“What?” the girls chorused.
Missey turned to wink at Rebecca, then answered, “That you’re both up tomorrow morning no later than four, chop a cord of firewood and stack it behind the garage, feed the chickens, collect the eggs, and have a full-course breakfast on the table by seven.”
“Oh, Mother!” Jodie exclaimed with mock indignation. “We don’t even own any chickens!”
At that, all four promptly dissolved into laughter.
* * *
Deep in thought, Rebecca strolled through the backyard of her new, though temporary, home. Ribbons of waning sunlight slanted through the massive maples, casting mottled patterns against the lush lawn. The air was cool, pungent with the fragrance of the white nicotiana that grew in the flowerbeds behind the latticed gazebo.
She wondered if Mark’s practice included weekend hours at the hospital or whether he was fortunate enough to have weekends off, leaving time for regular church attendance. Their brief conversation had alerted her to the fact that he was probably one of those churchgoers who liked to get involved. The thought of seeing him again both intrigued and terrified her. How could she allow herself to become attracted to a man who was so openly everything she was not? A man who’d apparently become so entrenched in his church work, he deemed it necessary to change everything the grand old home had represented for nearly a decade? And, yes, a much too appealing man who was also unknowingly trying to destroy her very dreams?
The house and yard were empty, now, and one full hour remained until she’d promised Wendy she’d take back her pajamas, toothbrush, and a change of clothing. She exhaled slowly. Ah, one precious hour. One hour of solitude to indulge in her memories, allow herself to slip away again into that secret haven deep inside her.
She stooped to breathe in the fragrance of a pale yellow rose and sighed in contentment. The wind rustled through the maples, their gray scaly trunks partially obstructing the view of the shoreline and harbor below. She closed her eyes. Yes, she could hear the wind through the trees—perhaps, even, the winds of time. Soft as a goose-down coverlet, they wrapped around her, caressed her, carried her back to nine years earlier.
It was that precious day in May again. She and August were standing beneath these very trees, inside the white gazebo, repeating their marriage vows. Pastor Vandehey, the minister from Grace Community, faced them, smiling, while nearly three hundred guests looked on: her dear parents, her beloved grandmother on her dad’s side, various members of August’s family, her friends from church and school, plus the folks from her mother’s garden club. Rebecca breathed in deeply. She caught the scent of lilacs, heard the caw-caw of a crow overhead, and felt the unseasonably warm breeze envelope her.
“And I, Rebecca, take thee, August, to be my lawfully wedded husband . . .” She gazed up into August’s blue, blue eyes and drank in the adoration she saw reflected there. Could she ever love any man more than the one standing right here before her? No, never. They were meant to spend a lifetime together, and they would . . . always. “To have and to hold . . .” Yes, she could hardly wait to have him. To hold him, to be his completely, in the truest sense. “From this day forward, for better or for—”
“Rebecca?”
She gave a start. Snapping back to reality, she jerked her head to the side. Mark! Mark Simons!
“Is . . . is everything all right?” he asked. “Are you okay?”
How dare he intrude on my precious memories, my quiet hour alone?
“I’m fine.” She crossed her arms.
“I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She laughed to cover her annoyance. “I was just thinking, letting my thoughts get away from me.” She tipped her chin, met his gaze squarely. “What can I do for you, Mark?”
“I have a favor to ask.”
“Yes?” Alarm swelled inside of her. Was he going to ask her to leave even sooner?
“This might take a bit of explaining.” He glanced about, his brow furrowed, then motioned to the two dark green Adirondack chairs on the brick patio edging the west side of the vacant caretaker’s quarters. “Shall we sit down over there?”
“Well.” She hesitated, glancing at her watch. “I have to be back at my sister’s in less than an hour . . .”
“No problem. This shouldn’t take long.”
In strained silence, they crossed the backyard, then sat down catty corner to each other. She settled back, but the wooden seat beneath felt hard and unwelcoming.
