Dawn Atkins - Home to Harmony

“Let’s just see how it goes.” If she had to hog-tie her mother to her bed to make her take it easy, she would. She’d need her A game to manage Aurora, that was clear.

Christine was a pro at finessing difficult clients, but here with her mother in the Harmony House kitchen, she felt herself shrinking into her childhood self, like Alice in Wonderland eating the cake that made her very small.

“If that travel article brings more folks out, we’ll have more hands,” Bogie said.

“There was an article?” Christine asked.

“It was about out-of-the-way travel spots. It said we’re the oldest continuously inhabited commune in the western U.S. We got a couple of hikers from Tucson due to the story.”

“Harmony House is the oldest?” That fact fired up Christine’s professional instincts. “We could market that in ads, up your census, then raise your rates.” It was a relief to talk about something she knew how to do.

“We don’t have rates,” Aurora said. “We ask for a contribution to cover food and laundry services and whatnot.”

“What about your cash flow? Is it predictable?” Christine’s mind was spinning with the key questions she’d ask a client.

“This is a commune,” David said. “It’s about living off what you produce and being sustainable. It’s not about cash.”

Thank you, Brigitte. “Even Harmony House needs income.” She pointed at the Parsons Foods bag on the counter. “I doubt the grocery story lets them barter.”

“They do buy our eggs and goat cheese,” Bogie said.

David made an impatient sound. “Just because your job is getting people to buy crap they don’t need, doesn’t mean the rest of us want to live that way.” He was showing off for Aurora and Bogie, she could tell.

“It was my evil capitalist job that paid for your cell phone, laptop and Xbox,” she said, hoping he would joke back.

“Whatever, Christine.”

She winced. Calling her by her first name was another Brigitte brainstorm: We’re all peers on this planet. But Christine was not about to object at the moment. She had to pick her battles or they’d be in a never-ending war.

“Hell, we all start where we are and do what we can, right, Crystal?” Aurora said, surprising Christine with her kindness. Maybe her mother’s brush with death had softened her a little. “Your boss is cool with you taking off the summer?”

“I’ve brought projects to do from here.” If the commune work tied her up too much, she’d have to dip into savings, but that would be fine. Within a year, she intended to leave Vance Advertising and open her own agency. “The main thing is for you to get your strength back.”

Her mother bristled. “I am not an—”

“Invalid, yeah. That’s what you said.”

“And I mean it,” her mother said sharply. Except the emotion that flashed in her eyes wasn’t anger. It was fear. A chill climbed Christine’s spine. She’d never seen Aurora afraid and it made the world tilt on its axis. Aurora was clearly weaker than she wanted to be. Oh, dear.

“How about we get you settled in now and tomorrow Aurora can show you around the clay works?” Bogie said, evidently trying to smooth the moment.

“That sounds great,” Christine said before her mother could object. “So I’ll stay in my old room and put David in the spare one next door?” Christine and Aurora had lived in the old boarding house owners’ quarters at the back of the building.

“The spare’s got furniture at the moment,” Bogie said. “We could move it if you like.”

“Nonsense,” Aurora said. “David can pick one of the empty rooms on the far end of the second floor. Once you’ve picked it, grab a key.” She nodded at a rack by the kitchen door.

“Okay. Cool.”

He’d be too far away from her, but seeing the delight on David’s face, Christine wouldn’t object.

“We never used to lock a door,” Bogie said, shaking his head sadly. “People insist these days. Your room’s open, Crystal. I figured you’d want to stay there.”

Outside, David barreled up the stairs to pick out his room. Christine grinned at his eagerness. Of course, dragging buckets of table scraps to the compost heap might chill his excitement, not to mention the lack of cell service or high-speed Internet, but Christine hoped he’d be so busy learning and exploring that he’d forget all about Brigitte.

She caught up with him halfway down the terrace, opening doors. When he reached a faded blue one, Christine got a jolt of electric memory. That was Dylan’s room, where she’d lost her virginity not exactly on purpose.

“Not that one!” she called, then saw that David had opened the door to Marcus Barnard, who was buttoning up a blue shirt.

“Sorry,” David said, the moved on to the next room.

“He didn’t realize the room was occupied,” she said, watching Marcus’s fingers on the buttons. His ring finger had a pale indentation. He was divorced or widowed and not long ago. Hmmm.

“No problem,” he said, tucking in his shirt. “I’ll get the dolly.” Before she could object, he was loping down the terrace.

“Thanks!” she called as he took the stairs down to the yard. Leaning on the terrace rail, she watched him cross to the clay barn, moving with the easy grace of an athlete, strong, but not showy about it. Easy on the eyes. Maybe she shouldn’t stare, but, heck, window-shopping didn’t cost a dime, did it?

MARCUS ROLLED THE clay-spattered dolly toward Christine’s car, not certain what bothered him more: how much David looked like Nathan or how abruptly he’d been caught by Christine.

She was pretty, of course, and lively, a coil of energy ready to spring into action. It had to be the contrast to his quiet life. She was like an explosion of confetti, a surprise that made you smile.

And when she’d burst in on him dressing, he’d all but expected her. He’d felt abruptly alert. Awake.

Which made him realize he’d been numb for a while, since long before the divorce. The sensation almost hurt, like the tingling ache of a sleep-numbed arm regaining circulation.

Then there was her son. The last thing Marcus needed was a walking, talking reminder of his stepson. His memories and regrets were difficult enough.

He got to the car as Christine staggered beneath the huge suitcase she’d dragged from the overhead luggage rack. He lunged to catch it before it hit the gravel. If she’d waited… But, then, Christine Waters didn’t strike him as the kind of woman who waited for much at all.

She jumped in with both feet, which at the moment were clad in heeled sandals, not exactly stable on uneven ground. She was dressed for the city in a filmy top, white shorts and flashy jewelry. It was as if she hadn’t wanted to admit she was coming to a commune. Her mother was clearly a source of tension, too.

What the hell was he doing analyzing the woman anyway?

“That’s David’s bag,” she said, nodding at the one he held, her face flushed from exertion. “Let’s load his stuff first.”

Marcus put the bag on the cart and David added an electric guitar case. “You play?” Marcus asked.

David nodded. He had the same long blond hair, scrawny frame, soulful eyes and narrow face as Nathan. Even Lady had been fooled, barreling at him with joy, her owner home at last.

“His teacher says he’s gifted, but he hardly practices,” Christine said. “He’ll have time when we’re here to—”

“I’m not gifted,” David blurted, glaring at his mother.

“I didn’t practice much until I got into a band,” Marcus said to smooth the moment.

“You play, too?” Christine locked gazes with him. Her eyes were an unusual color—a soft gray.