Wife by Design

So had she been healed? Had Maddie?

They’d reached the main building and were standing in one of the extrawide, fancily decorated hallways so he lowered his voice. “But there’s no time limit attached to it.”

Lynn smiled at a couple of residents. Handed a toy back to a toddler who’d dropped it. Said hello a few times. They went through a door and reached the more private hallway that led to the therapy rooms.

Grant, walking beside her the entire time, smiling and trying to appear as unthreatening as possible, had the crazy urge to hold her hand.

“We run on a tiered system,” she said, stopping inside the door to lean back against the wall, and it took him a minute to realize she was answering his earlier question. Her arms were crossed. “Our residents have objectives based on their personal circumstances. There are measurements for each objective and they have to show a certain amount of progress toward meeting those objectives, and reaching the next tier in their own personalized plan, in order to remain a part of the program.”

Her tongue peeked out between her lips as she met his eyes. He wanted to promise her something, but had no idea what it would be.

He wanted to sleep with her. But had absolutely no room in his life for another commitment.

There hadn’t been time or opportunity for a committed relationship in his life since Darin’s accident.

“I wondered,” he said now. “This place is so nice, who wouldn’t want to stay here forever?”

“People who want to get back to their families. To their friends and jobs. To have their own homes where they can decorate as they please, cook when they please, leave as much of a mess or not as they please.”

“What about you?”

He knew he shouldn’t have asked the question. But Grant had never been known to have a lot of finesse. He was more the bull-in-a-china-shop type.

“I have my own home here on the premises. And this is my job.”

He wanted to ask about family. Friends. And thought better of it.

“So what happens when a resident doesn’t show progress?”

He’d kept his distance at the Stand. Hadn’t had more than cursory and very polite conversations with Darin’s therapist, with Lila, the managing director and with Maddie on one occasion when she was still in the room when he’d come to collect Darin. But he knew enough to know that the people here would not just throw a woman out on the street.

“Anyone who doesn’t try to help herself is given special counseling,” Lynn was saying, still leaning against the wall a couple of closed doors down from the therapy room. “She’s assigned a one-on-one mentor. If she still doesn’t help herself, we help her find some kind of job and a place to stay that she can afford with the money she has, and we help her move. We help her unpack in her new place, have a little housewarming for her. And invite her back to the Stand for any counseling she wants and for dinner once a week.”

“What’s the success rate on that?”

“Better than average.” Lynn stood, shrugged. “Some people just don’t want to help themselves. But the majority do. Our overall success rate here is better than anyone imagined,” she added.

Anyone imagined. “Who’s anyone?” he asked, growing more and more connected to a place that he’d never known existed and probably wouldn’t have given more than a cursory thought if he had. Who had the wherewithal, or the need or the foresight, to conjure up The Lemonade Stand?

“Our founder is a thirty-six-year-old man who grew up in an abusive household. His mother had left with him and his sister a couple of times before she got pregnant again. They’d spend a week or more in a seedy motel while she tried to keep them safe and find a means of supporting them, and each time, they’d end up having to go back. Until one night after their little sister was born, when he and his other sister saw his father knock his mother unconscious and then shake the crying toddler to death. He hurled himself at the man and doesn’t remember much after that until he woke up in a hospital. But they say he hit his father in the head with his own beer bottle.”

And he thought he’d had it rough.