janet dailey- the healing touch (3 page)

About the time she dared to hope the wound might have healed a bit, something pricked it, and the pain returned as deep and searing as ever.

"I'm sony, Katie," she said. She stroked the girl's shining hair. "It's hard to lose someone you love. Believe me, I know."

Katie looked up at her with curious eyes. "Really? Did someone you love die, too?"

Closing her eyes for a moment against the memories, Rebecca found them there, playing on the screen of her mind. The emergency call in the middle of the night—a dog at the Humane Society, hit by a car, in need of immediate attention. Tim volunteering to go. "You've had a tough day, Becky. I'll take care of it. Just go back to sleep." Hours later, the other call—from the Highway Patrol.

"Yes," she said, opening her eyes. "I lost my husband. He was a veterinarian, too. We had a practice together. We'd only been married two years."

"Was he sick for a long time?" Katie asked.

So, Rebecca thought, that's how her mother died. A long illness.

"No," she said. "He was in a car accident."

"Oh..." Katie nodded in understanding. "That must have been awful. You didn't even get to say goodbye."

"No, I didn't," Rebecca agreed. "I think that was the worst part."

Katie looked away, as though remembering. "My daddy told me to tell my mommy goodbye," she said. "But I cried, and I wouldn't do it. I was just a dumb

seven-year-old. Now I'm eight, and I'm a lot more grown-up."

"Yes, I can see that," Rebecca said with a smile. "But you shouldn't blame yourself. Everyone finds it hard to tell someone they love goodbye. I don't think you were a dumb seven-year-old. I think you were just really scared, that's all."

Katie's eyes brimmed with tears, but she smiled up at Rebecca. "That's nice," she said. "Maybe that's all it was."

"I'm sure of it."

"Want to see something really neat?" Katie asked, suddenly lighthearted.

"Sure, what is it?" Rebecca said, happy to change the subject.

"Just wait until you see this. It's really funny."

The girl ran away to a nearby plum tree and picked a piece of the fruit. Rebecca had a feeling she knew what the "something" was. But she didn't say so.

"Watch this!" Katie said as she held out the plum to Rosebud.

Rebecca had seen goats eat peaches and plums before. She knew what was coming.

The goat took the fruit and rolled it around in her mouth for a couple of seconds. Then she spat out the seed...perfectly clean. As the pit sailed through the air, Katie cackled with glee.

"Did you see that?" she said. "She gets all the plum off the seed and spits it really far!"

"Most impressive/' Rebecca agreed. "A lot of boys I know would love to be able to spit like that."

Katie giggled again, and Rebecca thought what a beautiful child she was. Why didn't her father take more of an interest in her?

"So, has your dad seen this?" Rebecca asked.

Katie's smile disappeared. "No. He's almost never around. He works a lot at his car place in Los Angeles."

"Car place?"

"Yeah. He sells really expensive cars that he gets from Europe." Katie looked away, as though remembering again. "He used to be home a lot. He used to play with me and Mommy and make us pancakes in the morning. But now he just works all the time."

Rebecca recalled the months after her husband's accident, the long hours of trying to escape into her job. It hadn't worked. Sooner or later, she had to stop working and go to bed. Alone. And then she couldn't help remembering.

"I miss my mom," Katie said. "But I miss my dad, too. I wish he was around more."

Rebecca felt a rush of anger toward the man who could neglect this child. When Tim had died, she had been so lonely. If Tim had only left her with a beautiful reminder of himself.. .like Katie, she certainly wouldn't have deserted the child, no matter how much pain she had suffered.

"Have you told your father how you feel?" Rebecca asked.

"No." Katie shrugged her small shoulders. "I don't want to make him feel bad. He's sad enough already."

"Maybe you should tell him," Rebecca said gently. "Perhaps he doesn't know that you're feeling sad, too. It always helps if you have someone to feel sad with."

Katie considered her words for a moment. Thai she shook her head. "No. I'll just talk to Rosebud. She doesn't have as much to worry about as my dad does."

Rebecca glanced at her watch. She had another call to make. "I have to go now, Katie. But I'll come by again soon to check on you two."

Katie seemed disappointed, but she nodded. "Okay. Thanks for coming over." She blushed and stared down at her purple and pink sneakers. "I mean...Rosie likes you and she was glad to see you."

"I like her, too," Rebecca replied. "Very much."

