The Husband Lesson

Karan drove toward the main road that led down the mountain, maneuvered up her mother’s driveway and parked in front of the house. The place dominated a hilltop with a steep-pitched driveway her father used to joke was better left iced in the winter so they could slide their cars to the road. Of course driving back up had required chains.

But he’d chosen this property because it boasted a spectacular view of Mohawk Lake, which nestled in the forested mountainside north of Bluestone proper. He had his own boat dock, lots of room to snowmobile and several acres on all sides padding him from the nearest neighbors, which had pleased him enormously. The house was her mother’s creation, a showcase as majestic as her father’s view.

Karan’s own house was situated on a modest half acre on the eastern shore. Close, but not too close. And her house didn’t remotely resemble her childhood home. Not in size. Not in design. Not in any way except the view.

“Abigail, hello,” Karan called as she stepped in the foyer.

Her mother’s housekeeper appeared quickly from the direction of the kitchen. “Karan, I thought I heard your voice. Had the radio too loud. I’m getting as deaf as a rock.” Her good-natured laughter echoed in the cavernous foyer. “But don’t mention that to your mama.”

There would be no need, Karan knew, since her mother probably already knew. She didn’t miss much. But Karan didn’t point that out as she leaned over and hugged the soft, round little housekeeper. With her apple cheeks and twinkling blue eyes, Abigail looked like Mrs. Santa Claus.

But looks could be so deceiving. This sweet-faced lady might wear her white hair in a bun, but she called things exactly the way she saw them. And anyone who dared to give her a hard time would get beat with the rolling pin. She had to have a spine of steel to care for Karan’s mother.

“Mum’s the word,” Karan agreed.

“Beautiful, and gracious, too. Are you okay?” That bright blue gaze could have sculpted ice. No question about whether or not Abigail had been brought up-to-date on Karan’s troubles.

“No worries. You’ve got your hands full enough here.”

“Pshaw. Nothing I can’t handle. It’s practically still the crack of dawn. Would you like coffee? What about breakfast? Now’s the time if you do. Before you head up to see your mama.”

That was code for: your mother is in a mood.

She would want to be briefed on Karan’s situation, give her only daughter advice and be motherly. Of course Karan had timed the visit so she could stay only a limited number of minutes.

“Thanks, but I’ve stalled long enough. I’ll head up.” And with any luck get this over with quickly.

Abigail inclined her head stoically. “The sitting room.”

Karan heard the unspoken “Good luck.”

Making her way up the stairs, she headed toward the room where her mother enjoyed coffee in the mornings while reading the paper, handling correspondence and otherwise preparing herself to join the living.

Karan tapped on the door then pushed it open.

Years ago, when Karan and Susanna had been in high school, they’d read Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice for a lit class. Thus began a love affair with Mr. Darcy that had weathered decades. No matter where they were, no matter what was happening in their lives, they’d drop everything and get together to watch whatever new version hit the television or theaters.

Their absolute favorite to date was a television miniseries that had run on the Arts and Entertainment channel. They would submerge themselves in Regency England and watch all five hours straight through.

It had become such a tradition that Susanna’s kids had joined the party, and even her late husband, Skip, had been known to walk through the family room, catch a bit of dialogue and sit to finish the episodes with them.

Mr. Darcy’s venerable aunt, Lady Katherine, was the epitome of a regal lady, no matter what version of the story. Karan always thought of her mother as Lady Katherine incarnate.

“Hi, Mom.”

Georgia Madden-Kowalski sat at a Rococo-style table, the china coffee set neatly within reach, four newspapers before her, keeping her current on events from local to global so she could converse easily about any topic at social functions.

She gazed over the rims of reading glasses, face fully made up, even though she still wore her lounging robe, preferring to ease into the day.

When Karan had been young, she’d thought her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world with her spun-silk hair, porcelain skin and striking light eyes. Adulthood hadn’t changed that opinion. Her mother was still one of the most beautiful women Karan knew.

“Good morning, dear.” Her mother smiled in welcome. “You look very lovely this morning.”

“Thanks, Mom, you look well, too.”

