Raphaela's Gift (21 page)

"No to us."

"I told you, we'll talk about it when we get home." He pitied her, knowing how excruciating regret can be. He certainly had faced a fair amount in his lifetime.

She nodded, but the strain around her eyes suggested she wasn't conceding. "What contribution to this monstrosity are you going to make?"

"Garret, I think you should come here," Faith said, and his gaze immediately jumped to her as she stood next to Raphaela and the easel.

Curious, he smiled at Marian. "I'll be right back." His little chair scraped loudly as he scooted it from the table and stood. His knees had grown stiff from sitting in that awkward position, like a giant visiting a world much smaller than he, Gulliver in Lilliput.

When he stood next to Faith, who smelled of coconut lotion and floral cologne, he became so distracted he forgot why he had come.

"The painting," she said, as though she'd read his mind. She had whispered, and he wondered why.

And then he saw why. Raphaela had painted a family portrait. Informal in composition, the details of the features were still clear enough for anyone to see whom she'd portrayed. Garret's face smiled back at him on the left, Raphaela's in the center and Faith's on the right. "Why?" he asked, trying to keep his voice low but failing.

Faith glanced at Marian, who still sat at the table but was now staring at them.

"Garret, what is it?" Marian called across the room. As her voice bounced around the studio, the trepidation in it amplified.

Garret looked at Faith, but all he got from her was a bewildered look in return. Neither of them knew what to do. Raphaela had forced their hand. He wanted to laugh. Who would have thought--hell, Raphaela hadn't even seen him with Faith that much in the past two weeks. How had she known?

Marian didn't wait for him to answer. She hurried across the room, and after searching his eyes, she glanced at the picture.

Immediately, her eyes widened with recognition. Her trembling hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, God. Who told her to paint this?" She looked at Faith. "Did you? You must have. You've been standing here the whole time."

"No, I wouldn't do that," Faith answered, holding her hands in front of her as though she meant to ward off an angry animal. "I swear to you, I didn't--wouldn't. She did this all on her own. And why--I couldn't even begin to guess."

Marian's eyes blinked quickly, and Garret guessed she might start crying. "I don't believe this. I came here to get my family back--and, and you--you promised to help me. But now, you've taken them away from me!"

Faith stood frozen in place, watching Marian battle rejection, frustration and any number of other feelings. Marian's angry words pelted her, stinging sharply, icy cold. Bitter regret filled her mouth as she silently cursed herself. If only she had been more professional. If only she had used her head instead of her heart.

If only she hadn't been so drawn to Garret, if only she'd been able to hide her feelings better…if only, if only, if only. "No, no I haven't," she said softly. She hadn't meant for any of it to happen.

What kind of therapist was she?

Marian stepped up to Raphaela. "Maybe she just put the wrong color hair on me. Maybe she was remembering when I had worn it bleached a couple of years ago…" She dropped her face into her hands.

Faith turned away. She'd destroyed any possibility of the family's healing, of the reconciliation Marian wanted so badly. How could she be so selfish? She'd taken the job at Mountain Rise to help families, and in her first session, she'd destroyed one. Carelessly, thoughtlessly obliterated it.

Where would she go from here? Could she possibly pursue a relationship with Garret now? She didn't think she could. If she did, she'd be a cold, heartless bitch.

The sounds of Marian's sniffles followed her as she walked slowly toward the door, and then footsteps sounded behind her. Garret.

"This isn't your fault. You did nothing wrong," he said.

She refused to believe him, even though in her heart she hoped he spoke the truth.

Sometimes the conscious mind could take firm control, she reasoned. It was time for that--right now. "Reconcile with your wife, Garret. Your daughter deserves a mother, not a nanny." Without looking back to what she was leaving, she walked from the room.

She must never look back, must leave them to their lives. It was their only hope.

She'd done enough damage.

What price would she pay? Fate, like an angry vengeful goddess, always made sure people paid for their mistakes, for the pain they inflicted on others.

She was in for a firestorm, and she deserved every blazing hailstone.

Garret watched Faith shuffle from the room, her shoulders slumped forward, her head hanging low, her steps slow and deliberate. What had he done? His careless actions had hurt Faith, Marian…When would he learn not to be so damn selfish?

He turned to face Marian, but found Raphaela's beaming smile first. His guilt increased, weighing down upon his head and shoulders like concrete. How much did his little girl know? How much did she understand? She looked so pleased with herself and her painting. He didn't know what to do.

Marian looked mad enough to slash a razorblade through the picture. Her fingers curled and uncurled, forming white knuckled fists, and her chest rose and fell in an exaggerated huff. "Look what you've done. You've turned her against me," she said in a low voice.

He looked at the door, wishing Faith would come back but knowing she wouldn't, and feeling emptier than he thought possible, he said, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean--"

"You weren't going to discuss reconciliation with me when we got home, were you?"

He wouldn't lie. "No."

"You lied to me."

His chest felt heavy, like poured concrete had dribbled down his body and set, leaving him neck deep in a rock-hard body cast. A tomb.

No more hiding, he repeated silently as his ex-wife's eyes grew teary and red. Glittering puddles collected along her bottom eyelids. He'd done this, caused her pain and confusion, more by avoiding the issues between them than by his behavior with Faith. No matter who or what had brought this on, sooner or later, Marian and he would have found their way to this point.

He did not regret his feelings for Faith.

He took a deep breath, filled every space of his lungs until his ribcage burned. Time for the plunge, icy water or molten lava, he had to face it. Now. "We've been avoiding some things for years, Marian. It's time we were honest with each other and ourselves."

