by Liz Talley
“A twist in the main line as it came around the first bend.”
“The PVC track should have prevented that from happening.”
“Craig missed a piece of the track when he installed it.”
How did one miss a piece of a piping apparatus that fit together to make a whole?
“I’m not sure he’s going to work out.” And Grant didn’t have time to hire another new guy. Craig had been with them six months and Grant had had high hopes for the kid.
“He just found out his wife’s having a baby,” Luke told him.
Luke had two little kids. And he was late getting home to dinner with them. Again.
The guy never complained. And Grant had ridden both of his full-time employees hard that day.
“I should have known that,” he said aloud, keeping his voice down as he paced the empty hallway—a twenty-by-ten-foot tiled area that was clearly separate and apart from the mysterious inner sanctum of The Lemonade Stand’s main building. “I owe you, man,” he told Luke now.
“Buy me a beer sometime,” Luke shot back at him.
He’d have to make that a twelve-pack. At the very least. If Grant didn’t have Darin... If he’d been able to give the business all of the time and energy Luke brought to it, they could have grown Bishop Landscaping into a lucrative company instead of a highly sought-after, well-booked, small-time operation that supported three families instead of dozens.
Telling Luke that he’d be at the job site at five-thirty the next morning to sign off on the work that had been done and to lay out the next phase of the waterfall garden’s installation, Grant rang off. He paced, and then came to rest in front of the glass door leading out to a small, nondescript visitor parking lot that needed shrubbery around it, some perennials for color....
“Mr. Bishop?”
Turning, he recognized the woman approaching him at once. Her long hair was pulled back tightly from her face, but the warm glow in her eyes was just as he’d remembered.
He’d told himself he’d imagined the woman’s effect on him the last time Darin had been in the hospital—four years before.
She’d had a wedding ring on back then. She didn’t now.
“Lynn,” he said, because back then that’s all that had been written on her name tag—and that’s what he’d called her. She held out her hand. He took it.
And didn’t want to let go.
“You don’t remember me,” he said, quickly shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he faced her in the empty, fluorescent-lit hallway. He’d heard that The Lemonade Stand was beautiful, a haven, resortlike. The commercial beige tile and white walls didn’t give him that impression at all.
“I do, actually,” she said. “Now that I see you. I recognized your name when you called, but I wasn’t sure why. You’re the one with the brother. Darin, right?”
“I’m impressed.” Grant smiled, in spite of how late he was for his visit with Darin. How late she’d made him. “You were his nurse for one day of a three-day stay, and have to have had hundreds of patients in your years as a nurse. You’ve got a good memory.”
“Darin was memorable.”
She didn’t say why. He could guess. Darin’s brain was damaged, his body wasn’t. Grant’s older brother had had girls goo-goo eyed over him for as long as Grant could remember. Even after so many years since his accident, Darin’s facial expression didn’t show his lack of mental coherence. You didn’t get that until you’d talked to him for a few minutes and experienced some of his childlike thought processes. Which were interspersed with moments of complete lucidity.
“So what can I do for you?” Lynn asked, that not-quite smile he remembered curving her lips and hitting him where a guy only liked to be hit when he could do something about it. “You said you needed to speak with me in person.”
He’d thought maybe they’d be sitting in her office, not standing out in the hall.
He’d thought she’d remember him, too, and she had. But more important, she’d remembered his brother.
With enough affection to pull strings?
The Lemonade Stand was the only option he had. This had to work.
CHAPTER THREE
HE HAD TO GO.
Facing Grant Bishop in the only section of The Lemonade Stand that was accessible to anyone walking in off the street, she couldn’t believe it was him. The one man who, in all the years she’d been married, had ever tempted her to think about being unfaithful to Brandon.
Not that either man knew. Or would ever know.
But four years ago, just before she’d become pregnant with Kara, there’d been a bit of an attraction between them. At least, she’d been attracted. And she’d been as certain as she could be without verbal confirmation that he was aware of her, as well. There’d been a moment or two of recognition, of something that could’ve been interesting if she hadn’t been married. And if she hadn’t been his brother’s nurse.
The sexual feelings he’d aroused within her had scared her so badly she’d gone home and made love to her husband like she’d never made love before. Over and over again. For more than a month. Long after Darin Bishop had been discharged and the brothers had left her life forever.
Kara had been the result.
“My brother developed an infection around the portion of stingray barb still lodged in his brain,” Grant Bishop was saying.
He wasn’t there to see her personally.
Of course not.
“I’m no longer working at the hospital, Mr. Bishop.” She could have invited him back to her office. The anonymity of the front hall felt better.
“I know.”
He smiled. At her?
Or just to be polite?