“I need Wendy to take on a little job for me—but only with your permission, of course. I’m willing to pay her the going rate . . . whatever kids like her get paid for running errands, baby-sitting, that sort of thing.”
“You need her to baby-sit?” Rebecca couldn’t keep the astonishment out of her voice.
He chuckled. “Oh, no! I didn’t mean that. I’d simply like to hire a couple of kids to walk around the neighborhood distributing flyers. There’d be no soliciting or direct contact with the neighbors themselves, mind you. All Wendy—and whoever else—will need to do is attach a flyer to each front door handle.”
“Umm . . . you must be running for an office or something . . .” Considering what Missey had told her about his involvement at the hospital, he was undoubtedly a shaker and mover in town. She met his gaze again, battling against the way his dark eyes were affecting her.
“No, not at all. I’m trying to get out some flyers about the neighborhood meeting I’m planning to host,” he replied matter-of-factly. His smile was apologetic. “But before I get too far ahead of myself, I’d better back up and try to explain. After you move out this fall, there’ll be some big changes in store.”
“So I gathered. But you never told me what changes,” she reminded him.
“I’m going to have the house bulldozed and build another one in its place.”
She felt as if he’d punched her in the stomach. Her head seemed to spin. “You can’t mean that!”
“I do.”
She braced herself for his next words.
“I’m a psychiatrist, Rebecca. In addition to my private practice, I’m on staff at Northwestern Hospital.”
“Yes, I know. My sister already told me that.” Her voice rose a trifle. “But . . . but what has this got to do with your property?”
His jaw hardened. “A lot. About a dozen of my patients have made remarkable progress these past months. They’re not ready to go back out into the community at large, though, and that’s where my plans come into play.” He averted his gaze, then continued tentatively, as if testing the idea. “I plan to build a new facility here on the property—a halfway house, but there are a number of legal hoops I have to jump through first.”
No! Not here, not my beloved Glasgow house! She felt suddenly dizzy. She was afraid she might pass out. Regaining her composure enough to speak again, she asked shakily, “And these patients you’re referring to . . . just how . . . how sick are they?”
“Many have histories of depression, bipolar disorder, that sort of thing. A few also are recovering from addictions to alcohol and drugs. The conditions are often coexistent, of course.”
“I . . . I don’t understand.” Try as she might, she couldn’t stop the tremor in her voice. “Why do we need a halfway house here? In Freemont, of all places?”
“It only makes good sense, Rebecca. Freemont’s a short drive from Coves Junction, which translates to a smoother transition for the patients. And this neighborhood is ideal. Old homes. Close to bus lines. Walking distance to town. The correct zoning parameters.” He shrugged. “What more could you ask for?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “I love this small, safe town, Mark. That’s part of the reason Wendy and I moved back here. This neighborhood, in particular, doesn’t need any mentally unbalanced people moving in and destroying the peace.”
“But the folks who you refer to as mentally unbalanced have every potential for getting well. That’s the whole point. In part, that’s what m
y mission’s all about.” He paused, as if searching for his next words. “I’ve just come from the Clarkston County headquarters where I learned about the application process. My first step is to call an open meeting to try to assure the neighbors all the necessary safeguards will be in place. Then after the paperwork’s done and the county and state licensing requirements are in place, there’ll be a hearing procedure. The review is supposed to take 120 to 150 days, providing everything goes smoothly.”
“In other words, about four months,” she mused aloud.
“Yes, more or less.”
“So when do you plan to do the canvassing?”
“A week from this Saturday. The meeting’s scheduled for the last Saturday in June, so as you see, I’m getting pressed for time.”
Despite her objections, she couldn’t help but feel a small thread of empathy for him. The man certainly did have his work cut out for him, and she didn’t envy him the legal hoops he was forced to jump through, not to mention all the paperwork.
“If all goes smoothly,” Mark continued, “I figure I can get started on the project by the first part of October, which explains, of course, your three-month lease. My goal is to have the facility up and running by next April, if possible.”
