“Don’t break it, Mason!” Mia hunched her shoulders and followed him out the door. Through the open kitchen window the sound of the Jeep door slamming was almost as harsh as Pippa’s voice had been.
Pip took a deep breath, grabbing her purse and briefcase off the back of the kitchen chair. She was frustrated enough over the entire situation, her lack of sleep and her reaction to the encounter with Clay last night, that she gave in to the urge to slam the door shut behind her as she left the house.
Except for the occasional sniffle from Mason in the back seat, silence reigned on the ride to school. By the time they joined the car line in the school drop-off zone, the quiet and Pippa’s guilt over her angry words choked her. Mason barely mumbled a good-bye when he got out of the car. The dejected slump of his shoulders as his sister ran ahead with her friends brought tears to Pippa’s eyes. She thrust the gearshift into park, jumped out and raced around the hood.
“Mason! Wait.”
Her son stopped and looked over his shoulder at her.
She walked quickly toward him, ignoring the honking horns from the cars behind her Jeep.
“Mom, you can’t park there.”
Pip walked over and grabbed her child, hugging him close. “I can if it’s important. And this is. I’m sorry I was so harsh this morning. I’m just…”
“Cranky?” Mason smiled.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m cranky.”
“It’s okay, Mom.” He patted her cheek. “Does this mean you’ll go get my tree today?”
She exaggerated her eye-roll, making him laugh. “If I can find the time. We’ll work something out.” He giggled as she kissed him soundly on the cheek and released his squirming body. How many more years would he let her kiss him in front of the school?
Pip waved bye to Mason, and to the drivers in the cars backed up behind her Jeep, climbed in and drove off.
* * * *
Pippa’s day had started badly and gotten progressively worse.
God, was this day ever going to end? She had run late for every appointment today, starting with her first client at the juvenile psych center in Logansburg. It was her fault. Detouring through the drive-up lane for coffee on the way out of town had put her further behind. She counted herself lucky that she hadn’t been stopped for speeding on the two-lane blacktop between Granite Pointe and Woodward State Juvenile Hospital.
When she passed through the front doors, she forced back a familiar shudder. She detested this building and the hoops she had to jump through to get to her clients. Presenting her briefcase to the security officer manning the metal detector, she tossed her keys and phone into a plastic tub. Only top managers with director level clearance were allowed to keep those items on their person.
Having retrieved the briefcase, she hurried across the lobby toward the therapy room where she worked with the hospital’s residents. The less time she had to spend in the entry area, the better. Woodward was a grim facility, more prison than hospital, and the image never got any better, regardless of the cheery paint and plush seating in the reception area. In this case, comfy-looking didn’t automatically translate to truly comfortable. Rumor had it the warden hired a security consultant instead of interior decorator to furnish the place. Those chairs were designed to be as intimidating as the guards employed there.
Daniel Robards was her last client of the day at the center. His body language when she walked in was a dead giveaway of his typically foul mood.
“Good afternoon, Daniel. How are you today?”
“Why do you ask me that every time you see me, when you don’t really give a shit?” His brows pinched together in a straight line on his peach-fuzzed face as he crossed his arms defiantly.
His posture and attitude reminded her of her brother, Sam. They shared the same physique: the same dark, curly hair, and she’d seen Sam’s arms folded angrily more than once growing up. The resemblance to Sam ended there, but something, some fleeting quality, reminded her of someone else.
Shaking off the nagging sensation that she knew him, or someone he was related to, she answered, “You’re wrong, Daniel, I do care. And we’ve talked about language before. I don’t like your word choices.”
He glared and took his time answering. “It’s a free country. I can say whatever the fuck I want to.”
Pippa heaved a sigh, but waved off the security guard who had accompanied the boy when he stepped forward protectively. “True, but I don’t have to listen. I’m here to help, but you’re making it clear you don’t want it.”
“You hate my music choices too. How the hell can it help me to learn Michael Row Your Boat on the guitar? If you wanted to help me, you’d let me play what I like.”
