way past her first offense,” Karan hissed in his ear.
“Don’t forget she got a year’s probation.” He shot a glance at the bench as if worried they might be overheard. Jack and Wannabe Jenny were too busy chitchatting to pay attention. “Japan wouldn’t even let her enter the country.”
Like Karan wanted to go to Japan. “Is this honestly the best you can do?”
He scowled. “I don’t know what you did to this woman, but I promise you won’t get a better offer. Jail or alternative sentence. Your call.”
Visions of Lindsay Lohan’s latest trip to the pokey replaced images of windowless rooms. The local press would have a field day if Karan went to jail since the woman who ran the Bluestone Mountain Gazette was another Ashokan High alumnus who hadn’t had any use for Karan and her circle of friends.
At least she could spin community service in a domestic violence shelter into something not as humiliating as jail. “Alternative sentence.”
“Good choice.” Her attorney popped to his feet. “Your Honor, my client would like to accept the alternative sentence in lieu of jail time and thanks you for your consideration.”
Wannabe Jenny looked smug. “Good luck then, Ms. Kowalski Steinberg-Reece. I’ll look forward to reviewing updates about your progress.”
No doubt. Probably didn’t have anything else to do while eating her microwave-frozen dinners at night.
“Thank you, Your Honor.” That was as polite as Karan could manage. Wannabe Jenny might have the gavel in her hand right now, but the accompanying black robe washed out her sallow skin. She needed to either invest in decent makeup primer or have a conversation with whomever had chosen black as the color of choice in the courtroom.
Karan jumped when the gavel cracked with aggressive finality and Wannabe Jenny said, “Court adjourned.”
For today, anyway, because Karan would be back.
Unfortunately.
CHAPTER TWO
CHARLES STEINBERG WHEELED HIS Jeep Wrangler into the parking lot behind the three-story Victorian where he’d spent more time during the past eight months than he had anywhere but in the operating room. Releasing the clutch, he pulled up the emergency brake, noticing how the sun sparkled on the newly installed windows, as bright and promising as the place itself.
He felt a satisfaction as if he’d personally installed those windows rather than cutting the check that released funds to the contractor who’d done the job.
Charles’s contribution had been in the coordination and decision making, in determining essential need to balance the budget, in the long-range planning and development of outreach programs. He’d done his fair share.
And though he hadn’t originally chosen to become one of the directors of this project, Charles prided himself on living by his grandmother’s oft-spoken saying: “Bloom where you’re planted.”
He had. With the help of other dedicated volunteers, New Hope of Bluestone Mountain, Inc. had been born. The town’s first certified domestic violence prevention and emergency shelter.
The front porch light now shone 24/7, a welcome to families in crisis and the promise of help. Behind freshly painted gingerbread trim, every room had been transformed to become a multiservice facility with offices, counseling rooms and two complete floors of suites that served as temporary shelter for women and children in need.
For such a noble endeavor, the neighborhood wasn’t all that much to look at. In the years since Charles had come to town, the large property lots in this area had attracted enough businesses to be zoned commercial. Still, there were a few residences like this one tucked away on forested acreage between auto repair shops and convenience stores. The out-of-the-way location was what made the house perfect as a shelter.
Charles got out, noticing the sleek gray Jaguar that looked out of place in a parking lot separated only by a security wall and evergreens from the loading docks of Bluestone Mountain’s only Walmart Supercenter.
He didn’t bother pulling on the Jeep’s cover. There wasn’t a hint of uncertain weather in the summer sky. Besides, he wouldn’t be here that long, and only had to touch base with his codirector about some volunteer scheduling decisions that couldn’t wait until Monday.
He’d already had a long day in surgery, having arrived at the hospital way before the sun had come up this morning. Five surgeries later then rounds and he’d earned the right to this weekend’s fishing trip.
Charles had made it to the flagstone path when the security gate ground open again. A familiar white Toyota Camry appeared, slipping into the space on the opposite side of the Jaguar and coming to a sharp stop.
Rhonda Camden, Ph.D., New Hope’s codirector and his partner in crime. Running late as usual.
The door swung open and she hopped out, dragging a briefcase that overflowed with papers. She looked as windblown and hurried as she always did, and after eight months of working together, Charles knew why—she juggled more balls in the air than most people between her job as director of the town’s crisis center and her private practice. Add volunteer endeavors such as New Hope…
Smiling broadly, Rhonda gestured to the house and all they’d accomplished together in the past eight months.
“Matthew impressed yet?” she asked, referring to the chief at St. Joseph’s Hospital where Charles was on staff.
“You’d think. I’m either in surgery or I’m here. But the man is a hard sell. Maybe you should put in a good word for me.”
Not that he thought anything would impress St. Joseph’s chief. Matthew West was going to make Charles sweat out an invitation to join the Catskill Center for Cardiothoracic Surgery, the most professional and highly regarded team in the area, and projects like New Hope were a part of the process. He’d already reconciled himself to running the gauntlet until the chief was satisfied. Or until he found another candidate to join the coveted team. Whichever came first.
She rolled her eyes. “Right. Your boss has even less of a regard for my field than you do if that’s possible.”
Charles thought it might be, and he couldn’t deny her claim, either. He hadn’t known much about, or had much use for, clinical psychology before seeing Rhonda in action. He was a surgeon. His interest was all about what was happening inside the body, not speculation about why.
“I told you I’ve revised my opinion of your field.”
She passed him and headed up the steps. “You mentioned it. I’m not convinced I should believe you.”
“You read minds for a living. You should know if I’m lying.”
She didn’t take the bait, only laughed, and he launched himself up two steps at a time to reach the entrance before she did. After inputting his security code, he held the door for her.
“Thank you, Dr. Steinberg.”
“My pleasure, Dr. Camden.” He stepped inside. “So what’s this new program that needs immediate attention?”
Turning
