by Sydney Allan
Dropping into the chair next to her, he bit against the temptation to make an excuse for his leering. Funny, only moments ago, before she'd stepped into the room, he had been grouchy. When had that changed?
He wondered if she had this same affect on everyone she worked with. If she did, she had chosen the right career.
With eyes focused upon the table before her, she said, "Okay, Garret. Today, I'd like to talk about relationships. She slid a piece of paper with a large circle drawn on it in front of him. "This exercise is to help you visualize your role in your family, your workplace, your community and your world."
He watched her, intrigued by the way her fingers toyed with a pencil, the way a lock of golden hair slid over her shoulder. "The world? All that from a circle?"
"Sometimes things that look elemental are not so uncomplicated."
Focused on the circle, he said, "Very true."
She shoved a small box of markers at him. "Let's start. I want you to draw whatever comes to mind. Fill the circle with whatever shapes or patterns you like."
He stared at the empty circle. "Fill the whole thing? It's mighty big." This art stuff was not his cup of tea. What the hell would he draw?
"Sure, draw anything."
"Can you give me a hint?"
Her soft chuckle bubbled around his head, frolicking and playful. "There isn't a right answer, you know."
The empty circle just sat there, glaring at him like a wide yawn, and his lack of inspiration frustrated him. He didn't enjoy looking like a fool. Finally, he shoved the paper away. "I'm no good at art. I'm about as creative as a stone." Despite having tried to joke, he sounded like a bratty kid, even to himself, but he didn't care.
Faith's silent censure didn't change his mind.
"Look, I don't need any fancy art stuff to get in touch with my feelings. I'm more aware of them than I want to be."
"I see."
"I'm not trying to be difficult."
She shrugged her shoulders. "Of course you are. You haven't believed in my work since you stepped foot in the building. Why should I expect you to cooperate?"
He dropped his gaze to the paper again. "I'm not trying to prove anything, honest."
The paper slid from his view, yanked away by Faith. She set it aside and then rested clenched hands on the table. "Shall we talk then?"
"About what?"
"How about your marriage?"
A bolt of heat shot up Garret's spine. Why would Faith bring that up now? "What about my marriage? It's history, been over for three years."
Faith lifted a hand to smooth back a stray blond lock. When her hand ran along the side of her head, something flashed on her finger.
He focused on the source of the sparkle, and his heart jumped in his chest. A ring? She hadn't been wearing a ring before.
Damn, it was true. That bum was her fiancé. "What a strange coincidence, we're discussing the demise of my marriage while you are facing the dawn of yours."
She looked puzzled. Her brows pulled together until they formed a deep v over the bridge of her nose, then she thrust her hand under the table. "Oh. Yeah." A soft pink colored her cheeks.
Was she embarrassed? A strange twinge of something unexpected and uncomfortable settled deep in his belly. He couldn't precisely identify the feeling, but he knew he would prefer to avoid it if he could. Words escaped his attempt to capture them, hopping around in his head like mad rabbits.
Was he…jealous?
She lifted her chin, her spine suddenly much straighter as though she'd found a source of strength she hadn't possessed a moment ago. "Let's discuss your marriage for a moment, please."
"I'd rather discuss yours."
Her mouth opened wide and then clamped shut. " I’m the therapist here, Garret. Would you cooperate?" Her tone was restrained, each word enunciated with great care.
Trying to catch a glimpse of the ring again, he shifted forward. His heart thumped noisily in his chest, the pounding traveling all the way up to his ears. A warm flush spread over his body.
He was jealous. The guy he'd seen in the woods didn't deserve someone like Faith. He was self-involved, cocky. Garret had known plenty of guys like him, and there was no way Faith would be happy with a guy like that. She deserved so much more.
What was he thinking? How did he know what she deserved, what would make her happy? He'd known her for such a short time. Besides, what the hell could he do about it anyway? Even if he tried to explain his opinion to her, she wouldn't listen to him. Why should she? "I hope you're happy."
