Free Healing Sands by Stephen Arterburn, Nancy Rue Page B

the car out of the driveway.
    I was shaking so badly I only drove around the bend in the dirt road, out of sight of the house, before I stopped to put my forehead on the steering wheel.
    Five minutes ago I’d been almost amused by the woman waving a piece of garden hose. Now all I could see was myself, with a shard of metal in my own hand. Her mad-woman tirade couldn’t out-shout the words Dan had put on me.
    You and your anger made him capable of this.
    Was he right?
    What if he was? What if I had?
    The only thing I knew was that I didn’t want Jake to look at me—or himself—and see a woman throwing pieces of art in uncontrollable rage.
    I dug in my purse for Poco’s phone number.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    S ully was passing the break room late Monday morning when an aroma pulled him in.
    â€œWhen did we start a gourmet restaurant in here?” he said.
    Martha looked up from the table where she was parked with a salad and a magazine and pointed wordlessly to the microwave. Kyle pulled out a plate of something bubbly and expensive-smelling and wafted it onto the table across from her.
    â€œSeriously,” Sully said as he strolled to the table. “What is that incredible smell?”
    â€œVeal Florentine,” Kyle said. “Get yourself a plate.”
    Sully shook his head. “There’s too much green in there for me.” “And nothing in it is fried.” The corners of Kyle’s mouth twitched. “Don’t you people from Alabama like everything breaded and boiled in grease?”
    â€œYou’re not that kind of Southerner, are you?” Martha said.
    Sully eased into a chair, still studying Kyle’s lunch. “I’m the kind of Southerner who likes to know the ingredients in what he’s eating.”
    â€œBut if it smells this good, who cares?” Kyle took a forkful and smiled, close-mouthed, as he chewed. Martha looked expectantly at Sully.
    â€œHow’s it going so far, Kyle?” Sully said.
    â€œI’m settled in, ready to work. Now all I need are some clients.” Kyle looked at Martha, who looked at Sully, who had never seen such smooth triangulation.
    â€œI’ve given Kyle two clients to start with,” Martha said.
    â€œA seventy-two-year-old man grieving for his wife who died two weeks ago. He’ll need me for about three sessions before every widow at the senior center starts baking him pies.”
    â€œOr you start baking them,” Sully said, eyeing the dessert Kyle was unwrapping.
    â€œI don’t cook,” Kyle said. “I just order out.”
    Martha folded her hands neatly on the tabletop. “The other client is an unhappy woman who I think will respond to Kyle.”
    â€œShe’s a schoolteacher. Of course she’s unhappy. Look—” Kyle chipped at a flake of tissue-thin pastry with a tine of his fork. “I know every client deserves full attention no matter how small the problem may seem to us . . .”
    â€œAnd that small problem may only be the tip of a much larger iceberg that has been forming for years,” Martha said.
    â€œI just want something a little more intense. That’s the way I like to work, you know? Get in there and make a difference.”
    â€œYou’ll get your chance, tiger,” Sully said.
    â€œWhen you’ve shown what you can do with the less-intense cases.” Martha glanced quickly at Sully. “I hope I’m not stepping on your toes.”
    â€œListen, we’re a team—and since I’m not going to be here more than a couple of months, you two are the core of it.” Sully looked from one of them to the other. “So I think your first session ought to be with each other. See if you can work this thing out.”
    â€œIs there a ‘thing’?” Kyle said.
    â€œWe’ll deal with it, Dr. Crisp,” Martha said. “Right now I need to look over some files.”
    She tucked her Tupperware into a