Daniel suffered from Oppositional Defiant Disorder and had been sent to Woodward as punishment for his role in a bullying incident that resulted in injury to the victim. The fifteen-year-old argued, often violently, with everyone in authority. He’d listed music choices on his initial assessment that would be considered destructive by even the most progressive professionals. She despaired of ever generating enough trust between them to make music therapy work for him.
“You have to earn the right to play that kind of music. So far, you’ve done nothing to convince me you’re ready for changes to our playlist.”
The way he had glared at her today served to firm up her resolve to ask that Daniel be reassigned to another therapist. He hated her. The malevolence in his steely stare was palpable. Even her security escort had remarked on it in the past.
Everything she stood for, every belief she held, he’d targeted for his sneering contempt. She’d tried to listen to his feelings on why he felt the need to be so ornery. He insisted the justice system he’d found himself trapped in was at fault. Regardless of who deserved the blame, escaping from his company was a relief.
The power struggle with him left her drained and an extra thirty minutes behind schedule. She called Elder Pointe while in the car to make sure Seeley Tombaugh wasn’t left alone in the therapy room to wait. Even so, when she ran into the room, her client was already there.
“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.” Pip plunked her portfolio down on the chair and dug for the music they’d use for this session.
“’s o-o-okay,” Seeley replied with intense concentration. “I…lis…listened t-t-to m-music in…m-m-my head.”
Pip laughed. “Who got top billing today? Maroon 5?”
“Don’t worry, bout a thing,” Seeley sang, each word clearly enunciated.
“Three Little Birds. That’s my future sister-in-law’s favorite song. You were paying attention. Do you like Marley? It’s great dancing music. Slow and easy, you know.”
“W-w-alk, f-first…d-d-dammit.” Seeley rapped the arm of her wheelchair with a tightly clenched fist and frowned at her feet, one in a cast, the other lying motionless on the chair’s footrest.
“We’ll have you tapping those toes in no time, Seeley. Marley’s music has just the right tempo for getting you back on your feet, I think”
“You think? Aren’t you paid to know?”
Pippa froze when she heard the familiar, gravelly voice. Oh my God, what was he doing here? Was he going to get after her about Mark again, in front of her client? Or maybe he’d sought her out to apologize.
Yeah, right.
After spending the night thinking—and okay, fantasizing—about him, tingles of awareness sizzled down her spine. She remained paralyzed as booted feet thudded across the linoleum floor and came to a stop next to Seeley’s chair. When Clay leaned over and kissed her client’s cheek, realization zinged through Pippa. This was the difficult son she’d been warned about. She waited until he turned his head to look at her.
“Holy shit! No fucking way,” Clay exclaimed when he got a clear look at her face.
Pip and Seeley responded at the same time. “Language,” they said in unison, although Seeley’s was garbled.
“Sorry.” Clay directed his apology toward his mother before he straigh
tened up and addressed Pippa. “You’re the woo-woo doc the insurance company is paying for?”
She bristled at his question. She’d spent six years in school, probably had more education than this tree farmer did, and he clearly thought she was a quack. “No, I’m the music therapist they trust to help Seeley get better as quickly as possible.”
“P-P-Pip, m-m-m…” Seeley paused over the difficult consonant sounds. She swallowed, concentrating harder. “My son, C-Clay.”
Anguish flitted over Clay’s face as his mother struggled with the words. “We’ve met.”
“Yes, we have.” Seeing concern for his mother on his face eased her irritation. Slightly.
Clay quickly hid his feelings behind a stoic expression. “I don’t know how you think this untried ‘therapy’ will really help.”
Oh no, he didn’t really just put air quotes around the word. What a jerk.
Her back was up. Again. He might really love his mother, but he was seriously misinformed about how music could help her recovery. She put as much cool professionalism in her tone as possible, icicles dripping from her words as she stood. “Let me assure you, music therapy is not untried. It’s well documented from biblical times. Goodness, we’ve had our own association in this country since the fifties.”
“How come I’ve never heard about it before?” Clay questioned.
