Strangers in Paradise (34 page)

She probably would have, too, if she hadn't been so sick. Instead, she got spoiled.

Each day with Mariah, she ended her monologue with the statement that there were some things in life you could count on. Like Shelter Valley. It was always there. For more than a hundred years, Shelter Valley had survived one crisis after another. Lack of water. Too much rain. Mountain lions. Marauding javelinas. A tornado. And always her people were steadfast. Helping each other in whatever way was needed.

As long as Mariah was in Shelter Valley, Cassie told her, she'd have friends.

Mariah's position, facing the direction Sam had left, never changed. Cassie wondered how the child had the self-control to be so still; most seven-year-olds couldn't sit still for two minutes.

Mariah's lack of response didn't change, either. No matter how much Cassie spoke to her, how many times she tried to get the child to look at Sammie—or a bird or other children or a tree—it was as though Mariah didn't hear her.

But what did change, finally, was Mariah's body language. The child wasn't so rigid the following Thursday afternoon. Her spine was more relaxed, her shoulders not quite so stiff. And the fingers tangled in Sammie's fur were moving constantly.

There was nothing tentative or noncommittal about the child's communication with the dog. Mariah didn't look at the dog, but caressed her from ear to ear, back and forth, burying her fingers in Sammie's fur. She was using her sense of touch to connect with the world.

Sammie sat grinning, her tongue hanging out of her mouth, basking in the attention.

Cassie wanted so badly to hug the child, she crammed her hands into the pockets of her navy slacks, her elbows pushed against her sides.

Sam noticed right away that there was a change, when he came to collect Mariah. Even before he got close enough to take the child's hand, Cassie saw him watching Mariah's fingers. Then he looked at Cassie, brows raised, mouth stretched wide in a smile.

“I'm making the old apartment over the garage into an office,” he told Cassie as he followed her to her car that afternoon. He'd told her on Tuesday afternoon about his venture in the house-renovating business.

Cassie tried to busy herself with Sammie, getting the dog to the car and then inside. But Sammie was too damn good to need any prompting. The dog would probably find a way to open the car door herself if Cassie forgot to do it.

“I've already got a couple of suppliers lined up, referrals from some of the folks I worked with back east. I figure it'll only be a couple of weeks before I'm ready to find my first project.”

She didn't want to know this. Confused by him, by herself, she shut the door behind Sammie and walked around to her side of the car. “We can come here again on Saturday?” she asked Sam.

“Of course.”

Their eyes met, held, until Cassie looked away. She focused on her charge, on the only thing that mattered. “It was great seeing you, Mariah,” she said. “On Saturday, maybe we can get Sammie to play Frisbee with us. She looks really funny running around with that thing in her mouth.”

Mariah was staring at Sam's shirt. She didn't blink.

* * *

After dropping Sammie off, feeling guilty for being glad that Zack and Randi weren't there to ask questions, Cassie drove straight to Phyllis Langford's house. Her new associate—and friend, Cassie thought—had told her to stop by anytime. Cassie was hoping she'd meant it. Hoping the psychology professor was at home.

Phyllis
was
home and seemed glad to see her. Cassie found herself sitting at the kitchen table, a glass of iced tea in front of her, before she had a chance to change her mind about being there.

“I need some advice,” she said, as soon as Phyllis, dressed casually in cotton shorts and a knit top that showed off her trim waist, was seated across from her.

“I kind of thought so,” Phyllis said, grinning. “Shoot.”

Cassie frowned. “I'm that obvious?” She'd taken great comfort in her ability to hide from the world. Hated to think she was really so transparent.

Hell, the whole town would be pitying her if they had any idea how messed up she felt right now.

“Not at all,” Phyllis said. “I've just had enough experience to recognize the look. So what's up? Mariah?”

“Partly.” Cassie told Phyllis about the five visits they'd had so far. The slow progress. “I didn't want to call her counselor in Phoenix yet,” she confided. “She wasn't all that convinced there was any point in doing this, and I don't want her to pull the rug out from under us, especially when I still think we have a chance to make this work.”

“There's no reason to call her unless you notice some worsening in the child's behavior,” Phyllis assured her. “Mariah's having her biweekly meetings with the woman, right? If there's a problem, the doctor will catch it.”

Cassie took a sip of tea. “Am I kidding myself, here?” she asked Phyllis.

“In what way?”

