Diagnosis: Love

By Rita M. Reali

Nighttime radio announcer Marc Lindemeyr always blamed himself for his best friend's suicide during senior year of high school. Haunted by a prickly incident with Patrick six weeks earlier, Marc's life spirals into despair while his aspirations of studying architecture at Yale wither and fade.

Dr. Marie Shel

• Language: English
• Publisher: Little Elm Press
• Release date: Jun 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9780996680011

Rita M. Reali

Rita M. Reali is a professional copywriter, proofreader and editor. A writer ever since she could hold a pencil, she is a national award-winning journalist, an award-winning visual artist, photographer and parody songwriter. This onetime radio announcer, who was admittedly "bitten by the radio bug" at an early age, weaves elements of the broadcast world and its assorted quirky personalities into her novels. A native and longtime resident of Connecticut, Rita now lives in Middle Tennessee with her husband... and the soon-to-be-fulfilled promise of a big dog and a lapful of cats. Diagnosis: Love is her debut novel.

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Acknowledgments

To my longsuffering husband, Frank, who endured countless solo weeknight evenings while I met with my writers’ group. To dear Cousin Judy, who let me read aloud countless chapters in various stages of completion and offered immediate and valued feedback. To the rest of my family and friends for their support through Aerosmith concerts, bouts of writers’ block and help in eating leaf-adorned apple pies…

To the members of the Fabulous Fictional Five writers’ group, especially George Lillenstein, Peter R.K. Brenner, Sarah Morin, Beth Cardoso and Lynn Wilcox, who offered encouragement, laughter and support – not to mention helping me dispatch my little darlings when they needed killing. To my dear friend and superb editor, Eileen Albrizio, whose way with words and talent for polishing makes me ever more certain I got the better end of the bargain in our novel-editing swap…

To my friends and former cohorts at the Connecticut Authors & Publishers Association, whose ongoing support over the years has meant the world to me. To Brian Jud, CAPA founder and my favorite marketing guru, for guidance, encouragement and inspiration along the way…

And last – but by no means least – to you, dear reader, for your interest in the story I’ve woven within these pages…

Thank you, thank you, one and all.

Dedication

For my nephew, Josef Angelo Riccio, whose interest in (and invaluable feedback on) my story and whose enthusiasm for – and insights into – the characters gave me a whole new perspective on Diagnosis: Love, plus an added layer of understanding into the characters’ parallel lives.

And for my niece and number-one goddaughter, Maryellen Elizabeth Riccio, whose unwavering affection for the characters (and her perpetual wish that they stop arguing) brought me to the realization I’d crafted a story with likeable characters whose personalities were compelling and, for the most part, believable.

The two of you have made this journey more exciting, definitely more fun and more laughter filled. Thanks for the ride!

Also By Rita M. Reali

Glimpse of Emerald

Chapter 1

Marc opened the door and glanced around. He wasn’t sure why the waiting room’s emptiness took him by surprise every Monday. He shut the door and settled onto a couch in the cozily furnished room.

Without conscious thought, he used his shirtsleeve to buff away the smudgy fingerprints marring the glass-top table; then he gathered the haphazard assortment of periodicals, neatened them into a pile and fanned them out across the table. None of them appealed to him.

He checked his watch. 3:40.

Selecting the magazine he figured would bore him least, Marc paged his way through it.

When he reached the back cover, without having stopped to peruse more than a handful of photo captions in the whole thing, he glanced at his watch again with a quiet snort of disgust.

Eight minutes. On a good day, he could straighten his entire apartment in less time.

Marc tossed the magazine onto the table. Getting up, he began to pace.

A minute later, he slouched onto the couch and realigned the out-of-place Good Housekeeping with the others. Marc heaved an impatient sigh and stared at the inner-office door, as if willing it to open. As seconds ticked into minutes, rationality took hold and his irritation dissipated. It’s not her fault, he reminded himself. Emergencies crop up. She’d do the same for you. Cut her some slack.

At last, the door opened.