She couldn’t believe this aggravating man had the audacity to argue with her. Clients’ family members were usually eager to try any therapy that could help their loved ones. “That surprises me. Aren’t you former military? After World War One and Two, music therapists worked in veterans hospitals with physically and emotionally traumatized soldiers.”
“I won’t argue that music can set the mood, or liven up a party. But anyone can play music. Hell, even I can load a CD that will make me feel good into a slot. But how is that going to help my mom? I don’t buy the whole music calms the savage beast idea.”
Pippa counted to ten mentally. She considered talking to him in the same voice she would use to explain things to her six-year-olds, but opted instead for a more modulated tone. “Well, yes, that is true. Any fool can put on a CD and sing along.” She punctuated her words with a raised eyebrow. “But a true music therapist studies for years. Important things like music theory and history, instrumental music, psychology, sociology, anatomy and physiology, and kinesiology. I’m trained to know how the human body should work. I play the piano, guitar, flute and saxophone. And I’m learning the harp.” She almost laughed at the expression on his face, but continued relentlessly. “I’m board certified and have a Masters Degree in Music Therapy. The only reason I don’t have my doctorate yet is because I haven’t found the time to finish my thesis. Would you like to hear about that?”
Clay held up his hands in surrender when she paused for breath. “Uncle! You’re qualified. I get that. But I still don’t see how music will cure my mom.”
“C-C-Clay.” His mother waved her clenched fist to interrupt him, “T-t…rust P-Pip. I w-w-w-ant…”
Pip waited patiently for Seeley to chew the words out. One sure way to frustrate a client was to finish sentences for her. The anguish on the older woman’s face had to be breaking her son’s heart. Seeley turned imploring eyes toward her.
She sat down and laid a calming hand across Seeley’s clenched fist. She wasn’t surprised to feel agitated twitching. “Music won’t cure your mom. But it will speed up her rehabilitation. The idea is to teach a different part of her brain, an undamaged part, to take over a lot of functions it normally wouldn’t. This therapy, along with the physical, speech and occupational therapies she’ll have, will help her get her life back. She wants that, and I’ll bet you do too.” She smiled at Seeley before making her appeal to Clay. “It would help if you’d at least agree to keep an open mind. And if you wanted to get involved and help, we’ll have your mom dancing again in no time.”
“I don’t think—” Clay stopped to stare at his mother. Who’d begun to sing.
“Don’t worry ’bout a thing. ’Cause every little thing’s gonna be all right.”
“Holy shit!” The startled look on Clay’s face was almost comical as his mom carefully sang each word without stuttering. It would have made Pippa laugh, if she hadn’t been so delighted with Seeley’s singing.
“Bravo, Seeley. Way to prove my point. You’ve already been practicing.”
“C-C-Cl.” Seeley blew out an exasperated breath and started again. “Clay, t-t-this w-will wo-work. G-go-ing to try. B-b-b-be nice”
Clay sank onto the chair across from his mother. Wonder and delight replaced his shocked look. “Okay, this could work. What can I do to help?”
“You can start by informing yourself about music therapy as a discipline.” Pippa grabbed her portfolio and drew out a reference sheet. “Here are some websites and journal articles you should read. They’ll explain what Seeley will do during her sessions with me, and how we incorporate all of her rehab therapies to help. You’re welcome to watch our session today.” She glanced at the clock and held the paper toward him. “Seeley’s physical therapist is due shortly. We’re working on arm movement today. Your mom is in a lot better shape than many of the residents here.”
Clay brushed her fingers as he took the paper from her.
Intense electricity zinged up her arm with the brief contact. Her breath stuttered and she looked sharply at him. She read the same awareness in his eyes that had to be written on her face. He was the most infuriating, skeptical…most attractive man she’d ever met.
How did she go from fiercely irritated to insanely turned-on in the space of a heartbeat?
6
Rooted to the spot, Clay returned Pippa’s gaze. After she’d driven away in a huff, he’d wracked his brain for a good way to mend the fence damaged by his rude behavior. He’d even devised an elaborate scheme that included stalking her at the cemetery, if necessary, to make nice. He cringed now at how creepy the idea sounded.
