Ridiculous. She forced herself to remain where she was until Quentin’s silence left her no choice but to speak. He leaned against the wall, his hands braced to either side of his head.
So lonely, Johanna thought. So sad… “Quentin, I know you mean well—”
In a blur of motion he snapped around, mouth contorted and hands raised as if to strike. She had a single, precisely delineated view of his face. Had she not known who stood before her, she might not have recognized it.
Rage, That was what she saw—rage, and a kind of vicious satisfaction. Quentin’s features seemed coarser, more brutish than she could have imagined possible.
Involuntarily she took a step back. Quentin looked like a man ready to kill.
The moment passed instantly, but not before she realized where she’d seen such a thing before. Harper had behaved so from time to time, before he’d entered his long period of cataleptic depression a year ago. He had never hurt anyone, but he’d walked on the edge of violence and might easily have become dangerous. He’d relived his service in the War as though it had never ended, prepared to attack or be attacked, kill or be killed. And after the manic periods passed, he had shown no indication of remembering what he’d said and done.
Quentin had already revisited his own oppressive, half-forgotten memories of war. Was this another manifestation, far less benign than the other?
Sweat pooled on Quentin’s brow, as if he had just emerged from a battle. He slumped against the wall with a rueful shake of his head.
“You’re right,” he said. “I went too far. I’ll try to remember my proper place from now on.” He smiled to take the sting from his words. Johanna knew at once that he was unaware of his sudden alteration.
“Very well,” she said, wanting very much to consult her notes. “If you’ll excuse me—”
“Let me prove I’m worthy of your trust,” he said, stopping her. “I’ve been thinking—I know how much care your father requires. He believes I’m a doctor, and he likes me. I’d be glad—honored—to see to his needs, so that you can spend more time with the others.”
Time and again Quentin had pushed past the appropriate boundaries of the doctor-patient relationship, and she’d let him do it. With this offer, he reached into a part of her life that she’d kept completely private.
“I told you that my father died when I was very young,” he said to her silence. “It would be as much for me as for him.”
Did he mean it? And if he did, could she trust him with the only man who’d accepted her, and loved her, without question?
Just now Quentin had revealed a side of his nature utterly foreign to what she knew of him, a new face of his illness. Yet she had always intended that the Haven’s residents should help each other, form friendships that would support them in their struggles. Quentin might set a good example. If she had assistance with her father, she’d be able to work more diligently with Irene, May, and Harper. With Quentin himself.
And she was touched. Deeply touched, as much as she’d been troubled a minute before.
“Perhaps you can join me when I visit with him,” she said. “After that, we shall see.”
“Thank you.” He glanced toward Harper’s room. “I’ve another favor to ask. I assume you’ll be hypnotizing Harper, now that he’s speaking?”
“When he’s ready. I shall not rush him.”
“I understand,” he said. “I request that I be allowed to observe your meetings with him. It might improve my ability to respond when you hypnotize me. I’d like very much to be your model patient.”
The mischief was back in his eyes, along with that devil-may-care grin. She found her doubts and concerns banished as if by magic.
“That must be up to Harper,” she said. “If he seems competent to make the decision, I shall ask him.”
“Fair enough. I promised to speak to May tonight—please give my best wishes to Lewis and Oscar, and apologize for any distress I may have caused.” He took a step toward her, stopped. “I will prove myself worthy, Johanna.”