“Come sit. Tell me how everything went yesterday. Would you like coffee? I’ll have Abigail bring more.”

“Thanks, but no. I’ve had some.” Setting her purse on a side table, she sat across from her mother, who folded a paper and set it aside to give Karan her undivided attention.

“How did everything go?”

Karan met her gaze across the expanse of the table and gave a casual shrug, determined to do her part to keep this conversation light. “Well, I’m happy to say the people were welcoming. I’m not exactly sure yet what I’ll be doing there, but the program director seemed eager for me to start.”

One of them, anyway.

Karan weighed the merit of mentioning Charles. Did she roll the dice and chance that her mother didn’t find out?

“So it’s a big place then? I haven’t seen much about it in the papers. Only public budgetary reports and minutes from the town council meetings. And that exposé, of course. They must have run a full week of stories about women, and men surprisingly, who’d broken away from abusive relationships. Apparently, domestic violence is epidemic.”

Her mother was clearly interested, so the odds of her not discovering Charles’s involvement at some point weren’t looking good. If she did find out and Karan hadn’t mentioned it…

“I did get a surprise while I was there.”

“Really?”

“Turns out Charles is one of the program directors.”

Her mother stopped with the cup poised at her lips. “Your Charles?” Karan nodded.

She took a small sip, considering, then said, “Well, that is news. Why is a cardiothoracic surgeon involved with a domestic violence program?”

“I have no idea. But from what I’ve been told few people are actually paid employees. The majority are volunteers. Charles shares managerial responsibilities with a psychotherapist who has a local practice.”

“Is this the psychotherapist you’re seeing for your…treatment?”

“It is. A lovely woman. I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect.”

“No. I imagine not,” her mother said slowly. “Not as a patient, at any rate. Socially, I’ve met several and have had positive interactions.”

“True, true,” she said lightly, leaning over to brush some invisible dust from her Prada loafers.

“And what does Charles think of you being a patient in a facility he manages?”

Karan groaned inwardly and braced herself. “He welcomed me, didn’t say much more. I’m not sure he knows specifically what I’m doing there.”

The cup settled in the saucer with an audible sound, and her mother said derisively, “Karan, everyone knows you’ve been court-ordered into treatment.”

“Thank you, Mother. That’s helpful to know.”

Georgia frowned thoughtfully. “You don’t think everyone will assume you divorced Charles because he was abusive?”

“Why would anyone assume that?”

“Why wouldn’t anyone assume that? You’re in treatment in a domestic violence facility. Ordered by the court. Charles is there volunteering his time. Seems rather obvious.”

“Mother, he’s an upstanding surgeon who’s been a part of this community for years.”

“But you were ordered there by the court rather than go to jail, dear. Not so upstanding, I’m sorry to say. Your life has become quite the sordid affair.”

Not a mention of the champagne that had gotten her in this mess. Of course not. Her mother had nothing to say about that. Not when the pot would be calling the kettle black.

But Karan had no intention of engaging, so she didn’t say anything. There could be no right response with her mother looking for a reason to argue.

“I have no way of knowing what people might think,” her mother continued. “I do know I’ve received many condolences from friends and acquaintances because you’re reflecting poorly on this family.” God, Karan hated this small town where there was nothing better to do than gossip. “I’m sorry for that.”

“Add your latest divorce, and I look as if I didn’t do my job properly as a mother.”

Except at this stage of the game, Karan was an adult who was entirely responsible for her own behavior.

She didn’t point that out.

“Drinking and driving, Karan. Honestly. You really should have had more sense.”

This from the woman who spent half her days working out and sweating in a sauna to reverse the effects of the alcohol from the night before.

But, in all fairness, her mother kept social drinking social. The rest of her drinking she did in the privacy of her own home so she didn’t get behind the wheel.

“No argument there, Mom,” Karan said carefully, trying to project sincerity. Too flip and her mother would go off all over her. But she couldn’t seem too eager to commiserate with the inconvenience her mother was enduring as a result of Karan’s mistake. She was, after all, the cause of the inconvenience, and her mother was nowhere close to stupid.

No, Karan’s only course of action right now was not to engage, weather the storm and flee as soon as she could.

