Honeysuckle Summer. Sherryl Woods
explain it. “I suppose it just seemed easier,” she said eventually. She shrugged. “And there was no place I really needed to be, nothing I really wanted to do.”
Carter looked unconvinced. “You’re content to make this house enough for the rest of your life?” he asked incredulously.
“I suppose I haven’t let myself think long term. Right now, when I consider leaving here, the fear outweighs the joy of whatever might be out there. Forever’s not a concept I can grapple with.”
“What about the yard, at least? Can you go outside that far?”
“You know that I can’t,” she responded, meeting his gaze. “You saw me frozen in place on the top step the other day. If I could have gone farther, believe me, I would have. Knowing Tommy was somewhere out there and I couldn’t look for him was horrible. I’ve never felt so helpless in my life.” She regarded him with curiosity. “Why does this matter to you? Are you that worried about the kids? Because if that’s it, you can stop. I will never have the responsibility for looking after them again.”
“For their sake, I’m relieved to hear that,” he admitted candidly. “But it strikes me as sad that you might not get to experience all that life has to offer. You’re a young, beautiful woman. You’re smart and funny. Seems to me it’s a waste to stay hidden away here.” He frowned. “Don’t you even want to get better?”
“I doubt you can understand this, but getting better, leaving this house, seems to mean more to other people right now than it does to me. I feel safe here. I love being with Sarah’s kids. People come and go all the time, and that’s what matters. I’m not alone or lonely.”
“There must have been things you enjoyed before the panic attacks started,” he protested. “Don’t you miss at least some of them?”
Raylene thought about it. She wondered if maybe this whole cycle of fear and panic hadn’t started even while she’d been married. It wasn’t that her home had been a safe haven. Far from it, in fact. But in it, she had been free of the speculation that would have spread had people in her social circle ever spotted her with the kind of bruises that had been inflicted too many times to count.
Back then she’d lived a solitary life in many ways, living for quiet moments in the garden, where she’d nurtured her fragile plants the way she’d longed for someone to nurture her. Thinking about that brought on an overwhelming sense of nostalgia.
“I miss my garden,” she said softly, closing her eyes as she remembered it—purple, white and magenta azaleas in spring, a sea of tulips, then hollyhocks, summer phlox, golden lilies, shaded beds of impatiens and a tinkling waterfall amid a fragrant collection of rosebushes.
“Planting flowers, watching the yard fill with color, even pulling the weeds. The doggone honeysuckle nearly drove me mad, but it smelled so sweet, I even loved that. And I loved the way the sun felt on my shoulders.”
In the year before she’d finally ended her marriage, she’d stopped gardening. Even now she shuddered at the memory of the rampage her husband had gone on, destroying all her hard work, leaving the rosebushes ruined, the flowers wilted and dying in a chaotic heap before he was done. In some ways, his savage attack on her garden had hurt as much as any of the physical attacks she’d endured.
Even after all this time tears filled her eyes at the memory. Suddenly she felt a warm, solid hand covering hers.
“I’m sorry,” Carter said, his expression apologetic. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. This is really none of my business.”
She forced a smile. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”
She said the words, maybe even managed to sound convincing, but the truth was, she was anything but fine. The memories had touched a place deep inside that she’d almost buried and left her filled with longing.
The minute Carter Rollins left, she sank down on the sofa to await the arrival of Dr. McDaniels, relieved that she’d finally made the call, even as she was dreading what the psychologist might tell her.
Because if Carter Rollins had done nothing else with his well-timed visit and probing questions, he’d reminded her that there was a life outside these four walls—even if only as far as the backyard—that truly might be worth fighting for.
Dr. McDaniels was a thin woman in her fifties with a hint of gray threading through her short dark hair. She had the kind of reassuring smile that invited confidences and a warmth in her eyes that suggested compassion. Though Raylene had only crossed paths with her casually years ago during Annie’s hospitalization, she immediately felt comfortable with her.
“Thank you for agreeing to come here,” Raylene said as she led the way into the living room. “The sitter’s taken the kids to the park, so we won’t be interrupted.”
“Under the circumstances, I’m happy to come here,” Dr. McDaniels said. “Hopefully we can figure out what’s going on and determine the right treatment. If we can accomplish that, it won’t be long before you can come to me.”
“I don’t know,” Raylene said skeptically. “I haven’t left this house in a very long time.”
“How long?”
“I first moved in here right after I left Charleston. Back then, I could at least sit out back in the evening, but eventually even that got to be too much. I suppose it’s been a year or more since I’ve left at all.”
“Have you tried?”
Raylene shook her head. “Once I was back in Serenity and inside this house, it was like I’d used up every bit of bravery I had. I saw this as my safe haven. Thankfully I didn’t have to go back for my husband’s sentencing. He’d pleaded no contest once the D.A. showed him my deposition, along with the medical records that documented how many times I’d been to various emergency rooms, plus the condition I was in the night I lost my baby. Though the prosecutor opted not to charge him in the baby’s death, Paul didn’t want the whole messy incident coming out in court and causing an even bigger scandal for his family. The plea bargain lessened his sentence, as well.”
There was no visible reaction on the doctor’s face as Raylene reported the abuse that had driven her home to Serenity. “How long were you married?” she asked.
“Too long,” Raylene said fervently.
“And you were abused throughout the marriage?”
Humiliated, Raylene nodded. “It was mostly verbal at first, temper tantrums from the stress he was under as an intern.”
“And you thought it was your fault for triggering these bursts of anger,” the psychologist said.
Something in her matter-of-fact approach and her obvious understanding made Raylene feel less ashamed. “You’ve heard this before,” she guessed.
“Too many times,” Dr. McDaniels said. “You do know it wasn’t your fault.”
“I do now. I think I even understood that on an intellectual level back then, but when the man you love keeps hammering it home that you’re responsible if he gets angry, on some level you start to think it must be true. I was too young—barely eighteen when we married—to know better.”
“Did you consider leaving him?”
“I did leave once. I went to my mother and told her what was happening. She thought I was exaggerating. She convinced me to go back and work on my marriage, on making Paul happy. She honestly believed, I think, that I must have been doing something wrong for him to act that way.”
“How’d that make you feel?”
Tears streamed down Raylene’s face at the memory of walking away from her parents’ house that day, her suitcase in hand, what she’d seen as her only hope for an escape