Family Reunion by Nancy Thayer (ereader android .TXT) 📗

right away, Eleanor said, “It might involve the house.”

Ari watched Eleanor’s face, which softened into a smile. “Good, darling. Let us know when you can come and we’ll meet your boat.”

“Poor Mom,” Ari said as her grandmother ended the call.

“I know,” Eleanor said. She sighed. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to retire for the evening. I have some favorite television shows to catch up with.”

“Enjoy. I’ll see you in the morning.” Ari kissed her grandmother’s cheek.

—

The week passed slowly. Ari forgot her worries when she played with the children at Beach Camp, and by evening, she was too tired to go out with friends. Beck called her every night, and they talked for hours, about their families, their pasts, their friends, and their plans for the future. Ari was torn. The sound of his voice made her feel so warm inside. She knew they were becoming attached to one another. She sensed that, for her, Beck was the one. But here she was, pregnant with another man’s child, and she couldn’t tell him. Not yet.

First, she had to talk to Peter. Summoning her courage, she called his cell number, which was still stored in her phone. It went to voicemail.

“Peter? It’s Ari. Please call me. I need to see you. We need to discuss something important.”

All she could do now was wait for him to return her call.

—

The fuzzy yellow tennis ball came rocketing over the net toward Ari. Ari gently tapped it back. It fell just over the net, and Beck, even with his long, quick, athletic body, couldn’t get to it in time. She laughed, and Beck laughed, too.

“Game,” he called. “I thought you hadn’t played tennis in months.”

“Oh, that was just luck,” Ari told him.

Beck met her at the net to shake hands. They left the court to go to the brick patio. Ari collapsed at one of the tables, grateful that the staff had raised the umbrella and tilted it to provide maximum shade.

“Wow,” Beck said as he pulled out the chair and sat across from her, “you’re a clever player.”

“Well,” she rejoined, flirting, “I’m a clever woman.”

The waitress, a lovely girl named Annette who came from St. Louis and was majoring in hospitality, came to take their orders. Drinks were an iced coffee for Beck, an Anchorage for Ari. Ordering gave her a chance to wonder why she felt so attracted to Beck. True, he was six two, had floppy blond hair and those amazing robin’s-egg blue eyes, and he was broad shouldered and as handsome as—who was that poet? George Gordon Byron—Lord Byron. Ari resisted the urge to google him on her phone and compare the two. Okay, so Beck was gorgeous, and he was kind and funny, but how could she feel so much desire for him when she was pregnant with another man’s child?

“What’s Michelle up to?” Ari asked Beck.

“She’s sailing today with some friends. Her fiancé, Brendon, and I think you know Dan and Filly.”

Ari sipped her drink.

“Where’s Eleanor?” Beck asked.

They talked about Eleanor, who was going to a party with Silas. Beck talked about his parents, who went to church religiously, a little laugh here. “We’re all—I mean my parents, Michelle, Hen, and I are going to a croquet party this evening.”

“Croquet!” Ari was amused. “I haven’t played since I was a child. It still conjures up images for me of ladies with enormous hats and long skirts.”

“And men wearing white flannels and straw boaters trimmed with a grosgrain ribbon.” Beck leaned forward. “I’d rather spend this evening with you, but these are my godparents, so it’s kind of an obligation.”

“Oh, sure,” Ari said lightly. He’d rather spend the evening with her? She couldn’t stop smiling.

Beck read the meaning in her smile. “Maybe next time I’ll be able to take you.”

They gazed at each other, allowing the moment to last, caught in a glow of realization. They were becoming a couple. They were falling in love.

The waitress came by. “Is there something wrong with your meals?”

The moment was broken. “No, they’re delicious,” Beck told her.

He and Ari dutifully returned to their lunches, but Ari felt Beck nudge her foot with his own, under the table.

“Beck,” she said, leaning back in her chair, “tell me about being a therapist.”

“Ah.” Beck’s face grew serious. “I don’t want to bore you.”

“You won’t bore me. Really, I’d like to know.”

Beck sat very still for a moment. “You understand I can’t talk about my patients.”

“Of course.”

“Okay. Well, on my part, what I do, what I’ve been trained to do, sounds really simple, but it’s not. I’m a cognitive behavioral therapist. That sounds complicated, but one of the things I do is listen. Just listen. Don’t smile—it’s not that easy. Let’s say I told you my grandmother just died. How would you react? Most people would say, ‘I’m so sorry. I loved my grandmother, too,’ and they’d talk about their grandmother. I ask them questions about their grandmother. I let them grieve.”

“I see what you mean,” Ari said.

“People need to be listened to. They need to be taken seriously. The process of venting is important. But it’s not only that. I’m trained to catch the trouble spots, the signs that someone might need medication—”

“Can you prescribe medication?”

“No. But I can recommend that a patient see a psychiatrist for meds, while I continue the talk therapy. I can sort of listen between the lines. I can spot something significant bubbling up that the patient is trying to avoid. A lot of my patients see me short-term, when something like a divorce is taking place. Or a loved one died on an ordinary day in an accident. Others might be dealing with an old trauma that they’ve never discussed because they’re ashamed, and getting it out into the light of day is a kind of healing.”

“Wow,” Ari said softly, impressed. “How do you deal with all the sadness and anger that you meet every day?”

“Do you mean how do I take care of myself emotionally?”