not hungry.” She couldn’t possibly relax and enjoy a meal with her husband now.
“Fine,” he said, his voice expressionless. “Whatever.”
Dr. Geist ushered them into her office soon after they entered the clinic. “Hello, Joanie,” she said, then smiled at Brandon. “Welcome, Brandon.”
She was a tall woman, thin as a sapling, with short white hair. The doctor at the pregnancy clinic in Fargo had given Joanie Dr. Geist’s name, and after a short interview by phone, Joanie had felt optimistic about the three of them working together.
“How was your week?” Dr. Geist asked, after they’d all had a chance to sit down.
Brandon looked down at his hands, so Joanie answered. “Good.”
“Fine,” Brandon muttered with little interest.
“Did you complete the homework assignment I gave you?”
“I did,” Joanie said, and reached for the diaper bag where she’d stuffed the folded sheet. Dr. Geist had asked them each to compile a list of strengths and an equal number of weaknesses.
“Brandon?”
He shook his head.
“Did the dog eat it?” Dr. Geist asked, giving him a humorous excuse.
“No,” he said flatly, “I didn’t do it. As far as I was concerned, it was a complete waste of my time and energy. I want my wife and family back. I’m not here to learn about my flaws and what a rotten husband I am.”
“No one’s—”
Brandon didn’t allow Dr. Geist to finish. “I want my wife back,” he said angrily. “I’m tired of living in an empty house. It’s been nearly twelve months since we made love. Condemn me if you want—”
“In other words, you just want me for sex?” Joanie asked through gritted teeth.
“No,” Brandon shouted, then changed his mind. “I wouldn’t object to us sleeping together, Joanie. In my opinion, these counseling sessions are useless.” He glared at Dr. Geist. “You want us to make lists? Fine, I’ll give you one. Ten reasons my wife and children belong with me. That’s the only kind of list you’re going to get.”
“Joanie,” Dr. Geist said calmly. “Are you ready to sleep with your husband?”
“No,” she said immediately. She wanted to rekindle more than desire. Yet sex seemed all Brandon wanted from her.
As far as she could see, he wasn’t really trying, wasn’t willing to do even the basic assignments Dr. Geist had charted out for them. He wanted everything, but was willing to give nothing.
“I’ve sacrificed a lot in order to save this marriage,” Brandon announced. “Nothing makes Joanie happy. It isn’t enough that she brought me to my knees, now she wants to walk all over me.”
“That’s not true,” she said, flushed with anger. “I’ve sacrificed, too.”
The entire session ended up being a shouting match between them. Joanie felt sick to her stomach by the time the hour was over.
As verbal as they’d been during the session, neither said a word on the ride home. What remained unspoken seemed louder than any disagreement they’d ever had. When he pulled into Buffalo Valley, Brandon didn’t get out of the truck to help her with the baby or see her to the house.
Joanie paused at the curb, but knew she’d only do more damage if she said anything now. Brandon was determined to misread any comment she made. The second she’d stepped away from the truck, he drove off, tires squealing as he rounded the corner.
Swallowing the hurt, Joanie walked slowly toward the house, afraid it was too late for them both.
Three
Hassie Knight knew she was an old woman, but she’d never let that stand in her way. For years people had been telling her that someone her age was supposed to retire, to rest and take it easy. She’d always refused to listen. Until recently.
Last February she’d suffered a heart attack that had left her weak as a newborn. Too weak to undergo open-heart surgery like those fancy doctors wanted. When they’d first suggested she stay in the nursing home, Hassie was convinced it would’ve been better had she died. But life was full of surprises, and she’d actually enjoyed the rest and made several new friends.
Then, a couple of months later, her strength restored, she’d had the needed surgery; she’d even let her daughter fly in from Hawaii to fuss over her. By July, she was well enough to attend Gage Sinclair’s wedding to Lindsay Snyder.
It’d been the most memorable summer in more years than she wanted to count. She was back, working at the pharmacy part-time—or at least that was what she let everyone think. Only Leta knew she spent as many hours at the store as she always had.
Leta Betts was her best friend, and now, since Hassie’s heart attack, Leta was her employee, too. Although it was difficult to think of Leta in those terms. Seemed they had far too good a time for this to be considered work.
This particular Friday was a good example. Leta had spent the entire morning mounting a display of different-sized tissue boxes in the front of the store. That woman was more creative than Hassie had realized. Leta had carefully stacked the boxes into the shape of the Eiffel Tower. When she saw what her friend had done, Hassie laughed until her sides hurt. A replica of the Eiffel Tower in Buffalo Valley. My, it was enough to bring on the giggles every time she thought of it.
“I’m going to the post office,” Leta called.
“You already heard from Kevin this week,” Hassie reminded her, knowing her friend was hoping for a letter from her youngest son.
Leta looked a bit sheepish as she headed out the door. Kevin was attending art school in Chicago, on a full scholarship. It was the first time he’d been away from home, and poor Leta was having trouble letting the boy go. Hassie understood. Years earlier, she’d found herself constantly watching the mailbox when Vaughn had gone off to Vietnam. Her son had never been much of a writer, and she’d treasured every letter. Had them still, and reread them at least once a year, around Veterans Day.
Oh, yes, Hassie understood Leta’s apprehensions about her child. Kevin might be eighteen and legally an adult, but he would always remain Leta’s child, the way Vaughn would remain hers.
“I got a letter,” Leta shouted triumphantly five minutes later.
“What’s he say?” Hassie asked, as eager to hear the news as his own mother.
“Give me a minute and I’ll let you know,” Leta said, tearing into the envelope. “Look,” she cried, waving a sheet of paper at Hassie. “He drew me a picture of his dorm and his roommate.” She cupped her hand over her mouth to hide her giggles.
She handed the sheet to Hassie, who took one look and burst into peals of laughter. Kevin had drawn a room, no bigger than a closet, with his own things stacked in a neat, orderly fashion. His roommate, who resembled reggae singer Bob Marley, had his clothes hanging from the light fixtures and spilling out over
