Healing Stones (45 page)

I felt several students staring at me as I took the steps down two at a time and cut around the shelves to get to him. One of them darted out of the way so I wouldn't plow into him and mumbled something about me being a psycho.

“Christopher,” I said. I made no attempt to speak at library volume.

He looked up and took several seconds to focus on me.

“What are you doing here?” he said.

“We're going to talk. Outside.”

When he went into a snarl, I grabbed his sleeve and pulled him to his feet. The book slid across the table as he tried to grasp the edge to hold back.

“Now,” I said. “Unless you want me to make a scene right here.”

Judging from the whispers hissing from the stacks, that was already happening. Christopher heeded them and, with a killer glare at me, led the way to the door.

Once outside, he stood with his back to a bank of Plexiglas-covered announcement boards and put his hands on
the hips of his wrinkled shorts. He tossed his head to flip the hair out of his face. “You talked to Dad.”

“No, Christopher, he talked to me.”

“What did you expect?”

I stepped in, my nose close to his. “I expected him to listen to me. But instead, he listened to you. And now you are going to listen to me.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Stop right there, son.” I took his chin in my hand and jerked it toward me. “Because you are still my son—and I have something to say to you.”

He didn't move. I was sure that, like me, he'd never heard my voice sound like a pair of brass knuckles before.

“First of all, you are to stay out of the situation between your father and me.”

“I don't think there is a ‘situation' anymore.”

“Shut up, Christopher.” I stepped back so he could see me full face. “You told him what you thought you saw yesterday in the parking lot—or was it what you
wanted
to see? I think you have wanted us to split up from the moment this all came to light. Why, I don't know. And frankly, right now I don't want to know, because nothing you can say will excuse your behavior toward me in this.”

“How was I supposed to behave? Walk around with my nose in your butt like Jayne does?”

“Ask me whatever possessed me to tear our family apart like this—that's what Jayne did. And I told her—and it wasn't an excuse, so don't even go there.”

He pressed his lips together.

“She forgave me, Christopher, and that gave us a chance to rebuild our relationship. No thanks to you.”

“What did I have to do with it?”

“You told Jayne I didn't want to come to her play. And then you told me she didn't want me there. Tell me—”

He turned his face away, and again I pulled it back.

“What else have you lied about? Besides telling your father I had a romantic tryst with Zach Archer.”

“You did.” He wrenched his chin from my hand. “I saw you.”

“What you saw was me telling Zachary Archer to get out of my life because I never loved him and I regretted ever getting involved with him. He sought me out at the tearoom—I hadn't seen him since the night of his boat fire.”

“What about what he yelled to you across the parking lot?”

“You mean when he called me a whore?”

He lowered his eyes and moved his lower jaw from side to side.

“Yeah—those were his parting words to me, weren't they? You heard them, but you chose not to share that part with your father.”

“You can't blame me for you guys breaking up.”

“You deliberately distorted what you saw and heard, and now there is no chance for us.”

“Good!”

I felt the sting on my palm before I even knew I had slapped my son in the face.

He stared, his own hand on his cheek, eyes widened in an astonishment he couldn't hide. When he spoke, it was my turn to be astonished. His voice was thick.

“When I told Dad I saw you with Archer, he took off out of there to work like some crazed maniac escaping from a psych ward. That was the night of the fire at Metzel's—and he went off on a rookie when he dropped a hose.”

I watched him swallow.

“Dad got suspended—because that was the second time he sent a fireman to the hospital.”

My head spun. The second time. Had I seen his other victim the night I took Audrey there?

“So what do you think—Mom?” Christopher's eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, and his face worked. “I guess we both took him down. And if you're anything like me, you feel like a loser.”

I let him go, back into the library, bony shoulders hunched forward like that little boy trying to be a man. My slapping hand stung at my side, burning away any satisfaction I felt two minutes before. I knew what it felt like to be him.

