business. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“I’m a mother,” Kate replied simply. “Mothers are supposed to know everything.” Her smile broadened. “You know that.”

He could remember, as a boy, taking shelter in that smile. She made the hurt go away.

“You know,” Trent said, some of the tension ebbing away from him as he made himself comfortable on the tan sofa, “when you first came to take care of us, I was pretty sure you had eyes in the back of your head.” He flashed a grin. “Over the years, I became convinced of it.”

“An extra set would have certainly helped, having the four of you to keep track of.” There had been incidents with falling department-store mannequins and abruptly-halted escalators that she would just as soon put out of her mind. “But this time it was the eyes in the front of my head that made the connection. I saw Laurel leaving your office and heading toward the elevator.”

Seeing the young woman again after all this time had caught her off guard. It brought back memories of how heartbroken Trent had been when the young woman had abruptly vanished from his life with just a terse note to mark her passage. He’d tried hard to pretend that everything was all right, but she had seen through him.

Instead of firing an array of questions at him, Kate waited for Trent to pick up the thread of the conversation. After all, he had sought her out and he would tell her why in his own time.

Kate didn’t have long to wait.

She saw the tension return to his shoulders. “Laurel wants me to treat her son.”

He was doing his best to sound removed, she thought. “Do you think that’s wise?” she asked him gently.

Restless, Trent rose to his feet. “No.”

Kate knew her sons very well. Reading between the lines wasn’t hard. “But you’re going to do it anyway.”

A dry laugh escaped his lips, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe you should give up psychology and become a clairvoyant.”

Kate didn’t believe in clairvoyants. She did, however, believe in instincts and being close enough to someone to almost “feel” his thoughts.

“My ‘powers’ only work with my family.” She became serious, wanting him to talk it out as much as he could. “You wouldn’t be in here if you were at peace with your decision, and it was fifty-fifty—telling her no or telling her yes.” One slender shoulder beneath the powder-blue jacket lifted and fell in a careless shrug. “I’ve always been rather lucky at guessing.”

Rising from her desk, she went to stand next to him. He was close to a foot taller than she was, but he always felt she was the dominant force in the family. His father referred to her as the iron butterfly. The description fit.

Kate placed her hand on his arm. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

He shrugged, still feeling at sea about what had just transpired in his office. The surprise of seeing Laurel again after all this time had thrown him off. He assumed his stepmother was asking him about the case.

Trent shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know too many of the details at this point. According to Laurel, her six-year-old son, Cody, hasn’t uttered a word in a year. Not since his father died in a car accident.”

“He was there when it happened.” It wasn’t a question.

He looked at her only mildly surprised. “How did you know?”

It was strictly textbook so far. “The boy’s behavior is a reaction to a trauma. At that age, it would most likely be a visual one.” She paused a moment, thinking. “At least, that’s the outer layer.”

Trent wasn’t sure he followed. “Outer layer?”

Kate nodded. “There has to be some other underlying cause for him to have withdrawn from the world, from the mother I’m assuming he had a decent relationship with until this occurred.” The cadence at the end of the sentence told Trent that this was a question.

“I didn’t ask, but knowing Laurel—” He stopped abruptly and smiled sheepishly, transforming into the boy he’d once been so many years ago. “I don’t know Laurel,” he amended, realizing he was making assumptions he had no basis to make. “At least, not the person she’s become.” Because the Laurel he’d known hadn’t wanted the intimacy needed in a marriage, but this Laurel had married. Married, apparently, less than six months after leaving him.

“In my experience, most people don’t change all that much,” Kate commented.

He thought about Laurel, about the way she used to be. “She did.”

“What makes you say that?”

“She got married,” he replied simply. He realized that might need some explaining. “I asked her to marry me and she took off, saying she couldn’t be in that kind of committed relationship with a man.” He’d had his own commitment issues, but for Laurel, he was willing to try to work it out. Sadly, the feeling had not been mutual. He set his mouth hard. “Apparently, she got over that.”