Framed in the doorway stood Dr. Merino, backlit by the golden radiance of her office torchiere lamps. Marc. Her voice had a Mediterranean lilt he found tremendously soothing. Come on in.

Without a word, Marc stood and headed into her office. She shut the door behind them as he went to sit in the same chair he’d occupied practically every Monday for nearly four and a half years.

You seem angry today. She settled into the chair across from him. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on.

Not so much angry as frustrated, Marc corrected. His tone was sharper than he’d intended and, judging by the slight wrinkle in his therapist’s brow, it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

Okay. Why frustrated?

I hate this, he muttered, crossing his arms.

He caught the movement of Dr. Merino’s eyes as her gaze flicked toward his jiggling knee and then back to the notepad in her lap. Hate what?

He unfolded his arms and gestured vaguely toward her. "This – this whole afternoon thing. But it was an emergency… right?"

She nodded. Yes. And I appreciate your flexibility and willingness to accommodate me. I know it was short notice, and I do apologize. I realize it was an inconvenience for you.

That’s okay, he mumbled. It just throws the whole day off kilter. Marc took a deep breath, let it out slowly. But, like you always tell me, I can choose to let it upset me or take it in stride and move on.

So what do you want to do?

Guess I’ll move on. I mean, it’s good to have variety now and then, right? A little change of pace?

You’re trying to convince yourself of that, aren’t you?

Marc eyed her briefly before his face relaxed into a self-deprecating grin. Am I that transparent?

Even before she spoke, the therapist’s fond smile gave him his answer. Only because I’ve worked with you for so long. But it was an admirable effort. Now, why don’t you take a minute to regroup and get over yourself – she flashed a playful grin – and tell me what’s been going on this past week.

Marc shook his head. It’s amazing, isn’t it?

She tilted her head slightly. What is?

That I pay you to abuse me like this.

"It is amazing. Dr. Merino let out a chuckle. And what’s even more amazing is that you come back week after week. You must really enjoy the abuse. Now, enough stalling. Talk to me."

Marc hesitated; his throat tightened up slightly. Then, without preamble, he blurted out the two words that had hammered in his brain since Sunday morning. Emily’s pregnant. He ran his hands through his hair. Six weeks. She told me yesterday.

Dr. Merino crossed one slender leg over the other. I see. How do you feel about that?

I dunno. I guess on one level I’m alright with it, but another part of me is saying she’s too young.

"Yeah, and what’s the gut-level, other part of you saying?"

That’s the part I’m having trouble with, Marc admitted reluctantly.

I kind of figured, the therapist responded. Which is precisely why I asked.

You’re cruel.

No, I’m doing my job.

A grin darted across Marc’s face. Listen, you call it what you want, I’ll call it as I see it.

Okay, I’m the devil incarnate. What’s your gut telling you?

It’s telling me I really should grab dinner before I go to work, ’cause I skipped lunch.

Dr. Merino smirked. Very funny. Answer the question.

She’s too young.

You said that.

"But she is," Marc insisted. He clenched and unclenched his fists. Dr. Merino watched and took notes.

She’s twenty-seven. She’s in the prime of her life.

Nudged off balance, he spat back, Twenty-six. His knee jiggling grew more pronounced. Anyway, that’s not what I meant.

And practically at the peak of her fertility.

Marc’s brow tightened; he knew it was furrowing but he couldn’t help it. You’re not listening, he seethed through gritted teeth.

Besides, she’s a married woman.

"Goddamn it! Would you listen to me? She’s my little sister!" His voice wavered and the curse surprised even him.

The doctor nodded and took notes. Now we’re getting somewhere. Why does it upset you so much?

Marc exhaled audibly. She’s seven years younger than me. She was still in high school when I moved out of the house. And… He looked at the carpet as his voice trailed away.

And it’s singularly unfair that she leap-frogged past you? That she fell in love, got married and is starting a family while you’re still unattached?

Marc was silent for a time. Well, when you put it that way, it sounds pretty stupid, he acknowledged grudgingly.