She considered his words for a long moment. “While I can appreciate all you’re having to deal with, Mark, I still don’t think I can, in good conscience, let Wendy help you. After all, I don’t even want you to tear down the old Glasgow place, let alone allow such drastic changes to take place in the neighborhood.” And despite the fact I feel terribly attracted to you, I know so little about you. How could I be sure it’s safe to entrust you with my little girl for practically an entire day?
He frowned. “You don’t seem to understand. These people have nowhere else to turn. They need a safe, therapeutic environment to help facilitate their transition back into the real world. If that doesn’t come about, I’m afraid the majority of them will end up right back in hospitals again . . . or perhaps even on the streets.” A shadow flickered across his face.
“Do you realize, Mark, how a plan like this would destroy the economy of this dying town? Without an old Glasgow place for movie fans to visit, Freemont will simply wither away.”
As he got to his feet, the angles of his all-too-handsome face hardened. “Look. I never expected you to accept my news with arms wide open. Yes, it’s a difficult decision—and I’ve thought and prayed about it for some time now.”
“All right, Mark.” She got to her feet, also, and looked at him squarely. “I might not agree with you, but at the same time, I can’t deny you the right to your feelings.” She inhaled sharply. “But just remember. I have a right to mine, too.”
Chapter Four
Mark shut the office door behind him as he strode down the wide corridor at Northwestern Hospital. His footsteps echoed off the tiled floor, and he breathed in the odor of fresh floor wax. Pale sunlight slanted through the high, narrow windows, casting shadows against the sea foam green concrete walls.
Clipboard in hand, he checked his watch. Just enough time for a quick trip to the staff cafeteria to grab a bagel and black coffee. Every Friday morning at eight, he headed up the round-table discussion for the patients on 5-B, one of the several unlocked wards. If he were a betting man, he’d bet his last dollar even Fred Walker, who often lay in his bed for days in a catatonic stupor, would be there without prompting. Ever since the group had started discussing “life on the outside,” Johnny was beginning to show signs of healing. Then there were Ted Hegwood and Allan Morion and Jeffrey Smegal, all recovering from depression, anxiety, and schizophrenia. Yes, the future would look brighter once the halfway house was finally up and running.
“Hi, Mister Doctor,” a patient by the name of Mildred Poujade greeted him as he passed by the nurses’ station. Mildred, in her early sixties, was a “lifer,” a patient who’d been there for several decades and would probably never see the light of day outside an institutional setting.
“Morning, Mildred!” He offered her his brightest grin and noticed she wasn’t carrying the rag doll she normally had tucked in the crook of her arm. He noted, too, how her girth evidenced too many years of starchy, institutional food. Typical of so many of the long-term patients.
“So how’re you today, Mildred?” he asked, stopping to shake her hand. Her limp grasp felt cold, her skin papery, but her smile was trusting. She wore a wrinkled pink blouse with one button missing, blue sweats, lace-fringed anklet socks, and scuffed sneakers.
“Johnny Baker down the hall . . . he took my baby and won’t give her back and my other baby inside here—” she patted her stomach. ”She ain’t gonna get born, you know? She’s just gonna stay inside of me forever. I need my first-born back. Please help me, Mr. Doctor.”
He patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mildred. I’ll talk to your head nurse about this. But for right now, it’s time for you to head over to the chow hall. I hear the pancakes are better than ever this morning . . .”
Apparently temporarily distracted from her story, she gave a mock salute and a toothy smile. “Aye-aye, Doc!” Then she hurried off.
Poor woman. Compassion mingled with regret as he watched her disappear around the corner. Mildred suffered from chronic schizophrenia, a result of a severe case of post-partum depression. The sight of her with her rag doll always brought a lump to his throat. Would Mom be like Millie if she had lived long enough? No! God forbid! Not if she’d had the chance I’m trying so desperately to give the others.
