"No, it's not the same thing at all. Look, the guy needs help, and maybe I'll help him. I'm not going to date him."

"What if he likes you and he's only making up whatever he's there for to get closer to you?"

Kaylie had a wild imagination. Danica mulled over the idea for a second, instantly rejecting it as ridiculous. "He didn't even know it was me he was calling. It's fine. Really."

"If you say so."

"Anyway, what are you calling for?" she asked.

"Oh, I almost forgot. Chaz is going with me to the Indie Rock Fest next weekend. Wanna go?"

Kaylie was always jetting off somewhere. "In Atlanta? Who's Chaz?"

"Uh-huh, and you know Chaz. The guy I met at Bar None."

"Right. Kaylie, you've known this guy what-a day and a half? You don't know anything about him. Is that even safe?"

"Come on, Mom. I'm twenty-seven years old. I think I can make that judgment call. I just don't get you. Why can't you break out and have a little fun? Just because Mom and Dad always said you were the smart, responsible one doesn't mean that's who you have to be."

Did it mean that's who she had to be? Danica wondered. Had she lived up to their desires rather than being who she wanted to be? Was she living a self-fulfilled prophecy? Was everyone? She thought of her hopes for the youth center. Danica shook the thoughts from her head, unable to filter through them in her present state of mind. She needed to focus on what mattered, and she had a client coming in shortly. "I did that, remember? Sat.u.r.day night? What did that get me? A freakin' hangover the size of Washington, DC."

"So what? It was fun, wasn't it?" Kaylie mocked. "Just get over yourself and come with me, already."

Danica pictured Kaylie's smug expression, her eyes saying, Come play with me, her body language daring her with her arms crossed and lips pursed, pushing Danica to be just like her and shirk her responsibilities. Then again, Kaylie had hardly any responsibilities when compared to Danica. Kaylie's whole life was spontaneous. "Well, as much as I'd like to be your chaperone-and trust me, I would-I can't. I take Mich.e.l.le out on Sundays, remember? Which reminds me, where can I take a teenager that would be really fun?"

"Indie Rock Fest," Kaylie said with a serious tone.

"You're no help. I gotta get ready for my next client. Call ya later?"

"She'd have a great time," Kaylie urged.

"Gotta go. Love you."

Chapter Twelve.

Two nights later, Blake sat at Sally's kitchen table, fidgeting with his keys, a full cup of coffee in front of him. Sally had aged ten years in the few days since Dave's death. She sat with her hands wrapped around a steaming mug, a thick, white cardigan pulled tight across her thin body. She reached up and brushed a strand of her white- blond hair from her forehead. She wore no makeup. On anyone else, her pale skin might have looked weak or worn-out. But even in her state of loss, Sally looked regal. Blake remembered all of the times he'd jokingly called her Dave's trophy wife, and now he felt bad for making fun.

"Thanks for taking Rusty to basketball. He fought me on it. He doesn't want to go, but I think it's important to go on with our lives as best we can. I don't want Rusty to lose his friends because of his father's death. It's too easy to fall into depression at his age." She looked up with sad, robin's-egg blue eyes. "He's already got all that teenage angst going on."

"It's not a problem. I have nothing better to do," Blake said, and at this point, he really didn't have anything better to do. He'd promised himself he would refrain from his womanizing. "If you're sure he's ready."

Sally nodded. "To some degree, Rusty needs this outlet. He and Dave had an argument right before...the accident."

Blake remembered the bits and pieces of Dave's last phone call on the slopes. He'd a.s.sumed all parents dealt with the ups and downs of hormone-filled teenagers, but that being the last conversation Rusty had with his father was too much for anyone, much less a teen to shoulder. "Then I'm happy to do it."

Sally stood and put her mug in the sink, her back to Blake. She wrapped her arms around her body, and Blake watched her shoulders go up and down with a deep inhalation. When she turned around, her eyes were serious, her lips set in a straight line. "Blake," she said, then squinted, as if thinking about what she was about to say.