Silence. Then, she said, "Have you considered reconciliation?"
A charge of electricity stung him, leaving his brain a molten muddle for a moment. When his capacity for speech returned, he asked, "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Reconciliation with Marian." Her voice was lower, and he sensed she'd lost her confidence.
"No. Never."
Her gaze riveted to him, she asked, "Why not?"
"Because we don't belong together. We'd only destroy each other."
She didn't look convinced. "That sounds like an excuse."
He was growing more irritated by the second but didn't know whether it was the fact that she was questioning his answer to her question, or that she wanted him to reconcile with Marian. Had he misunderstood her? He'd never been so inept at reading women before. He shrugged, looking toward the window.
"Garret? Please, won't you discuss this? It's important. Why do you shut down whenever I mention anything remotely uncomfortable? You're a psychiatrist; you know your defensive behavior isn't healthy."
When he returned his gaze to her face, she dropped her eyes. Did she really want him to reconcile with Marian? If she did, why was she avoiding his gaze all of a sudden? Something else was going on. "Enough. I don't want to explore the possibility of reconciling with Marian. It's not a pleasant picture." He forced a smile to soften the bite of his words.
She lifted her eyes and started to say something, but stopped herself.
"Can we talk about something else?" he asked.
"Fair enough. But was it really so bad between you two? From my vantage, it doesn't look like it was."
Why wouldn't she drop this conversation? It was clear to him neither of them wanted to continue it. "What would you know?"
"What I've seen since you've been here. What Marian has told me over the past six months."
"First, you're only hearing one side of the story. Second, she's just depressed because that scumbag Michael dumped her. And third, since our divorce, we haven't spent more than a few minutes together at any given time.
"And for the record, now that I've been forced to work with her here at Mountain Rise, I'm looking forward to things returning to the way they've been for the past three years." Faith's lip quivered, and he sensed she was holding back a mighty guffaw. "What's so funny?"
The shaking stopped, but she still didn't look like she was taking him seriously. She didn't know a damn thing about marriage--certainly didn't know how to pick a suitable spouse, for herself or anyone else.
"Funny? Nothing. What makes you ask that?"
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it was the way you bit back that laughter."
She lifted her hand, the one with the ring, and laid it upon her chest. The diamond caught a beam of sunlight and sent a spray of multicolored stars over the wall. "Laughter? I would never…"
He glared at the ring, as though he was staring down the man who had given it to her.
"What's wrong?" she asked, studying his face. Following the direction of his gaze, from the wall, back to the ring on her finger, she jerked her hand to her lap once again.
He couldn't keep his mouth shut. But then again, if she could try to force him to reconcile with Marian, why shouldn't he tell her what he thought? "He's not right for you, Faith."
"What?" She looked incredulous.
"I met him. The other day."
"I can't believe you said that. What are you doing? Interviewi
ng applicants?"
Her sarcasm amused him, even if he wasn't thrilled with her answer. She couldn't seriously want to marry that punk. What do you know! Sweet little Faith has a spiny side after all. He hadn't seen that before. His admiration and attraction increased in the span of a second, growing beyond curiosity and lust. She was truly full of surprises.
Even so, he'd intentionally overstepped the line. She was being paid to discuss his family. "I'm sorry. Your personal life is none of my business."
"You're damn right."
"I don't know why I said that." Actually, he had his suspicions, but he wasn't going to share them.
"Me neither."
Their eyes locked, and a spray of warmth washed up his neck. Her lips trembled a tiny bit, and the unexpected urge to kiss away the movement nearly sent him from the room. When she licked them, settling a glisten upon their pink surface, he tore his gaze away and focused on the wall behind her.
"I've been told her side. Would you tell me yours? What happened between you and Marian? What caused your divorce?" she asked in a soft voice.
"She had an affair."