"It’s not stupid. It’s normal to feel resentful of a younger sibling who seems to be more settled. But remember, the key phrase there is, seems to be. Things aren’t always as they appear, Marc. Still, I would advise you not to let that resentment fester to a point where it comes between you and her. Perhaps it’s something we should address in future sessions, processing your resentment issues. Does that sound reasonable to you?"

Marc gave a diffident nod.

"And just for the record, Marc, marriage and family isn’t the only viable option; there are millions of successful, productive and happy single people in this world."

Yeah, and I’m not one of ’em.

Not at the moment. But who’s to say you can’t be?

"And what if I don’t want that? What then? Just put on a happy face and pretend?"

"Why don’t you cross that bridge when and if it presents itself? He flinched at the word ‘bridge.’ She jotted more notes. For now, try not to obsess over it. Who knows? Could be the woman you’ve been searching for all your life is around the next corner, someone you’ve already met and wouldn’t have given a second thought to six months ago. Just be open to whatever happens around you."

You make it sound so easy, Marc mumbled. Then he shrugged. I guess I can give that a try.

Dr. Merino uncrossed her long legs, recrossed them in the other direction. What else has been going on?

He gave another shrug, hoping it came off as disinterested. Not much. Work’s good… well, as good as it can be, considering I work practically opposite everyone else in Connecticut, which could also explain my trouble meeting women.

I thought there was someone you were dating?

Marc smirked. Jackie, yeah. We went out three times.

What happened?

He ran a hand through his hair. "Same thing that always happens: She got disillusioned when reality didn’t live up to her image of dating a radio announcer, whatever that was. Plus she kept wanting to go out at night; I tried to tell her: I work nights. It’s not just a clever way to meet women; it’s my job! He shrugged. Like I said, I guess I couldn’t measure up to her fantasy."

That’s too bad. It sounded to me like you really liked her.

He waved the comment away with one hand. Aah, she was like all the others: enamored of the image; but, once the glitz wore off, disappointed by the reality.

***

Ten miles away, Dr. Sheldon had just traded her white lab coat and heels for jeans and sneakers. She opened the door to her waiting room and greeted her final patient of the afternoon. Hi, Jason. Why don’t you go on in and pick out a game for us to play?

Okay, the youngster agreed, looking up from reading Stone Soup.

The therapist watched as the little blond boy replaced the magazine on the table and got hesitantly to sneakered feet. He crossed the tiled waiting room and, with a backward glance, slunk into the inner office, where he headed for the game shelf.

After five weeks, he’d finally begun to open up. She wondered if he would pick Parcheesi again, as he had the past three weeks, or choose something new.

Jason looked up when he heard the door close; he stood at the table, setting out the Trouble game pieces. He pushed his glasses up to the top of his nose and watched as the doctor approached. Hi.

Dr. Sheldon nodded toward the game. Great choice, Jason. She motioned toward the carpeted floor. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable playing down there?

The child shrugged. I guess.

While he moved the game board, the therapist pulled beanbag chairs to the center of the room. Do you want the blue one or the yellow one?

He wrinkled his nose. It’s not like it really matters. They’re just chairs. Why don’t you choose whichever one you want?

When they were settled into their respective beanbags, they set about playing. Dr. Sheldon always let him go first.

What made you choose this game? she asked as Jason pushed the Pop-o-Matic and got a three.

Needing a six, the boy frowned at the die inside the plastic dome at the center of the game board. He shrugged. I was tired of Parcheesi. Besides, I wanted to see how long it’ll take to beat you at this game.

Dr. Sheldon nodded pensively as she took a turn with the Pop-o-Matic. You’re good at games, aren’t you?

Good at this one, he clarified, giving the clear plastic dome another push. Six. His gaze darted away. "Good at gettin’ in real trouble, too," he mumbled as he moved a token onto the track.

Shifting position so she was sitting cross legged, she tilted her head to one side. Why do you say that, Jason?

