She seemed to like them even more since her husband had died. Karan wished she could be as open as Susanna. Always there. Always caring for the people she loved. Even when life threw devastating curves.
Of course all that emotion came with a dark side, and Susanna could worry like no one Karan had ever met. She got positively insane sometimes, but life wouldn’t be life without Susanna. They were as close as sisters—or what Karan imagined a sister would be like given she was an only child.
“Ms. Kowalski Steinberg-Reece,” Wannabe Jenny announced in her I’m-the-shark-in-the-fishbowl voice. “With Chief Sloan’s help, I think we’ve worked out an arrangement that may be more to your liking.”
Susanna gave another squeeze then her hand slipped away. Karan faced the firing squad stoically. Her attorney narrowed his gaze, warning her to stay quiet. He didn’t have to because Karan had a gift for reading people. She kept her mouth shut.
“Since you’re a low-risk offender, there is an alternative sentence that, if you agree, will take the place of your jail time.”
Karan didn’t dare to breathe. So far so good. The thought of living behind bars for more than two weeks made her faint. She looked dreadful in orange. So not her color.
“In lieu of incarceration,” Wannabe Jenny continued, dragging out the suspense. “you’ll be required to complete three hundred and sixty hours of community service.”
Karan mentally calculated. Three hundred and sixty hours translated into fifteen days. Okay, still good.
“Chief Sloan has been working with Mayor Trant and a number of community leaders to launch New Hope, Bluestone Mountain’s first domestic violence shelter. You can assist their efforts by completing your service hours under the supervision of one of the program directors. You can complete the hours at your convenience, Ms. Kowalski Steinberg-Reece, but be aware you’re also required to attend weekly group and private treatment sessions for the duration and your driving privileges will remain suspended until you complete the mandated hours and appear back in court before me.
“At that time I’ll review your case and reinstate your privileges if you’ve satisfactorily met the terms of this ruling. If you do choose this alternative sentencing, I’ll waive the three-hour substance-abuse education class you’re otherwise required to take by law. Would you like a few moments to speak with counsel?”
Waive the three-hour class? How generous. But visions of windowless rooms filled with drug addicts danced in her head, so she managed to say politely, “Yes, Your Honor.”
Her attorney returned to the table, and Karan sank to the chair for a powwow.
“Paris Hilton only got two hundred hours of community service and she’s gone way past her first offense,” Karan hissed in his ear.
“Don’t forget she got a year’s probation.” He shot a glance at the bench as if worried they might be overheard. Jack and Wannabe Jenny were too busy chitchatting to pay attention. “Japan wouldn’t even let her enter the country.”
Like Karan wanted to go to Japan. “Is this honestly the best you can do?”
He scowled. “I don’t know what you did to this woman, but I promise you won’t get a better offer. Jail or alternative sentence. Your call.”
Visions of Lindsay Lohan’s latest trip to the pokey replaced images of windowless rooms. The local press would have a field day if Karan went to jail since the woman who ran the Bluestone Mountain Gazette was another Ashokan High alumnus who hadn’t had any use for Karan and her circle of friends.
At least she could spin community service in a domestic violence shelter into something not as humiliating as jail. “Alternative sentence.”
“Good choice.” Her attorney popped to his feet. “Your Honor, my client would like to accept the alternative sentence in lieu of jail time and thanks you for your consideration.”
Wannabe Jenny looked smug. “Good luck then, Ms. Kowalski Steinberg-Reece. I’ll look forward to reviewing updates about your progress.”
No doubt. Probably didn’t have anything else to do while eating her microwave-frozen dinners at night.
“Thank you, Your Honor.” That was as polite as Karan could manage. Wannabe Jenny might have the gavel in her hand right now, but the accompanying black robe washed out her sallow skin. She needed to either invest in decent makeup primer or have a conversation with whomever had chosen black as the color of choice in the courtroom.
Karan jumped when the gavel cracked with aggressive finality and Wannabe Jenny said, “Court adjourned.”
For today, anyway, because Karan would be back.
Unfortunately.
CHAPTER TWO
CHARLES STEINBERG WHEELED HIS Jeep Wrangler into the parking lot behind the three-story Victorian where he’d spent more time during the past eight months than he had anywhere but in the operating room. Releasing the clutch, he pulled up the emergency brake, noticing how the sun sparkled on the newly installed windows, as bright and promising as the place itself.
He felt a satisfaction as if he’d personally installed those windows rather than cutting the check that released funds to the contractor who’d done the job.
Charles’s contribution had been in the coordination and decision making, in determining essential need to balance the budget, in the long-range planning and development of outreach programs. He’d done his fair share.
And though he hadn’t originally chosen to become one of the directors of this project, Charles prided himself on living by his grandmother’s oft-spoken saying: “Bloom where you’re planted.”
He had. With the help of other dedicated volunteers, New Hope of Bluestone Mountain, Inc. had been born. The town’s first certified domestic violence prevention and emergency shelter.
The front porch light now shone 24/7, a welcome to families in crisis and the promise of help. Behind freshly painted gingerbread trim, every room had been transformed to become a multiservice facility with offices, counseling rooms and two complete floors of suites that served as temporary shelter for women and children in need.