“I don't know.” Cassie pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. Her twist had come loose while she was in the park with Mariah. “Maybe I'm looking for something that isn't there, taking hope where there really isn't any.” She gazed across at Phyllis. “I mean, she's moving her fingers, and that's it.”

“It's a step, and when you're dealing with something like this, every step counts.”

“You don't think I'm getting too personal to be objective?”

Covering Cassie's hand with her own, Phyllis shook her head. “There's no such thing as ‘too personal' with what you're doing, Cassie. Your work with Mariah is all about getting personal.”

Sighing, Cassie looked down. “You'd think I'd know all of this by now. Anyone might have the impression, that this was the first case I'd ever worked on.”

“I think there's more going on here than a case,” Phyllis said gently. “You're not losing your objectivity where Mariah's concerned. What you
are
losing is trust in your own professional judgment.”

Phyllis's words hit her hard. Were the insecurities going to infiltrate her work now, too? It was the one thing she'd always been able to feel completely confident about. She was a pioneer in her field. She knew the value of her skills.

“So, you want to talk about what might be getting in your way?” Phyllis asked gently. She gave a great deal of attention to her glass of tea, stirring methodically, adding sugar, stirring again.

“I'm not certain that full recovery is imminent, but I feel convinced that we're helping Mariah,” Cassie said slowly, stirring her own glass of tea. “What I'm not sure about is
my
ability to survive her therapy.”

Chapter 10

C
assie sat in Phyllis's kitchen, an educated professional, world-renowned in her field, feeling like a kid who needed her mommy.

“I'm losing control,” she told Phyllis. “Having Sam around is undoing everything I've done to get myself grounded over the past ten years. So much for being an emotionally stable woman, in charge of my own destiny.”

“You
are
stable,” Phyllis said firmly, leaning her forearms on the table. “The fact that you're here, talking to me, means you're in charge. You aren't helpless. You haven't buried yourself in the past, or forgotten the lessons you've learned. Yes, you're having a tough time. You're feeling off balance and that's a natural and appropriate response under the circumstances. But instead of giving in to despair or bitterness, you're fighting back.”

Cassie shrugged, a bit embarrassed. “You make me sound...impressive.”

“If you could step outside yourself, see what I've seen in the short time I've known you, heard what I've heard from people who love you, I think you'd be surprised at what you'd find.” Phyllis held Cassie's gaze. “You're helping Sam's daughter in spite of your past history, and that alone says what a remarkable woman you are.”

Looking over at the other woman, a redhead like herself, Cassie smiled tremulously. And tried to let herself believe what Phyllis was saying.

“I've been telling Mariah stories about Sam, incidents from when we were younger, trying to build a sense of continuity for her in Shelter Valley,” she said after a while.

“And also a bonding tool for the two of you,” Phyllis added.

It was something Phyllis had suggested to her in the first place. To find such a tool.

“Yeah, well, it may or may not be helping her bond with me, but it's sure making it hard to keep my distance from Sam. I've got him coming at me from one side every time I see Mariah, telling me about his plans, giving me updates on his activities. And I've got the past coming at me from the other side as I relive it all for Mariah.”

“What do you think you should do?”

“Move.” Cassie attempted a grin.

“It's your turn to run away, huh?” Phyllis asked.

“Of course not. But I'm human. You've got to admit, from my point of view it's a tempting proposition.”

“I can see that it would be.”

“So what do I do?” Throat dry, she sipped her tea.

“What do you
want
to do?”

It wasn't a question Cassie asked herself very often. “I want to quit hurting,” Cassie answered.

“I know,” Phyllis replied, her eyes filled with compassion. “Believe me, I know.”

Cassie studied the woman, the tremors around her mouth, the pain in her eyes. “It sounds as if you really do.”

“My ex-husband was unfaithful to me, too.” Phyllis's eyes were shadowed.

“Oh.” And then she added, “Did you just want to die?” It had taken Cassie a long time to get over that feeling.

“At first,” Phyllis said. “And then I wanted him to.”

Running a finger along the rim of her glass, Cassie blinked back tears. “Me, too.”

“We'd been married for four years, and we both had successful careers. I thought we were on the right track....”

“What happened?”

Eyes moist, too, Phyllis shrugged apologetically. “He was intimidated by my intelligence. He hated when I analyzed things. And he was threatened by the fact that I understood him so well.”

Cassie and Sam hadn't had any of those problems. “He told you all this?”

