Chapter 1

Starr knelt in the dirt, ignoring the July rain. Maintaining the garden was an everyday job, no matter the weather, and besides, the mud would help the seedlings acclimate to being transplanted. Nearby bees ignored the rain as well, happily pollinating the patch of wildflowers that used to be a driveway. Starr’s trowel made neat holes for the root balls and stems as she lifted them from a basket she’d woven herself.

The rain’s drumming covered the sound of a car until the echo of a slammed door reached her. Without stopping her work, Starr cocked an ear and listened to the rap of boots on her front steps. Not a customer. She knew that gait only too well.

She pictured him stalking through her front hall, like he’d done a thousand times, and it never failed to raise her blood pressure. She’d have to take a dose of cardamom and hawthorn after he left. He probably wouldn’t even pause to smell the gumbo on the stove.

The back door opened.

Without turning, she shouted, “How many times do I have to tell you? Knock before you come into my house.”

His voice sounded like a rusty engine. “I haven’t knocked on a door in forty years. I’m not starting with you.”

“What do you want?” She concentrated on catching a Japanese beetle. She admired its iridescent brown shell for just a moment, before she crushed it between the trowel and a rock.

“Get yourself out of the rain, woman, and talk to me like a civilized person.”

“Rain won’t kill you, and I have work to do.”

“Those flies are a plague. Nothing but corruption out here. Get in the house.”

Starr dropped the trowel in the basket ’and stood to face him. Winter Wyman stood on her porch, tall and thin. Beneath a battered Stetson, stringy white hair hung to his shoulders. His piercing blue eyes might have been handsome in a younger man’s face, but now they glowed like pale ice in deep crags. His nose curved like a hawk’s beak. He wore a dark suit over a white shirt that stayed crisply starched, even in the rain. The tiny string tie had a pearl clasp. The very sight of him sickened her.

Starr folded her arms. “I’ll do what I please. This is my home now, and you’re trespassing.” Still, she carried her basket of clippings toward him, as if she couldn’t resist his spell. It made her feel small, but she knew there was no choice in the matter.

“This house is a lot of things, but it’s no home. For God’s sake, wipe the filth off your legs,” he said in disgust. Without waiting to see if she would, he went back inside.

For a few steps, Starr refused. If she wanted to track dirt into her own house, what did he care? But before she reached the porch, she took a few slaps at her knees. There were still black lines in the creases, and a couple of red spots where she’d scraped against pebbles, but it was good enough.

By the time she got inside, Wyman had already arranged himself at the head of her small kitchen table. He sat as he’d stood, ramrod straight, his long waxy fingers neatly folded like a schoolboy’s. His Stetson hung on a hook by the door, and now she saw the nicotine-yellow tinge to his white hair. She put the basket down on the counter, then stirred the simmering stew. Eventually she faced him, and put on her most polite tone.

“Would you like to try the gumbo?”

“You know I won’t eat anything with bottom-feeders in it.”

“Then how about some licorice tea? I made some special for you.”

His grin was forced, but he said greedily, “Now, I would like some of that.”

She took a pitcher from the refrigerator and filled a tall glass. She sliced a lemon, putting one slice into the tea, another on the rim. She placed the glass on the table ceremoniously, as though presenting him with a chalice.

“Won’t you join me?” he asked.

“You know I don’t enjoy it the way you do. Go ahead, drink.” Her voiced chilled. “Then we’ll talk.”

The old man tasted the licorice tea, then drank deep. Starr already had the pitcher at the ready to refill it. He drained it again, but this time she let the glass stand empty.

“You’ve had your refreshment,” she said. “Why don’t you go upstairs?”

He folded his hands again. “I want to talk.”

She sighed. “About what? Nothing ever changes. He’s upstairs, see for yourself.”

“I want some explanations. I pay you good money to care for him, and I am disappointed with the lack of progress.”

Affecting a calm she didn’t feel, Starr tasted the gumbo, then added more Worcestershire. She felt his gaze boring into her, but she counted three more turns of the spoon before she answered.

“I told you, sometimes the injections seem to work, but only for a minute. If I turn off the TV, he screams. He eats well enough, and I clean up after him. What else do you want me to do?”

“I want you to make him whole.”

“He needs a doctor for that, real therapy.”

“I don’t like that attitude. ‘A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.’ ”

“He belongs in a hospital where they can give him real help.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that no son of mine will be put in a loony-bin.”

She shrugged her shoulders. It was an old argument. “It’s hard to have a merry spirit, old man, with the likes of you skulking around every day.”

Wyman struggled to keep his face passive. “Is there any sign at all? Does he talk?”

Starr pushed aside a jar of herbs and leaned on the counter with folded arms. “Since you last asked, yesterday, I’ve talked a blue streak to him, but no response. When I complain about a mess on the floor, he smiles, so I know he understands me. I think the mad little monkey-man does it on purpose.”