CHAPTER THIRTY - SEVEN

S
ully was draping a cover over the Impala when he heard the toy-engine sound of the Jeep pulling up. Too bad he couldn't cover his pain the same way, just long enough to get Demitria through hers.

“I have to go back and finish this,” he'd told Porphyria.

To his surprise, she'd nodded, the sun kissing her forehead, her nose, her chin as her head moved. “Sounds like she's almost there— and you have the final piece for her.”

Sully knew she wouldn't put that into words for him. He'd had to mull it over on a walk through the woods, a slow stroll that brought him to his knees at a stump sprouting tender shoots. He folded his arms across it and rested his head.

At least he could close his eyes now without seeing red lights flashing in the darkness. He stumbled in darkness most of the time, even when he recited to himself what Porphyria had said. The shadows still fell across his soul. What would it take for the Light to flood in again, the way it did when he prayed for his patients?

It was there somewhere. Sully turned and leaned against his stump of an altar, face tilted toward the sun that mottled through the canopy of leaves above him. He felt so small here.

Dang. He
was
small. Like a kid just learning to live.

He'd felt a sad smile spread.
I'd like to solve the puzzle, he thought.
Humble willingness.
He would have to give that one to Demi.

The Wheel of Fortune wheel was set up in the office, on top of the boxes of tools he'd packed to leave in Ethan's garage. It was a toy roulette wheel he'd picked up at Great Prospects and modified for today's session, and the puzzle board was ceramic tiles, letters penned in Sharpie. Only Vanna White was missing.

“You putting her to bed?”

Sully looked up at Demi, who nodded at Isabella.

“She's ready for a new owner,” Sully said. “How are you, Demi?”

She seemed to appraise him, eyes drooping softly at the corners. “I've been better.”

“Then let's talk.” He wafted a hand to the office doorway, where she stopped and blurted out a laugh.

“Let me guess,” she said. “Wheel of Fortune.”

“Ding-ding.”

She looked at him over her shoulder. “What—no evening gown for you?”

He had to grin.

“What do I do, buy a vowel?” She sank into the chair.

“Tell me what's going on first.” He sat across from her.

“Christopher saw me in the parking lot of the teahouse with Zach screaming obscenities at me, and he gave Rich a slanted version.” She took in a breath and held it before she went on. “And now Rich wants a divorce.”

Sully closed his eyes for a second. “I'm so sorry.”

“I took it out on my son—slapped him across the face. And then he told me that Rich took the news out on a rookie and sent him to the emergency room—casualty number two—and now Christopher feels as horrible as I do.” She rubbed at the corner of one eye. “But he isn't speaking to me, and my husband has been suspended from the fire department, and things could probably be worse but I don't
know how. You heard about the hearing coming up—for Ethan?”

Sully nodded.

“I told him about Zach so he won't be blindsided, but he doesn't think St. Clair and Estes were involved with him. Who knows what to believe? I hate the whole thing.” Demi bent her forehead to her hand.

“So, which part of that can you do anything about?” Sully said.

She took a minute to bring her head up. “None of it.”

“So who
can
you help? Besides Jayne and Audrey.”

He got a blank look.

“I'll give you two consonants and two vowels. D-E-M—”

“Myself.” She rubbed her hands on her thighs, clad in pink pants. She was crisp and put together—not the look of a hopeless woman.

“I learned something while I was gone,” he said. “It's working for me, and I think it's the final piece of the puzzle for you too.”

“You and I need the same thing?” She gave him an eyebrows-up look. “Go figure.”

He turned to the puzzle board. “An attitude before God.”

“They never give clues that good on Wheel of Fortune.”

“This is the special Sullivan Crisp edition.”

“For dense contestants, obviously.” She pointed at the wheel. “Do I spin?”

“Go for it.”

The wheel twirled and teetered and stopped with the ball between two pegs.

“What does that mean?” she said.

“It means you get to turn over a letter and start solving the puzzle.”

“That's not how they play, is it?”

“I told you—it's a special edition.”

