Wife by Design

Apparently, he was successful enough to support not only him and Darin, but two other men, as well.

“You haven’t seen the inner grounds.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I think you might change your mind,” she said, wishing it were light outside so she could give him a quick, escorted tour of the secured area of The Lemonade Stand—the area where their real work was done. Arms crossed in front of her, she said, “The philosophy here at The Lemonade Stand—when life gives you lemons you make lemonade—is taught by action, not by word.” She started in on a speech she’d heard many times before. The rote PR words that every senior staff member at the Stand knew by heart—because they were expected to live by them and up to them.

“We’re here to help abused women recover—and to make healthy choices for their futures,” she continued. “By nature of what they’ve come from—being mistreated by someone close to them, someone they trusted to love them—they’ve mostly learned, often subconsciously, that they don’t deserve the best. Abused women, by and large, have low self-concepts. Many of them believe that they’re somehow to blame for their abuse. Before they can fully believe in themselves and take charge of broken lives, they have to feel good about who they are. Environment is a huge part of that.”

Lynn was leading up to telling him about the grounds at the Stand. The mammoth undertaking that Grant Bishop was offering to absorb without realizing what he was getting himself into. But she stopped speaking for a second when she realized that the speech she was giving was similar to one any prospective employee of the Stand would receive. Like she’d already mentally employed him.

“I understand.” His brown-eyed gaze was soft. And she started to speak again.

“Our residents’ emotional and mental states are brought on by actions, and we believe that the only way to truly counteract the damage to their psyches is to counteract action with action.”

“Absolutely.”

“They’ve been treated horribly and they need to be treated well, not just be told that they deserve to be treated well.”

“You don’t have to worry about my boys. Luke and I have known each other since college. He’s married, has kids, is a great dad. And Craig’s wife is expecting their first child. But if you’d rather, I can make certain that only Darin and I service this facility.”

“The women live in bungalows,” she said. “Usually four women to a place.” Each one had four bedrooms with adjoining bathrooms. Each one was surrounded by beautiful landscaping. “Their living quarters are what they should be able to expect their homes to be—a place that cushions them from the challenges that life will inevitably hand them.”

“We’ll stay completely away from them.”

“First and foremost, these women need to be taught that they are worthy. We treat them like royalty. They are expected to treat one another like royalty and, through action, we hope to replace negative lessons with positive ones.”

Grant Bishop leaned forward. “Lynn, I understand. Do any background checks you need to do. I swear to you, your residents have absolutely nothing to fear from any of us, and most particularly not from Darin and me. We will keep our distance from residents at all times, and if we do happen to come into contact with anyone at any time we will show her nothing but respect. You have my word on that.”

He smiled. Her stomach flipped.

This was getting way too out of hand.

“Mr. Bishop, what I’m trying to tell you is that, inside the grounds, The Lemonade Stand is resortlike. We’re on the ocean, just like most of Santa Raquel. Our facilities, including our landscaping, rival any fine resort on the California coast. The Stand is a safe haven—a place women want to be. And the grounds reflect that.”

He blinked. Stared for a second, and said, “You’re telling me I’m in for a lot of hard work.”

“What I’m trying to tell you is that you can’t possibly do the job you’re promising to do. You have no idea what you’re letting yourself in for.”

“I will get the work done and do as good a job—or a better job—than the company currently providing the services.”

The man was determined.

A characteristic she admired. A lot.

“My brother’s quality of life depends on him having that therapy.” His gaze spoke directly to her heart.

He wasn’t getting it. She couldn’t have him around.

“There are only so many hours in a day and you’ll still have to earn a living.”

“Before he went in for surgery, Darin was experiencing serious bouts of depression,” he said. “They were growing increasingly worse, with times of moroseness similar to what we went through about a year after his accident. If he ends up paralyzed for life, I’m going to lose him.”

The man’s desperation was understandable.

“I’ll get the work done,” Grant Bishop said again, the words as firm as any promise she’d ever heard. “I generally do the design work and the guys do the physical labor, which leaves me evenings to focus completely on Darin. If I have to, I’ll spend the days out in the yards here, and do my design work at night. Darin needs this therapy more than he needs trips to baseball games with me. And I swear to you, your residents will have nothing to fear from either me or Darin. He’s like he is because he was protecting a woman.”

The cause of Darin’s condition, the stingray barb lodged in his brain, had been in his file. The circumstances that had caused that barb to be there were not.

She couldn’t help herself. “What happened?” she asked.

Boundaries! The word screamed in her brain. Vital rule of health care—keep your boundaries.

But things were different at the Stand.

“He and his wife were scuba diving. She got tangled in her line and was losing all of her air. He got her untangled but was attacked by the stingray during the process so it took him longer than it should have. Badly bleeding and half out of his mind, he still got her up to the surface.”

“Darin’s married?”

“Was.”

“She left him? After he saved her life?” Because he was brain damaged. Some people were that selfish.

“She died. She was gone by the time they got her out of the water.”

“After he went through all that she didn’t make it?”

Grant swallowed, and that told her more than any words he could have said.

“If there was anywhere else I could afford to get the quality of therapy he needs, I’d be pounding on their door, too.” Grant Bishop’s quiet words fell into the silence. “Dr. Zimmer said that The Lemonade Stand is Darin’s best hope. Apparently, your therapist has a group session for the mentally handicapped.”

“Yes,” Lynn said. “She specializes in working with emotionally—and mentally—handicapped patients who are also physically injured.” The group session for the mentally handicapped had only one patient at the moment.

“Dr. Zimmer indicated that she’s good at encouraging the hopeless to find hope,” Grant Bishop said, looking her straight in the eye.

They were her own words to Dr. Zimmer the last time she’d seen him.

Grant said Darin had been suffering from depression even before the surgery. Lynn surmised that without sensitivity to Darin’s emotional issues, physical therapy might do him no good at all.

The Lemonade Stand, founded by a young man who’d grown up in an abusive household, existed to help save and protect human life. In a very real sense, Darin’s life depended on them. If the landscaping work was too much for Grant’s small company, they could hire out half of the landscaping, help Darin and still save the Stand some money.

“I’ll make a recommendation,” Lynn told the man. “Talk to your brother to make certain that you’ll have his cooperation with your plan, and call me in the morning.”

Call me in the morning. The words were a medical cliché, and in this case, they were a promise, too.

CHAPTER FOUR

“TELL ME AGAIN what this woman’s name is.” Sitting straight up, looking as handsome as ever in jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to just beneath his elbows, Darin spoke with the authority of one who was in complete control. He was using his “normal” voice, as Grant had somewhere along the way begun to catalog it. “Normal” as opposed to his “child” voice—the one that was a repercussion of the brain damage he’d received during his attempt to save his wife’s life.