But, damn! He couldn’t stop thinking about her.
From the look in her eyes, she wouldn’t be opposed to his apology.
The spell was broken when Mom’s physical therapist sauntered into the room. “Sorry I’m late. Had to pick Mrs. Storm up off the floor.”
A mock scowl decorated Pippa’s pretty face. “Steve, we’ve explained this to you before. You’re supposed to let her pick herself up. She’ll never learn if you keep doing it for her.”
Clay barely heard the man’s excuse over the disappointment that rolled over him like a bulldozer when Pippa smiled sweetly at the newcomer. Clay had met Steve before, during his mom’s therapy sessions, but at the moment, he was soundly in favor of replacing the guy with another therapist, preferably someone butt-ugly, or a woman. Someone Pippa wouldn’t greet so warmly.
He cringed again at how…envious…that thought seemed.
“Hi, Clay. Good to see you again.”
Clay grunted when Steve extended his hand in greeting before grasping it, squeezing a bit harder than he needed to. Steve turned to greet Mom with a huge grin, then picked up her clenched fist and moved it over to a small drum sitting on the wheelchair tray. Steve had worked with her since her stroke and he’d impressed Clay with his gentle persistence. But that didn’t alleviate his frustration with Mom’s lack of progress.
“Are your ready to work today, Seeley, my girl?” Steve spoke softly and gently opened her fingers to press them flat. Applying pressure on the back of her hand to hold it in place, he beamed when she nodded her head sharply. “Good. I know Pippa has some fun stuff planned for this session.”
“Well, since Steve opted not to wear his Elton John glasses, it won’t be nearly as much fun. But we’ll see what we can do to embarrass him anyway.” Pippa laughed while Clay grabbed a chair across from the pair flanking his mom’s wheelchair. He straddled the seat and settled in to watch as they got to work.
Pippa and Steve bantered with each other and Mom the entire time, ignoring Clay like
the odd man out. He despised feeling invisible, but refused to interfere with anything that would aid his mother’s recovery. He’d like to be on the receiving end of Pippa’s attention. She lavished patience and encouragement on his mom, her efforts often making a crooked smile appear on Mom’s face.
A glimmer of the twinkle Clay used to see in his mom’s eyes before the stroke peeked out during the short rests between exercises. He’d missed that spark during the first grim week in the hospital. And Pippa, with simple wit and charm, had brought it back. Clay had to clear his throat several times as he watched, forcing down a lump the size of the capitol building.
Pippa had set a metronome to a slow tempo to help Mom tap her fingers in a timed beat. “That’s it, Seeley. You know you feel the beat, your brain is telling your fingers to move. We’ll keep working on this until they obey.”
“B-b-better b-be s-soon. Hate b-being s-still. T-his s-sucks.” Mom’s brows pinched together in concentration, one corner of her mouth drawn south in a frown.
Pippa stroked the top of his mom’s knee, a simple comforting gesture. When she spoke, her tone was silk over steel. “Yes, it does. So we’ll channel that emotion. I know it’s hard, but I want you to draw on your anger.”
Steve supported Mom’s wrist, slipping his fingers over her hand to help individual fingers maintain their flat position against the drum. Her fingers struck the surface of the drum, creating barely-there sounds. More like rain pattering on leaves, but still, something.
After thirty minutes, exhaustion and frustration were evident in the slump of his mother’s shoulders. Clay opened his mouth to ask them how much longer they’d go when Pippa shut down the metronome. She covered Mom’s hand and glanced at Steve, who nodded.
“We’re nearly done for now. I think you’ll like our final exercise today. You have anything left for this one, Seeley?” Pip asked.
Mom’s mouth worked, struggling over the words, and she settled for a nod.
Pip smiled the same patient smile she’d had through the entire session. The smile Clay couldn’t help but adore. “You’ll like it, I promise.”
Hearts in Harmony Page 5