Her chance came only blessed moments later when Abigail knocked at the door and slipped into the room, holding up a rolled linen napkin.

Blessed woman! This was a staged visit if ever Karan saw one. She seized the opportunity with both hands.

“Got to run, Mom.” Popping up from the chair, she hurriedly gave her mother a kiss on the cheek. “I’m taking a chance even being here with my restricted driving privileges.”

Seriously restricted.

Karan caught Abigail’s gaze on her way out and that one winked cheerily.

Then Karan was skimming down the staircase and out the front door. She had reached her car when her cell phone vibrated. She was almost afraid to look, fearing that her getaway wasn’t a clean one after all, but the display revealed a welcomed caller.

“Good morning, Susanna.” Karan cradled the phone against her ear and slid into her car.

There was a relieved sigh on the other end. “You sound completely awake for the crack of dawn on a Saturday. I would never have called you at this hour, but your message said—”

“No worries. I wanted this day off to an early start.”

“Really? Does this have to do with your first visit to New Hope? Tell me what happened.”

“It’s official, Suze. I’m in hell.”

A beat of silence. “Things didn’t go well yesterday?”

Karan turned at the end of the drive. “Whew, I’m back on the road and I wasn’t caught. Made a quick pit stop at my mother’s—”

“Are you crazy?”

Karan was about to reply that her mother had that affect on her as Susanna well knew, but Susanna didn’t give her a chance.

“I was in that courtroom, Karan. I saw Judge Jenny in action. Why would you give her a reason to send you to lock-up and throw away the key? Do you want to be incarcerated?”

“Actually might be the lesser of two evils at this stage of the game.”

“Things didn’t go well yesterday.” Not a question anymore.

Karan braked to slow her descent and maneuver a switchback curve, enjoying the way the sun dappled the road through the overhead trees. She had a flash of memory of how much this road had once felt like coming home. It had been one of the reasons she and Charles had decided to buy a place so close to Karan’s parents. She liked the welcoming feeling, and he’d liked the idea of being close to family.

Of course, her father had been alive then.

And she and Charles had been in love then.

“Let’s just say things didn’t go as expected,” Karan said. “You will never guess who’s a director at New Hope.”

“Not someone else who has it in for you, I hope.”

“Charles.”

“Your Charles?”

Karan chuckled. “That’s exactly what my mother said. Yes, I’m afraid. My ex—Charles.”

“Oh, you really are in hell.”

“Officially. Jack set me up, Suze. I know it. That rat. Mr. Police Chief probably felt the need to pound his chest and entertain his new wife by torturing her high school nemesis. Honestly. Don’t you think there should be some sort of statute of limitations on retribution?”

“That’s silly. Jack was trying to help you out. Are you sure he knew about Charles’s affiliation?”

“Quite sure.”

“Then he probably thought you were better off with Charles than Judge Jenny. That’s all.”

Karan gave a harrumph, unwilling to concede the point yet unwilling to argue. While she had dated Jack, her involvement with the man had ended in college. Susanna, on the other hand, had married her high school sweetheart, Skip, who had happened to be Jack’s best friend. That friendship had lasted right until Skip had died from non-Hodgkins lymphoma barely three years ago.

“Let’s move past Jack,” Susanna coaxed. “I want to hear everything about Charles.”

Karan knew exactly what Susanna was trying to do. She was too firmly entrenched with Bluestone Mountain society nowadays to be comfortable with this little trip down memory lane. She worked for Jack’s wife. Maybe not technically, but they both worked for the same management company, so they inhabited the same workspace forty-plus hours a week. Susanna didn’t want to discuss anything to do with Frankie Cesarini. And as Karan was on a time frame, she conceded with a sigh and let her best friend win this round.

CHAPTER SIX

“MAN, IT’S A DIFFERENT WORLD out here,” Charles whispered into the morning calm, his voice the embodiment of contentment.

The words were out of his mouth before he could catch them, inviting a reply and intruding on this alternate reality, where the only sounds were from nature. The forest buffered civilization, and though Charles knew Route 42 was out there somewhere, all he could hear was the current splashing over rocks and lapping the hull of the boat as this mountain tributary rushed toward the river.