She flipped over the first tile and displayed an H. “This could take all day, Sullivan,” she said.

“Have at it, then.”

“I'll be Vanna.” Demi turned each tile over, smiling at an imaginary audience and framing the squares with her hands.

The attempt to cheer him up tugged at his insides.

“HUMBLE WILLINGNESS,” she read. “An attitude before God.” She traced the last tile with her finger. “I feel like I should kneel down and pray.”

“That's how I felt when I discovered it. Well—when a friend of mine led me to it. My mentor, actually.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “You need a mentor?”

“We all do.”

Demi tapped the box the wheel sat on. “You're leaving for good, aren't you?”

He nodded.

“And who's going to be my mentor? I'm not done, you know.”

“Demi, you know what?” He leaned on his knees. “Until we're dead, none of us is done.”

“Lovely,” she said. A quick smile faded. “How will I find someone as—I'm just going to say it—as amazing as you?” She wrinkled her brow. “And you know how I mean that.”

“I do, and I'm honored.” He grinned. “I'll help you find someone who at least comes close.”

She brought her eyes up, shimmery and wet. “Whatever has happened to you, I get the feeling it was worse than a divorce and a rotten kid. If you're going to keep going, then so can I.” She let the tears fall. “You've helped me so much, Sullivan. You've helped me start seeing who I am, and even if that didn't bring Rich back to me, it brought me back to me.”

“Ding, ding, ding, Mrs. Costanas,” he said.

They sat in the dewy-eyed silence for a minute.

“I want to do something for Ethan,” she said finally. “I keep thinking that if the board knew about the pictures and had even a hint that they came by them dishonestly, they would give Ethan the benefit of the doubt.”

Sully shook his head. “Ethan would never expose you to them. He promised you.”

“I don't expect him to.” She shoved a tear from her cheek with the side of her hand and lifted her chin. “But I can.”

Sully slowly sat up straight. “You sure you want to do that?”

“If there was the slightest thing you could do for him, wouldn't you do it?”

He would, no question. He'd been trying for months—eating enough pink champagne cake to gag a maggot.

Somewhere in his head, a Light came on.

Maybe he could stand just one more piece.

The bakery was quiet when he jangled the bell on the door. Tatum appeared from the back, pulling off her hair net, and greeted him with a sheepish smile. “I thought you'd want to stay as far away from me as you could.”

She leaned on the counter and let the smile vanish. “Okay—you didn't come in here for cake, did you?”

“You want to know something? I seriously hate that stuff.”

“I knew that.” Her hands went to her hips. “All right, what's going on? Did Van press charges against you?”

“No, but he did something—and I think you know what it is.”

She stuck out her chin. “I'm trying to forget whatever I knew about him.”

He watched her eyes. “Including the pictures Zach Archer hired him to take?”

Though she tried to form her usual thin layer of indifference on her face, the guilt was there in her eyes. “What's it to you?” she said.

“I'm a friend of Ethan Kaye's, and I want to help him.”

“Yeah, well, I don't.” She reached behind her and snatched up a rag, which she applied to the already spotless glass case. “I hate that college, I hate Zach Archer more, and I hate that woman even more than I do him.”

“Dr. Costanas.”

“Yes.”

“Because . . .”

“Would you just give it up?”

“No, but it won't go past here.” Sully pointed to his head. “I'm a therapist. I keep secrets.”

She let the blue-gold eyes glint at him and tossed the rag behind her. “I thought therapists weren't supposed to lie.”

“I didn't lie—I was here to rebuild a car.”

“And pry into my psyche.”

“Why do you hate Demitria Costanas?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because you could help a lot of people, Tatum. If not her, an entire segment of students at CCC.”

“I have long since stopped caring about anybody at that college. In fact—” She gave him a plastic smile. “I wish it would burn to the ground or something. In my mind, they are all getting what they deserve—including Dr. Costanas, who, if you must know, took away the man I loved.” She ripped off the smile. “Satisfied?”