I’m always in trouble at school. And at home. Before she could ask, he added, ’Cause I get in fights at school.

Fights over what?

I dunno… stupid stuff. They call me names – like dork and bozo. And then I gotta pound ’em.

Why?

Why do they call me names? Or why do I gotta pound ’em?

The psychiatrist leaned forward a little. Both.

The little boy pushed his glasses up again. He looked straight at her and asked, Why do I gotta come here an’ talk to you, anyway?

Don’t you like talking to me?

It’s not that – it’s just… why’d they make me come here? Are you a shrink or something? Do they think I’m a loony-bird?

Why would you ask a thing like that? Do you think you’re a loony-bird?

A scowl darkened Jason’s cherubic face. Of course not! But you never answered the question. Are you some kind of shrink?

I guess you could say that. I’m a psychiatrist. That’s a doctor who’s trained to–

"I know what a psychiatrist is. I’m nine years old. You don’t have to treat me like an idiot."

I’m sorry, Jason. It’s just, well, most boys your age don’t know that kind of thing. I forgot you were such a bright young man. Now, why don’t you tell me why you think they wanted you to come here.

’Cause I won’t talk to any of ’em.

Any of who?

My teacher. My dad. The school nurse. The school psychologist. Any of ’em. With a sigh, Jason rolled onto his back on the beanbag. Tipping his head back until it rested on the floor, he looked at Dr. Sheldon and snickered. You sure look funny upside down.

Chapter 2

Marie looked up from transcribing session tapes. She stretched and stifled a yawn. It was already after nine. Good thing I don’t have anybody waiting for me at home, she told herself wryly.

Of course you don’t, the voice sniped back. Working all the time, when do you have time to meet anyone?

It was the same debate – with that same internal voice – she’d entertained at least weekly for the past two years. And it was getting old.

For that matter, so was she. At 32, she’d never even had a serious boyfriend. Oh, there’d been lots of dates early on, at college – usually with guys in her class intent mainly on humping in the back seats of their beat-up Plymouths. But Marie wanted more. She needed more.

More than inept, sweaty gropings in uncomfortable old automobiles. More than pimply faced boys whose chief plan for showing her a good time consisted of going through an entire roll of quarters in the Pac Man machine in the student-center game room. Oh sure, even that had its merits – like building hand-eye coordination. And yeah, she’d enjoyed gobbling those dots and 300-point cherries as much as the next sophomore girl… but it was just a nice diversion.

What Marie Sheldon really longed for was a nice, stable guy. A guy who’d treat her well and be great father material. Somebody nothing like her dad.

She wasn’t likely to find someone like that in a college-campus game room. By the end of sophomore year, she’d sworn off dating entirely and refocused her efforts on her life’s other goal: medical school.

Marie sailed through her premed courses at Siena; she graduated magna cum laude in the spring of 1982.

That fall, the real work began. At NYU, she threw herself so deeply into studying, there was little time for anything resembling a social life. Her whole four years there, the closest she ever got to a naked man was the cadavers they sliced up during anatomy class.

Finally, in May of 1986, having chosen psychiatry as her specialty, Marie was ready to take on the arduous task of aligning herself with a hospital to complete her three-year residency. She was the only one in her family who was surprised when she landed a spot at Bellevue almost immediately.

Of course they accepted you, Mom said, beaming with pride. They’re experts; they know a good doctor when they see one.

Even her estranged father sent a terse congratulatory note (after one of his partners at the law firm mentioned reading about her residency appointment in his NYU alumni publication).

And when she delivered the news to Gary, Marie couldn’t help prefacing it with self doubt.

Why wouldn’t they want you? he asked. You’ve got the makings of an excellent psychiatrist. You should have no shortage of patients; the whole family’s nuts. Way to go, sis!

He could be an insufferable tease; but when he was being sincere, Gary was her biggest fan.

Marie hugged him. Thanks, Gar’… I just wish Grandpa were here to see this.