"What's that supposed to mean? I've been honest with you, right from the start."

He bit back a sarcastic retort. Old habits would die hard, no doubt about it. Still, her claim at having been honest was a bitter pill to swallow. Refusing to enter into a useless battle, arguing terminology, defining words that shouldn't have to be defined between a man and his wife, he said, "Correction, It's time I be honest with you." Nothing she could argue with there.

"Okay," she said, her voice heavy with doubt…and maybe…fear? Had she grown comfortable with the lies? If she had, the situation was worse than he thought.

After giving Raphaela a fresh canvas, he motioned for Marian to take a seat at the table. He sat across from her and forced himself to look steady into her warm mocha eyes. The urge to toss her another lie and duck from the room nagged at him as he opened his mouth to speak. Could he truly live differently? Was this what he wanted?

Yes.

"Marian, I've done nothing but live a lie for years."

Her eyes dropped from his, and she toyed with a bottle of white school glue, twisting and untwisting the orange top. A bubble of glue oozed out, and he could smell its trademark scent.

"You don't have to do this," she offered, swiping at a smudge of black under her eye with a quaking hand.

"Yes, I do."

She nodded, her gaze still directed down as she nudged a droplet of the white glue from the bottle's top and slicked it between her index finger and thumb.

"I was so young when we were married, so idealistic. And I know you were too. I think we both expected too much of ourselves and our marriage."

"Maybe."

"And when reality failed to meet those damn rosy dreams, we both scrambled to change things, change each other--make it conform to what we'd expected. Am I wrong?"

She shook her head.

"You--our marriage--became my biggest project. I looked at it as some crazy quest, home improvement on a grand scale. But when I realized I couldn't make the foundational changes, that the things that kept us apart couldn't be fixed, I tried to force it--force you. I'm sorry."

"You were trying to save our marriage."

"Bullshit. Be honest. You didn't like it. As a matter of fact, you hated being my pet project, didn't you?"

A slight smile drew up the corners of her mouth. "Maybe."

His gaze lifted to Raphaela, who was still painting, concentration clear on her precious face. "I beat a dead horse, flogged it, and flogged it, until there was nothing left to our marriage but a bloody pulp. You didn't--we didn't--stand a chance."

"It wasn't that bad. I think you're being a little hard on yourself." Marian smiled, but it was as forced as any he'd seen on her face over the years. Had she ever been genuinely happy? God, he hoped so. No matter what, she deserved some happiness in her life.

"I think distance has numbed the sting a little," he said. Their gazes locked.

Her smile deepened. "I guess that's possible. So there's no hope for us?"

That was the sixty-four thousand-dollar question. Could he put the past behind him, accept Marian for who she was and try again? "I don't know. Even if I could stop trying to change you, I don't think it would work. We're not right for each other. We don't fit."

She nodded, her gaze falling from his again. "So even if I had left Michael, even if I'd come back, we would still be divorced by now?"

"I think so, yes."

Her hand lifted to her hair, and she ran her fingers through golden highlights, stirring them in the bright light until they flashed in the sea of brown. He remembered the silky softness of her hair, and yet he had no need to feel it again.

"So, is it her?" Her voice was so soft he almost hadn't heard her question.

Her? "Who?"

"I'm not blind." She didn't hide from him now. Her gaze wrestled with his, capturing it and holding it captive. "Faith."

"Faith? What are you talking about? She's our art therapist. What does she have to do with us?"

"Do you love her?"

"No, of course not! What kind of crazy question is that?" He glanced at the doorway. "Besides, we're not talking about Faith. We're talking about you and me."

"Are you sure?" Her gaze pierced him, her deep eyes drilling into his.

The temptation to slink away returned vigorously. She was treading on some delicate territory. Definitely one of those instances where, in the past, he would have grown defensive, thrown some insults and stormed from the scene.

"I'm not turning my back on my family because of anyone. If you were honest with yourself, you'd see our marriage has been dead a long time, since long before our divorce."

"I disagree. Can I ask you something?"

He knew he was going to regret this. "Sure."

"What is it about her?"

He drew in a deep breath, knowing she wouldn't stop until she got the answer she sought. "Maybe Faith and I…maybe we do fit."

* * *

"Do you love him?" Frankie repeated to Faith as they sat in the employee lounge. But Faith didn't know how to answer the question.

It was too soon to talk about love, wasn't it? Of course it was. No one could really love someone after two weeks. Lust? Yes. Love? "No."

Frankie, sitting on the moth-eaten sofa and sucking on a cigarette, leaned forward and stared into Faith's eyes. Faith hated it when she did that, hated feeling like a little girl whose mother was trying to catch her in a lie.

"What?" Faith asked, leaning back as though the slight distance, inches, might ease her nerves. The couch arm dug into her back.

After Frankie exhaled a ribbon of white smoke, filling the room with tear-producing fumes, a smile tugged at Frankie's lips. The tiny muscles of her cheeks quivered slightly. She shook her head. "Faith, it's me."

Faith nudged her friend backward, sending Frankie against the couch's opposite arm, and a dust cloud into the air to aggravate her already teary eyes. "Would you stop staring at me like that?"

"You're not very convincing." Frankie's thumb resting against the tip of the filter, she flipped the ashes into the metal ashtray next to her.

"I don't know what you mean."

"God, when are you going to realize you can't lie to me?" Although Frankie's words held an edge of impatience, her voice carried none. No, she sounded more…amused?

"Do you think this is funny?"

"Well--"

"I can't believe it!" Faith said, exaggerating the insult she felt. She crossed her arms over her chest.