Chapter 10

Copyright 2003 by Elizabeth Delayne



The Springs Rehabilitation Center had been around long before the extreme sports that set the coastal tone. Located not quite an hour from the coast, it had received visitors looking for healing since 1900. They'd come in droves. Shacks had sprung up quickly, littering the area around the hot springs, offering minimal shelter. Minors came from the mountains beyond, from the area that became Upper Springs and grew into a resort area for skiers; others from boats that brought them to shore.

Train track had been laid before there was a direct road that connected Basin Springs with the community beyond at Upper Springs. The highway was a dream for those who loved extreme sports; snow capped rugged peaks, the flash of summer on the coast. Before the highway was laid, the only road available was what was now called the Back Bend; it's curves and cut into ravines offering a hazardous edge for those interested in drag racing. Though it was more of a direct route to the hot springs and the old entrance to the rehab center, the ravines and rocky landscape proved costly to cut through.

The Back Bend was now closed off, and those trespassing could suffer serious fines. Jenny Lyons had died on that road one night along with two others, but they were not alone. Over the years it had claimed more than a dozen lives.

The hot springs rehab center was famous for it's sometimes radical physical therapy programs for sports medicine and the disabled. Celebrities, professional athletes and Olympians came from around the world. They paid top dollar and beyond for the services, which allowed the center to sponsor programs and research.

The grounds were meticulous, green and prized. There was a garden of flowers, a greenhouse, and a carousel donated by an eccentric millionaire. There were up to date facilities, doctors and physical therapists, many with ivy-league degrees like Andrea's. Buildings had been built for the healthy to live in peace and the sick to recover. There were research centers and specialists.

Birds could be heard chirping, dogs were seen chasing sticks and balls, cats curled up on the edges of the small porches lined with rocking chairs.

Eric pulled up in his sleek, black BMW and climbed out, trying to see the grounds through Andrea's eyes. It had been in Andrea's heart, her home, before him. It was at the core of who she was—and what he had sliced earlier.

He stepped up onto the sidewalk and looked around just as Andrea turned down a lane in a golf cart. Her blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Over jeans and a light green designer t-shirt she wore a starched white lab coat.

She looked weary, he thought with regret.

She pulled to the curb, set the brake and pushed herself out.

Then she turned and spotted him.

He held out the bouquet of lilies and watched the tears sparkle in her eyes.

"Go away Eric," she said and turned to grab her bag in the back. He was surprised to see it's bulk—more than half her size.

He closed his hands into fists and resisted reaching for the bag. When they'd been together in college, this was what he'd seen of her—the strength, the determination, the dedication. It had changed that night of the party when he'd nearly lost her. She was right—his view was now colored by her illness—and it shouldn't be.

"Just give me a minute—a minute, Andrea—please," he said and stepped into her path. He took a deep breath, focusing. If he wanted her back, he would have to show her that he understood that it was her strength that made her who she was, not her weakness.

"I have some things to say, and I'd like for you to listen."

"Clever to pick a place like this where it will look bad for me to sling this bag of equipment over your head. You being a lawyer and all would know the ramifications."

"That's unlikely," he said and lifted a brow when she looked passed him. "From what I've found out in the hour I've been running around this place trying to find you, people would more likely come after me then you. They think the world of you."

"Most people do."

"Andrea," when she tried to veer around him, he moved again. "I know. I can't tell you how sorry I am for what I said. I spoke out of ... frustration."

"Fine, I understand. You can go."

Before her princess tone had rankled him. Now he saw it for what it was—a shield. If he was getting too close to her emotions she was just going to have to deal with it.

"I'd like a chance to make it up to you. Flowers, dinner ...."

"It's over and done with."

"No, it's not," he held the flowers out to keep the distance between them. "I know what I said hurt the core of who you are. The people here love you because you love them. You chose this line of work because you know what it's like. You empathize—"

She shifted and so did he. He was quicker.