Mention of the family patriarch, who’d died the year before, seemed to sober Gary, who had been especially close to Grandpa. He kissed his sister on the forehead. Oh, I’m sure he’s got front-row seats.

***

During her residency, Marie developed her own gentle approach to dealing with patients in crisis. At the start of her final year at Bellevue, she was named chief resident in psychiatry.

After Bellevue, she made her move upstate – to the Clara Bedford Institute, overlooking the Hudson River. Starting there in 1989 as a staff psychiatrist, the eager young doctor advanced quickly to become assistant to the chief of psychiatry at Clara Bedford.

Then, late last year, a plum opportunity presented itself at a private hospital in Newtown, Connecticut. Dr. Melton Rosenblatt wrote his second in command a glowing recommendation.

I’ll be sorry to see you leave, Marie, he’d said with a kind smile as his protégée removed her license from her office wall, but you’re destined for greater things than second fiddle to a crotchety old geezer.

Marie gave the dear man a warm smile. Thanks, Mel, she began, but you’re nothing of the sort. I’m really going to miss your guidance… and your sage advice.

Not to mention my Sadie’s ‘Jewish penicillin,’ the old fellow added, waggling a teasing finger. Whenever his wife made a batch of her legendary chicken soup, she always sent him in to work with a quart or two for Marie. You’ll do fine, my dear. And remember, my door’s always open. But you mark my words: Before long, you’ll be running that place – he chuckled – and the old boys up there won’t know what hit ’em.

Four days later, Dr. Marie Sheldon met her first patients as a practitioner at the Foxbridge Institute.

And not even six months into the job, she was letting it take over her life. Marie sighed. What life? You go to work, go home and feed the cat. Then you go to sleep, get up and start over.

***

I’m not trying to be a nag, Diane Sheldon told her daughter just the other night, but sweetheart, I don’t want you to wake up some day and suddenly find yourself–

Find myself what, Mother? Old and alone?

Mom hesitated. No… but regretting that you’ve missed out on your youth and your–

Fertility? I get it, Mom. You want grandkids. Well, Gary’s already got you covered there, okay? Four years her junior, Gary was already married, with two kids.

Marie, honey… she sounded somewhere between remorseful and frantic. All I meant was, you don’t have to commit every waking moment to work. Take time for you, too. Enjoy what life has to offer. Who knows? There could be someone out there waiting for you right now–

Yeah, and with my luck, he’s a stalker.

No, not a stalker! Someone for you to enjoy spending your life with. My goodness, Marie, when did you get to be such a defeatist?

I’m not a defeatist, Mom. I’m a cynic. Marie scritched Oscar’s chin. The little tuxedo cat rolled onto his back in her lap and purred, in anticipation of a tummy rub.

Well, whatever you are, I just hate for you to miss out on happiness, that’s all.

Chapter 3

It still seemed so odd, not having to yell, I’ll get it! whenever the phone rang. For the first time in her life, Marie wasn’t sharing her apartment with a roommate. When she started at Bellevue, she’d rented a place with another first-year resident. Then, when she made her move upstate, a friend knew someone who needed a place and was willing to split the rent. It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement; but the two of them had gotten along so well, they just stayed on together. This way, they could both save some money and have somebody to talk to at the end of the day.

She still hadn’t quite gotten accustomed to the quiet.

Marie toyed with the idea of advertising for a roommate – and not because she needed help with the rent; with the heap of money she and her brothers had inherited from Grandpa, she’d never have to worry about paying the rent again. None of them would. Marie simply wanted companionship; and right now, no offense to Oscar, the feline variety just wasn’t cutting it.

She lifted the receiver. Hello?

Oh good, you’re home. Is this a bad time?

She settled into her comfiest chair. Not at all. What’s up?

As if on cue, Oscar invited himself up onto her lap and commenced purring.

Just calling to remind you about the Fourth of July party this Saturday. ’Course, it won’t be much of a party without you. She could hear the smile in his voice. You’ll be there, right?

Marie squinted at her wall calendar across the room. Can I bring someone?

