Raphaela's Gift (4 page)

And a fascinating one.

That man, now crooning in a mildly fluctuating key and gravely voice, had kept her on her toes from the moment they'd met. She couldn't help being drawn to him, and his eyes, their color so vivid--the color of a tropical sea--was the bluest of blues.

Stooped down, he sung to his daughter, his broad shoulders straining against the fabric of his black t-shirt. The muscles of his arms rippled when he pressed his hands on the cobblestones and pushed himself to stand.

He was a striking man, and a giddy school-girlish self-consciousness overtook her when his eyes captured hers. She toyed with the idea of retreating to her office. She hadn't expected to be attracted to him, not after her past therapy sessions with Marian. Time to think, put things back into perspective, that's exactly what she needed.

If some quiet reflection didn't work, maybe another session with Marian would do the job.

If she knew nothing else, she was positive Garret Damiani was not for her. Not only was he the parent of a patient, and Marian's ex-husband, but he was the absolute opposite of her ideal man: opinionated, judgmental, rude…and loyal, strong, committed, a family man who loved his daughter…

Oh, was she in trouble.

She turned and, deciding she needed a brisk run, jogged down the path toward the woods.

This session couldn't go by fast enough.

Garret hated it when his own words came back to bite him.

Regretting the promise he'd made to Marian, he led Raphaela down the corridor to her first session. Twenty-four hours had flown by, surprisingly without a hitch.

Last night's introductory dinner and presentation had been interesting. Angela Murphy, the camp's director, presented the program's philosophy and history. She introduced the staff, listed each one's credentials, and passed out a packet of literature. The yellow and red binder handed to Garret by a young camp counselor was personalized with a detailed schedule for the next week.

Afterward, the campers were treated to a fried chicken dinner with mashed potatoes and gravy. Not his first choice, since he was trying to watch his cholesterol, but the meal was a pleasant change from what he'd been eating lately.

He spent the rest of the evening in the room with Raphaela as he readied her for bed. Astonishingly, she handled the onslaught of activity well, with only a few momentary glitches that quickly smoothed themselves over. Nothing to justify packing up and going home.

The cheery attitude of the camp staff--right down to the ladies serving the meals--had worn away the edge of his distrust. Still, he clung to what remained of his skepticism. To soften any more would leave him susceptible to bitter disappointment.

Now, schedule gripped in hand, he read the room numbers posted on the corridor's walls, searching for Raphaela's first therapy room. Art therapy. A tinge of anticipation danced up his spine in spite of himself. Was Faith the only art therapist on staff? He couldn't recall, hadn't paid attention during the presentation last night.

In a way, he hoped she wasn't. After how he'd treated her yesterday, he didn't know if he could work with her. Twenty-four hours had been ample time for his defenses to fall away, leaving him to see he'd definitely overreacted yesterday. But a small part of him still adhered to the notion he'd been justified. Raphaela had been hurt. And Faith had made an obvious error.

Still, he knew he owed her an apology. Damn his mouth again.

"Two twenty-five. Here we are. Art class." He hesitated before reaching for the doorknob. "Let's make a pretty picture, okay?" He turned the knob and opened the door, and two forced smiles greeted him when he looked into the room. Both Marian and Faith sat in child-sized chairs gathered around a steel-legged table. Faith stood and smoothed the creases from her calf-length dress.

He stared at her as he stepped into the room, unable to tear his gaze away. She looked amazing, sheathed in that white dress with tiny pink flowers. It was feminine, with a ruffle rimming a neckline that was neither too low nor too high, and its color set off the golden hue of her skin and bright color of her eyes. When she yanked her gaze from his, he realized he'd been gawking.

With forced casualness, he led Raphaela into the room. "Good morning, ladies." He pulled the door closed. The shocked expression on Marian's face made him shudder, and he instantly regretted how capably Marian read him. Obviously, his ogling was as plain to her as it had been to Faith.

He pasted a sheepish grin on his face, knowing he was in for trouble. Marian wouldn't let his boyish stare-fest go unquestioned. Since their divorce, they'd formed a tenuous civility but she still acted sensitive about him dating. He guessed it had to do with her reluctance to see him happy.

Until recently, her jealousy hadn't bothered him much. He didn't care what she thought. And he didn't have time to date, anyway. In three years, he'd gone on a few blind dates, but only when forced by well-meaning friends like Tom. Even then, when Marian had learned about his outings, she'd become irritable and angry.

But here, with so many important matters to contend with, the last thing he needed was Marian's ridiculous jealousy.

"Good morning, Ella," Marian said. Clearly avoiding eye-contact with Garret, she walked toward their daughter and stooped down. "I'm glad to see you!"

Raphaela reacted with her usual averted eyes and walked past Marian to look at some paintings hanging on the wall.

Marian finally looked at Garret, grimaced, and stood. "I need to speak with you for a moment." Turning, she said to Faith, "We'll be back in a few minutes," and motioned toward the corridor.

Here we go
. Following Marian from the studio, he braced himself for her verbal assault.

"What was that all about?"

Bingo.
He forced a shocked expression, deciding to give denial a shake. "What was what all about?"

"Come on, I'm not blind, Garret. I'm warning you, she's off limits."

"Sure. Off limits. Of course, I'm going to listen to you. You should determine who I look at and who I don't. Besides, I'm not interested in her, what gave you that idea?"

"Yeah, right. Well, she's my therapist. Dating you would be a virtual crime--career suicide for her."

"Your therapist? Since when?"

"I've been going to her for about six months. She used to have group sessions at a church in Kent."

