Always A Bridesmaid (Logan's Legacy Revisited)

by Kristin Hardy

  “You can’t sit in on my meetings,” she objected. “Not most of them. They’re client sessions. It’s confidential.”

  “Even if they agree to it?”

  “I wouldn’t let them. Having another person in the room violates confidentiality. More important, it changes the dynamic. It’s not healthy for the clients and it certainly won’t let me do my job effectively.”

  There it was again, Gil thought, that flash of protectiveness, the same one she’d shown toward Lisa. It was part of her being, he realized. She would always leap to defend those she felt needed it, no matter what the cost to her.

  “I can see why you wouldn’t want me in the sessions but I think the article would be incomplete if I don’t talk about specifics. What if I interview them afterward? Anonymously,” he hastened to add.

  “We’re still putting them on the spot. I’m sorry. It was a nice idea but this isn’t going to work.”

  He’d been in the business too long to let that scare him off. “According to your PR manager, it will.”

  “LJ doesn’t know my work as well as he does the rest of the clinic,” Jillian said.

  “Call him,” Gil suggested.

  “I will,” she returned, dialing LJ’s cell-phone number even as she spoke. When Gil didn’t move, she gave him a pointed stare. “Do you mind?”

  Grinning, he stepped out into the hall.

  It didn’t matter, though, because the line rolled over into voice mail. “This is LJ Logan. On Monday, I’ll be flying to New York so I’ll be out of contact—” Gritting her teeth, Jillian hung up.

  Gil poked his head in the door. “So what did you find out?”

  “LJ’s not around. He’s flying back to New York this morning.” Leaving her to deal with things on her own.

  “That’s all right.” Gil sat back down. “Why don’t we do this? You ask your clients—the ones you think would be appropriate—if they’d mind talking to me after the sessions. I won’t use their real names or any specifics. I just want to give readers a feel for the human face of what you do. It’ll be a way to help others, maybe get through to people who are sitting around out there with the same problems, not knowing how to deal with them. What do you say?”

  He was pushing her buttons, she was sure of it, but when he put it that way, it was hard to say no. “You’d have to guarantee anonymity.”

  “They can talk to me from behind a partition if you want,” he offered. “Of course, that wouldn’t show me what you do in your sessions.”

  She stared at him like he was a loon. “We talk,” she said.

  “About what?”

  “Whatever the client’s issues are. Couples dealing with infertility or adoption, egg donors, a single mother coping with raising a child, a child meeting its prospective parents for the first time. Whatever’s necessary.”

  “Sounds like a grab bag.”

  “It is. It keeps life interesting. Every day is different.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “So you like variety? You strike me as someone who likes things organized.”

  “Is that a nice way of saying I’m anal?” she asked tartly.

  His lips twitched. “I think you’re looking for hidden meanings, Doc.”

  “Looking for hidden meanings is my job.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Casually, he pulled a compact recorder out of his pocket and set it on the coffee table beside him. “Maybe what we should do is run a mock session. You can show me what it’s like, just so I get the experience.” His eyes gleamed. “I guess, first, you’d close the door for privacy.”

  Sudden nerves washed through her. “I don’t think we need to be that accurate.”

  “Sure we do. It’ll give me the true feeling.” He rose and shut the door.

  Instantly, the room shrank. Suddenly, Jillian regretted the warm lighting, the soft furnishings, the homey, intimate air of the space, because with just her and Gil Reynolds in it, it felt too intimate altogether.

  He eased down in the chair and gave an impudent smile. “Now you sit in the doctor’s chair. Come on,” he pressed. “I want to do it right.”

  “You’re making a joke of this,” she said.

  “Oh, no.” He watched her move to her chair by the window.

  She’d bought it because it was low and comfortable, because the arrangement of seats helped establish intimacy with her clients. The last thing she wanted was to establish intimacy with Gil Reynolds.

