Raphaela's Gift (18 page)

He was still hiding. Did she want to risk their new comfort by shaking things up again? She had to, no matter how much she didn't want to. "Plenty. I mean, I like the way things have gone today… actually, weren't you supposed to leave?"

"I was."

"What happened?" she asked before she lost the nerve. Then, she held her breath and waited for him to answer.

He paused a moment, his gaze wandering to the window. "I was ready to leave last night. I'd had enough, but then I sat there holding Raphaela as she slept, and I realized what a jackass I'd been--to you, to her, to Marian. I decided I was through being a jackass."

God, she hoped he was for real. How many people do that, step back, and evaluate their behavior? And then admit it when they were wrong? "That's quite a revelation."

"I guess it took a few good slugs in the head to make me step back and take an honest look at myself, not that I think what that punk did was right. And not that I think you're doing the right thing by letting him get away with it." His expression grew more intense. "He should go to jail for what he did, and if you don't want to call the police, I could." He paused, his head tipped slightly. Then added, "If you want me to, of course."

The last part was more than a statement, and she knew it. It was a question, a weighty one that meant more than either of them was willing to say aloud. If she protected Steven by refusing Garret's help, then Garret would surely back off--return to the distant, gruff man he had been.

But should she let Garret do the deed for her? That was so cowardly.

"No, Steven is my problem. I need to handle it myself."

He nodded. "I thought I'd offer." He didn't look pleased with her answer, but he didn't withdraw completely either.

The waitress brought their sandwiches and fries and stood at their table awaiting any further requests.

"Looks good." Garret looked at Faith. "You need anything else?"

"Nope."

He addressed the waitress. "Thank you."

She smiled and walked away.

Grateful for the distraction the food provided, even though she knew such weighty matters lay between them, she busied herself with her sandwich, arranging the layers neatly, pouring a dollop of ketchup on her plate for her fries, and flattening the mound of coleslaw with her fork. But, she suddenly lost her appetite. Still, she forced herself to eat a fry, staring toward the back of the restaurant, and reading the old-fashioned signs scattered over the wall.

"I can tell you love your work," Garret hedged.

That was one subject she enjoyed talking about. "Oh, yes. I love my work."

"What do you enjoy most?"

"I adore working with kids, maybe because I'm still one at heart."
That was a stupid thing to say. Middle aged men with Peter Pan Syndrome say things like that.
She felt a blush creep up her neck but tried to act like her face wasn't the shade of the crimson cabbage in her slaw. "Art is an excellent way to interact with children. Sometimes they don't know how to express what they're feeling. It's less threatening for them to draw a picture, paint a painting, or sing a song."

"Is that what you do--express your feelings by painting? Is that why you're an artist?"

Now he was treading on delicate territory. He was much too near the truth. She swallowed and stared at the signs on the wall again. "No, I don't paint, draw or sing."

"But you said you were a dual major. Art and psychology, right?"

"I was."

When she didn't say more, he sighed. "I'm not trying to gather dirt for The Enquirer, you know."

When she looked at him, he smiled, the expression sending a thread of embarrassment through her. She must look strange, being so evasive. "I know."

"Then why do you avoid talking about things? At the camp, you're the therapist and I'm the patient, but we're not at the camp now. We're here. Just two adults sharing a meal and getting to know each other. Will you let me get to know you? You're a bundle of mysteries."

"Mysteries? I’m not." Now she felt silly.

"You are."

"I'm not a secret agent or a woman with a jaded past."

"That's too bad," he said with a grin, then popped a fry into his mouth.

She did the same. The French fry was salty but tasty. As she watched him make a goofy face, a giggle slipped up her throat and she sipped some soda to wash it down. "This is silly."

"I agree."

"What do you want to know?" she asked, before she could stop herself.

"How about if we start with the basics. You know, where you grew up, what your childhood was like. Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"Okay. I was born in Akron, Ohio."

"So was I."

"That's one thing we share in common," she said, slipping another fry into her mouth. She hazarded a taste of the sandwich. It was very good.

"I have the feeling we share a lot more in common than that."

The bite of sandwich caught in her throat and she coughed behind a cupped hand.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes," she sputtered, before taking several gulps of cola.

He watched her, looking poised to do CPR if necessary, which made her laugh between coughs.

"I'm fine. I swear it."

"Good. Will you continue now? We were finally getting somewhere."

"You're insistent."

"Yeah, I'm a real pain-in-the-ass, I know." He leaned back and nodded expectantly.

"Fine. Let's see." She tried to recall what she'd told him. " I’m the oldest of five--two girls and three boys, but the two youngest are my half-siblings. My parents divorced when I was young. My father remarried a few years later."

"My parents divorced when I was seven. Neither of them remarried, though. Did it bother you when your father remarried?"

"Not really. My father lived in another state, so I didn't see him very often. Maybe once a year."

"That's too bad."

"It didn't bother me too much. He was such a man's-man. You know the type? The hunting, fishing, camping kind of guy. He didn't know how to relate to me, since I was more of a girly-girl--not that I mind fishing, and I love canoeing."

"I love canoeing too. Maybe we can go canoeing together sometime."

"That would be nice." She studied his features. There were so many things to like about this man, and not just because of the way he looked. She liked talking to him--more than she thought she would. "Anyway, I'm more like my mother--at least in some ways," she clarified. In other ways, she was the complete opposite. She never derailed another person's self-esteem. She never used words as tools for manipulation.

