As the Bronco wound through the redwood giants, Margo realized one thing. She would work to help Zane with his problems, but the exchange would not be one-sided. What she would learn about his hideaway retreat would be invaluable for the establishment of her center on the coast.
The promising thought boosted her spirits. She’d worked with enough patients over the years not to expect giant strides of growth in one day. She’d have time.
***
Margo’s optimism and patience about her progress with Zane were wearing thin. For three weekends now she’d trekked the route over the coast range to Fort Bragg and then on the treacherous road to Zane’s place. She was beginning to wonder why. It didn’t seem to her that she’d made any progress. If so, she would be hard put to define it.
The only thing she could say about the meetings was that the silence had produced a growing awareness of Zane as a man. This was not her usual reaction to a patient, and one that was becoming uncomfortable. It was the silence, she supposed. With so little conversation to focus on, there’d only been Zane and her reactions to him.
To further complicate matters, she wasn’t sure what to do next. Her source of publications about the war, veterans, and readjustment had been exhausted. He never discussed a word. She wasn’t even sure he’d read them. So where did that leave her?
Annoyed and ready for a showdown, she decided. Quickly, she snapped the turquoise jumpsuit into place and tied her hair back with a matching scarf. After grabbing her purse and keys, Margo closed her room door and descended the stairs to the lobby of the inn.
“Morning, Nan.”
“Off to the Zanelli place again?”
“You bet. Have you heard any weather reports?”
Nan’s brow furrowed. Margo knew the woman wanted to know what drew her to Zane’s place every single weekend. Her credit card was registered as Dr. Margo Devaull. The townsfolk probably had developed a number of theories. It would be interesting to discover the trends of their imagination.
An affair was no doubt the local consensus, though they must wonder why she never stayed the night. Normally such an assumption would disturb Margo; in this case it didn’t. She couldn’t begin to explain why, nor did she think it would be prudent to try. In any event, it was best to leave the topic alone.
Nan didn’t push but gave her an update on the weather. “It’s foggy on the coast. Hot inland.”
Margo groaned. The thick moisture was treacherous on the narrow highway. But at least it was cool. By the time she maneuvered the Bronco out of the fog and across the ruts and holes to Zane’s place, she would be a hot, sticky mess.
“Be thankful,” Nan advised. “In the fall we’ll have rain again. September starts our season. It’ll be rough-going on the dirt road.”
She hoped by then she’d be through. Would another few months crack Zane’s defenses? It would make things easier for both of them if she could get him out of the mountains and with Fred at the V.A. Center for daily treatment. Although she had to admit that once the road perils were behind her she enjoyed the quiet beauty of Zane’s land.
But he was too protected there. He’d built his defenses in the security of the isolated woods. She’d need to get him away to break down those walls. The summer wasn’t much time, especially considering the small amount of progress shown so far. Of course she couldn’t know what was going on inside Zane’s head. She’d been a psychologist long enough to realize that outward appearances were deceiving.
Nan interrupted her silent analysis. “Mind if I ask you a question?”
Margo fished her car keys out of her purse, suspecting what her question would be.
“Are you working on something out there?”
“You could say that.” Margo jiggled her keys.
“What is it? A big, dark secret?”
“No dark secret.” Margo smiled and hoped it looked nonchalant. “But it’s Zanelli business. You’ll have to ask them.”
The resigned look on Nan’s face said it all. They both knew chances of seeing either brother in the near future were slim. Before any more uncomfortable questions could come up, Margo headed for the door. “See you this evening. I’ll be eating in the restaurant as usual.”
“Your favorite tonight.” Nan conceded to the fact that she wasn’t getting more information and smiled. “Steamed clams.”
“Great. I love the way they fix them.”
“It’s the thyme in the broth. Homemade bread too.”
Margo’s mouth was already watering. “That gives me something to think about when I face that road.”
“Be careful, you hear?”
The door closed behind her as she headed for the Bronco. She admired the shiny finish, knowing that as soon as she turned onto Zanelli land the ivory paint would be covered with dirt. Vinnie had loaned the four-wheel-drive vehicle to her for use on this case, and she was glad. Her Cutlass would never survive the conditions of that road.
It took some time to traverse the few miles up the coast because she had to drive slowly through the fog. As soon as she turned off Highway 1 and began climbing up the dirt track, she broke out of the thick moisture and ascended above it. At the crest of the hill she pulled over for a break and glanced below. It seemed like the whole earth was covered with a misty blanket.
Looking down at the shrouded landscape made her feel like she’d broken away from the pressures of work. Here above the clouds there was only the sun and blue sky to focus upon. If only she could fly and leave it all behind.
Including this road, she thought as she turned from the view. Too bad she couldn’t fly over it instead of dealing with the hassle of deep ruts and sharp curves. She told herself to stop stalling, that today was her showdown with Zane.
The reminder caused a ripple of excitement. She should be reluctant; the prospect of a confrontation usually had her nervous and uptight. Her nerves were tight all right, but not because of that. They always stretched thin when she came to see Zane. It was the drive, she tried to rationalize, but deep inside she knew differently.
