responsible for registering the guests, providing whatever they need, plus keeping a list of drugs or prescriptions they bring. The law requires that. We rarely take alcoholics anymore, but a few show up. We’re not equipped to be a detoxification center, either, but some come just the same. Leave them to Jon Paul. We’ve a cabinet stocked with bourbon and scotch and plenty of club soda. When my father ran the Villa, he hired a physician to dispense anti-depressants. But we’ve dropped that service. Now we focus on providing rest and a change of venue. For alcoholics, we do offer cold showers and wet towels,” Garnett coughed, paused and wiped his face with a handkerchief. He placed it back in his jacket’s pocket and stared at Darby.
“Most of our clients today,” he continued, “are upscale, mainly suffering from depression. Which leads me to warn you about Stephanie.” He retrieved his handkerchief and wiped his lips. “Her grandmother brought her. She’s been here two weeks. The child’s suicidal, her grandmother claims, though I’ve not seen it. She stays mainly to herself. Her father and mother used to come here, years ago. But that’s another story,” he said with a cheerless glance and sadness in his voice. “The girl’s on Xanax, which Linda makes sure she takes. You do know that Linda used to be a Licensed Practical Nurse. As for the girl, she’s scheduled to go home Sunday but wants to stay longer. I wish I knew how to help her. Maybe you’ll figure something out. She likes you. I saw it in her eyes the moment you walked in. As for Hughes, he’s just in a state of self-pity. He takes long walks and likes to sit in the Garden. He’ll be a pest I fear. As for the couple, they’re a mystery. They’re not on anything. They’ve been here a week. Real distanced from each other when they arrived—moody, impish, wanting sex, but aloof and secretive. God only knows what problems they’ve brought. Maybe you’ll get them to talk. That’s about it.” Suddenly Garnett leaned forward; sweat beads popped out on his brow, and he struggled to catch his breath. “Damn!” he groaned. “I can hardly breathe.”
“What is it? I have a right to know, you know. Throat cancer? Is that what it is? Lung cancer? Emphysema? Or something worse?”
“No. Throat cancer. And there’s nothing worse. That’s it. My doctor in Atlanta’s scheduled tests for me at a Mayo clinic out west. That’s where he completed his residency.” There were tears in Garnett’s eyes as he fought for his breath. “He thinks transoral laser microsurgery is what I need. That’s less invasive than the traditional jaw-breaking, disfigurement process. You know, where they slice your neck open and rip out your thorax and voice box, gutting you like a fish. I’m not looking forward to it, I assure you,” he swallowed, choking on his own phlegm. “You’d best get on to your cottage. I’ll see you in the morning before I leave.”
“Sure! In the morning!” Darby repeated as he rose and laid his hand on Garnett’s shoulder. “See you then. You’ll have to write.”
“Oh, that reminds me!” Garnett fought to regain his breath. “We don’t receive mail delivery here. Jon Paul picks it up twice a week at the post office in West Asheville. We’ve a box there. In case you ever need to go down, the key’s in the drawer here,” he pointed toward the desk. “Top drawer on the right. The box number’s on the string. There’s a business credit card next to it. You’ll need that, too.”
“I’ll remember, thanks. Till the morning. Good night!”
Chapter 2
Driving around the Villa to the cottage stirred Darby’s memories again. They had spent the happiest hours of their honeymoon by its fireside, in its dayroom, so cozy and warm. But the past was past; he hardened his jaw. Hegel had put it best: every moment is a compilation of the past, as well as a revolt against it.
He entered the cottage. In the glow of its hearth, he and Julia had melded into their first pluperfect throes. For years they had loved each other intensely, cooking together, studying, writing, traveling, until Julia completed her own degree as an archivist. Still, from the beginning, the feeling that something was missing never dissipated. He bit his lip. That she wanted out destroyed his wholeness, his grasp of himself. No, he couldn’t fault her. Nor should he fault himself, a psychologist had assured him. Life is never that simple. Slowly, he made his way into the room. It was a good place to live, to dwell, however long Nelson should need him. Then return to Atlanta, if they’d take him back. The Dean had pretty much promised he would.
He had his clothing to bring in—his laptop, reference books, and personal items. He returned to his car and completed the move. Now as he scanned the cottage’s bookshelves, he was surprised to find his own works closest to the room’s reading lamp. Garnett must have arranged them to create the effect. There they were: his dissertation, his two volumes of The History of Western Philosophy, two novels: Au’voir Paris and Christopher Rex—a fable set at sea—and Orion, his first and only book of poetry. Just as he sat down, someone rapped at the door. “Hey in there!” a voice called. Darby recognized it as Jon Paul’s.
He rose and opened the door. With only a thin smile, he stared at the stout, medium-sized chef of hefty chest, his head a stream of godlike blond hair tied in a wiry pony tail dangling down the back of his neck. There was something about him Darby had never been able to trust. It was in his eyes, the silent cant that never smiled. “Come in! What a sight you are!” he belied his feelings. “Thanks for everything.”
“Hey, it’s not me to thank! It’s Linda and Hettie. They spent all yesterday cleaning and dusting this place for you. We get some real crazies, you know. Sometimes it takes two to take them down. Enjoy your night. Who knows what tomorrow may bring! If you need anything, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll see you at breakfast.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.”
Jon Paul’s eyes scrutinized Darby’s for a moment. A look of distance crept into them. Suddenly, he shook Darby’s hand, then, slipped back into the night.
Darby watched him disappear toward the Villa. A thin fog had begun to form. It settled ever so subtly about the mansion’s flagstone walkways, its tall ornamental urns and rhododendron bushes that hunched numb in the cold. Darby rubbed his arms, closed the door and lit the logs in the fireplace. He had scarcely begun to relax when another rap sounded at the door. It was softer and hesitant, but nonetheless a knock. “Come on in!” he called. “The door’s unlocked.”
“Yes!” a young voice answered. It was Stephanie. She eased the door open and stepped in. She quickly closed it behind her. “Please Dr. Peterson, don’t be angry! Please, sir! This is totally unlike me. But I’m frightened. May I sit for a while? I, I won’t stay long. I promise. I won’t tell anybody, either. I’m just . . . lonely, . . . sad.”
Darby glanced at her trembling hands. They were white, almost blue from the cold.
“Well, you’re already in. Sit down and we’ll just be lonely and sad together,” he smiled.
The girl’s lips parted, creating a warm, expansive grin. “I . . . I can’t believe that,” she stammered. “I thought you had it all together!”
“Well, your smile eliminated any sadness. Sit there by the fire and tell me about yourself. Why all this sadness? This self-doubt? You know, there’s always a reason for the way we feel, and we can choose to feel differently. That’s the truth.”
“I wish I could,” she mumbled as she sat in front of the fireplace to warm her hands. “Do you really want to know about me? To hear the truth? I’m not even sure what it is. I’ve told my counselor a thousand times, but it doesn’t do any good. I feel guilty taking up her time. I just sink deeper it seems.”
“Maybe there’s nothing wrong with that, sinking and sinking until you feel the ground?”