"Yeah?"

Rusty came into the kitchen wearing sweatpants and a black, hooded sweatshirt. His blond hair, just a shade darker than Sally's, was long and straight, the way guys wore their hair in the seventies. His face was drawn and tired. "Ready?"

Sally shook her head in Blake's direction. "Nothing." She went to Rusty, standing eye to eye to with her son. "Try and have fun, okay? Blake's ready, and I'll be here when you get home."

Rusty turned away.

"I love you, Russ." Sally's voice was almost a plea rather than a statement. She wrapped her arms around her middle as Blake stood to leave with Rusty. "Thanks, Blake. Call me if you need me."

Blake didn't know much about teens, and he was certain his experience of losing a parent was probably different from Rusty's. Sally adored him, and Dave had created a world that seemed to revolve around him, while Blake had a mother who'd abandoned him and a father who was always working. Blake couldn't imagine that his mother's abandonment was too similar to Dave's death. He was afraid to a.s.sume that it might fuel the same type of resentment, but he had to say something. Once again, Blake wished he were more adept at handling the things in life that required emotions.

"I'm real sorry about your dad, Rusty," Blake said as they drove toward the high school.

Rusty stared out the pa.s.senger window, his hands stuffed in his sweatshirt pockets. He didn't respond.

Okay, dad is off-limits. "So, what position do you play?" he asked.

Rusty turned toward him. His square jaw looked identical to Dave's, but he'd clenched it so tight that it looked out of place on his youthful face. Sally's blue eyes looked back at him-pained and unmistakably angry. "Center." He turned back toward the window.

Blake nodded, wanting to lighten the mood. He couldn't help Rusty not miss his father, but he could try to make the next five minutes more comfortable. "That's cool. Are ya any good?"

Rusty shrugged.

They pulled into the high school parking lot, and Blake drove toward a parking place.

"You don't need to come in. Dad usually just drops me off," Rusty said flatly, offering no room to consider any other option.

Blake tried anyway. "I don't mind. I'd like to see you play."

"No, really. It'll just make me uncomfortable. Can you just drop me off in the front of the school and pick me up after practice, like Dad did?"

Blake felt funny agreeing to just leave him at the school, and he had lied about Dave. Dave had said that he watched every practice. Maybe Rusty didn't want to have to explain why his father wasn't there. Blake could respect that. "Sure, no problem. What time should I come back?" Blake pulled up to the front of the school.

"Eight thirty." Rusty climbed out of the car, and before leaving, he leaned back in. "Thanks." He pressed his lips together, then said under his breath, "I really appreciate it."

Blake watched Rusty walk in the front doors of the school and wondered what he'd do for the next hour and twenty minutes. A bar was out of the question. Going home made no sense. By the time he got home, it would be almost time to come back and pick up Rusty. He settled on parking in the lot and surfing the Internet on his phone and maybe closing his eyes for a minute or two.

Parked under a tree in the side lot, Blake thought about his first appointment with Dr. Snow-Danica. She'd tamed her curly hair and pulled it away from her face. He noticed the telltale signs of attraction, the way she'd stared at his arms a second too long; then, in the next breath, she'd snapped into therapist mode. He liked that about her, that serious, smart side. It had taken all of his willpower not to stare at her long legs and the way her hair exposed the smooth skin of her neck. He'd looked down, out the window, anywhere but toward her magnificent body. He really wanted to change, but he wondered if he could reveal his darker, shameful side to a beautiful woman. To that beautiful woman? What choice did he have, really? A male therapist? That would be no better. He'd feel like he was bragging, whereas with a female, she'd surely have motivation to set him straight. No woman condoned a womanizer. Even those he hooked up with had hoped for more, and some had even laid into him when they'd seen him again and he hadn't called, as promised. He was beginning to understand the anger behind those vicious attacks. He'd caused them emotional pain, and they had just been giving it right back.