For such a noble endeavor, the neighborhood wasn’t all that much to look at. In the years since Charles had come to town, the large property lots in this area had attracted enough businesses to be zoned commercial. Still, there were a few residences like this one tucked away on forested acreage between auto repair shops and convenience stores. The out-of-the-way location was what made the house perfect as a shelter.
Charles got out, noticing the sleek gray Jaguar that looked out of place in a parking lot separated only by a security wall and evergreens from the loading docks of Bluestone Mountain’s only Walmart Supercenter.
He didn’t bother pulling on the Jeep’s cover. There wasn’t a hint of uncertain weather in the summer sky. Besides, he wouldn’t be here that long, and only had to touch base with his codirector about some volunteer scheduling decisions that couldn’t wait until Monday.
He’d already had a long day in surgery, having arrived at the hospital way before the sun had come up this morning. Five surgeries later then rounds and he’d earned the right to this weekend’s fishing trip.
Charles had made it to the flagstone path when the security gate ground open again. A familiar white Toyota Camry appeared, slipping into the space on the opposite side of the Jaguar and coming to a sharp stop.
Rhonda Camden, Ph.D., New Hope’s codirector and his partner in crime. Running late as usual.
The door swung open and she hopped out, dragging a briefcase that overflowed with papers. She looked as windblown and hurried as she always did, and after eight months of working together, Charles knew why—she juggled more balls in the air than most people between her job as director of the town’s crisis center and her private practice. Add volunteer endeavors such as New Hope…
Smiling broadly, Rhonda gestured to the house and all they’d accomplished together in the past eight months.
“Matthew impressed yet?” she asked, referring to the chief at St. Joseph’s Hospital where Charles was
on staff.
“You’d think. I’m either in surgery or I’m here. But the man is a hard sell. Maybe you should put in a good word for me.”
Not that he thought anything would impress St. Joseph’s chief. Matthew West was going to make Charles sweat out an invitation to join the Catskill Center for Cardiothoracic Surgery, the most professional and highly regarded team in the area, and projects like New Hope were a part of the process. He’d already reconciled himself to running the gauntlet until the chief was satisfied. Or until he found another candidate to join the coveted team. Whichever came first.
She rolled her eyes. “Right. Your boss has even less of a regard for my field than you do if that’s possible.”
Charles thought it might be, and he couldn’t deny her claim, either. He hadn’t known much about, or had much use for, clinical psychology before seeing Rhonda in action. He was a surgeon. His interest was all about what was happening inside the body, not speculation about why.
“I told you I’ve revised my opinion of your field.”
She passed him and headed up the steps. “You mentioned it. I’m not convinced I should believe you.”
“You read minds for a living. You should know if I’m lying.”
She didn’t take the bait, only laughed, and he launched himself up two steps at a time to reach the entrance before she did. After inputting his security code, he held the door for her.
“Thank you, Dr. Steinberg.”
“My pleasure, Dr. Camden.” He stepped inside. “So what’s this new program that needs immediate attention?”
Turning around, she peered pointedly over the rim of her glasses. “See that showy Jag parked between our cars?”
“I do.”
“I suspect that belongs to our court-ordered volunteer.”
Charles came to a stop with the door still half-open. “Court ordered? I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Some folks need a little help recognizing the merits of helping others.”
“You’re killing me with suspense.” Actually, the suspense wasn’t killing him, but the need to get home, pack a bag and get the hell out of Dodge was.
This was Rhonda’s expertise, and after working beside her, Charles had the utmost of confidence in her decisions. If she said they should take on a court-ordered volunteer program, then Charles accepted her word.
“No felons or pedophiles, I promise,” she assured him.
“Never even crossed my mind.” He pulled the door shut until the lock clicked tight. Another thing about Rhonda—she was crazy invested in helping women. So much so that he’d wondered more than once whom she knew or what might have happened in her life to make her such a passionate advocate.
“Hey, Deputy Doug,” she greeted the sheriff as they passed the room that had been transformed into the on-site Sheriff’s Department substation.
The deputy, spit-polished in a uniform that lent an air of authority and safety to New Hope, glanced up from the desk where he monitored video surveillance of the property with the phone cradled against his ear. He waved.
Charles inclined his head as he passed. “Our resident deputy is okay with you inviting criminals onto the property?”
“Not criminals.” Rhonda huffed over her shoulder and headed down the hallway toward the administrative offices. “They’re women the court feels have something to offer and deserve a chance to get back on more productive paths.”
“That’s very…politically correct.”
“I couldn’t say no, Charles. It’s a worthy cause and we need the help. Our volunteer base is a third of what it needs to be, and with the screenings, orientations and training, that won’t change for some time.”
Charles was personally acquainted with the duties around here and wondered what these formerly upstanding women might have to offer. He didn’t bother asking since they had arrived in the office and the administrative volunteer sitting at the desk said, “Your appointment is here, Dr. Camden.”
“Thanks.” She motioned Charles into their shared office. “Close the door.”
He did as she asked, surprised when she dropped her things on the desk and went straight for the observation panel on the wall. Sliding the shutter open, she peered through the viewing glass into the reception area.