A guy, I hope.

She sighed. Now even Gary was needling her about her social life. Yes, it’s a guy, alright?

Don’t get so touchy. I was only teasing. His tone softened. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to nag.

She smiled. That’s okay. You’re forgiven. Just don’t do it again, huh?

I’ll try not to. Hey, while I’ve got you on the phone…

(11:53 a.m., 4 July, 1992 – Saturday)

The street was already lined with cars; Marie pulled into a driveway several houses up.

Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.

Marie bristled at Richard’s tone. Party’s a few houses down. We’re just parking here.

How d’you know that’s okay? His state-cop persona was starting to surface; his jawline turned harder than usual and his brow furrowed.

Her insides clenched. Sam and Martha are old friends. They won’t mind. They’re probably at the party, anyway. C’mon. She tugged at his arm. We’re already late.

Reaching in to the back seat, she pulled out a beach tote and several towels and piled them into Richard’s unsuspecting arms. Here, you carry this stuff. I’ll get the potato salad.

Why’d you need to make two bowls of it? he grumbled.

I told you, she replied, feigning patience. One of Gary’s friends is pregnant and she has an aversion to eggs, so he asked if I’d mind terribly making one batch without ’em.

Why couldn’t she just pick ’em out? It’s not like they’re poison or anything.

Well, they’re all mixed in with the potatoes.

So if they’re mixed in, how will she know they’re there? he challenged. Food aversions. I never heard anything so stupid in my life. If we ever have kids, you better not try to pull any of that food-aversion crap with me. Sounds like you got here just in time. Idiot woman needs her head examined.

Marie stared at Richard. His demeaning side had surfaced a lot these past few weeks. Oh, I don’t think you need to worry about when you and I have kids, she wanted to retort. Plenty of women have food aversions during pregnancy. The taste, the smell… even the texture of a food can trigger a reaction. And no, it’s not psychological. For most women, it’s a real, physiological thing, like–

Yeah, whatever, he cut her off. I don’t need the dietary biology lesson, Maria. Let’s just get going, huh? The sooner we get there, the quicker we can leave.

When they were still a couple houses away, Marie smelled chicken and ribs cooking on the grill; music and laughter told her the party was in full swing, and she was regretting having asked to bring Richard. He clearly didn’t want to be there; and she was afraid he’d start behaving like a jerk to the other guests and, worst of all, to Gary and Micki.

As they came around the side of the house at 52 Field Court, Marie heard voices.

Our point!

"Whaddaya mean, your point? That was out of bounds. If anything, it’d be our– oh!" Marie’s brother, in a blue t-shirt and faded cut-offs, came chasing after an errant volleyball. Skidding to an abrupt halt, he nearly careened into Marie, who let out a startled cry.

Whoa – sorry ’bout that, sis. Steadying her, Gary regarded her at arm’s length, then pinched her cheeks. Ohh – I missed that face! he exclaimed, pulling his sister close and giving her a noisy kiss. Then he picked up the volleyball, tucked it under his left arm and held out his right hand to the other man. Welcome. I’m Gary, Marie’s brother. You must be Rich.

Richard, he corrected tersely.

Sorry. Richard. Gary cast a questioning glance at his sister. Well, c’mon, let me introduce you to everybody. I’m so glad you guys could make it.

Deprived of their ball, the players were growing antsy. Hey, Spike! Hurry up with that ball, someone shouted as Gary and the new arrivals made their way up the path toward the beach.

Gary lofted the ball and sent it flying with a mighty whack. It sailed over the cars in the driveway and onto the makeshift volleyball court.

Richard gave an appreciative nod. Nice shot. That why they call you Spike?

Nah. He grinned. My boss started calling me that years ago. He was making fun of my hair.

Gary motioned the duo along, past the garage and into the knot of players around the volleyball net. Hey guys, he called. You remember my sister, right?

Several players waved and shouted greetings.

And those of you who haven’t met her, everybody, this is Marie… and Richard. Marie, Richard – this is everybody.