Blake looked up and watched a group of kids walking across the street, all wearing dark, hooded sweatshirts, hunched forward against the cold night's air. He stared for a few minutes, then realized that the one in the middle looked a lot like Rusty.

He pulled out of the parking lot and drove slowly by the group of kids, looking back in his side mirror. d.a.m.n it to h.e.l.l, Rusty. Anger thundered in Blake's chest. He wasn't sure if he should approach him or let him be. What would Dave do? He pulled over around the corner and realized that he had no idea what Dave would do. Was he that bad of a friend? Shouldn't they have talked about these things? The ups and downs of Dave's family, not just Blake's conquests? d.a.m.n it. What would his own dad have done?

Blake stepped from the car and headed around the corner and up the sidewalk toward Rusty.

Rusty stopped in his tracks. His friends looked from him to Blake.

"Practice canceled?" Blake asked.

"Who is this dude?" the shortest kid asked.

Rusty put his palm out toward the kid. "No," he said to Blake.

"Dude? What practice?" another kid asked.

Blake looked at the five of them and was slow on the uptake. There was no practice. This was what Rusty did to get out with his friends. s.h.i.t. Blake may not have known much about parenting, but he knew it wasn't okay for a kid to ditch an adult or lie about where he was going and what he was doing. Why the h.e.l.l would Dave have lied about going to the practices?

"Rusty? Do you want to talk in private?" Blake asked, trying to spare him from embarra.s.sment.

"No," he said; then he spun on his heels. "Let's go."

"Whoa." Blake stood in front of him, arms crossed. "Rusty, I'm responsible for you. I can't just let you walk away." He leaned in closer, speaking quietly. "What would your dad have thought?"

"My dad? s.h.i.t, my dad didn't give a f.u.c.k about me or anyone else besides himself. He left me here and took off every week." Rusty barreled past him, his friends in tow.

What the h.e.l.l was going on? Blake froze, watching his best friend's son walk away, going G.o.d knows where. Should he stop him, confront him again? Call Sally? s.h.i.t. He had no idea what to do, so he watched Rusty walk away, went back to his car, and parked in the school parking lot, asking himself why the h.e.l.l he was wasting his time.

Blake pulled out his cell phone and dialed Danica's office number. If anyone had answers, it was a therapist, and she seemed smart and tactful. As expected, the answering machine came to life.

"This is Blake Carter. Thanks for seeing me today. I definitely would like to come back next week, if you're willing to see me. Please let me know."

At eight thirty on the dot, Rusty came back and climbed into the car. He just slumped down in the pa.s.senger seat and stared out the window. Blake inhaled deeply, waiting for the smell of cigarettes or marijuana to waft his way. There was no smell, which immediately made Blake worry that maybe Rusty was into something even more dangerous.

"Rusty?"

Rusty looked over. His eyes were clear, his jaw clenched, the muscles working against his teeth. Blake was looking into the face of a boy who was used to getting away with things.

"Wanna talk?" Blake asked.

"Not really," he answered, keeping eye contact with Blake.

This kid has b.a.l.l.s. "Do I have to worry about you doing drugs?"

"No, I'm not doing drugs," Rusty said with att.i.tude. "I'm not out stealing or pulling s.h.i.t I shouldn't be pulling, okay?" He turned and looked out the front window. "Thanks for waiting."

Blake fought the desire to put him in his place. But his father had just died, after all. Maybe he needed to cut him some slack. Then again...

"Listen, I don't know what went on between you and your dad, but I'm n.o.body's slave, got it? If I drive you somewhere, I need to know where you're going, not where I'm dropping you off. You wanna hang with your friends? Then let your mother know where you're going. You wanna sit on the curb for three hours in the dark and pick your nose? Let your mother know. But there's no way in h.e.l.l I'll be party to you walking the streets when I have no clue what you're up to."