“Nicely dressed felon,” Rhonda said drily.
The observation panel had been established as a security measure in a place filled with them. They’d modeled New Hope after other domestic violence programs around the country. The unfortunate truth was that domestic violence could erupt anywhere and often followed its victims.
Precisely why New Hope’s security measures were top-notch. Not only was there a fully-staffed sheriff substation, but the facility was hardwired to the Bluestone Mountain Police. A silent alarm would dispatch officer backup and SWAT resources within minutes. From state-of-the-art internet security to detailed precautionary procedures that involved other domestic violence agencies around the state, New Hope, for its remote location in Bluestone Mountain, was a cutting-edge facility.
Rhonda motioned him over. Charles honestly could not have cared less, but the path of the least resistance was the fastest way to get out the door and up to the river. Crossing the room, he peered through the glass at the woman standing in the reception area, idly thumbing through a magazine.
A tall, slim woman with sleek blond hair and delicate features that would be right at home on the cover of the magazine she held. Nicely dressed was an understatement. This woman’s wardrobe could feed a developing nation.
“Jesus.” He staggered back, nearly tripping over Rhonda.
She jumped out of his way, steadying herself on the desk. “What’s wrong?”
For a moment he could only stare. The words were in his head but wouldn’t come out. He blinked. He took a deep breath. He tried again. “You invited my ex-wife to volunteer here?”
“Excuse me. What are you talking about?” Rhonda was clearly confused.
Charles wasn’t talking about anything because he was still too busy trying to reason through why one all too familiar and very unwelcome blonde was standing inside this facility.
Court-ordered community service?
Rhonda stepped around the desk and thumbed through the folders that had slid half out of her jam-packed briefcase. “Here it is. Her name is Reece.”
Sure enough, the folder tab had Reece printed in bold black letters.
“Karan Kowalski Steinberg-Reece.”
Rhonda’s frown melted and she glanced at the folder again. “Guess that will teach me to read what’s inside. Gosh, I’m really sorry, Charles. The program sounded like such a great deal when Chief Sloan mentioned it.”
“Chief Sloan?”
She nodded.
A freaking setup if ever there was one. “He obviously suggested it because he didn’t want to deal with her himself.”
Rhonda sank onto the edge of the desk with the closed folder neatly in her lap. She looked at him with an inviting, psychoanalyzing expression on her face. “Chief Sloan knows your ex-wife, too?”
It took Charles another speechless moment to reason that through. Rhonda wasn’t from Bluestone Mountain. Like himself, she’d come to the area to attend Van Cortlandt College, an elite private university in the valley. She’d wound up settling here after completing grad school. Unlike him, or Chief Sloan for that matter, she’d managed to avoid running into Karan.
“They have a history,” he said.
“I see. And you think Chief Sloan sent her our way because he’d rather we dealt with her?”
“Jack sits on the board of directors. He was involved with this project long before I was, and he didn’t ask me to let her volunteer here because he knew I’d say no damn way.”
Rhonda conceded the point with a nod then flipped open the folder and scanned the documents inside. “Okay, I’m reading. Not seeing what the big deal is about her. I also don’t see… What does she do for a living?”
“Profession
al social climber.”
Rhonda frowned. “Come on, Charles, you married her. How bad can she possibly be?”
He had no words. Just a knot in his stomach.
Rhonda tossed the folder onto the desk and returned to the security panel. “Hmm. I’d say she’s getting impatient because I’m running late. But she is very beautiful. I guess you must have been blinded by her beauty.”
He had been. No question. Charles could still remember the first time he’d ever set eyes on Karan. He was in med school in the midst of a particularly brutal stretch. He hadn’t slept in over forty-eight hours. The autumn sun seared his eyeballs after being holed up in the medical library for he couldn’t even remember how long. The quad was packed with booths and students, and he wished like hell he was headed home for a few hours of shut-eye. No such luck.
The Feminization of Poverty event beckoned.
Dr. Nan Bryson was a popular anthropology professor from Harvard who toured the country speaking on an alarming trend gaining speed in academic circles. The fact that she was coming to Van Cortlandt was a big deal, particularly as one of the undergrads had managed to do what the deans of the anthropology and sociology departments combined hadn’t been able to do—get Dr. Bryson to speak while traveling through the Catskills. To honor this visiting professor, the faculty had pulled out all the stops to ensure the talk was well attended.
Charles had zero interest in sociology, anthropology or women’s issues but after bombing an exam, he’d appealed to the professor for mercy. Charles hadn’t had time to study because he’d been invited to observe surgeries at St. Joseph’s Hospital—no way could he pass up the opportunity. The professor had offered an opportunity for some extra credit.
Charles wouldn’t have missed the event if he’d had to be carried here on a gurney. He needed every dime of his scholarship money so he didn’t have to spend the rest of his life paying off student loans. That meant keeping up his GPA.
He was assigned to work the book booth and did nothing but try to keep his foggy brain functioning. While using hands that were learning to perform delicate maneuvers on organs and arteries to count out ones, fives and tens, he saw her.
The Husband Lesson Page 2