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Catherine Brooks had the most beautiful, trusting eyes, but her misplaced attempt at kindness had simply ripped a deeper tear through his heart. He didn’t doubt she missed her late husband, but whatever anguish she suffered couldn’t even begin to compare with having to live with the senseless suicide of a precious child.
There were nights when he’d done handstands atop the wall enclosing his fifth floor balcony, but it had merely been a dare to fate rather than an attempt to end his own life. Suicide would have been pointless in his case because there simply wasn’t enough of him left to kill.
After leaving the shower, he stretched out across his bed and tried to conjure up that peaceful lagoon where one day would blur into the next without a hint of sorrow or pain. He longed for that peace with a desperate hunger, but that night, his only salvation was the memory of the anguish reflected in Catherine Brooks’ haunting gaze.
Catherine didn’t sleep well, either, that night. While it was often difficult for her to summon the energy to rise in the morning, she got up early to work in the garden. By ten o’clock, she’d been to the Belefontaine Nursery and was busy replanting the flower beds in her backyard. Smoky wound his way through her arms as she packed the dirt around the colorful pansies, but she was more amused than annoyed by his antics.
When the telephone rang, she was tempted to allow her machine to answer, but at the last instant sprinted into the house and tugged off her gardening gloves to get it herself.
“Mrs. Brooks?”
Catherine instantly recognized the caller as Luke Starns. He’d made his feelings so plain the previous day, she couldn’t see any need to endure another of his sarcastic lectures and attempted to head him off.
“Dr. Starns, I doubt this is necessary, and—”
“Oh, but it is,” Luke countered, but a long, uncomfortable pause followed. “I never discuss my daughter’s death because it’s simply too painful. I remind myself people mean well, but clearly I don’t have to tell you that’s not always an effective technique.”
Surprised by his candor, Catherine relaxed her grip on the telephone. Luke was probably standing at his office window looking out over the desolate parking lot. The day was warm, and the sun would lend his hair silvery highlights, but she thought he would still be scowling. That he was actually trying to apologize amazed her, but not nearly as greatly as how easily she could picture his expression in her mind.
“Mrs. Brooks?”
“Yes, go on,” she responded.
“You’re not making this easy.”
Catherine could hear a hint of a smile in his voice and felt her own expression soften. “I’m sorry. I tend to weep whenever anyone mentions my husband, but I know men are more likely to respond with anger when someone touches a nerve.”
“I don’t recall your mentioning that you also have a degree in psychology. Did you simply neglect to list it on your application?”
His tone had deepened slightly, which Catherine wisely interpreted as a warning she’d again overstepped her bounds, or more accurately, his boundaries. “No, but life would be pointless if we didn’t pick up any valuable insights along the way.”
“I agree, but unfortunately, it’s often at too high a price. At any rate, I called to say that I hope you’ll overlook my advice to the contrary and still volunteer at Lost Angel whenever you have the time.”
The invitation was delivered in such a mechanical fashion, Catherine was tempted to tell him to get a haircut and then go straight to hell, but in the interest of harmony, she restrained herself. “Thank you. I’ll try to work it into my busy schedule.”
As she hung up, she was uncertain whether or not she would go back to Lost Angel. After all, she could simply substitute in the local high schools to gain experience, but that would require her to take the CBEST test, and she hadn’t even signed up for it yet. If she wanted to teach full-time in the fall, however, she would also need the test, and she made a mental note to pick up an application from the school board office.
On Wednesday, she visited the charity thrift shop and dropped off the clothes and shoes she and Joyce had sorted. By Thursday morning, her garden looked beautiful, and she’d run out of excuses to stay away from Lost Angel. She drove on over to Hollywood, but she was determined to avoid Luke Starns and felt certain he would do his best to avoid her.
Pam again put Catherine to work opening the mail, and when she finished, she carried the stack of new flyers over to the hall to post. She’d nearly completed the task when a slender girl in a fuzzy pink sweater and tight jeans came up to look over her shoulder. Catherine turned to smile and found the girl had the remarkable prettiness of Alice in Wonderland, with startling blue eyes and long, blonde hair.
“Hello,” Catherine greeted her. “I hope if you recognize anyone, you’ll encourage them to call home.”
The girl shrugged and slid her hands into her hip pockets. “I don’t see anyone I know.”
Like so many of the teens Catherine had seen on Friday, the girl looked painfully young. Catherine doubted she would have approached her if she hadn’t wanted to talk, but uncertain how best to initiate a conversation, she adjusted the angle of a bright pink flyer and kept quiet.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” the girl asked without glancing Catherine’s way.
“Yes, I am.” Catherine offered her name as she posted another flyer, but she had a lengthy wait before the girl responded.
“My name’s Violet. I just come here sometimes to look at the books, but I didn’t find anything good today.”
Catherine had noticed the sagging shelves which contained the center’s paperback library. “I’ve got quite a collection of paperbacks at home,” she said. “What sort of books do you like?”
Violet shrugged again. “The ones with pretty covers.” She reached out to finger the rolled corner on a faded orange flyer that had been on display for several months. “You know, the ones where there’s a couple dancing or just staring into each other’s eyes?”
“Yes. Those are romances. I love to read them too. I’ll bring in some of mine on my next visit. Do you come here often?”