More waves, more shouts.

Where’s Micki? Marie asked as she handed the potato salads to her brother.

Down there. He nodded toward the water as he retreated to the house.

C’mon, she bubbled, taking Richard by the arm. I want you to meet my sister-in-law.

He followed her down to the shore, but barely grunted a hello to Michaela, who was busy keeping an eye on her toddler, Amanda, as well as Spencer and Jessica – Tanya and Dave St. Pierre’s twins.

Marie! Tanya squealed. How are you? It’s been ages!

Tanya had been Gary’s college girlfriend; they’d last seen each other at Gary and Michaela’s wedding two years earlier – and then, time had only permitted them to exchange pleasantries.

"How long has it been?" Marie asked, briefly hugging the bulging-tummied woman.

Well… Tanya shook back her tawny mane. Last time we really got a chance to talk was Gary’s graduation party. Was that a hundred years ago or something?

Marie thought. It had been a few months before Grandpa died. December of eighty-four. That’s pretty close to a hundred years.

The two women laughed.

As they chatted, Tanya’s kids flocked over to greet the newcomer, leaving Amanda splashing in a shallow pool near their abandoned sandcastle.

Michaela tried to engage Richard in conversation, but he seemed content to ignore her. So she returned her full attention to Amanda. C’mon, little one, she called brightly. Looks like you need some more sunscreen. She picked the child up and headed to the house, balancing her on one hip.

Amanda protested momentarily, then fell silent, enamored of the golden retriever trotting across the sand.

Hey Amber, are you the welcoming committee? Michaela asked, setting Mandy down to pet the neighbors’ dog.

The child buried her chubby hands in the animal’s soft fur. Bawg! she screeched in obvious delight. Bawg!

Sitting, Amber looked over one shoulder at her owners strolling across the sand. While she waited for them, the dog allowed the exuberant toddler to hug her.

Marie? I thought that was you, honey, called Martha. She and Sam lived in the house where Marie had parked; they’d been Grandma and Grandpa Sheldon’s dearest friends.

Marie tugged Richard along as she and Tanya hurried to greet the elderly couple. Sam, Martha, this is my boyfriend, Richard Perkins; he’s a state cop. Richard, this is Sam and Martha Johnson – they’ve been friends of our family forever.

Why, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Richard, Martha said, enfolding him in a hug that was about as unexpected and unwanted as a professional wrestler in an English tearoom.

He pulled back stiffly, then took the hand Sam offered. Nice to meet you.

When they were alone again, Richard grasped Marie’s arm. "I told you never to call me a cop, he hissed. I’m a state trooper. Got it?"

Her eyes darted away in capitulation. Y-yeah. Okay. Sorry.

From the porch, Gary’s grey eyes glinted as Marie winced beneath her boyfriend’s grip. Already Richard reminded him of Dad. And that look of fright on his sister’s face told Gary he’d better keep a close eye on this character.

Ten minutes later, Marie and Richard were watching the volleyball game when Gary sidled up to them. Why don’t you guys play?

Richard shook his head. I’m terrible at volleyball.

So? The whole point is to have fun… plus, it’s got the added benefit of being therapeutic: You can take all your hostilities out on the ball. And leave my sister alone.

Is that so? Marie interjected. "Well, I’ve got access to all the therapy I want during the week. Think I’ll just stay here and watch."

Gary grinned at his sister. Suit yourself… but it’s an awful lot more fun playing.

The trio watched the game for a few minutes. Periodically, Gary would shout something at one of the players, eliciting laughter from the others.

Okay, guys; that’s it for me, Marc told his teammates after letting another easy shot get past him. I can’t concentrate on the game when there’s little kids near the water.

The other players reluctantly let him go, then promptly sent up a call for a replacement.

Good riddance, Marie muttered as Marc took off to keep an eye on the little ones playing in the tiny waves along the shore. Then, tugging on Richard’s arm, she urged, "Go on, join the game. They need another