The old man slapped the table so hard the glass jumped, but Starr didn’t flinch. Wyman’s histrionics were as studied as the angle of his Stetson. “You will not talk about my son like that. Whatever he does, he can’t help it. I’ve paid you to make him better, and if he hasn’t improved, it’s your failure, not his.”

“Maybe you’d be willing to take him into your own house, then.” She privately enjoyed the look of disgust that washed over his face.

“I didn’t say that. But I pay you well enough that you shouldn’t have to be letting in your… your…” It always came back to money. Not love of his son, not any empathy for him or anyone else. But Starr could speak his language.

“Clients,” she finished for him. “Folks from the neighborhood, just like you. I provide them with a service. It’s not my fault if you don’t approve of some of them.”

“It’s disgusting, the fraud you perpetrate on them.”

“It’s natural. And better than what I have to deal with up there.” She jerked her head toward the ceiling. “I’m helping people, same as I help him, same as I help you. And if I had the freedom to pull up stakes and leave it all behind, you’d better believe I would. Now, if you’ve got nothing else to say, either go up and see your precious son, or leave. I have work to do.”

He snorted. “Work. All you do is get your hands grubby.”

“I make him dinner, better than he’d get at a hospital.” She knew she was arguing against herself here, but she was angry. “And I keep him safe and clean. I give him therapy far beyond what you pay for, but it’s not enough to cover all my bills. So I do what I trained to do.”

She held his cold blue gaze until he relented. He stood up slowly, like an uncoiling snake. She smiled pleasantly and took his Stetson off the hook, holding it out to him.

“I believe I will visit with him,” he said, taking his hat. “But I want you to come as well.”

“Certainly.” Always give the client what he wants.

She led the way through the house to the stairs. It occurred to her that the wallpaper must be at least as old as herself, and the humidity from her plants was causing it to peel. But she also knew she’d never get around to replacing it. Maybe a dab of glue would hold it.

They mounted the narrow stairs. “Clay,” she called. “Clay, you have a visitor.” Behind her the old man heaved with exertion. When they reached the top, he stood uncertainly, grasping the railing. She smiled, and when he nodded his readiness, led him to the end of the hall. Through the door, they heard screams from the television, then thumping music.

“Maybe I should come back another time,” Wyman said, his voice suddenly bashful.

“I think now is the perfect time,” Starr answered, flinging the door open.

The man gasped and Starr shoved him forward. Clay, his blond hair just as long as his father’s, sat on the end of the bed with his knees and pants wide open. He stared maniacally at the porno on the television, and came just as they entered. Starr grinned wickedly. Seeing the look on the old man’s face made the nasty clean up worthwhile.

“Oh, son,” he moaned, “is there none to plead thy cause? Woman, thou hast no healing medicines, only ungodly images.”

Clay leered at his visitors, but in his eyes Starr saw no hint of a soul.

After the old man stormed out, thumping slowly, pathetically down the stairs and out the front door, Starr snapped on a pair of rubber gloves. Distasteful as the work was, it was nothing more than bodily fluids, as natural as anything rotting in her compost pile.

She led Clay to a plastic chair, then stripped the sheets and disinfected the floor. She ignored the scene that played on the TV, a man dressed as a Greek warrior fucking a woman who wore nothing but glitter. Did Wyman realize his cash supported subscriptions to five premium cable porno channels? Clay growled impatiently, but she didn’t worry about blocking his view. He could stand a minute or two without visual stimulation.

The bed stripped and changed, she left him to his sword and sandal sodomy.

In the kitchen, the gumbo bubbled happily. She tasted it, added some salt. She emptied the licorice tea and lemon slices into the compost pail by the sink and took it outside, ignoring the waiting boots. She liked the feel of the wet grass and mud on her bare feet.

The rain still fell in huge drops. She surveyed the garden, and decided she didn’t have it in her to prune anymore. Instead, she cut through the swarm of flies that braved the rain and dumped the compost in the huge bin in the back corner of the yard. The rain hissed on the hot black plastic.

Back inside, Starr checked on Clay. Finding him sedately watching another sexcapade, she showered, scouring herself with a lavender salt scrub until her skin flamed red. She used a stiff brush to clean the dirt from under the nails on her fingers and toes. She changed from her work clothes into an outfit no one in town either deserved or would appreciate. But the pencil skirt and sheer top drew a line between her nursing duties and the life she craved.

She strapped on a pair of heels and checked herself in the mirror. She forced a smile and something about it reminded her of her mother, but it was gone in a moment. She frowned and chose a bottle of lavender vanilla perfume she’d made herself. She dabbed some on her wrists and throat. The scent didn’t calm her immediately, but she knew the lavender would work on her in the background.

She checked her image in the mirror once more, then stood at the top of the stairs. She called through the closed door at the other end of the hall, “Clay, stay out of trouble. I got to see if Mac is in a swingin’ mood or not.”