If Kate noted the sliver of hurt in his tone, she gave no indication. “Not necessarily.” He eyed her sharply. “She could have dared herself to take this hurdle, or been shamed into it, made to feel less than a woman if she didn’t commit. You don’t know until you have all the facts.”

It occurred to him that Laurel hadn’t given him any details about her marriage, or even indicated how her husband’s death had affected her. Her entire focus had been the boy.

“We didn’t talk that long,” he told his stepmother. “Besides—” he shrugged carelessly “—that’s all water under the bridge.”

Kate knew better. This nerve was very much alive and well. But for his sake, she made a light comment and pressed on.

“Very eloquently put, Dr. Marlowe.” A smile played on Kate’s lips and then she grew serious. “So, what are you going to do?”

He stared out the window for a moment before answering. Outside it was another perfect day in paradise. The sky was a brilliant shade of blue. As blue as Laurel’s eyes, he caught himself thinking.

Taking a breath, he looked at Kate. “I said I’d see him tomorrow morning. I guess I’ll know what I’ll do after that.”

“Sounds like a plan.” She gave him an encouraging smile. She was proud of him, proud of the men all her sons had become. “Trust your instincts, Trent. You’re a good psychologist and terrific with kids. Just because this boy is the son of someone you used to be very close to doesn’t change any of that.”

That was exactly what he was afraid of. Would his past feelings for Laurel cloud his perception or destroy his ability to assess the boy? He honestly didn’t know—and his first priority was to the patient.

“Maybe you should see him,” he suggested.

“I can do a consult, certainly,” Kate agreed. But if Laurel had wanted someone else to see her son, she would have asked. “Laurel trusts you and the way she feels transmits itself to the boy. That’s an important part of this healing process.”

He sighed. “I know.”

“Give it a shot, Trent,” she encouraged. Her eyes met his. “I’ve never known you to turn away from a challenge.”

“This is a boy, Mom,” he pointed out, “not a challenge.”

But she shook her head. “This is both,” Kate corrected.

She was right. As usual. He tried to remember the last time she wasn’t—and couldn’t. “Don’t you get tired of always being right?”

Kate pretended to think his question over. “No.” And then she grinned. “When that starts happening, you’ll be the first to know,” she promised.

Moving around quickly, getting in her own way, Laurel placed her purse next to the front door, then doubled back to pick up the lightweight jacket she’d retrieved out of the closet for Cody. She hurried him into it. It felt as if she were dressing a mannequin.

This’ll be over soon. Trent’ll find a way to bring him around, she promised herself, trying to steady her trembling hands.

“You’ll like him, Cody.” She did her best to sound upbeat and hopeful, praying that this time something in her voice would get through to him. “He’s someone I used to know before your dad. When I was in school.” Moving around to face him, she zipped up his jacket. His arms hung limply at his sides. His eyes, unfocused, didn’t see her. “The first time I met him, I guess I was just a little older than you. He’s very nice.”

All the words tumbling out of her mouth felt awkward on her tongue. That was because she felt awkward.

Awkward with her own son.

How had she come to this place? She and Cody had always had so much fun together. He’d been her saving grace when things had gotten so bad with Matt. And now, now she didn’t even know him.

Laurel supposed that was what had finally driven her to seek out help from a field she would have never thought to tap. She’d never believed in psychiatry or its cousin, psychology. They were for neurotic people with too much time and money on their hands. But now she was rethinking everything, and she was desperate.

She felt estranged from her own son. Worse than that, she felt as if she were losing him, as if he were slipping away into some netherworld that only he occupied.

She looked down into his face. It was vacant, as if there were no one there. Laurel pressed her lips together, struggling against a wave of hopelessness.