Heaving a sigh, he hastened his pace, then stepped outside into the morning light. The sudden brightness caused him to blink rapidly. Yes, he’d somehow make it up to Mom—and prove his worth to God, too, he vowed as he had so many times in the past. Each time the thought occurred to him, it drove him all the more. It was the sole reason he got out of bed each morning, faced each new unknown and every challenge.
A gust of wind lifted the collar of his jacket as he descended the stairs and followed the narrow concrete sidewalk through a canopy of evergreens. The cool air stung his face, energized his senses. But this particular morning, that wasn’t enough. I need another cup of strong coffee. And maybe I should forget the bagel and go for a sugary donut instead. Yes, he’d spent far too many nights working until the wee hours, drafting the grant proposal—and last night had been no exception. Now his days seemed an endless maze of patient rounds, meetings, conferences, and appointments.
His cell phone chimed. The caller ID told him that Joan, his receptionist, was phoning from the clinic—not from her home as she sometimes had in the past. Joan’s interest in him was more than just professional.
“Dr. Simons . . . Mark.”
“Hi. What’s up?” A mental image of her took shape in his mind. Fiery auburn hair. Snapping green eyes. And the cutest southern accent he’d ever heard. If he had half a mind to start dating again, he wouldn’t mind asking her out. But he didn’t. No way.
“Just calling to remind you we’re booked late again tonight. Our last appointment’s at eight. Shall I cut it off there or allow a couple more?”
“Who’s the last patient?”
“William Loddington. He’s scheduled for a review of his meds. Says he wants plenty of extra time for questions, too. Apparently he’s been experiencing some unpleasant side effects.”
“Cut it off with Bill then.” He sidestepped a small puddle from last night’s rain. “It’s important I give him all the time he needs.”
“All right. See you at one-thirty.” A long pause followed. “And Dr. Simons?” Her voice softened. “Mark?”
“Yes, Joan?”
“I’ve got two tickets for the symphony in Portland next Saturday. It’s a matinee, which would give us plenty of time to drive over to the valley and back before it got late. Interested?”
“Ah . . .” He faltered “No, ’fraid not, Joan. I’ve got other plans.”
“Hmmm.” A long silence followed. “All right. If you insist. See you lat
er.”
“Yeah, later.” He punched off the end button and dropped the cell phone back into his jacket pocket. Other plans? True enough, though undoubtedly not the type of plans she’d like to hear about. It was critical he start canvassing the neighborhood and getting out those flyers. Hardly one’s idea of a hot social life . . . but critical, nonetheless.
Besides, there was no room—nor was there time—in his life for another woman, not even Rebecca, as attracted as he’d felt to her. One failed romance was one too many. Thankfully, he’d come to his senses in time and realized he just wasn’t cut out to be a husband, much less a father—and Marcella had wanted a passel of kids. Yes, it would have been a big mistake indeed to have committed his life to Marcella. Undoubtedly she would have felt resentful about his frequent absences, and he would have felt riddled with guilt.
His thoughts rolled back to Rebecca.
More guilt.
Ever since their talk last week in the backyard, he’d mulled over what she had said. Her objections, her sudden outburst of anger, had cut deeply. But she was right. Much as he hated to admit it, he had no business trying to rope her daughter into helping him. The halfway house was his project and his calling, after all. If he wanted to score points with his neighbors, then it was up to himself to meet them face-to-face, not palm the work off on anyone else, let alone a child of only eight. Somehow he’d just have to make time for it.
Inside the cafeteria, he helped himself to two chocolate covered donuts and a coffee, paid the cashier, and sat down at an empty table. He took a huge bite of one of the doughnuts and a swig of coffee, barely tasting them.
Rebecca. It still remained a mystery to him why the house should be so all-fired important to her. A house was just a house, old and grand as it was. He understood how his project might bring a halt to the increased business in town, but even if the old Glasgow house were to remain, the tourists would eventually fade away. What he was looking at was the long term good, not just the short term.
A House Divided Page 5