"She told me. I'm sorry." She wondered if he would admit to more. There were always two sides, and usually more than what showed on the surface, especially in a complicated relationship like a marriage.
"No need to be sorry. It's for the better."
"How could it be for the better? Raphaela needs her mother. She needs two parents working together."
"That wasn't happening anyway--nothing would be different if we were still married." The damn white wall wasn't much to look at. When Faith didn't speak, he looked at her.
Immediately, she dropped her gaze to the piece of paper, the one with the circle on it. She curled and uncurled a corner. Was she as uncomfortable as he was? He watched her toy with the paper. No fingernail polish on those hands. No acrylic talons, either.
His gaze traveled up her arm to her face. She was a naturally beautiful woman. Healthy skin, with a natural flush, hair with sunny steaks, clearly not from a bottle. Real. This woman was genuine, whereas Marian was fake, all show.
The urge to get as far away as possible from her returned. "Are we finished?"
After lifting her eyes to the clock, she said, "No."
"Well, then. Are we going to spend the rest of the hour in silence?"
"Marian asked me to try to convince you to reconcile."
"What the hell?" He jumped from his chair. Now, he really wanted to leave, although her admission didn't surprise him. Did that mean she didn't want him to return to Marian? Why should he care what Faith wanted? He knew what he wanted--to shout, to pound his fist on the table. He hated these damn games. "She asked you to do this? To plead her case?"
Avoiding his gaze, she stared out the window and nodded.
"That woman is deranged. There is no way in hell I would reconcile with her."
"That is an odd word for a psychiatrist to use. Besides, I don't think she's deranged, just desperate."
"She wasn't desperate three years ago when I offered to give our marriage another chance."
His statement brought her gaze to him. "You did? She never told me that."
"Yes, I did." He paced the floor. "But she declined. Too damn busy playing mommy to Michael's kids. I knew that wouldn't last. Hell, if she can't be a mother to her own flesh and blood, how can she be one to someone else's?"
Faith flinched, and he immediately realized how bitter he sounded. He silently cursed himself for the outburst. He didn't want to sound bitter, or angry. No. He wanted Faith and Marian to see how little all of this mattered to him. Cool and indifferent, that's how he wanted to appear.
"Then I won't push it," Faith said.
Relief. "Smart lady." Did he see relief in her eyes as well? And in the muscles running down her neck and over her shoulders?
After he returned to his seat, she asked, "How does your hostility toward Marian affect your relationship with Raphaela?"
"What hostility?" God. Here he thought they'd finally move on to something else. Faith had no idea what she was talking about. "I'm not hostile, or angry. When it comes to Marian, I don't feel a thing but sweet, simple indifference."
"You do too. Can't you admit to even that much after your little tirade a minute ago?"
"No." Why was she doing this? Pushing so hard, forcing him to face pain he'd successfully ignored for years. She needs to back off.
"Garret?" She leveled her penetrating gaze at him, making him feel exposed.
"You're off-base, way off-base." His gaze slipped to the tabletop, and he studied the long, narrow grain of the wood, punctuated by concentric, uneven ovals.
"No, you're hiding--"
"I have nothing to hide." This was getting old--a therapist with maybe an undergrad degree postulating, tossing around theories as though she knew more than he did. He was not a case study.
"Why can't you admit it?"
Damn, she needs to give up this ridiculous ghost chase. Now. "Because it's simply not true. I love my daughter, damn it. My feelings for her have nothing to do with that crazy mother of hers!" Calm down, you're adding fuel to her fire.
She paused, her chest expanding as she drew in a long, deep breath. "Okay. Let's talk about something else."
"Thank you." He glanced at the clock again. This had to be the longest hour in human history. "Is the battery in your clock dead? I don't think the hands have moved in the last hour."
Ignoring his comment, she asked, "What do you expect to gain from Mountain Rise, now that you've spent a few days here?"
"Nothing much, to be honest."