"You empathize—therefore you put your heart into it. You love people easily. You loved Amy because you couldn't hate her. I know that. I've always known."

She turned away and blinked back tears—tears he'd caused, "You don't know who I am."

"I thought I did—I loved the woman I thought I knew."

"Eric—"

"But even when I told myself I loved you, I never wanted to see what this place—the town and this center, the people in both places—what they meant to you. I was going to take you to Boston, to start a practice. I didn't want to see what was in your heart."

"How could you see when I couldn't? Look, Eric ..." she shrugged her shoulders, "I don't want to get into this. Not with you. I left Boston for a reason—my reasons.... I know I ended it horribly," she turned, looked at him, and he was glad to see sorrow mixed into the determination. "I'm sorry for that, but ..."

"But?"

"But ... I never expected you to come here—to Basin Springs. It was over—I know you think that I made that decision, but don't you see? For me it was. The life I wanted with you—it wasn't reality. It didn't involve me being weak and needy."

"You're not weak and needy. Look at you, Andrea. You comfort your friends, offer them a place to stay, take their hours for them at work before you go in to your own job—and look at you. You're still going. You're still moving. That's not weak."

"The people out here call you their angel—they love you. It takes strength to capture that kind of devotion. That kind of love."

"Eric—" she closed her eyes for a moment and sighed. "The life I had with you was always separate. I don't know how to connect them, if I want to connect them."

"Why do you think those things have to connect?"

She lifted her chin and for the first time since he'd come to Basin Springs, she looked at him, really looked at him with those startling green eyes, "Isn't that why you're here?"

"Not exactly. That night we both discovered we were different people then what we thought we wanted to be. It scared me. It made me realize that maybe the fast paced career I wanted in Boston wasn't really what I wanted. Maybe there was something more important that could change things. It seems that we're both starting on new ground now, new focuses being at the center. Can we start by being friends?"

She shrugged. "I don't know," but she shrugged the bag off and handed it to him as she attempted to smile, "but since you're here ...."

He took the bag as she headed around the building to the side entrance. "You're going to let me tag along?"

"Just don't give me a chance to change my mind. I ah-tonight I have a ... thing. My old boss at the beach is giving himself a surprise send off party. The surprise," she said as she reached the side entrance and slid her id card passed the scanner—it beeped and the door slid smoothly open, "is on us. Dinner is ... it's a nice offer, but I've got plans."

"You don't sound happy about it."

"I'm not unhappy," she said as the door closed behind them and clicked, "but Amy is."

She stopped at a door labeled employees and paused, card in hand, her mind lost in thought. He watched her worry over it more then a little, thinking of her friend, then sigh before sliding her card passed another scanner.

"Andrea-" he studied the clear green eyes that looked at him, "there are other nights for other dinners."



"I don't know what's wrong with me," Chloe said as she wiped away tears and looked toward the door Mitch had just walked out of on his way to Ham's. "Mitch won't hurt me. I know that."

Amy studied her friend curled into a ball on Andrea's sofa. She had not slept more than an handful of restless hours since her attack the night before.

"No, I do know. And I hate it. I hate it."

She took the pillow she was holding and threw it across the room. It didn't even reach the wall.

"It would probably be more satisfying if you threw Andrea's vase," Amy murmured and tipped her head toward the end table. "She would probably forgive you, considering."

"Considering that I'm driving myself crazy?" Chloe asked, though she did smile. They both knew how many times Amy had nearly knocked the vase over. "I chase away Mitch—he loves me right? I mean, it's like he does, like he may say it. And I chase him away."

"So you needed some rest? You don't need to worry about it. He's way gone over you. He always has been," Amy handed Chloe the pillow on the other end of the sofa, sat down and curled her feet underneath her. "And he's trained for this—for dealing with stuff like this—as a police officer. It's different, because it's you, but all in all he's steady. And he will be steady. Give yourself a couple of days to deal with this before you start blaming yourself."