Rebecca said her goodbyes and walked around to the front of the house. Just as she was about to step into her pickup, a late-model, dark green Jaguar XJ12 pulled into the drive.

Michael Stafford climbed out, looking as striking as he had the other night. He wore a charcoal designer suit and a white silk shirt. His dark hair was combed back. But one lock had escaped and bung boyishly over his forehead.

The look in his blue eyes was anything but boyish. He gave her a curt nod of his head, but no smile of greeting.

"Good morning, Mr. Stafford," Rebecca said. Her tone was much more friendly than she felt.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "Has something happened to the goat?"

"No, not at all," she assured him. "I was just dropping by to say hello to Katie."

He looked relieved, but still angry. "I haven't changed my mind, Dr. Barclay. I believe it was a mistake to let her keep that mangy goat," he said. "My daughter is obsessed with the thing. If it were to get sick or..."

"Yes?" she asked, her temper rising.

"Or die, she would be crushed. And I can tell you now, Doctor, I'll blame you if it happens."

That did it. Rebecca could no longer control her tongue. She knew she was about to say things she would regret later.

"Mr. Stafford," she said, gritting her teeth, "your daughter needs a living being to love. Maybe she wouldn't be so obsessed with a goat if her father spent a little time with her."

She turned and stomped back to her truck. "And by the way," she added as she climbed in and slammed the door behind her, "Rosie isn't mangy. None of my patients have mange, thank you!"

"And/, Dr. Barclay..." he shouted back "...am not cranky!"

Oh, Lord, she thought, someone told him what I said! She only hoped they hadn't told him the rest. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she found him at all attractive. She'd get Betty Sue for this.

Tires squealing, she pulled away. In her rearview mirror she could see him standing in a cloud of dust.. .her dust, his mouth hanging open.

"So there, Mr. Stafford!" she said, still embarrassed, but satisfied with her dramatic exit. "Just put that in your pipe and smoke it!"

Michael slammed his desk drawer closed, caught the end of his thumb in the handle and yelled out a curse. Instantly, there was silence in the showroom, the conversation between his secretary and a salesman coming to an abrupt halt.

A second later, Mrs. Abernathy peeked around the corner into his office, a look of concern on her face. "Have you hurt yourself...again, Michael?" she asked in a soft, grandmotherly voice. Usually, he would have been flattered by the attention, but her words had a distinctly sarcastic undertone. And, judging by the ever- so-slight smirk she was wearing, she must have been thinking he was a child who had just injured himself while throwing a temper tantrum.

Where the hell would she have gotten an idea like that?

"I'm fine, Mrs. Abernathy," he replied with equally saccharine sweetness. "I just flattened the better part of my thumb. I had two major deals fall through before noon. My pastrami on rye was soggy and dripping with Dijon mustard. I hate Dijon mustard. And I just had the pleasure of informing Mr. Hillman that we can't find the parts we need to
repair the brakes on his Silver
Ghost. He intends to sue us. But, other than that, I'm having a perfectly wonderful day. Thank you for asking."

Instead of turning around and leaving, as he was hoping she would, she walked into his office and sat on one of the overstuffed chairs beside his desk. She adjusted her glasses, cleared her throat and folded her hands demurely in her lap—the picture of feminine grace.

How deceiving, he thought. Here it comes. She's going to give it to me with both barrels.

Mrs. Abernathy had worked for Michael for the past five years, and he knew all of her maneuvers. Not that the knowledge did him any good. With Mrs. Abernathy, forewarned wasn't necessarily forearmed. She always initiated, directed and won these little debates of theirs. Sometimes he wondered who worked for whom.

"Okay, what's the matter with you?" she asked, peering at him over the top of her wire frames.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't give me that. You know exactly what I'm talking about. All day you've been acting like a cantankerous grizzly bear, hibernating here in your cave and growling at anybody who gets within ten yards of you. I'm not surprised your deals fell through, you smashed your thumb and alienated Mr. Hillman. I'd sue you, too, if I were him."

He stared at her for a moment, his mouth working up and down as he searched for a suitable retort. "And I suppose the sandwich was my fault, too?"

She shrugged. "Hey, it's karma. You're sending all that negativity out into the universe and—"

"Oh, give me a break. Do you really think that the great cosmos cares if I yell at a few people? Do you really think that some yokel at the deli smearing Dijon mustard on my sandwich is an act of divine retribution? Get real."