Zane intrigued her. More and more, thoughts of him filled her mind and some of the questions she had weren’t entirely professional. For example, what was going on in his head when he stared at her with those eyes? Did he sometimes think of her as a woman?
Margo climbed back into the Bronco. Those thoughts were normal, she reminded herself. He’d been isolated for too many years. Many of her patients had developed crushes, but what disturbed Margo was that at some primal level, the thought of Zane’s interest piqued her feminine curiosity.
Dangerous thinking, she chided.
She shifted the gears and began the descent, now knowing every bend and twist by heart. When she came to the last curve she braked the vehicle and stared at the cabin.
Zane stood on the porch, as usual. Today he had on black jeans and a yellow tank top that showed off his tanned skin. It did nothing to hide the remarkable physical condition the man was in, something Margo always seemed to notice – and didn’t want to.
She pulled up to the side of the house that would shade the car by afternoon. After dabbing her face with a tissue and running a comb through her hair, she stretched out of the cramped and hot vehicle.
The fresh air helped. A breeze tugged at her cotton jumpsuit and lifted the heavy weight of hair from her neck. She took several deep breaths to try and calm the annoying tension. Her stomach fluttered as she ascended the steps. As usual, Zane offered his one concession to civility and held out a tall glass of iced juice. She thought she saw a glimmer of welcome in his eyes, but supposed it was wishful thinking on her part when his expression closed up.
“Just what I need. Thanks.” She took the glass and went to the chaise where she usually sat. “It never ceases to amaze me how after sitting in a car for hours, you get out, stretch, and the first thing you want to do is sit down again.”
Zane didn’t respond but sat in his usual place at the top of the steps. So it appeared he had another sile
nt session planned. She glanced at him. He didn’t know it yet, but he was in for some serious jolting. She’d had enough of one-sided conversations, but first she’d rest a minute and cool off in the shade.
“There were deer here a few minutes ago. The noise of the engine scared them off.”
The sound of his voice almost startled her into dropping her glass. He rarely spoke and never initially. Miracle of miracles. Maybe he’d finally realized how ridiculous these silent sessions were.
“Think they’ll come back?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Could be, if we’re quiet long enough.”
She sank back into the cushion and studied his features. They were still implacable, still rugged and strained. You won’t stay silent today, she mused.
She’d wait a few more minutes. Her neck and arms still felt like they’d been constricted with a rubber band. She needed to recoup before the big showdown.
The scent of wildflowers warming in the sun drifted up to her. The birds were singing in the meadow and she could hear the faint hum of insects. It was so peaceful, and she could feel layers of tension begin to peel away with each breath she took.
“Aren’t you tired of making these trips for nothing?” Zane startled her again.
“Are they for nothing?”
He shrugged and leaned against the post. “Seems like a long ways to come and just sit.”
“Is that bothering you?” she probed, hoping for a response.
“Maybe.”
Then talk to me. Margo sat rigid and alert, afraid to break the mood.
“I guess the trip isn’t a complete waste. You look better now.” It wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but at least he was talking.
“You’re always so tense and wound up when you arrive. When you first used to come you rarely relaxed at all, but now you’re only here for a short time and already the trappings of civilization are disappearing.”
Margo quirked one eyebrow. “Trappings of civilization? It’s the lack of them that gets me uptight. Like that road,” she informed him and held her breath, waiting to see if he’d continue.
“There’s that strain too, but it fades quickly. It’s the stress that lines your brow, the tension that tightens your expression. Those are slower to ease.”
So he had been noticing every detail about her. “Interesting theory. What do you think it is?”
“Getting away from the city, of course. Finding the peace and serenity of nature.”
“Ah. You sound like Ralph Waldo Emerson.”
“I agree with his theory. ‘We walk into the opening landscape until by degrees home is crowded out.’”
Margo sat up straight. She was amazed not because he could quote Emerson, but because he’d actually done so – on his own, with no prodding.
“I grew up in the city,” she said. “The country frightens me a little. But I think I see what you mean. The stillness. The color. Its harmony creates peace.”
He didn’t say more, but his glance locked with hers. The deep blue of his eyes disappeared as she was drawn past the color and into their depths. There were so many contradictions: peace, confusion, serenity, and turmoil. Mostly she saw loneliness. She wanted to reassure him. Tell him she cared.
Abruptly he turned and gazed across the meadow. His face hardened as he worked the muscles of his jaw. He looked angry because he’d let her see. She reached out her hand as if touching him would bring back the moment of sharing. Slowly she let it drop and proceeded with caution. The moment was fragile.
In silence they sat for several more minutes. Each seemed longer than the last. Margo wasn’t aware that she held her breath until she finally released it in a slow sigh.
Wispy clouds floated in the blue sky. A single hawk that reminded her of Zane circled high overhead. It was strong and self-sufficient but solitary. The hawk would live like that forever. Would Zane? Her palms began to dampen with tension. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to draw him back to civilization.