"He'll be gone in a couple of days, Amy. He can't stay down here and pat my hand forever. He's got a town looking to him to be steady."

"A town that's only a couple of hours away. A phone call. An e-mail. You're relationship wasn't built on a physical foundation, Chloe. It hasn't been about how close the two of you can get physically. It's about the warmth between the two of you. Just last night you and Mitch heated up the station lobby just talking about nothing over an official police server. That's not going to change."

Remembering, Chloe smiled, "While you and Derek heated up the outside deck."

Amy blanched. "We're not talking about that."

"Sure we are. It's much better. Did you see him today at the station?"

"By the time I got there he had already left. Between that mess he was dealing with last night when he—when I—"

"When you two kissed."

"Whatever. Between that and the other stuff, John said he hadn't slept."

"You're worried about him."

"No. Not worried," Amy said and promised herself it was true. "He's old enough to handle himself. Anyway, let's go back to you. We got that thing on Ham's boat tonight. Mitch said he'd tried to talk you into it. You should go."

"No—" Chloe said and hugged the pillow. "All those people. I don't want to be around people tonight."

"People you trust. Who besides you and me, Andrea and Mitch? If Mitch goes, he'll worry about you. I'll worry about you. We don't have to stay the whole night, but we could if you wanted. Or we'll come back so you won't have to be alone tonight."

Chloe closed her eyes and turned her cheek into the pillow. "No—it's your only night to be on Ham's boat. You need to be there."

"Chloe, I'm not asking you to do something you're not ready to do. It's easier if you go with us, and if you think you're ready, then it will be good for you. But if you are not ready—"

"I nearly died after what Benny did to me—" Chloe said and slowly lifted her head. "I wanted to curl up into a ball and just die."

She looked at her legs and slowly stretched them out. "It really scares me that someone wants to do that right now. But then, I realized, that Benny was still hurting me even though he was behind bars. He was killing me. Remember?"

"I remember."

"I told everyone that I was fine. I dealt with it. I let the DA's office handle it. But I wasn't fine. I was so scared ... and so alone. You drug me out of the house. Made me go down to the beach. You made me deal with a crowd."

"That was weeks after, Chloe, and only after you said I needed to do it. You should take the time you need."

Chloe stood. "No—you were right. I need my friends. I need Mitch. I need for him to know I'm okay, so that he can do the job he has to do when he goes home. I'm scared, Amy. I'm so scared that I won't be able to do that."

She nearly crumpled, but forced herself to stand. "Tonight I'll go. Right now I need to be by myself. I'll be afraid, but I won't be held back. If I don't go—Benny and that man from last night—they've got control."

"Chloe—"

"Besides, I know you're upset with Ham, just a little. I know that there is a chance Derek's going to be there because Ham probably invited him. You can't hide behind me to escape your own problems."

Amy blanched, because she hadn't known, hadn't thought that he would be there as well. He was friends with Ham, friends with Mitch. Why shouldn't he be invited? "I'm not doing that."

"Good. Then prove it to me. Ham won't mind if I come?"

There was just enough uncertainty that Amy swallowed her objections. Maybe she was using Chloe as a shield for her own problems, and she wasn't positive that Chloe was wrong.

Besides, there would be no safer place then that ship tonight. So it would be the safest place for Chloe. And Amy needed Mitch there as much as Chloe needed him with her.

"Ham won't mind if you come."



Andrea placed her hand on her patient's knee to slow his movements on the leg press. Her 3:45 was a fifteen year old boy, Logan, who had been out drinking with friends late at night when their car had run off the road leaving him with two broken legs. She saw many more kids like him. They passed in and out of her care. Some she could help, some didn't want help.

Logan seemed to. He was gaining strength. He hoped he could play soccer again. He dreamt of it and fed off that dream.

She watched him work the leg press slowly, still unable to walk or hold himself up. His friends dropped by sometimes and helped him through his exercises, but it was his mom and dad that kept him going. He was blessed, as she'd been. Not all of her patients were blessed.

