Dawn Atkins - Home to Harmony

“All valid, depending on the issue.”

“Interesting, Doctor B.” She tapped her lips. “Got one for David? ‘Straighten up and fly right’ maybe?”

“Too directive perhaps.”

“Also very military-schoolish. Then how about a parenting one for me?”

“Hmm. Maybe ‘a watched pot never boils.’”

“Nice try. Patience is not one of my virtues.”

“Something to work on then.”

“You shrinks, always with the assignments.” She sighed. “So how much do I owe you for the session?”

“No charge. Consider it part of the bell service at Harmony House.” He held the door for her to step into the hallway. He realized he was enjoying talking with her. Other than lunches in town with Carlos, he didn’t have many lighthearted social contacts, so this was…pleasant. And she smelled like spring.

STEPPING INTO THE COOL hallway of the owners’ quarters, Christine’s smile felt easy for the first time since she’d arrived. Joking around with Marcus had been fun. He’d been taken aback at first. She came on strong, she knew, loud and chatty and nosy, while Marcus was quiet and self-contained, a still pool happy to remain ripple free. He’d joked back, though.

The wooden floor creaked in a familiar way as they walked past the tiny kitchen, Aurora’s bedroom—its door closed—the bathroom, the spare room, then Christine’s old room.

“This is it,” she said, turning the cracked ceramic knob, her heart doing a peculiar hip-hop. The room would be different, of course, after eighteen years. Countless residents had stayed here, she’d bet. But when she stepped inside, she saw it was exactly the same as when she’d left it.

“Oh, my God. Nothing’s changed.”

“It’s very…pink,” Marcus said, pulling the cart inside.

“Bogie painted it for me. It was my princess room, like what I figured Susan Parsons would have. She was the most popular girl at school.”

“Susan from Parsons Foods? She’s married to the mayor, I believe.”

“She was queen back then, so of course she’d marry the mayor.” She ruled the girls who mocked Christine and the other commune kids.

Christine ran her hand over the pink polyester bedspread with the ruffles she’d sewn herself. “I made this, you know.” She touched the sagging canopy netting attached to four broom handles. It looked ridiculous, as did the papier-mâché French Provençal frame around the bureau mirror and the pink fur-padded stool she’d made. “This was my haven. Aurora called me Rapunzel and made fun of me for expecting a prince to save me.”

“Is that what you wanted?”

“Not really, but that didn’t matter to Aurora. Fairy tales were sexist—the girls passive chattel to be bought or rescued.”

“Pretty heavy rhetoric for a seven-year-old to absorb.”

“All I wanted was our cute apartment, my little Catholic school with the neat plaid uniforms and the strict nuns.” Everything squared-off, peaceful, predictable.

“What brought you here?”

“Bogie talked Aurora into it. They’d been friends years before and ran into each other and he got her all fired up.”

“But you not so much?”

“God, no. There were power-outs constantly. No TV. No privacy. People moving in and out.”

“Not to mention no water pressure.”

“You’re getting it, yeah.” She’d been babbling, but it helped ease how strange she felt being here again. She liked how Marcus honed in on her while she talked, really listened, as if the details were vital to him.

“Everything okay?” Bogie stood in the doorway.

“My room’s the same,” she said, still amazed.

“That’s Aurora. She sits in here and thinks about you.”

“You’re kidding. She always laughed at my princess stuff.”

“We’re sure glad to have you home again, Crystal,” Bogie said. The affection in his gray eyes tugged at her. He sounded as though she was here to stay. That made her stomach jump.

Just for the summer, she wanted to remind him, but couldn’t, not with that happy look on his face.

“Well, I’ll let you get settled.” He ducked his gaze, then retreated. That was Bogie’s way, to slip off, disappear, as if he wasn’t worthy of people’s time or attention. How sad. She would spend as much time with him as she could, she decided.

Marcus helped her off-load the bags and equipment.

“The office stuff looks ridiculous in here, huh?” she said, looking around at the desk, computer and printer. “Actually, the only phone is in the kitchen. I’ll have to set up in that alcove if I want to be online at all.”

“The drugstore in New Mirage has computer terminals at the back where the post office is. It’s DSL. That’s what I use.”

“I wonder how hard it would be to get DSL out here. Of course, Aurora thinks computers are a plot to destroy our minds.”

“Should we move the equipment to the alcove?” he asked.

“I’ve kept you too long already. Thanks for the help, Marcus. And for listening to me jabber.”

“It was my pleasure.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” she said, studying him. “I make you jumpy, don’t I? You keep backing away.”

“No.” He looked surprised at her words, then seemed to ponder them. “I haven’t had much social interaction lately….”

“And you prefer it that way?”

He didn’t answer, but she was curious. “Why? Because of the book you’re writing?”

“Aurora mentioned that, too?”

“What’s it about? Psychiatry?”

He nodded.

“So how’s it going?”

“It’s…going.” But distress flared in his eyes and he eased toward the door. “I’ll see you at supper then,” he said and was gone. So he didn’t want to talk about that, either.

What was the deal with him and kids? None of my own, no. Stepkids then maybe? Why not say so?

The man had a lot on his mind, evidently. She wondered why he’d quit seeing clients. Maybe one too many female patients hitting on him. Didn’t every woman crave a man who knew her inside-out, but stayed all the same? Marcus Barnard was a mystery, that was certain. At another place, another time, she might want to solve it.

DAVID STUMBLED INTO the Harmony House kitchen, so frustrated he wanted to smash a mason jar or one of those big pottery plates. His legs ached and he was dying of thirst from climbing hill after hill looking for a cell signal to call Brigitte. He’d failed. No bars. No signal. No Brigitte.

“How’d the exploring go?” his mother asked, all eager and excited. Like he was out having fun, not sweating his balls off for no good reason. “What did you see?”

“I can’t get a cell signal!” He tossed his phone to the floor, instantly sorry he had. If he broke it, Christine wouldn’t replace another one. Why did he get so mad?

“Just use the house phone,” his grandmother said, pointing at a squat black one so old it had finger holes.

“Get permission first,” his mother just had to add, looking up from her laptop. “Toll calls add up fast.” And we’re not made of money. That was always the next line.

“Did you know there was no cell service here?” he asked.

“We can live a few weeks without mobile phones and broadband connections,” she said, holding out a glass of water.

“Wait. You mean there’s no Internet?” That would kill him.

“Dial-up only and we don’t want to tie up the phone a lot.”

“Dial-up’s too slow.”

“Drink the water. You look dehydrated.”

“You’re not one of those computer addicts, are you, David?” his grandmother said, sewing a hole in some overalls. “That’s no way to relate to the world.”

“May I please use your phone, Grandma,” he said, ignoring her jab, being so polite it hurt his throat.