She looked surprised. "Haven't you seen a change in Raphaela? This morning, in our daily meeting, her therapists reported some wonderful progress. That must give you some hope."
"What are you getting at?" He glanced at the clock again. No doubt about it, the battery was dead. The minute hand had not moved.
"I'm 'getting at' nothing. I'm trying to understand how I can help you and Raphaela. She's a sweet little girl, and I'm happy to hear she's responding well to the program. The next step, as I'm sure you know, is to take the techniques you’re learning in the play therapy sessions and employ them at home."
"Yeah." He didn't want to admit the truth: he honestly had no interest in doing what she suggested. Sure, Raphaela had shown a subtle increase in eye contact and had initiated a couple of brief physical contacts with him, and yes, he'd been overjoyed by even that much progress. But those changes were still a far cry from what the program claimed it could do. Was isolating Raphaela in a plain room, with no stimuli outside of a few toys for hours upon hours each day, month after month, as the program dictated going to produce any greater results? Or would it do more harm than good?
"Your problem has nothing to do the program, does it, Garret?"
He stared out the window, admiring the gentle shift of cool shadows as the wind tossed the leaves of the trees up above the building, and well beyond his sight. "I don't know what you mean."
"You're not a good liar."
"I'm not lying."
"Then you're neck-deep in denial," she said.
"Denial? If anyone is in denial, it's you--and the rest of the staff at this damn place. And you're giving Marian a false sense of hope too, both about our daughter and about our marriage. On the other hand, if anyone is completely accepting of the situation for what it truly is, it's me."
"Are you scared? Afraid of failure? Of being wrong? Or are you just stubborn--determined not to let anyone break through that iron-clad exterior of yours?"
He folded his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about."
"Oh, yes I do. Your defensiveness attests to that fact."
She was so sure of herself. So smug. Where had all that insecurity he'd seen earlier gone?
"My so-called defensiveness attests only to the fact that this conversation is pointless," he said.
"If you were honest w
ith yourself, you'd see that's not true. If you’re going to help your little girl, you’re going to have to face some things, Garret. Some uncomfortable, unpleasant things."
He met her set and intrusive gaze. "I've done damn well the past three years without you and your program. And I don't have any 'things' to face. You need to stop now. You don't possess the education or the knowledge to make statements like that. What do you have, a bachelor's degree? Psych and art, wasn't it?"
Her eyes widened. "So you're resorting to insults? I know what you're intimating."
"Really?"
"I have a master's in counseling."
"That's not enough to be licensed."
"You're right, a master's degree is not enough to be licensed. But it's enough to do my job."
"I wonder about that." His voice was low.
Her chair scraped noisily over the tiled floor as she pushed it back and stood. "You're only hurting Raphaela by being a stubborn ass."
"No, I'm protecting her." He stood.
Her eyes flashed with anger as she returned his gaze. The tendons around her eyes and along her jaw and neck were tense, drawing her features into a strangely contorted mask. Her hellish look reminded him of the strange masks he'd seen native people wear on National Geographic.
"You're protecting no one but yourself. Open your eyes. Your daughter deserves your support. Your love. Give it to her, instead of being only her doctor."
"She has my love and support. Don't you dare tell me I don't love my daughter. How the hell would you know a damn thing about us? You observe us for a few days, do some art projects and claim you've got us all figured out. Well, hell! If it were that easy, would there be any need for psychiatrists?"
"Like I said, this isn't about protecting Raphaela. All of this defensiveness is protecting your insecurity. You can't stand to see someone who doesn't have an MD after her name know more than you do."
"You don't know more than a freshman psych student. Do you have a cheat-sheet taped under there?" he asked pointing at the table.
She wrapped her arms around herself. The muscles of her upper arms tensed, exaggerating the sinewy line of their toned lengths. "God, you're a cold son-of-a-bitch. If you're so sure Mountain Rise is a joke, why don't you leave?"