“No.” Phyllis shook her head. “He just salved his ego with a leggy brunette from the PR department. I figured out a lot of it afterward. At the time, I knew something wasn't right, but I assumed it was because of our job demands, that sort of thing. And then, one weekend when he was supposedly out of town on business, I ran into him and his brunette at a restaurant in downtown Boston—which is where we're from.”

“What did you do?”

“Gained almost fifty pounds.” She smiled sadly. “Not that night, of course, but over the next year.”

Cassie leaned over to look up and down Phyllis's trim frame. “What were you before, anorexic?” she asked.

“No.” Phyllis laughed. “Since I came to Shelter Valley last summer, I've been working on a weight-loss program with Tory Evans. You know her, I think—she's married to Sam's cousin Ben.”

“We've met several times,” Cassie said.

“Tory's older sister, Christine, was my best friend. She was killed last year in a car accident that wasn't an accident.”

“And Tory, who was the intended victim of the accident, posed as her sister here, in Shelter Valley,” Cassie said, remembering. “She took Christine's new job in the English department at Montford as a way to hide out.”

“Right.” Phyllis took a sip of tea. “She lived with me before she met and married Ben. She thought I was doing all the helping in our relationship but she helped
me
realize that I was hating myself, blaming myself, for something the jerk I'd married had done. It wasn't my fault he was intimidated by me. It was his. There was nothing wrong with me. And plenty wrong with him. I was being a masochist, feeding my body stuff I didn't even want as a way to punish myself for not being woman enough to keep my man.”

Cassie couldn't believe how well Phyllis had just explained Cassie's own feelings of inadequacy. “So what do I do?” she asked softly. “I don't have any weight to lose.”

“Search your heart,” Phyllis said. “Listen to what it tells you.”

“Sam wants us to try again, to find out if there's anything left of what we had.”

“Is that what you want?”

Cassie shook her head. She didn't need to listen to her heart. She already knew what it had to say. “I can't trust him.”
Or myself...

“Maybe he had a reason for doing what he did. Something that would allow you to see things differently. Maybe the infidelity was a one-time thing. A horrible mistake.”

“It was that, all right,” Cassie said, a trace of bitterness slipping through. “But it wouldn't matter, even if there was some acceptable way to explain it.” She rose to pour the rest of her tea down the sink and rinse her glass. “We can't ever go back to the life we'd planned. Things have changed for me, major things. Taking up where we left off is impossible.”

“Maybe you can create a new plan.”

Wiping her hands on the towel by the sink, Cassie thought about that. There was no new plan for her and Sam. Talking to Phyllis was only confirming that. “I can't forgive him.”

“And that's the basis of your problem,” Phyllis said. “I don't blame you. I'm having a hard time in that area myself. But this I do know—you don't have to open your heart to him again, you don't have to trust him, but if you don't find a way to forgive him, you're never going to heal. You'll have allowed him to rob you not only of your past, but of your future, too.”

The words were hard to take. More so because Cassie knew that Phyllis was right. But forgiving was an agonizing business. It required thinking about things she'd promised herself she'd never think about again.

It required feeling things she was afraid to let herself feel.

* * *

In Harmon's Hardware store on Saturday afternoon—doing a bit of work while he waited for enough time to pass before he could go back to get Mariah from the park—Sam perused a binder of suppliers' information that Hank Harmon had just given him.

He'd need everything, from nails and hammers and wood glue to power tools and scaffolding. And buying wholesale in bulk, at least for the supplies he'd be replacing often, was much more cost-effective than buying over the counter. No matter how much money Sam had, he didn't believe in wasting it. Not after the want he'd seen all over the world.

“I suppose you've heard that Junior's trying to pull the plug on Becca Parsons's Save the Youth program,” Hank said, an elbow on the counter, watching Sam. His overalls looked as though he'd worn them one day too many without washing.

“Mmm-hmm,” Sam said, trying to focus on payment and delivery terms rather than the rock that was taking form in his gut. Junior, as most people dismissively called him, was the current mayor, and derided for his lack of initiative and leadership. But he was a Smith, the “other” branch of the Montfords. They'd been brought into the family by the original Smith's marriage to the original Sam Montford's daughter. On the whole, the Smiths were more self-centered than the Montfords, less civic-minded and more mercenary. But they were of Montford descent. And as the second-wealthiest family in town, they had power in their own right.