"So that's where you get your interest in art?"

"In a way. She's an amazing artist. Paints beautiful portraits--well, painted beautiful portraits. As far as I know, she hasn't painted recently."

"Why not?"

"Too busy."

"Do you paint too?"

"I tried."

When she didn't elaborate, he repeated, "Tried?"

"I'm not my mother. I don't have her talent."

"Where is your family now?" he asked, and she guessed he sensed her growing discomfort. He was sensitive. Something else to like about him.

"My father died when I was in high school."

"I'm sorry."

She nodded, accustomed to the look of pity she saw on his face. The few people she'd told had looked the same way. "He was very sick. Cancer. Although I didn't see him much before he died, I saw pictures. I'm sure he was suffering." When Garret didn’t say anything, she continued, "My mother lives in Cincinnati. She runs a prestigious art gallery there. My two oldest brothers live in the Akron area, although I don't talk to them much. And my younger brother and sister are out east somewhere. I haven't seen them or talked to them in years."

"That's too bad."

She shrugged and tried to look indifferent. "Everyone has their life."

"So you're all alone?"

"I like it that way." She didn't like how he was looking at her--like she was pathetic. "I haven't been alone all my life. When my grandmother was living, I was close to her."

"She died too?"

"A year ago."

"I'm sorry."

That didn't help. He still looked at her like she was the poster child for dysfunctional families. "I'm sorrier for my grandfather," she said after taking another bite of her sandwich. "He's so lost without her. They were married for over fifty years. Imagine that. Married for more years than not. She did so much for him. They did everything together."

"That last part sounds nice."

"It does, doesn't it?"

When their gazes met, she felt her chest constrict. Her lungs refused to inflate for a fraction of a second.

There it was again. That connection. Although unnerving, she liked the way it felt--like their souls fused for a moment. That was what she yearned for. A connection with someone who would love her for who she was. A relationship that wasn't plagued by pain and abuse. A nourishing relationship that would help her heal and grow rather than beat her down.

But was she capable of being in such a relationship? Or would her self-doubts make that impossible?

She wanted to try…with this man.

Garret was inquisitive and compassionate, asking her more questions about her childhood and job, while avoiding Steven. As he openly shared his own childhood memories, the pain of his parents' bitter divorce when he was seven and the pain of his own divorce three years ago, she felt the distance between them narrow. Before she knew it, she looked down at an empty plate, and into the eyes of a new friend, or hopefully more.

Where had the food gone? Hazarding a gaze in Garret's direction, she caught the gleam in his eye as he smiled.

She grinned back self-consciously. Now he probably thought she was a pig, as well as a non-stop talker. Dabbing her face with her paper napkin, she waited for him to speak. When he didn't, she asked, "What time is it?"

After glancing down at his watch, he answered, "Two-thirty."

He had to be lying. If he wasn't, an hour and a half had shot by in the space of a minute. "Wow, I need to get back. I've asked for a day off, and Angela was nice enough to give it to me. Faith forgot what she was going to say. She dropped her head and stared at the plate, empty except a smudge of ketchup and some crumbs.

"I should get back too. I have the short shift in the playroom, but I don't want to miss it."

He slid his hand into his pants pocket, and pulled out his wallet, and she reached for her purse, which sat on the bench next to her.

Standing, he shook his head. "No, you don't." He glanced at the tab that had mysteriously appeared sometime when she hadn't been looking and set a ten and a five on it, then held his hand out to her.

Their fingers entwined, they left the restaurant, and Faith wished they were going anywhere but back to Mountain Rise. What was facing her there, what she had forced to the back of her mind, now sat at the fore of her thoughts.

Steven, Marian, and Mountain Rise.

Three dilemmas that must be faced no matter how much she wished they would work themselves out. It was time to grow up, to stop dodging her responsibilities and taking the easy way out. There was too much at stake now.

On the drive back to Mountain Rise, Garret tried to make small talk, but thoughts of Marian, and Faith's problem with Steven, interfered with his ability to carry on a conversation. Faith had grown quiet, almost brooding, as well.

He kept his eyes on the road, despite the temptation she posed by simply sitting next to him. It was so easy to look at her, the way her eyes flashed when she spoke passionately about her patients and her work. The sadness in them when she'd talked about her childhood at lunch today. They had so much in common, despite the differences he'd initially clung to. It was no wonder he'd felt such a connection with her.

She was like a precious gift, and he wanted to unwrap her and relish all of her: mind, body…

Interrupting his thoughts, he asked, "What are you going to do about Steven?"

"I'm going to tell him to take a hike, that's what I'm going to do."

"Do you want me there…just in case…"

"No. I'll be fine."

He looked at her, unsure whether she was trying to look brave or truly meant what she said. Her set expression suggested the latter. He hoped she had the strength. Standing up to a character like Steven, especially after what he had done, was no simple task. As a matter of fact, he imagined it would be downright frightening. "Okay, but I thought I would offer."

"I'll do it somewhere safe, somewhere public."

Relief washed over him, slowing his rapid heartbeat. "Good idea."

The remainder of the short ride was spent in silence, as he considered his own dilemmas. For one, he had to deal with Marian. And second, he had to find a way to accept Raphaela as she was. No more trying to change her. No more trying to correct her isolating behaviors--the staring, hand flapping--no matter how frustrating and frightening they might be. According to Faith, he did more harm by labeling certain behaviors as bad and trying to stop them. It was such a simple idea--so liberating. Why hadn't he seen that before?