"Hmm. I thought she worked with kids." For some reason, Marian's news didn't surprise him. In fact it made sense, explained why she'd been so insistent upon bringing Raphaela to the camp.

No big deal. He had seen plenty of beautiful women in his life. Faith LeFeuvre was no more special than any other. They wouldn't have much in common anyway--there were already obvious differences between them.

"She works with all ages. A friend recommended her to me."

He felt a smile tug at his cheeks. "A friend, eh? Well, you don't have anything to worry about. I'm here for one thing--and it's not to flirt with the staff. Now, can we please return to our daughter? This conversation is absurd."

She studied him for a moment, her expression doubtful. "Fine." Turning, she opened the door and went back into the room.

He followed her, wishing he could be in his dentist's chair getting a root canal instead of in an art therapy studio in Kentucky. This was going to be one long day--one long week. Especially with the added annoyance of Marian watching him and jumping to ridiculous conclusions. Who did she think she was? His wife? His mother? Contrary to popular belief, he was an adult, not some testosterone-scourged teenager.

As he entered the room, he searched for his daughter, finding her standing at an easel in front of a wide wall of windows. Golden light from the windows skimmed her profile and hair, making her look like the subject of a medieval religious painting--halo and all. She held her arm out toward the easel, and her hand moved slowly and deliberately.

The look of extreme concentration on her face captured his curiosity. He glanced at Faith, who stood beside Raphaela, her eyes wide, one hand over her mouth. Ignoring the impulse to dash across the room, knowing it might startle Raphaela, he walked instead.

When he reached Faith's side, she pointed toward the easel. He nodded and looked, surprised by what he saw.

Upon the canvas was the shockingly accurate image of a girl's face. A self-portrait. Although the details hadn't been painted, she'd represented her own features with simple, strong brush-strokes and remarkable skill. Looking at Faith, he asked, "Did she do--"

Her index finger shot to her mouth, and she nodded. Then, tipping her head, she motioned for him to follow her. Walking past Marian, who wore an "I told you so," or maybe more of a "God, would you give it up already?" look, he went into the corridor to talk to Faith. He couldn't wait to hear her explanation. The fact that the painting happened to appear while he was in the hallway with Marian made him more than a little suspicious.

"Amazing, isn't she?" Faith asked after she'd closed the door.

"She didn't paint that picture. How could she? She's only six years old, for God's sake. It's a trick--a cheap one."

Faith staggered backward as though he'd struck her. "That's quite an accusation."

"You're an artist, aren't you? How could she get the proportion right, the angle, the features? It takes years to learn those techniques. She didn't even have a mirror."

"I can't believe this." Her voice remained calm, but her hand trembled just enough to notice as she touched the ruffle of her dress.

"Can you offer a more logical explanation?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "I think the answer's pretty obvious. She's studied the subject for years. It is her own face. Come on, Doctor Damiani, surely, you've read about autistic savants, those who possess remarkable artistic, musical, or math skills. This is a classic example. Your daughter is capable of reproducing pictures from memory."

She didn't expect him to believe this, did she? "Of course I have, but this…" He motioned toward the studio door. "…is unbelievable--and rare. My daughter is not a savant."

"Savants are not unusual, about one in ten children we see here possesses some form of savant skills. And like I said, artistic skills are common for savants." She paused, her eyes boring into his. "What are you afraid of? Art may be her gift. Are you too stubborn to explore its potential? So determined to prove Mountain Rise a fake you cannot accept your daughter's true talent? If so, I pity you. Art may be the only way to reach her, the only way for her to reach you."

The challenge in her voice angered him even more. He knew all about savants. He was a psychiatrist. But he'd never seen a hint of artistic skills in his daughter before. The kind of talent he'd seen in Faith's studio, on that easel, didn't develop overnight. When he'd tried to encourage Raphaela to draw or color in the past, she'd merely held the crayons in her hands and stared at them.

The more he thought about the whole thing, the madder he became. How dare Faith try to con him, try to raise his hope, all in the name of profit! If he had proof of what he suspected, he'd leave--and slap a healthy lawsuit on the place. What kind of racket were they running?

"I've heard enough." He reached for the doorknob and gave it a swift jerk.

She grabbed his arm. "I've lived with naysayers all my life. My parents said, 'It can't be done. Or even if it can be done, it can't be done by you.' You have no idea what that does to a kid. You want to do that to your daughter?"

He released the doorknob and tugged his arm free from her grasp. "I've spent every waking moment I could with my daughter the past three years trying to reach her. You spend ten minutes alone with her, and you have the damn key? I don't think so."

She didn't back off. Gauging by the tightness of the muscles along her jaw and around her eyes, his words had only sparked more determination. Why? What was in it for her?

"I have no reason to lie to you, Doctor Damiani. I'm here to help you. I know you love Raphaela. I can't even begin to imagine how hard the past three years must have been for you." Her voice was low.

"Damn right, it's been hard."

"You've done more than most parents I've met here."

"You're new. How many parents have you met?"

She continued, ignoring his insult, "No doubt your skills and education have helped you."

He knew what she was doing, trying to cool him down by appealing to his pride. Looking away, he stared at a bulletin board hanging on the wall and littered with colorful announcements. Her soothing words, like a salve on an open cut, eased the burn. His anger faded.

Regardless, he would not let her build false expectations. He loved Raphaela--loved her to death, for who and what she was. Art therapy would not change a thing.

He was a trained professional, possessed far more education and experience than Faith. If she wanted to play a game, he was ready. She'd never win.

After the thought crossed his mind, something deeper, more painful rose to the surface. What if she was right? What if he could reach Raphaela?

Hope blossomed among the thorns of doubt and fear.