The sun had been steadily rising. The light filtered through the trees on the riverbank and shone off the water, making him peel away a layer of clothing as the early-morning chill yielded to a perfect summer day.

Charles supposed he had Karan to thank since she’d introduced him to hiking on Devil’s Path so long ago.

Karan?

The thought of her came at him sideways. His fingers froze on the grip of his fishing rod.

How the hell had she intruded on his perfect day?

Okay, so maybe she’d been the first one to lead him on an expedition through the craggy trails of this mountain range. The high peaks and deep gaps themselves had spawned in him a love of the Catskills that didn’t look like it would be wearing off anytime soon.

Charles could also argue that growing up on the flat terrain of Florida had primed him for a change of scenery. That was, after all, exactly why he’d chosen Van Cortlandt College. To finally live somewhere with real seasons, although his mother always swore after a few winters up here, he’d come home again appreciating Florida’s temperate climate.

He hadn’t proven her right yet, and Karan had absolutely no place in his quarterly weekend trip with fellow anglers during the middle of trout season.

Or anywhere else in his life, for that matter.

He was relieved for the distraction of the inevitable reply when it finally came.

“Damned straight it’s another world,” Jay said. “Personally, I vote for not returning to the real one.”

Matthew gave a snort—laughter maybe.

That’s the way it always went on these fishing trips. Quiet reverence for the dawn eventually accelerated into excitement as they woke up, or whenever one of them hooked and landed a catch. And, of course, as the day heated they were forced to break open the beer cooler.

The guys were always the same, too. Matthew West, chief of staff at St. Joseph’s Hospital, had been hosting these seasonal trips for half a dozen years now. He owned the cabin. Jay Reiber, Internal Medicine, owned the boat. Henry Hyatt, ob-gyn, had the wonderful wife who always spent a week cooking so they wouldn’t starve while they were away. Summer. Autumn. Winter. Spring.

Charles wasn’t sure what his contribution was beyond filling the coolers with beer, but he wasn’t complaining.

“I thought that was always the plan?” Henry was still half-bent over the tackle box, spending more time knotting his fly than actually fishing because he insisted the lighter line would give him an edge.

Another unproven theory.

“Can’t swing it for a few more years,” Jay admitted. “Not unless Matthew puts me up in the cabin rent-free.”

Another snort from Matthew. Laughter definitely.

“You really think you can pay off those student loans in a few more years, Jay?” Charles reeled in for another cast.

“Shouldn’t be a problem. I’m good with budgeting, and I don’t live beyond my means like others I won’t mention.”

“You general docs must not run up loans like we specialists do.” Henry laughed. “But I don’t think you’re going anywhere soon. You’d miss us too much.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Charles said. “Jay can always watch the videos if he gets lonely. Or did you miss that he brought the camcorder again?”

Henry glanced up from his line and followed Charles’s gaze to the photographic equipment in question, packed in pricey waterproof gear for the boat ride. Jay and his camcorder were also becoming a tradition.

“He didn’t notice because he never gives Jay anything to record and put on YouTube,” Matthew weighed in, earning a scowl from Henry.

“I am a man with a plan.” Jay dragged his line. “Angling Amateurs is getting quite the following on the internet, thank you very much. And when it grows up, I’m changing the name to Accomplished Anglers and spending my early retirement charging clowns like you big bucks to be taken to the best spots on every river and stream in the Catskills.”

“You go, Captain Jay.” Charles didn’t doubt the man would eventually accomplish mission objective. “But you might need a bigger boat.”

“I’ll have one. Or two. Or a whole damned fleet.”

“If you want footage to show your fan base, then you’d better grab your camcorder,” Matthew said. “I got one.”

It would be Matthew who scored first today, and with a quiet precision not unlike they used at the hospital when ambulances pulled into the E.R. and lives were on the line, they moved into action.

Jay grabbed the camcorder. Henry grabbed the net. Charles headed toward the gear as Matthew waged an exquisite battle with what appeared to be a sizeable catch.

“Brown,” Henry said, the first to spot the struggling fish on the end of the line.