These days, Cody didn’t even look at her when she talked to him. He didn’t disobey her, didn’t throw tantrums, didn’t show any emotion at all. It ripped her heart out that he behaved as if she weren’t even in the room. She supposed it could have been worse. He did go where she told him to go, ate what she set in front of him and went to bed when she told him. But she missed him terribly. It was like having a windup toy, a clone of her son. He looked like Cody in every way except that there was no personality, no sign of the laughing, bright-eyed, intelligent boy he’d been a year ago.

More than anything else in the world, she wanted him back.

Laurel went to the door and picked up her purse, sliding it onto her shoulder. For the thousandth time, she cursed her cowardliness for not standing her ground that day. The last day of Matt’s life. She didn’t believe in omens, but she’d had an eerie feeling all morning, a feeling that something would go wrong. Some unnamed instinct had told her to keep Cody close, to either keep him home or go with him. She’d chalked it up to her general uneasiness at the time. Matt had dropped his bomb on her only the night before.

Divorce was an ugly word and it had sent tremors through her world.

When she’d tried to tell Matt about her premonition, for lack of a better word, he’d called her manipulative and vetoed both of her ideas. Cody wasn’t staying home with her and she wasn’t going with them. He was breaking Cody in on the life of a time-shared child.

Nerves had danced through her like lightning bolts during an electrical storm as she’d watched them drive away.

Watched Matt drive away for the last time.

“He’s very nice,” she repeated to Cody.

Tears came to her eyes. They seemed to come so easily these days. She’d sworn to herself that she wouldn’t allow Cody to see her cry, but since he hardly ever looked at her, it seemed like a needless vow.

“Oh, Cody, come out, please come out,” she pleaded. “Talk to me. Say something. Anything.”

Her entreaty didn’t seem to penetrate the invisible wall that surrounded the boy.

With a sigh, she pulled herself together. “It’s time to go, Cody.”

As if she’d turned on a switch, the boy walked toward the door. She opened it and he walked outside in measured steps.

“Maybe Trent will have better luck,” she murmured under her breath, silently adding, Please, God, let him have better luck. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

“Trent, this is my son, Cody.”

Framed in the doorway of his office the way she had been yesterday, Laurel stood behind the boy. She rested her hands lightly on her son’s shoulders, as if she were afraid that withdrawing them would make Cody disappear.

Trent immediately rose to his feet. He’d been in the office a full forty-five minutes before this first appointment of his day, preparing. Preparing what, he wasn’t certain.

He’d never felt anxious about meeting a new patient before. Oh, there’d always been that minor shot of adrenaline to begin with, but that was to be expected. He’d never been anxious before. First sessions were about ground rules, about getting to know the face that was turned to the world. Even children had their secrets and it was his job to unlock them so that his small, troubled patients could go on to have happy, well-adjusted lives.

But how did you prepare for a child who wouldn’t talk? Who perhaps couldn’t talk despite not having anything physically wrong with him. He knew firsthand that the bars a mind could impose were stronger than any steel found in a prison cell.

As he watched Cody now, it startled him how much the boy resembled Laurel. Neatly dressed, Cody’s silken blond hair was a bit longer than stylish. A testimony to the free spirit that Laurel had so desperately strived to be, Trent recalled. If Cody’s hair had been longer, he would have been the spitting image of Laurel at eight.

The Laurel, he thought, who had captured his heart the first moment he’d seen her. Was eight too young to fall in love? He would have said an emphatic yes if he hadn’t been there himself.

Approaching the boy, Trent held out his hand. “Hello, Cody, my name’s Trent,” he said in his warmest voice.

Trent didn’t believe in standing on formalities or drawing a sharp line in the sand to separate children from adults. Every adult had a child within him and every child harbored the makings of the adult he was to be. Trent focused on uniting them rather than keeping them apart.

Cody stared past his shoulder as if he hadn’t spoken. As if there were no one else in the room but him.

Trent dropped his hand to his side. It was at that moment that he stopped thinking about himself and about Laurel. All that mattered was the boy in the prison of his own making.