“All those doctors and all that counseling hasn’t done jack crap,” he snapped.
“Anorexia is the toughest eating disorder to overcome. Up to ten percent of anorexics die.”
“They starve themselves to death.” He sounded disbelieving, just as he always had.
“Or they damage their heart or kidneys.”
“She’s not that stupid.”
“Stupid or smart doesn’t have anything to do with it,” Kathleen said, feeling a familiar desperation. How could she make him understand? “Or maybe it does. Smart girls are the likeliest to develop the problem.”
“How could she lose that much weight right under your eye?”
Of course, it had to be her fault. It couldn’t be his.
What tore at her was a new fear that he was right. She was responsible for Emma’s determination to starve.
Nonetheless, she tried to defend herself. “She’s been seeing a doctor, a therapist and a nutritionist. They advised me to avoid nagging about food. We’ve been trying to make it a nonissue between the two of us.”
“And failing, apparently,” he said cruelly.
She bit her lip until she tasted blood. “It would appear so.”
“And what am I supposed to do?”
Shaking from fury and hurt that refused to die along with the marriage, she said, “Nothing. Nothing at all. I just thought you should know,” and hung up the phone.
Talking to him had had its usual shattering effect. Once again, Kathleen had confirmation that she and Emma were on their own.
Except, thank God, for Jo, Helen, Ginny and Ryan. And Kathleen’s father, of course. Friends and true family.
Dry-eyed but feeling as exhausted as if she had indulged in a bout of tears, Kathleen slowly mounted the stairs. Time for a shower, and the hospital.
CHAPTER THREE
KATHLEEN SAT ON THE LIVING room couch two days later, gazing blankly at the opposite wall. A woman who detested inactivity, she much preferred having a purpose. Tonight she was too tired to even think about Emma, Ian or the myriad of household tasks that needed accomplishing.
Thank heavens for Helen and Jo! Even small Ginny had passed a few minutes ago, gamely carrying a full basket of laundry up from the basement in order to fold it.
Earlier Helen had wanted to discuss business. A shopkeeper had asked for a larger discount. Helen still wasn’t satisfied with the label—maybe they needed stronger colors? She was sensitive enough not to say, You should be making soap, we need a huge inventory for the craft fairs. Kathleen had only shaken her head and said, “I can’t think right now. I’m sorry,” and Helen had backed off.
Kathleen felt useless. Inept. Inadequate. Incompetent. Unlovable. She could think of a million other words, but those pretty much covered the bleak, gray sensation that swamped her.
She, who had never failed at anything she set out to do, had now failed at everything really important: marriage and parenting. She—once a society hostess, gourmet cook and mother to a delightful, bright and cheerful child—was scraping for a living, cooking in a kitchen with a peeling linoleum floor and a chipped, stained sink and banned for a week from visiting her daughter in treatment for a behavioral disorder that was killing her and seemed to be rooted in anger at her parents.
Yup. Right this minute, Kathleen couldn’t think of a single reason to feel positive.
The doorbell rang, and she winced. The cabinetmaker had called earlier to schedule an appointment to present his bid. The timing sucked, if Kathleen could borrow one of Emma’s favorite words.
She sighed and dragged herself to her feet. From upstairs, Jo called, “Do you want me to get that?”
“No, I’m expecting someone,” Kathleen called back.
When she opened the door, she experienced the same odd jolt she had the first time she saw Logan Carr on her doorstep. Frowning slightly, she dismissed her reaction; he just wasn’t the kind of man she usually associated with. He looked so…blue-collar. He undoubtedly went home, opened a beer, belched and spent his evenings watching baseball on the boob tube.
A stereotype even she knew was snobbish. After all, Ryan was a contractor, but was also a well-read man who owned a beautiful, restored home and cleaned up nicely.
“Mr. Carr,” she said, by long practice summoning a smile. “Please come in.”
He nodded and stepped over the threshold, increasing her peculiar feeling of tension. He was too close. She backed a step away, using the excuse of shutting the door behind him. He was so big, even though she was sure he wasn’t any taller than Ian. But Ian was lean and graceful, with long fingers and shoulders just broad enough to make his custom-tailored suits hang beautifully. Ian projected intelligence, impatience, charm, not sweaty masculinity.
“Unfortunately, Helen can’t be here. She was asked to work this evening. Nordstrom is having a sale.”
He blinked at what must have seemed a non sequitur. “She’s a salesclerk?”
“Children’s department.”
“Ah.” He nodded.
“Come on into the kitchen.” She led the way. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“Thanks, if it isn’t too much trouble.” He did have a nice voice, low and gruff but somehow…soothing. Like a loofah.
“Jo just brewed some. She’s a fantatic.” Kathleen opened the cupboard and reached for two mugs. “Personally, I’d settle for instant, but she shudders at the very idea.”
As if he cared what kind of coffee she’d choose, Kathleen chided herself. She was babbling, filling the silence, because he made her nervous.
“You’re not crying tonight.”
Mug in hand, she turned to look at him. He wasn’t laughing at her. Rather, his expression was serious, even…concerned.
“No,” she agreed. “I’m not crying.” Just depressed. “I’m awfully sorry to have flung myself at you that way. I must have made your day. Nothing like having your shirt soaked with tears.”
“I invited it,” Logan reminded her. “You looked like you needed a shoulder to cry on.”
She hadn’t known it, but that was exactly what she had needed. Now, she felt uncomfortable about the whole thing. He was a complete stranger, but he had held her and she’d gripped his shirt and laid her head on his chest and sobbed. The memory lay between them, weirdly intimate.
“I guess I did,” she admitted. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Faint amusement showed in his eyes. The next second, Kathleen wasn’t sure, because he continued, “Your daughter, is she all right?”
“Emma’s fine,” Kathleen said brightly, lying through her teeth, as she’d spent the past several years lying. Heaven forbid she admit to anyone else that her daughter hated her so much, she was starving herself to death.
“Is she…” the cabinetmaker said noncommittally.
Had Ryan told him something of Emma’s troubles? Kathleen wondered, her eyes narrowing. She’d kill her brother if he was spouting her personal problems to casual acquaintances.
“She’s, um, not home.” As if he’d asked to meet Emma.
“Teenagers rarely are.”
Darn him. His easygoing, I-understand tone made her want