Junior wasn't all bad. He wasn't evil, didn't have unethical business dealings. He just wasn't a doer. Or a thinker, either.

Now, Becca Parsons—that was another matter. Older than Sam by a decade, Becca was on the town council and married to the president of Montford University. No one loved Shelter Valley more than Becca did; no one served the town better.

“Your folks told you all about the play the youth program produced last summer, I'm sure.” Hank tried again when it was obvious Sam wasn't going to bite. “It was the story of your great-great-grandfather's life.”

“Yeah.” Sam nodded. “I understand they performed it the day the statue was dedicated.”

“That's right. It was great, too. Could rival anything you'd see in children's theater in Phoenix. And besides the theater division, the program's got a sports division, arts and crafts, drug and alcohol awareness, all kinds of things. They were planning to hold biweekly dances this summer, too, to let the kids get together in a controlled environment.” Hank went on and on, as was his way, cheerfully imparting every bit of information he had. “The dances are one of Becca's newest projects. She wants to bring in DJs from Phoenix, do it up right so the kids'll not only want to come, but will feel like they can get everything in Shelter Valley that they'd get in the big city. She says it'll keep them from wandering, always thinking they have to run off to Phoenix for the real fun.”

Sam nodded a second time. He'd heard all about the project. Four times in the past week—though only once from his parents. He was in full support of it.

He just couldn't be responsible for it—or any of the other projects that were stalled or threatened by the spineless Junior Smith.

“You got a piece of paper, Hank?” he asked, grabbing a pen from the counter.

With stained and callused fingers, Hank slid a pad of notepaper bearing the Harmon Hardware logo across the bottom toward him, and said, “You know why Becca started the program, don't you?”

Sam nodded yet again, though he didn't look up from the names, numbers and figures he was copying. “My folks had her and Will over for dinner last Monday night.”

It was the night after Sam had had his conversation with his parents about what his future plans did and did not entail. But to be fair, they'd already invited the Parsonses. It hadn't been a deliberate slap in Sam's face—or a refusal to accept the place he chose to occupy in Shelter Valley. Or more to the point, the place he chose
not
to occupy.

Regardless, he'd enjoyed renewing his acquaintance with Will and Becca. And he'd been charmed by little Bethany, who'd entertained them by rolling all over his mother's handwoven wool carpet.

“They tell you about Becca's niece being killed by that teenage drunk driver a couple years back?” Hank asked, his gaze intent.

Looking up from the page, Sam met Hank's eyes. “I think the program's great, Hank. I'm all for it.”

With Mariah growing up in this town, he'd fight for that program, just as any other conscientious citizen would. He'd offer financial support, as well.

But that was all he could do.

“You know elections are coming up this next fall.” Henry Crane, an optometrist who'd moved to Shelter Valley when Sam was just a kid, came up behind Sam. He'd obviously been eavesdropping.

The rock in Sam's stomach was getting bigger by the second. He owed this town; he knew that. He was a Montford—had been born to privilege. And responsibility.

But he had to pay in his own way. Didn't he?

Ron Christie, his ex-Little League baseball coach, now gray and walking with a cane, joined the threesome at the counter. “Yeah, and with you back in town, Sam...”

“Wait a minute, guys.” Sam held up his hand. He couldn't let them go any further. “I'm a construction worker.”

“You're a Montford,” Chuck Taylor said. Chuck had been the quarterback of Sam's high-school football team. He'd gone on to play for Montford U, and then a couple of pro teams, before a knee injury forced his early retirement. Sam had heard that Chuck now owned a portion of the Shelter Valley Cactus Jelly Plant.

“Can't argue with you, there,” Sam said. “I am a Montford.” He tried to keep things light. Tried not to let the pressure of their hopes get to him.

The last time he'd done that—let the expectations of other people unsettle him—he'd made the biggest mistake of his life. He'd hightailed it to Phoenix. Gotten drunk. Slept with a woman whose name he couldn't remember. He'd betrayed Cassie. Run out on their marriage...

“What do you say,” Chuck said. “You were always the guy leading the crusades.”

Closing the binder, Sam slid it back across the counter to Hank. He turned to face the men—Chuck with his balding head and potbelly, Henry whose glasses had gotten much thicker over the years, and Ron who was far too skinny and frail for Sam's liking. He cared for them all. They represented what was best about Shelter Valley. Love. Loyalty. Home. You could count on all three of these guys for anything.