“Henry called it,” Jay said. “Got a big brown here.” He was recording everything while narrating with educational, amusing declarations as he mocked Henry for his efforts while trying to net the twisting fish before it broke away.

Matthew cursed, and Jay howled with laughter as Henry fought to net the trout—a dozen pounder if an ounce.

“Watch closely, fellow anglers,” Jay’s radio-personality voice continued. “And see the amazing Henry net without netting. Looks like he’s tangling that fish. There you go—tangling. A brand-new technique and you saw it first on Angling Amateurs.”

He kept up the steady chatter while zooming in to watch Matthew work the brown free. Charles stepped in with the pliers and the gloves to assist.

Then came the display footage. They all knew the drill by now and Matthew stood in the official pose and held up the brown, who gasped obligingly for future viewers.

“A keeper,” Jay said.

Matthew agreed. “A worthy adversary.”

Since they were only allowed five catches a day by law, anything less worthy got tossed back to survive another day.

“Tangling.” Jay laughed after he stopped recording. “Tangling. Do you get it? Angling means fishing with a line and tangling means Henry got the whole thing tangled up in the net. Damn, I’m good. Any more questions about early retirement?”

Jay was talking to hear himself because no one else cared. Charles broke into the beer cooler to start the celebration.

“All hail Captain Jay.” Jay caught the icy beer Charles tossed his way and raised it high. “Another reminder of why I continue to sacrifice the comforts of a good woman and a home filled with little mouths to feed.”

“Sacrifice?” Charles winced. “That picket-fence lifestyle will drain you worse than the loans, dude.”

“And your ass would be eating beanie wienie from a can if not for my wife, I should remind you.” Henry pointed out before drawing deeply from the bottle of Bass Ale.

“Don’t waste your breath.” Matthew leaned against the bench seat and slanted an approving glance Henry’s way. “Playboy Charles here has commitment issues. He won’t hear a word you say. Trust me on this.”

“Like I even have time for a life anymore.” Not everyone was cut out to be a married man, and Charles had already learned the hard way that he wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t about to make apologies. Especially not to Matthew, who’d fared no better in the marriage arena with an ugly divorce behind him.

“Where you been, chief?” Charles said. “Just so happens I’ve finished my eighth month at New Hope, and if you haven’t heard, we’re launched and hosting families already.”

Matthew tipped the neck of the beer bottle in acknowledgement. “I’ve heard.”

“Impressed yet?”

“That you’re still at St. Joseph’s all these years later.”

Charles laughed. “And you doubt my ability to commit.”

Any less commitment and he would have run out the back door when he’d spotted Karan at New Hope. Now there was a real sacrifice—being forced to put up with his ex-wife for the term of her community service.

But St. Joseph’s chief of staff didn’t need any reminders about Charles’s commitments gone bad. Neither did Charles for that matter, because he resented that Karan was inside his head again, turning up like a bad penny as his grandmother always said—whatever the hell that meant—and disrupting his peaceful weekend.

Setting aside the bottle with a clatter, he reached for his fishing rod. He wanted his fifteen seconds of fame on YouTube. He wanted to commune with nature the way the Native Americans had when they’d used these streams and rivers to travel. This was his time to take a break from reality, to step away from the constant demands of the O.R., from New Hope, from the pressure of Matthew dangling the appointment in front of his nose like a worm on a hook.

He cast the line and projected the same focus he used in surgery onto the sound of the stream, on the wildlife in the trees and the shore, on the absence of demands on his time. Today was his. To relax.

And he did. Charles cleared his head into restful emptiness. The beer cooled his throat. He shed another layer of clothing as the sun rose, glinting off the gunwale as the boat rode with the current.

Then a phone vibrated.

All gazes swiveled toward the gear, toward the insistent tremor of sound that intruded on the quiet.

“Henry, you have any babies coming?” Matthew asked.

Henry shook his head. “Lawrence is on call. I’m not expecting anything he can’t handle.”

“It’s mine.” Charles reached for his BlackBerry and glanced at the display. New Hope’s main switchboard. With a sinking feeling, he depressed the talk button, knowing he wouldn’t be getting this call unless there was trouble. “Steinberg.”