She was aware that Eric watched her as she worked. Today he talked and carried on varied conversations with all the people around her world. He used his charm, his wit, his knowledge of anything and everything.

He was a lawyer, she reminded herself. He knew how to win a position—top position—in a mental king of the mountain battle.

She would have to be careful not to let him undermine her own decision ... until she made up her mind—if she was going to change her mind about him, about them in the first place.

Boy—was she loosing her mind.

"Looks like Andrea's got your attention beat, kid. She'd concentrating harder then you."

"But not on me," Logan muttered. "I've long passed my 12 reps."

"No you haven't. Two more," Andrea responded with a smile.

He grumbled, but only half-heartedly. Andrea looked up and across Logan and found her eyes caught in Eric's. She smiled and shared the moment with him.

Her next patient was Portia and she was not nearly as cooperative. She was rude to both her attendant, to Andrea and Eric. For once, even his charm had little effect. Andrea was starting to feel the strain from the night before. She grabbed an apple and nibbled on it while she sat back and watched Portia complain and fight against her disability as she worked with simple hand weights.

When Portia dropped the weights and they hit against the top of her foot Andrea swallowed the scream, her fist clenched around the apple.

"Every wonder why your therapist comes here every day to put up with your sorry complaints?" Eric broke in at last. Andrea glanced up, surprised, and shot him a hard stare. It wasn't uncommon for patients to be antagonistic. Normally, she was quicker on her feet.

"Portia, two more," she bit off, then took a slow calming breath. "Just two more and you can go back to your room."

"I can't even do one."

"Then you can stay here for the rest of the night."

She stood back and watched Portia struggle through one, then she stop, close her eyes.

"Why do you?"

"Excuse me?" Andrea asked.

"Why do you come here every day? That man the other day spit at you."

Andrea opened her mouth to deny it, then looked at Eric. "It was an accident. And I come here every day because I was here myself. And I wasn't a fighter either—not for myself. People have every right to fight against this. It's not always the most natural thing to do when you just want to curl up and die."

She tossed her apple into the waste basket not far away, then looked at Portia—really looked at her. She was an angry teen, whose friends had walked away from her, whose family had little to do with her. She'd been living with her boyfriend when he'd beat her senseless and left her in this state. She blamed everyone verbally for her accident, but inside she blamed herself.

Portia frowned and put down the weight. Her dark eyes stared at Andrea, shock or awed, or something in between. "Why?"

"Why was I here?" she looked around, fully aware that Eric was there with her. She was normally open to sharing her own story when her patients were ready to listen, but she was more then a little irked at him for forcing the issue, and aware that she had never shared it with him.

"Not here—but down in the children's wing. I had fallen into a coma one summer. Diabetic thing I have to deal with," she said to Portia, trying to make light of it. "When I woke up, I didn't have the use of my bodily functions. I lived here for nearly a year. Did my school work here, when I was able."

"A year?"

"I was sick and I gave up. I was young and my friends were out at the ocean, playing in the waves. It's easy to give up, you know that and so do I. There's so much more out there to see and do," she went into a few of the details about how she had not been able to hold herself up on her legs, how she had to teach her arms to cooperate with her brain.

"Was your therapist mean and pushy?"

"She got me to do what I needed to do. I'm still alive and kicking, aren't I?"

"How old were you?" Portia asked.

"That time I was seven."

"Seven?" Portia repeated.

"That time," Eric murmured and she looked at him. He turned away from her before she could read his face and paced to the window. She put a hand to her stomach where the guilt rested.

"You had more then one coma?"

"No ..." she said and turned back to Portia, "not like that first one. I wasn't always here because I was sick. When I was old enough, I started to volunteer out here. Then when I was in high school, my sister died. In the middle of that I wouldn't eat and ... someone would hand me the wrong thing and I started having some problems. I had to come out here for therapy. For awhile after that, it was hard to come back. And very hard to deal with," she said carefully, more for Eric's benefit.

