two oak side chairs and a sofa upholstered in dark green fabric sitting against one wall.
Oak-framed pictures of the town in the early nineteen hundreds decorated the interior and a green-glass lamp sat on the edge of her desk, giving the place a casual, old-fashioned appearance. The office was neat and orderly. With the number of cases she handled, it was imperative she be well organized.
Elizabeth glanced at the stack of manila files on her desk, each one a case she was currently working. For the past two years, she had been an employee of the small, privately owned clinic in San Pico, California. Elizabeth had been born in the town, mainly an agricultural community, situated near the southwest end of the San Joaquin Valley.
She had graduated from San Pico High, then gotten a partial scholarship to help pay her way through college. She had majored in psychology at UCLA, earning a master’s in social work, making extra money with a part-time job as a waitress, as she had done in high school.
Two years ago, she had returned to her hometown, a quiet place of refuge where her father and sister lived, though her dad had died last year and her sister had married and moved away. Elizabeth had come to recover from a messy divorce, and the quiet life away from the city had helped bring her out of the depression she had suffered after her marriage to Brian Logan had fallen apart.
In contrast to the hustle of busy Santa Ana, where she had been working, San Pico was a city of around thirty thousand people, of which half the population was now Hispanic. Elizabeth’s family had been among the original founders back in 1907, farmers and dairymen back then. During her childhood, her father and mother had owned a small neighborhood market, Conner’s Grocery, but after her mother had died, her father had sold the business and retired, and Elizabeth had gone off to school.
She reached for the file on top of the stack on her desk, preparing herself for her upcoming session that evening with the Mendoza family, conducted in their home. The file contained a history of drinking and family violence that included an incident of child abuse, but the violence seemed to have lessened in the months the family had been in counseling.
Elizabeth fervently believed the sessions were helping family members learn to deal with each other in ways that did not include physical violence.
Leaning over the file, she tucked an annoying strand of dark auburn hair behind an ear and continued to scan the file. Like all of the Conners, she was dark-haired, slenderly built and a little taller than average. But unlike her sister, she had been blessed with the clear blue eyes of her mother.
Which meant that every time she looked in the mirror, she thought of Grace Conners and missed her.
Her mother had died a painful death from cancer when Elizabeth was just fifteen. They had been extremely close and the difficult months of caring for, then losing her had taken its toll. Elizabeth’s blue eyes were her mother’s legacy, but the memories they stirred were so painful that sometimes, instead of a blessing, her best feature seemed more of a curse.
Elizabeth sighed as she reached the end of the report, closed the file and leaned back in her chair. She had never expected to return to her hometown, which was flat and dusty and most of the year far too hot.
But sometimes fate had different notions and here she was, in a rented apartment on Cherry Street, doing the kind of work she had been trained for, and though she didn’t particularly like living in the homely little town, at least she felt good about her job.
She was thinking about her upcoming session that night when a soft knock sounded at the door. She looked up to see one of the boys she counseled walk into the room. Raul Perez was seventeen years old, on work leave from juvenile detention, to which he’d been sentenced for the second time. Belligerent, surly and difficult, he was also smart and caring and loyal to his friends and the people he loved, and especially to his beloved sister, Maria.
His concern for others was the reason Elizabeth had agreed to do his counseling sessions without a fee. Raul had potential. He could make something of himself if he was given the right motivation—if she could convince him that his life would never improve as long as he involved himself in alcohol and drugs.
Burglary had been the result, of course, as it often was with kids like Raul. They needed money to buy the drugs and they would do whatever it took to get them.
But Raul had been drug free for over a year and he had told her that he meant to stay that way. There was something in his intense black eyes that made Elizabeth believe it might be true.
“Raul. Come in.” She smiled at him warmly. “It’s good to see you.”
“You are looking very well,” he said, always extremely polite.
“Thank you.” She thought that she did look good today, in crisp beige cotton slacks and a short-sleeved turquoise silk blouse, her shoulder-length auburn hair in loose waves around her face.
Raul sat down in one of the oak side chairs and Elizabeth sat down behind her desk. To begin the session, she started with a question about his part-time job at Sam Goodie’s, janitorial and delivery work that would end when Ritchie Jenkins got back on his feet after crashing his motorcycle down at the end of Main Street. In another week, the job would be over and unless he found something else, he would be back in juvenile detention full-time.
“So, how do you like working at the store so far?”
He shrugged a pair of linebacker shoulders. “I like the music—except when they play country western.” Raul was only about five foot ten, but he was stocky and muscular, big for his age since he was a child. He had glossy, straight black hair and dark skin, marred only by the tattoo of a skull on the back of one hand and his initials in blue under the skin beneath his left ear. The initials were a homemade job probably done in grammar school. She thought the skull must have been done during his last stay in juvenile hall.
Elizabeth looked at him and smiled. “I know you’ll be out of work by the end of the week, but I have some very exciting news for you.”
He studied her warily from his place across the desk. “What is it?”
“You’ve been accepted at Teen Vision.”
“Teen Vision?”
“I mentioned it a couple of weeks ago, remember?”
He nodded, his eyes fixed on her face.
“Since the farm is a fairly new facility, they only have room for twenty-five kids so far, but a couple of openings have come up and your application was one of the ones they accepted.”
“I didn’t put in an application,” he said darkly.
She kept the smile fixed on her face. “I know you didn’t—I did. I mentioned the farm to you when you were here before. You seemed interested. I took it one step further and applied in your name.”
He was frowning. That wasn’t good. The students who participated in the residential program at Teen Vision were there of their own free will. If he didn’t want to be involved, being there wouldn’t do him the least bit of good.
“The term lasts one year. You have to be between the ages of fourteen and eighteen and you have to agree to stay the entire twelve months or they won’t let you in.”
“I’m out of detention for good in six more months.”
“You