Blake started the car and drove toward Sally's house as Rusty continued to stare out the window. They drove in silence.

Blake parked in front of the house and scribbled down his phone number. "Here. If you're ever in any trouble." He shrugged. He didn't want to force himself on Rusty, but he wanted Rusty to know he was there for him. He handed it over.

Rusty held steadfast to the door handle, but he didn't move toward getting out of the car. He held the paper in his fist. "He's not who you thought he was, you know." He climbed out of the car and slammed the door.

G.o.dd.a.m.nit. Who the h.e.l.l does that kid think he is? Blake knew he had to talk to Sally, but he was in no mood for this s.h.i.t tonight. And talking to Sally would just make him think about the s.h.i.t Rusty had said about Dave. He checked his phone. No returned call from Danica. Weren't therapists, like doctors, supposed to be on call or something? The night just kept getting better and better.

Chapter Thirteen.

By Sunday morning Danica had two new clients and a great idea of where to take Mich.e.l.le. She threw on her jeans and a white, V-neck, cashmere sweater she'd had for years. She laced up her white Converse sneakers, which she'd purchased ages ago with Kaylie but had never worn. She eyed her Nine West pumps. It was a step, trying to define a line between work and her social life, even if a small one. She'd never wear sneakers to work. She wrapped a royal-blue scarf around her neck and grabbed her father's old army jacket, which she loved. On her way out the front door, she glanced in the mirror. She turned, inspecting herself from head to toe. She touched her hair, then her hips. Not half bad. There was something to be said about dressing young. For once her hair looked like it belonged on the person wearing it. Danica wondered why she didn't dress like that more often. A simple scarf and tossing away the pea coat for her father's jacket gave her a whole different outlook, and she felt it all the way down to her toes as she walked to the car with a new bounce in her step.

Mich.e.l.le met her in her grandmother's foyer, wearing all black, straight down to the black Converse. Inside, Danica felt like a kid. She wanted to jump up and hug Mich.e.l.le, squealing, Look, I've got on Converse too! Instead, she said, "Ready to go?"

Mich.e.l.le surveyed Danica's outfit and smiled, then nodded.

"I'll bring her back by three, Nola," Danica said.

Mich.e.l.le's grandmother took Danica's hand. "Bless you, Danica. You are a gift to her right now."

"Thank you. She's as much a gift to me."

Mich.e.l.le rolled her eyes and walked out the door.

Danica drove to the Village, someplace she rarely went, although when she'd first moved back to Allure after college, she'd been sure she would spend a lot of time there. She'd imagined romantic strolls and dinners looking out at the mountains. But after she'd moved, real life had taken over, and those fantasies were just hopes that she would not let herself entertain, and she had quickly tucked them away. Until now.

She parked on the street in front of Steam, a little cafe with a line out the door. All of the Village streets were paved with bricks. Brick and stone town houses served as storefronts and restaurants. Ornate, iron fences and black, iron poles hosting old-fashioned lanterns lined the narrow streets. Danica sat in the driver's seat and remembered how she'd fallen in love with the Village. The Village had been Kaylie's hangout when they were growing up. Danica had hung out at the library. It wasn't until she had graduated from college and moved back home that she'd ventured to the Village again and become infatuated with its unique beauty.

"Are we getting out?" Mich.e.l.le asked.

Danica grabbed her purse and opened the door. "We sure are."

They walked up the sidewalk.

"I've been here once," Mich.e.l.le said.

"Really? Was it long ago?"

"Yeah. With my mom, when I was just a kid. Five, maybe? I don't remember exactly when, but I remember the bricks and the lights at night."

"It sounds like a good memory." Don't sound like a therapist. "I mean, the lights must have been lovely."

"Mm-hmm. I think we sat over there." She pointed to a courtyard. "There were fireworks, but I don't think it was the Fourth of July."

"They do fireworks here the second and last Friday of each month during the summers. I don't know if they did it back then, but maybe it was the same thing."