"But you're here now," Portia pointed out.

"Because it's like home. Why not work here, when it feels like home? You finished for today?"

"I've got one more," she reminded Andrea.

"And we can add it to the work you have for Monday."

Portia looked at the weights and moved her hand slowly over them, as if to pick the up. She wouldn't be able to at this point, Andrea knew, as her muscles had relaxed, but she was considering it. It was a small step.

Andrea signaled an attendant who came and helped Portia into her wheel chair to take her back to her room. This time, Portia didn't fight against the help. She would again, Andrea knew, and she would eventually get stronger and walk out of the center on her own.

Left alone with Eric, her appointments finished for the day, she turned to face him. He was still standing alone by the window. She could be angry with him for firing up at Portia, or she could deal with his own angry emotions.

Sometimes, retreat was the best.

There were other therapists in the room with their patients, so she gathered her bag together and signaled for him to follow. When they were in the privacy of her office, she took a seat behind her desk, expecting the questions.

Instead he looked around, taking in the details of the photographs scattered on the walls and bookcases, the old antique rocking horse she'd found at an antique road show, the globe that had been her grandfather's, her diplomas and the photo from college she'd had cropped to take him out of the picture. What would he say if he knew she'd kept the original and all the pictures she'd had of him?

Finally, he sat down, and leaned back against the seat. He studied the items on her desk. A paper weight that had been given in recognition of her work with another center and the mug she kept on her desk to hold her pens. It was a familiar mug, from a familiar coffee house they both knew very well in Boston.

She linked her fingers together in her lap under her desk to keep from reaching for the mug. She often held it, turning it in her hands, thinking of him. That wasn't something she was ready for him to know either.

"As a lawyer," he said at last as he studied the items on her desk, "you run across people who do what they need to do to survive. They lie, they cheat, the hide from the law and in denial from the truth. They curl up in bed and hide under the covers. I'm trying to come to terms with that being part of who you were in Boston, and therefore being part of who we were. I meant what I said earlier. I want to know who you are, for real this time."

He finally looked at her and she dug at the courage within to hold his gaze. His eyes were always the strongest part of him. He seemed to see more in a person when he looked at them ... more in the printed page, more when he read the word of God. Did he know she'd left before because she could not face looking him in the eyes? She been afraid of what he would see, what he would find, when the truest parts of herself were open to him.

"I can't promise, Eric, that I will always tell you or anyone else the worst of things. Even with my friends and parents I have a hard time. I recoil from the response that comes with it."

"What happened when Jenny died? What happened that sent you away from this place?"

She shrugged. "Just ... I couldn't be her. And no one expected that of me, but maybe I wanted to be .... Everybody liked her. She was like a burst of life. She was always strong and healthy and happy. When I was ... after she died I shut down for awhile. Not mentally, just physically. I hated it. All the attention was suddenly focused on me and I hated it. You can't know what that's like."

She blinked back the tears. "I didn't want to be someone my mom and dad had to grieve and worry over. They never had to worry about Jenny, but they worried they should have. I didn't want to be someone my mom had to worry over when she ... when we were all dealing with Jenny's death. The therapy here was more ... to keep things going. To keep the physical part of who I am in line with the mental part. I knew I couldn't shut down, but I nearly did."

"So you ran from that."

"Eventually. It was a conscious decision to go to Amy that day in high school when she was looking so miserable. I knew what it was like to hate oneself," Andrea lifted her hands and folded them together on top of her desk this time and leaned forward. "Look, I can't promise I will tell you the worst of things, but I will promise not to run from that anymore. If you are here to see who I am, then that's what will happen."

"And you think that's going to send me back to Boston?"

"This isn't a competition, Eric."

"No? Then think of it as a war—"

"Between us?"

"No—" he said and smiled, the look familiar and knowing, "but we'll hold are plans close, Andrea, until we both know what we're fighting for and what we're fighting."

HEY! and don't forget to e-mail me if you have a comment!







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