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“It’s going to be difficult enough to recover from the horrendous violation as it is,” Dr. Phyllis Langford said, her short, curly red hair a complement to the deep intelligence shining from her green eyes. “Rape is terribly destructive. Having it happen in a town like Shelter Valley, where everyone always felt safe, is almost like having a family member turn on you.” A psych professor at the university, Phyllis, a Yale graduate, had been a therapist in her former Boston life. The opal on her righ
t ring finger shone beneath the sun coming in through the window as Phyllis moved her fork to her plate for another bite. Martha, who’d been one of the first to befriend her when she’d first come to town, had never seen the woman without that ring.
“Which is why it would be better if we knew who it was,” Beth Richards said, her conventional beauty—straight blond hair and blue eyes—a front for the strong and intelligent woman beneath the surface. “The loving arms of Shelter Valley would help her heal.”
Beth’s fingers were the only thing about the woman’s appearance that wasn’t fragile-looking. Long and muscled, with short, clipped nails, those hands were incredibly gifted—in two healing arts. Massage and music.
“I know they sure saved me,” Beth said, her gaze serious as she glanced at the other women around the table. Beth never spoke of the cult—or the man—she’d been running from when she’d holed up in Shelter Valley. No one asked her to. They all knew Beth and that was enough.
“I wish Greg had told us.” Bonnie Nielson, sitting next to Beth, gave her sister-in-law’s hand a pat. “Every woman I pass, I wonder if it’s her, look for some sign. I can’t undo what happened, but I can’t just sit here and not help her. Somehow.” Bonnie was the town’s caregiver. The ultimate mother among a community full of mothers. She ran a combination child and senior care facility that, even in its infancy, was becoming nationally known for its innovative programming.
Martha wasn’t sure what shoes Bonnie was wearing, but they’d be flat. Bonnie moved too fast these days to wear anything but flat shoes.
Becca, sitting in the middle with her back to the wall of windows that overlooked the mountains surrounding Shelter Valley, put down her fork, clasping her fingers together in front her. But only after she’d squeezed Martha’s hand under the table, a silent question to which Martha shook her head.
She knew she should say something. But she just couldn’t. She couldn’t bear the outpouring of sympathy that would follow.
Most importantly, she couldn’t break her promise to Ellen.
Becca would be wearing the very latest in shoes. Even now that she was the mother of two very active toddlers, Becca somehow managed to be high-fashion from her spiked short hair down.
And Martha had always thought her friend’s polished appearance, compared to her own more casual style, was because Becca hadn’t been dealing with hungry children in the morning.
Becca spoke with a clear, calm voice.
“I think our job here, ladies, is to present a strong, unafraid example to every single person—man, woman and child—living in this town.”
Martha chewed a bite of salad and succeeded in swallowing it.
“Absolutely.” Phyllis placed her napkin on the table. “Bonnie, treat every woman you meet as though she’s the victim because, in a sense, she is. We all are.”
The worried lines on Tory’s face smoothed. Martha noticed that only because the younger woman was seated right across from her. “I’m glad you said that,” she said to Phyllis, her eyeliner drawing attention to the innocence in her eyes, an innocence she’d retained in spite of the abuse she’d suffered from her ex-husband before coming to Shelter Valley. “I’ve been feeling that way and thought it was just me.”
“No way,” Randi interjected. “I haven’t skated without Zach since it happened.”
“If we act afraid, we’re going to scare the children,” Bonnie said. “We need to be smart, to make sure that everyone knows not to be out alone, especially at night, but we can’t let this guy take away our freedom.”
“Hasn’t he, though?” Beth’s quiet question spoke volumes. “He’s taken away our ability to feel safe.”
“No, he hasn’t,” Becca answered. “We can still be safe. Happy. We just have to be more vigilant about looking out for ourselves. And each other. It’s not a bad reminder.”
“David Marks sure did a good job of handling the situation at church on Sunday,” Bonnie said. Martha had noticed that Bonnie was singing in the choir again. She’d quit shortly after she and Keith had found Pastor Edwards, for the second time, in the arms of a married parishioner.
“He didn’t pull any punches about the fact that there’s evil in the world,” Beth said, “yet somehow I came away feeling completely secure.”
“I couldn’t have done it better—or probably even as well—myself,” Phyllis said. “It’s all a matter of attitude. We create our own realities. We have it in our power to be whoever and whatever we want. If we believe we’re safe, we’ll act accordingly, and we will be.”
Oh, God. Now her friends were spouting that crap, Martha realized. Hadn’t that been exactly what had led Ellen into trouble in the first place? Believing she was safe?
Pastor Marks would say that Ellen hadn’t believed. She’d just taken safety for granted. Martha thought it was all a bunch of nonsense.
Becca didn’t seem to be saying much, either, thank goodness. Like Martha, she wasn’t falling for the preacher’s stuff. Apparently some needed it more than others and to each his—or her—own.
“Father John talked about it on Sunday, too,” Tory was saying. “He told us all to pray for protection—and to take sensible precautions.”
As she’d been doing throughout most of the meal, Martha kept her mouth shut. Nope, she was definitely not heroine material.
“So, are you all locking your doors at night?” Cassie asked when everyone had finished eating.