She shook her head sadly. "See what I mean? Negative vibes. You're radiating all this hostility and—"

"I'm tired," he snapped. "And...and maybe I'm sick. I'm just having a bad day, okay?"

"Well, I'm tired and sick, too. Sick and tired of you being so grouchy. And, thanks to you, everyone here at Le Concours d'Excellence is having a bad day. Enough already."

Her authoritative tone didn't leave much room for argument. It was all be could do not to duck his head and blubber, "Yes, ma'am, sorry, ma'am."

Instead, he assumed a semiapologetic look and said, "Okay, point taken. I'll work on it."

Her face softened. "Thanks," she said. Leaning across the desk, she rested one hand on his forearm. "Come on, Mike, what is it? What's wrong.. .really?"

Warming to the genuine concern in her voice, he found himself opening up a bit. She was a feisty old broad, but she was also a sweetheart and a good listener. During his wife's sickness, and afterward, she had been there for him. Every day and some long, dark nights. She was truly a good friend.

"I had a run-in with this veterinarian yesterday," he said. "The one I told you about before."

"The woman who delivered your goats? The one you said filled out her jeans nicely but was difficult?"

"Yeah, that's the one."

Had he really told Abernathy that bit about the jeans? He didn't think so. He could recall saying it to one of his mechanics. Maybe she had been eavesdropping. Wouldn't be the first time.

"So, what were you two fighting about yesterday?" she asked.

"She just said some things that she had no right to say. Stuff about Katie and me... and..."

"And?"

"And about how I don't spend enough time with her."

"Mmm-mmm." She nodded solemnly.

For once, Mrs. Abernathy seemed noncommittal in her response. Michael wasn't sure what to make of it. Usually, she was disturbingly forthright with her opinion.

"She said that Katie was obsessed with the little goat because she needs a living being to love. Can you believe that? She thinks my child's life is so empty that she's got to look to some scrawny little goat for affection."

"And what do you think, Mike?" Mrs. Abernathy said softly as she stared down at her hands, which were still folded demurely in her lap.

"I think that vet's got a big mouth," he replied without thinking.

Mrs. Abernathy said nothing, and her silence was far more telling than any of her lectures.

"And what she said is really bothering me," he added, although the admission cost him dearly, "because ... I'm afraid... I'm afraid she's right."

Mrs. Abernathy patted his hand, then squeezed it. "I know you're afraid, Mike. I know what you've been through that made you that way. And I know how much you love Katie. You have a battle going on inside, fear versus love. I'm sure your love for your little girl will win in the end."

Michael was thankful that she had the sensitivity to rise from her seat and walk over to the door. He didn't want her to see the moisture in his eyes, and she knew it. Good ol' Abernathy. She knew when to make a graceful exit.

" Abby," he said, "I hope you're right. Thanks."

"No problem." She paused at the door, bared her teeth, and growled at him. "Don't come out until you're in a better mood," she said.

He nodded.

Sitting alone, staring at the picture of his beautiful daughter in its silver frame on his desk, Michael allowed the emotions to wash over him: the fear, the guilt, the love. She looked so much like her mother. So much.

He reached out and with one finger traced the soft line of her cheek. "Oh, Katie," he whispered. "I need you, too, sweetheart."

But the moment he uttered the words, the anxiety rose in him, building until he felt it would squeeze his throat and suffocate him.

He needed her. That was the problem. After losing her mother, he was so afraid. He needed her far too much. That was why he had to guard his heart. Michael Stafford knew his own limitations all too well. And he knew he could never stand to love and lose like that again.. .never again.

Autumn arrived in its usual California fashion. Except for the dry Santa Ana winds, the occasional brushfire and the calendar on her wall, Rebecca couldn't tell it was fall. The month of September and the Christmas holidays were the only times of the year when she wished she lived somewhere other than Southern California. In September she found herself longing for a New England autumn, the brightly colored foliage and the smell of burning leaves scenting the crisp air. At Christmas she wished she could see the elaborate decorations on Fifth Avenue in New York City and skate at the foot of the giant tree in Rockefeller Center.

But most of the time, she was perfectly content with her lot in life and the quaint little oceanside town of San Carlos. It felt like home.

One community tradition that she particularly enjoyed was the county fair. As the local vet, she was always asked to judge the dog, cat and rabbit shows.