“If I’d known you liked Emerson, I’d have brought you some of his works.”
Again Zane didn’t respond but stared across the meadow. Margo clenched her fists and ordered herself to be patient.
“I’ll bring some next week. Maybe you’d like some Thoreau as well.”
Finally he swung his glance back to her. “It would be an improvement over all that other garbage you’ve brought.”
Margo stiffened.
“It’s depressing to read. Except I can be thankful I don’t have it as bad as some of them.”
Interested and alert, she swung her legs off the longue and sat upright. She’d been hoping he’d see similarities he could relate to. It didn’t sound like he had.
“I’m glad you feel that way,” she told him. “And as far as the literature goes, I really don’t have any more.”
In fact, last week, lacking anything else, she’d brought a case study of one of her own patients, Amos Washington. She’d had success with Amos. Fred had convinced her to write up the case and submit it to one of the professional journals she subscribed to. She’d brought Zane the final draft.
Of course, she’d changed the name to protect Amos. It wasn’t just that he was an important businessman now, but few men cared to have it known they’d been castrated. Amos had lost both testicles from gunshot wounds. Though physically not as dramatic as losing limbs, Amos had been mentally crippled for many years. He had worked hard with Margo and she’d been pleased with his progress and success.
Zane rose from the step and walked inside. Margo frowned, not wanting it to be the end of the conversation. She was about to get up and follow him when he returned. In his hand, he’d rolled up several papers. He stopped in front of her and tapped the roll on the side of his thigh.
Curious, Margo waited for his next move.
“About this case.” He handed her the roll. “You wrote it. Is the patient one of yours?”
Margo took the tube and unrolled the resistant papers. Her heart beat with hope. Maybe an article had finally reached Zane? Quickly she read the title. It was last week’s – Amos Washington.
She looked at him in surprise and then horror as sick realization dawned. Not this. Amos had mentioned there’d been two other Marines he knew of with the same problem, but he hadn’t mentioned names.
She started to rise, her glance raking Zane’s body, searching for scars. Amos had been covered with them. But the visible scars weren’t Amos’s problem. His problem was the one people couldn’t see.
Her glance locked with Zane’s.
Chapter 8
Margo fell back on the longue. Her reaction surprised her. When she’d found out about Amos’ suffering, she’d felt professional sympathy. But trying to picture Zane…
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Zane hunkered down beside her. Concern showed in his eyes. She should have been glad to see the emotion.
“It doesn’t really matter if Amos is your patient or not. You don’t have to tell me.”
Margo sat up, quickly composing herself. “Don’t be so sure it’s anyone you know. It could even be a hypothetical case.”
Zane stiffened, his eyes becoming unreadable again. “Amos and I are good friends. I knew he’d been going to therapy and I know his problem.”
“I’m not at liberty to say whether it’s the same case or not. The conjecture is yours.”
Margo studied Zane’s features, wondering if the two men had commiserated because they shared the same problem. Would Zane now open up and talk about it? “Regardless of who it is, why don’t you tell me your reaction to the article?”
He began speaking, but it wasn’t about the article. “It was so senseless and unnecessary. They’d gone on a search and destroy mission north of Phu Bai. Somehow radar contact got screwed up and Da Nang sent fighter jets to strafe the area. Amos and his buddies got hit by American bullets.”
He lifted his head and turned toward the meadow. Margo’s mind began to race. Amos had been bitter about his
wounds, but more because of the effects than whose fault it was. Perhaps Zane had bottled up the bitterness for both of them.
“I imagine there were a lot of unnecessary atrocities. War generates them.”
“But a man’s whole life was ruined.”
“Life situations change. Even without war. Look at all the crippling cases resulting from car accidents. These circumstances ruin your life only if you let them.”
“But a man’s whole future…” His voice trailed off as he clenched his fists.
Margo took a deep breath. “And you, Zane. Is this the way you feel about your future?”
He didn’t answer. For several seconds she waited silently, patiently. Birds sang in the meadow, unaware of the emotional drama in their midst. A light breeze rustled through the grass and swished the bright buds of the wild poppies and lupines.
Zane paused, obviously considering whether he should respond to her question. This could be the turning point he needed.
Abruptly, he swung down onto the rough redwood planks. He leaned back against the chaise and doubled his fists at his side. Margo held her breath. “I was the one who pulled him into the chopper. I had to try and repair the damage.”
He leaned his head back against the longue and stared up at the sky. His hair feathered the material of her jumpsuit and she wanted to run her fingers through it. To comfort him like a mother does a hurt child.
“But there were no medical supplies. No medicines or drugs. There wasn’t a thing we could to until we got him to base.” He pounded his fists. “Not a damned thing.”
Again he hadn’t answered her question, but Margo didn’t press. There’d be time to find out all the answers. At least now he’d begun to talk.
“Amos almost bit the dust – twice. His buddies weren’t so lucky. We tried. But they died.” He pressed his fist to his forehead and took a deep breath. “Maybe they were the lucky ones after all.”
“Does your friend feel that way now?”
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