Jeanie London - The Husband Lesson

Jack came through the gate the bailiff held open. “Didn’t want to miss the fun.”

Fun? Karan positively hated this small town, hated the gossip mill and everyone knowing everyone else’s business. Having everyone know hers. She had a gorgeous apartment in Manhattan and a bungalow on the Connecticut shore, so why did she even bother keeping a house here again?

A good question that she didn’t have an answer for. But as she watched the Ashokan High reunion, Karan vowed to call a real estate agent as soon as she walked out of this courtroom. She’d had enough of this nonsense. Quite enough.

She waited for her invitation to the bench, but one never came. Obviously, she was expected to stand by while everyone else made decisions about her life. She tried to squelch her annoyance, knowing there was no one to blame but herself. But knowing didn’t take the edge off. Not her anger at herself for this mess. Not her fear that Wannabe Jenny wanted blood for long-ago wounds to her pride. Not Karan’s annoyance that the years hadn’t turned Jack from high school football star into a balding cop with a doughnut belly.

Then Susanna’s fingers slid against Karan’s and gave a light squeeze. She wasn’t much for overt signs of emotion, and her best friend since middle school knew it. But Susanna also knew Karan better than anyone in the world. She knew how much Karan hated feeling out of control because they’d been weathering life together—boyfriends, graduations, weddings, divorces and funerals. Susanna didn’t mind sharing how she felt. She actually liked overt signs of emotion. Unexpected hugs. Reassuring touches.

She seemed to like them even more since her husband had died. Karan wished she could be as open as Susanna. Always there. Always caring for the people she loved. Even when life threw devastating curves.

Of course all that emotion came with a dark side, and Susanna could worry like no one Karan had ever met. She got positively insane sometimes, but life wouldn’t be life without Susanna. They were as close as sisters—or what Karan imagined a sister would be like given she was an only child.

“Ms. Kowalski Steinberg-Reece,” Wannabe Jenny announced in her I’m-the-shark-in-the-fishbowl voice. “With Chief Sloan’s help, I think we’ve worked out an arrangement that may be more to your liking.”

Susanna gave another squeeze then her hand slipped away. Karan faced the firing squad stoically. Her attorney narrowed his gaze, warning her to stay quiet. He didn’t have to because Karan had a gift for reading people. She kept her mouth shut.

“Since you’re a low-risk offender, there is an alternative sentence that, if you agree, will take the place of your jail time.”

Karan didn’t dare to breathe. So far so good. The thought of living behind bars for more than two weeks made her faint. She looked dreadful in orange. So not her color.

“In lieu of incarceration,” Wannabe Jenny continued, dragging out the suspense. “you’ll be required to complete three hundred and sixty hours of community service.”

Karan mentally calculated. Three hundred and sixty hours translated into fifteen days. Okay, still good.

“Chief Sloan has been working with Mayor Trant and a number of community leaders to launch New Hope, Bluestone Mountain’s first domestic violence shelter. You can assist their efforts by completing your service hours under the supervision of one of the program directors. You can complete the hours at your convenience, Ms. Kowalski Steinberg-Reece, but be aware you’re also required to attend weekly group and private treatment sessions for the duration and your driving privileges will remain suspended until you complete the mandated hours and appear back in court before me.

“At that time I’ll review your case and reinstate your privileges if you’ve satisfactorily met the terms of this ruling. If you do choose this alternative sentencing, I’ll waive the three-hour substance-abuse education class you’re otherwise required to take by law. Would you like a few moments to speak with counsel?”

Waive the three-hour class? How generous. But visions of windowless rooms filled with drug addicts danced in her head, so she managed to say politely, “Yes, Your Honor.”

Her attorney returned to the table, and Karan sank to the chair for a powwow.

“Paris Hilton only got two hundred hours of community service and she’s gone way past her first offense,” Karan hissed in his ear.

“Don’t forget she got a year’s probation.” He shot a glance at the bench as if worried they might be overheard. Jack and Wannabe Jenny were too busy chitchatting to pay attention. “Japan wouldn’t even let her enter the country.”

Like Karan wanted to go to Japan. “Is this honestly the best you can do?”

He scowled. “I don’t know what you did to this woman, but I promise you won’t get a better offer. Jail or alternative sentence. Your call.”

Visions of Lindsay Lohan’s latest trip to the pokey replaced images of windowless rooms. The local press would have a field day if Karan went to jail since the woman who ran the Bluestone Mountain Gazette was another Ashokan High alumnus who hadn’t had any use for Karan and her circle of friends.

At least she could spin community service in a domestic violence shelter into something not as humiliating as jail. “Alternative sentence.”

“Good choice.” Her attorney popped to his feet. “Your Honor, my client would like to accept the alternative sentence in lieu of jail time and thanks you for your consideration.”

Wannabe Jenny looked smug. “Good luck then, Ms. Kowalski Steinberg-Reece. I’ll look forward to reviewing updates about your progress.”

No doubt. Probably didn’t have anything else to do while eating her microwave-frozen dinners at night.

“Thank you, Your Honor.” That was as polite as Karan could manage. Wannabe Jenny might have the gavel in her hand right now, but the accompanying black robe washed out her sallow skin. She needed to either invest in decent makeup primer or have a conversation with whomever had chosen black as the color of choice in the courtroom.

Karan jumped when the gavel cracked with aggressive finality and Wannabe Jenny said, “Court adjourned.”

For today, anyway, because Karan would be back.

Unfortunately.

CHARLES STEINBERG WHEELED HIS Jeep Wrangler into the parking lot behind the three-story Victorian where he’d spent more time during the past eight months than he had anywhere but in the operating room. Releasing the clutch, he pulled up the emergency brake, noticing how the sun sparkled on the newly installed windows, as bright and promising as the place itself.

He felt a satisfaction as if he’d personally installed those windows rather than cutting the check that released funds to the contractor who’d done the job.

Charles’s contribution had been in the coordination and decision making, in determining essential need to balance the budget, in the long-range planning and development of outreach programs. He’d done his fair share.

And though he hadn’t originally chosen to become one of the directors of this project, Charles prided himself on living by his grandmother’s oft-spoken saying: “Bloom where you’re planted.”

He had. With the help of other dedicated volunteers, New Hope of Bluestone Mountain, Inc. had been born. The town’s first certified domestic violence prevention and emergency shelter.

The front porch light now shone 24/7, a welcome to families in crisis and the promise of help. Behind freshly painted gingerbread trim, every room had been transformed to become a multiservice facility with offices, counseling rooms and two complete floors of suites that served as temporary shelter for women and children in need.