Absolutely, Positively

You should have studied psychology.”

    “Thanks. But I prefer the tea and spice business.”

    “Maybe it's your lack of formal training that makes it easier for you to see the situation more clearly,” Olivia mused as she dropped the damp tissue into her purse.

    “All I know is that you feel you failed with Harry, and your feelings about that are complicated because you were personally involved with him. I can only imagine what a mess it must have been.”

    “A mess?”

    “Sure. There you were, engaged to a man you were beginning to view as a patient, rather than as a lover. A man whose problems reminded you of your father's problems.” Molly waved a hand. “At the same time you were falling in love with another man who happened to be related to your patient-fiancé. To top it all off, your patient was growing increasingly weird, and he refused to go into therapy. No wonder you freaked and broke off the engagement. It was the only intelligent, sensible thing to do.”

    There was a short, sharp pause.

    “We do not generally use the termfreaked in clinical psychology,” Olivia murmured. “But maybe it's apt in this particular instance.”

    Molly blinked. “Was that a little joke I just heard? A bit of psychiatric humor? Olivia, you surprise me.”

    Olivia smiled wanly. “I've got a really good one about how many shrinks it takes to change a lightbulb.”

    Molly started to laugh. “I can't wait to hear it.”

    Olivia's smile finally reached her eyes. “Maybe you're right. Maybe it's time to let go of the guilt I feel toward Harry. I think he's in good hands.”

    * * *

    Parker surveyed the noisy, crowded tavern with a scowl of acute disdain. A country-western band filled the room with a wailing tale of bad love and good liquor. The lead singer was dressed in a skintight silver lamé jumpsuit. None of the men who lounged at the bar had bothered to remove his hat. In the far corner a rowdy group had gathered around a pool table. It was obvious that money was on the line.

    “Who the hell chose this place?” Parker demanded.

    “We did.” Josh glanced at Brandon for backup.

    “Thought it would be neutral territory,” Brandon said with somewhat forced enthusiasm. He signaled to a woman dressed in rhinestone cowboy garb. “Have a beer, Grand-dad.”

    “I drink whiskey,” Parker grumbled.

    “Matter of fact, so do I.” Leon leered at the waitress as she approached the table. “Nice boots, honey.”

    Raleigh groaned. “Jeez, Uncle Leon. Don't make an ass out of yourself, okay?”

    “Like my boots, mister?” The waitress glanced down at the red sequined cowboy boots that matched her hat.

    Leon grinned. “Yeah.”

    “You can have 'em if you want 'em. By the end of the evening my feet are dyin' in these things.”

    “I could take care of that little problem for you, darlin'.” Leon waggled his brows.

    “No, thanks.” The woman gave him a laconic smile. “I've got someone else who likes to massage my aching feet.”

    “How big is he?” Leon asked with calculating interest.

    “It's she,” the waitress murmured. “And she's five foot eleven, rides a Harley, and wears a lot of leather and metal. Plays the drums in a band called Ruby Sweat. Ever hear of it?”

    “Uh, no,” Leon admitted. “Probably not my kind of music.”

    “Probably not. Somehow, I doubt that you and my friend would get along,” the waitress said.

    Leon winced. “Figures. Go out with a bunch of Strattons and what do you expect?”

    Parker glowered at him. “Try not to make an even bigger fool of yourself than you already are, Trevelyan. I've got a reputation in this town.”

    Leon squinted. “A reputation for what? Flower arranging?”

    “Give it a break, Grandpa,” Josh hissed.

    Unperturbed, the waitress tapped her pen firmly against her little pad of paper in order to get the attention of everyone at the table. “May I take your orders?”

    “A beer for me,” Josh said hastily.

    “Same for me,” Brandon said. “And maybe some nachos.”

    Parker scowled. “If beer is all that's available, I suppose I'll have the same.”

    Raleigh followed suit. “Me, too.”

    Gilford frowned in consideration. “Do you have a selection from the local microbreweries, by any chance?”

    “Yes, sir, we've got one local brand,” the waitress assured him. “Skid Road.”

    Gilford looked pained. “I don't believe I've ever heard of that one.”

    “It's from a small brewery that just