"Well," I said, "he should consider them-for Patrick's sake."
"All right, Kate," Adrian said, three hours later, "what is this business that is so pressing you got past Cerberus, my three-headed dog-otherwise known as Mrs. Hopewell," he added in quieter voice.
There was a sharp rap on the office door.
"Almost got past," he corrected himself. "Yes, Louise?"
She opened the door. "I told the girl she could not see you."
"Thank you," Adrian replied. "I'm quite sure you did."
Mrs. Hopewell waited, as if he might ask her to escort me out.
"What do you have in your hand, Louise? May I see it?"
She stepped into the room, but walked no farther than the credenza, depositing the FedEx envelope there rather than carrying it to Adrian. I believed it was her small way of protesting the fact that he had granted me a meeting.
After the housekeeper left, Adrian rose from his chair a bit stiffly, closed the door, then picked up the envelope. "Some days are good and some days aren't so good," he said, returning to his seat across from me. He gave me a wry smile and sat down wearily.
"So, Kate, I trust that you have the phone, the microwave, the refrigerator, and whatever else you need."
"Yes, thanks. It's Patrick I want to talk about."
"His loneliness."
"That, too," I said.
"Oh dear, there's a list."
I was silent for a moment, ordering my questions and points.
Adrian leaned forward, smiling. "I'm kidding you. I am interested in all that you have to say."
"Patrick definitely needs friends," I began. "We should encourage him to invite other children to the house. I would be happy to supervise them. I think it would be good if we could get him to join a team. He likes hockey, but that season is almost over. Any kind of sport would do-just something that would place him with a group of children. He is too isolated at Mason's Choice."
"I agree.
"But there's something more to consider," I rushed on, "and that is the reason why he doesn't have friends. Tim moved away, and Patrick doesn't talk about any other children."
"Except Ashley," Adrian remarked dryly.
"When I pick him up from school, I see the boys playing together and him standing alone."
Adrian sighed. "I've been too caught up in my ridiculous therapy."
"Many children have only one parent and do fine," I assured him. "If you want my opinion-and I'm going to give it to you whether you do or not-l think the problems he has here at home are affecting his ability to get along with other children. I suspect he is acting like an impossible brat at school or withdrawing entirely. Either would be a natural response, given the hostile treatment he receives from those who are supposed to be loving family members-Robyn, Trent, and Brook. Mrs. Hopewell doesn't help any."
"You're quite blunt, just as your mother was."
"They're quite nasty, just as they were to Ashley."
I saw the brightness in his eyes-whether it was surprise or amusement, I wasn't sure.
"True enough," he said. "And so you want me to put the leash on them."
Yes.
Adrian pulled the tab on the FedEx package and shook out a blue-striped envelope, which he slit with a letter opener.
"I can't do that, Kate, though I wish more than anything I could spare Patrick the pain. But it is better for him to go through this while I am still here to keep an eye on it.
"See this?" he waved the blue letter at me. "Someone wants money. They all have heard the enticing news of my cancer." He grimaced. "Every college on the East Coast, every charitable institution, a flock of former employees, and relatives I haven't heard from in years are suddenly interested in making contact with me.
"Perhaps you can understand then that Patrick, as my heir, will need to become tougher, to grow a much thicker skin. He will spend his life dealing with greedy people, many of them his own relatives. He has got to learn how to keep them from getting to him."
"In time," I agreed. "But he's only seven years old."
"And he is doing well enough for a little boy," Adrian replied, "keeping them at bay with this Ashley nonsense. Eventually he will learn to do better than that: He will intimidate them when necessary. And trust me, it will be necessary for Patrick's survival."
I felt helpless. Adrian understood what I was saying, but he believed it called for a different response.
"In the meantime," I said, "why don't you speak to the school counselor? I'm a little surprised the counselor hasn't asked to speak to you."
"She has, but I have no use for her prying and suggestions. One has to look no further than psychologists' children to see that these people don't know what they are doing. Patrick is in a very special situation, one his teacher and the counselor could never understand."
"I think you are wrong," I said.
"Rarely," he replied. "Is there anything else you wish to discuss?"
"Yes. Why did you lie to me about the reason my parents left? You were having my mother investigated for the death of Ashley."
Adrian leaned back in his chair for a moment, as if catching his breath, then moved forward, leaning on the carved arm, looking me directly in the eye.
"As I said, I am rarely wrong, but I was that time, and it shames me. It shames me each time I look at you. Anything else?" he repeated, this time more softly.
"Just one thing. I am very afraid for Patrick."
"So am 1, Kate. So am I."
"But Kate, I kno-o-ow it's frozen," Patrick protested Monday afternoon. He looked longingly out of the schoolroom window. "I can see the ice."
I laughed. Surrounded by tall evergreens, the pond wasn't visible from any window of the house.
"The ice isn't thick enough. Besides, we made a deal. We'll skate at the college rink this evening, but only if you finish your homework."
Patrick sighed. He was failing math and had brought home remedial work from his teacher. It was taking him a long time to complete his subtraction problems. His focus would wander, and he would forget what he had borrowed from the adjacent column. My reminder to write it down only made him angrier.
"All right, shall we work on the next problem?"
He stared at the numbers.
"Can you take seven from five?" I prompted.
He pushed his pencil hard against the paper. The point broke.
"Think it through," I said, calmly handing him a fresh pencil.
He threw it down. "I hate this!" He pushed back his chair, looking pleased when it fell over. Striding around the room, he poked at things, his hand skipping from books to art supplies to a plastic globe, knocking them over. He'd already fidgeted his way through one "time-out"; I doubted another one was going to help, but I also wasn't going to give in to playtime. He needed an activity that was physical as well as mental to work off some energy and help him concentrate. "Let's take a break and try piano." "Piano?" He sounded interested. "Yes, but don't forget that we're going to have to finish these problems if you want to skate."
For the first ten minutes, he seemed intrigued. I taught him the way I remembered Joseph teaching Ashley and me. After numbering the fingers on his right hand with a marker, I called out one to five, and he would practice wiggling them. When I mixed up the order, it became a game for him. Then I assigned five black piano keys to his fingers and called out the numbers again, this time for him to play. He made a mistake. His jaw clenched. "You're doing well. Everyone makes mistakes when learning, and afterward, too. Let's try again. Ready?"
He made another mistake, and I suppose it was one too many that day. He slammed both hands down on the piano. I hate this!" he screamed, jumping off the bench. His arm swept across the top of the piano, knocking off a pile of music books. They were Ashley's, their bindings old and dry. Sheets of music flew everywhere.