“Dr. Zimmer told me this morning that you’ve been here full-time for the past couple of years. He said there’s a physical therapy program here that sometimes accepts nonresident patients. He also said The Lemonade Stand welcomes men into these programs whenever possible—after extensive background checks, of course. That it’s part of the overall therapy program for your residents. Something about women needing positive male influences in their environment because it helps build trust, and they’ll have to deal with men when they’re back in the outside world. Makes sense. I understand you’re the chief medical person in charge and thought that maybe, since Darin was once your patient, you might be able to help pave the way for us here. If there is a way.”
He wasn’t there because he’d remembered her.
Feeling like a bit of a fool, but a relieved one, Lynn kept her face schooled to polite calmness—a talent that she’d developed early on in her nursing career—and said, “Dr. Zimmer sent you?”
The surgeon had been one of her favorites. As busy as he’d been, he’d spent as much time with his patients as they’d needed—emotionally, not just physically. The bodies he worked on weren’t just the job. They were attached to people he’d seemed to genuinely care about.
“Darin had surgery yesterday morning to drain the infection. As a result he’s displaying partial paralysis on his left side.” The look in those brown eyes, a combination of strength and little-boy-lost, tugged at her in a way that was reminiscent of four years before.
No man was ever going to have power over her emotions again.
Her job as live-in certified nurse/midwife at a woman’s shelter generally precluded the chance.
“He’s going to need physical therapy several times a week over the next few months if he’s to have any hope of ever obtaining full mobility again.”
Like a flash of lightning, she saw where this was going. “Dr. Zimmer suggested you apply here for Darin’s therapy.”
“He also told me that The Lemonade Stand sometimes trades services for services.”
“For residents. Or previous res
idents,” she clarified. Many of the services offered at The Lemonade Stand were free to the Stand, donated by former clients. Or by current residents. Some by way of payment. And some just because.
“That’s what Dr. Zimmer said.” Grant Bishop nodded. “He also said that you have group therapy sessions when patients have similar needs and don’t require one-on-one physical touch, and those sessions are less expensive.” Grant shrugged as he added, “But he explained that male involvement in group therapy is a sensitive issue and has to be decided on a case-by-case basis.”
His hands were still in his pockets. Lynn was still distracted.
“The thing is, I can’t afford physical therapy sessions at all.”
“Darin’s on disability insurance, isn’t he?” She’d seen something about it on his paperwork—not that she paid attention or remembered such things about her former patients, but Darin and Grant...they’d been different.
Brothers who were all alone. Devoted. And acting as if their lives were perfect.
“It covers eighty percent of his costs. And I’m going to be tapped out for a while covering the other twenty percent of yesterday’s surgery.”
A craniotomy, which was the only way to do the drainage he’d spoken of, could run fifty thousand or more. Just for the procedure. Add in hospital and supply costs...
“I don’t know what—”
“Please...” the man interrupted her. “Dr. Zimmer thought you might be able to put a word in for me with Lila McDaniels. I understand she’s the managing director of The Lemonade Stand. I’m a landscaper,” he continued, almost as though if he didn’t stop for air he wouldn’t be able to hear the word no. “I own a small design business. Darin works with me and I employ a couple of other guys. I don’t know what you’re currently paying for yard care, but I can already see that that parking lot out there could benefit from some shrubbery.” He pointed to the small lot accessible to the public. “I suspect we could make improvements to the rest of the grounds, as well. We’d be willing to take it all on, for free, in exchange for Darin’s therapy. Dr. Zimmer said that if there’s a session for general motor skill exercise, he’d be fine there.”
“And afterward?” Lynn asked, going with the first objection she could voice. “We fire our landscapers, you take over for the couple of months that Darin needs therapy and then what happens?”
“We’ll continue to service the clinic indefinitely at a rate that’s ten percent less than you’re currently paying.”
“You don’t know what we’re currently paying,” she reminded him.
“My brother could be partially paralyzed for the rest of his life if I don’t get him this therapy.”
If she recommended him, Lila would pay attention. Angelica Morrison, the Stand’s physical therapist, would approve the decision, too. As long as both men passed background checks. The Stand’s founder was actually a man. A good man. The world was filled with good men. And the residents at The Lemonade Stand needed to be exposed to them.
Grant Bishop’s proposal completely fit with their mission statement. Lynn had nothing to do with the Stand’s finances, but she was privy to them. Their landscaping bill was exorbitant—and rising.
And landscaping was paramount to the overall healing atmosphere of their center.
“You do realize that the secondhand store and boutique out on the boulevard are part of our center? And the garage on the corner is ours, too,” she added. The Lemonade Stand owned a city block.
He’d be responsible for the exterior grounds of all of it.
“I didn’t, no. But it doesn’t matter. Darin will do what he can. And my boys and I will take care of the rest.”
“What about your other jobs?”
“I’ll handle them.” He was determined. She’d give him that. And she didn’t really know much about the landscape business. They took care of yards, she figured. Cleaning up, trimming, cutting grass. Planting. He’d said his business was small. And mentioned design.
