Page 10 of Love Bound

She shivers and physically flinches.

"I want to develop—"

"That's right. I know you want to develop it because you're just like everybody else coming up from Boston. You're just going to buy our land, rape it, make our tax rates go up, and then leave. Fine." She rises quickly from the table and leaves. Just walks out of the place like she owns it, back stiff, head high, before I can get another word out.

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. I glance at my watch. It's nine thirty-five.

Great way to start a Saturday.

Chapter Three

Claire

Slamming in through the side door of the clinic, I fly up the stairs into the kitchen. The place smells like fresh coffee. My sister, Laurel, stands there with her son, Cory. He's five, but small for his age. He was bestowed with the Merridan genes from my mom: fine bone structure, egg head, and tiny hands. It works for me in surgery and might for him if he winds up a mechanic.

"Hey, Cory," I say, trying hard not to ruffle his curly blond locks.

Cory looks up and smiles. His big, clear, blue eyes crinkle and he laughs, thrusting something in his hand up for me to see.

I kneel down. "What you got there, buddy?"

"Motor," comes out clear as a bell, but it’s the laugh that makes me glance at his mom. Cory has come so far.

"What does it do?" I ask him.

He shrugs. The utility of things and people is not in his repertoire yet and may never be, but I always ask. What riveted his attention was the mechanism itself, not what it did. Just taking things apart mattered. The motor looks fancy like something you'd buy from the Smithsonian and I bet Laurel picked it up at the library sale. Some summer tourist probably donated it when their grandkid didn’t get around to finishing their grandparent-sponsored enrichment program.

Laurel's voice is quiet. "Cory, Aunty Claire, and Mommy are going to talk for a while. Do you need any more tools?"

He glances down at the tiny wrench, pliers, and flat head screwdriver and he shakes his head.

"Okay, look at Mommy. Cory, look up," Laurel says, and his little jaw juts in her direction. "We’re going to the living room now. Do you want to stay here or sit with us?"

In answer, he squats down and keeps going, and I marvel at kids who have spaghetti legs.

She nods and holds two steaming mugs of coffee and I realize I've left mine at The Inn. Instead of growing furious again, I focus on her. She's here, she needs me.

Her eyes look bruised—lack of sleep. I love Cory, but I hate how he worries her. I am not a parent, though. Never will be.

"What happened?" I ask her.

She sighs. "It's the school. They interviewed him, and now they're saying he doesn't need an IEP."

I instantly flare but lower my voice so Cory doesn’t hear us, but now I fear I'm hissing. "What the hell? Did you explain you've worked your ass off to get him this far?"

She closes her eyes and I instantly regret flying off the handle. Laurel's conflict-phobic and now I've done what I often do: put her in the position to defend the people she's having conflict with. Not that I know this about myself. I've just had three of my four siblings tell me I do this to her. It’s one of the reasons I'll never have kids. I've already had my parenting critiqued all the way through my high school years.

"Yes. Of course. But they say the budget is tight and he can’t have a one-on-one aid," Laurel says.

"How long did they interview him?"

"Half an hour."

"Oh, please," I say.

"Right?"

"They think they know how he’s going to react?" I lower my voice again. "All it's going to take is that pinwheel display about the wind they do every year and he'll start wetting his pants."