Apparently, he was successful enough to support not only him and Darin, but two other men, as well.
“You haven’t seen the inner grounds.”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”
“I think you might change your mind,” she said, wishing it were light outside so she could give him a quick, escorted tour of the secured area of The Lemonade Stand—the area where their real work was done. Arms crossed in front of her, she said, “The philosophy here at The Lemonade Stand—when life gives you lemons you make lemonade—is taught by action, not by word.” She started in on a speech she’d heard many times before. The rote PR words that every senior staff member at the Stand knew by heart—because they were expected to live by them and up to them.
“We’re here to help abused women recover—and to make healthy choices for their futures,” she continued. “By nature of what they’ve come from—being mistreated by someone close to them, someone they trusted to love them—they’ve mostly learned, often subconsciously, that they don’t deserve the best. Abused women, by and large, have low self-concepts. Many of them believe that they’re somehow to blame for their abuse. Before they can fully believe in themselves and take charge of broken lives, they have to feel good about who they are. Environment is a huge part of that.”
Lynn was leading up to telling him about the grounds at the Stand. The mammoth undertaking that Grant Bishop was offering to absorb without realizing what he was getting himself into. But she stopped speaking for a second when she realized that the speech she was giving was similar to one any prospective employee of the Stand would receive. Like she’d already mentally employed him.
“I understand.” His brown-eyed gaze was soft. And she started to speak again.
“Our residents’ emotional and mental states are brought on by actions, and we believe that the only way to truly counteract the damage to their psyches is to counteract action with action.”
“Absolutely.”
“They’ve been treated horribly and they need to be treated well, not just be told that they deserve to be treated well.”
“You don’t have to worry about my boys. Luke and I have known each other since college. He’s married, has kids, is a great dad. And Craig’s wife is expecting their first child. But if you’d rather, I can make certain that only Darin and I service this facility.”
“The women live in bungalows,” she said. “Usually four women to a place.” Each one had four bedrooms with adjoining bathrooms. Each one was surrounded by beautiful landscaping. “Their living quarters are what they should be able to expect their homes to be—a place that cushions them from the challenges that life will inevitably hand them.”
“We’ll stay completely away from them.”
“First and foremost, these women need to be taught that they are worthy. We treat them like royalty. They are expected to treat one another like royalty and, through action, we hope to replace negative lessons with positive ones.”
Grant Bishop leaned forward. “Lynn, I understand. Do any background checks you need to do. I swear to you, your residents have absolutely nothing to fear from any of us, and most particularly not from Darin and me. We will keep our distance from residents at all times, and if we do happen to come into contact with anyone at any time we will show her nothing but respect. You have my word on that.”
He smiled. Her stomach flipped.
This was getting way too out of hand.
“Mr. Bishop, what I’m trying to tell you is that, inside the grounds, The Lemonade Stand is resortlike. We’re on the ocean, just like most of Santa Raquel. Our facilities, including our landscaping, rival any fine resort on the California coast. The Stand is a safe haven—a place women want to be. And the grounds reflect that.”
He blinked. Stared for a second, and said, “You’re telling me I’m in for a lot of hard work.”
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“What I’m trying to tell you is that you can’t possibly do the job you’re promising to do. You have no idea what you’re letting yourself in for.”
“I will get the work done and do as good a job—or a better job—than the company currently providing the services.”
The man was determined.
A characteristic she admired. A lot.
“My brother’s quality of life depends on him having that therapy.” His gaze spoke directly to her heart.
He wasn’t getting it. She couldn’t have him around.
“There are only so many hours in a day and you’ll still have to earn a living.”
“Before he went in for surgery, Darin was experiencing serious bouts of depression,” he said. “They were growing increasingly worse, with times of moroseness similar to what we went through about a year after his accident. If he ends up paralyzed for life, I’m going to lose him.”
The man’s desperation was understandable.
“I’ll get the work done,” Grant Bishop said again, the words as firm as any promise she’d ever heard. “I generally do the design work and the guys do the physical labor, which leaves me evenings to focus completely on Darin. If I have to, I’ll spend the days out in the yards here, and do my design work at night. Darin needs this therapy more than he needs trips to baseball games with me. And I swear to you, your residents will have nothing to fear from either me or Darin. He’s like he is because he was protecting a woman.”
The cause of Darin’s condition, the stingray barb lodged in his brain, had been in his file. The circumstances that had caused that barb to be there were not.
She couldn’t help herself. “What happened?” she asked.
Boundaries! The word screamed in her brain. Vital rule of health care—keep your boundaries.
But things were different at the Stand.
“He and his wife were scuba diving. She got tangled in her line and was losing all of her air. He got her untangled but was attacked by the stingray during the process so it took him longer than it should have. Badly bleeding and half out of his mind, he still got her up to the surface.”