  There was something unsettling about his steady gaze. She took a breath, resisting the urge to look away. “Are you happy now?”

  “Not yet. But I’m getting there. So say I walked in and said I wanted to adopt. What would you tell me?”

  That he’d have to go to the clinic’s other social worker because there was no way she could keep a professional distance. “I’d ask you why.”

  “Why what?”

  “Why you wanted to raise a child alone. Single parenthood is a challenging path. Rewarding, but challenging, no matter whether you’re a woman or a man. Why not wait and do it the old-fashioned way?”

  His gaze was very steady on hers. “Maybe I haven’t found the right woman yet.”

  “Not through lack of trying, I imagine.”

  “That was harsh.”

  “Accurate, though, I suspect. Anyway, why the rush? You’re a man, you don’t have a biological clock to worry about.”

  “Sure I do.” He grinned. “I want to have a kid while I’m still young enough to teach him to play football when he hits junior high.”

  “And you want a kid?”

  “Don’t most people?”

  “No,” she said slowly, “they don’t.” And she had firsthand knowledge of it.

  “Little kids can be right-on. Better than their parents, a lot of times.”

  “Have you ever spent time around one?”

  “My brothers’ kids. I’ve even changed diapers.”

  “Brave man.”

  “You’d be more impressed if you’d seen the diapers.” He tapped his fingers on his chair arm. “Anyway, aren’t you supposed to be asking me about my childhood and stuff?”

  “Do you want me to ask you about your childhood?” Jillian asked calmly.

  He shrugged. “Don’t you usually?”

  “In sessions, I typically focus on the client’s reason for being here. But since you’ve introduced the topic, it must have meaning for you. Tell me about your childhood.”

  He cocked one leg up on the other knee and laced his fingers behind his head. “Well, let’s see. I was raised by wolves down in Springfield. When I was old enough, I ran off to join the circus. Tightrope walker,” he elaborated.

  Springfield, the resolutely blue-collar enclave across the Willamette from the college town of Eugene. Interesting, Jillian thought. She wondered what he’d say if she informed him that his joke told her a great deal about him. “Raised by wolves? The animal kind or the human kind?”

  Something flickered in his eyes. “The human kind. My father and my three brothers. Real wolves might have done a better job.”

  Only years of training kept her from reacting. “Where was your mother?” she asked.

  “Dead. She had a massive stroke when I was five. At the grocery store. She was picking up a bottle of bleach and boom, she was down.” His smile held no humor. “To this day, I can’t stand the smell of Clorox.”

  “I’m sorry.” The words were out before she knew she was going to say them.

  “Thanks,” he said slowly. And suddenly, their eye contact turned into something more, a tangible connection between them. The seconds stretched out like warm taffy. Jillian had the bizarre impulse to reach out and cover his hand with hers, as though he were next to her rather than across the room.

  As though she had a right to.

  Abruptly, Gil shook his head and gave a laugh. “Anyway, that was when I joined the circus.”

  “That’s an interesting choice. A different city every night. The perfect excuse for not m
aking a commitment. And your choice of arts—a tightrope walker. Risk, uncertainty, adrenaline rush.”

  He shifted a bit. “It was a joke, Doc.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I don’t think it was, entirely.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I can hear it in your voice.” And the thought of that little boy so many years before tugged on her heart.

  The man that the little boy had become sat up in his chair, suddenly tense. She’d seen it before in patients when they’d accidentally revealed more than they’d intended.

  “Yeah, well, okay, so I guess that takes care of the sessions,” he said, an odd tone to his voice. “How about that tour?”

  Jillian hesitated. He wasn’t a client. Counseling wasn’t why he was here, she reminded herself and rose. “All right.”

  Fluorescent lights. Walls with pale, mottled mauve wallpaper, gleaming linoleum on the floor. Outside of Jillian’s space, the Children’s Connection offices were mercifully bright and clinical, washing away that strange moment. Gil shook his head at himself, even as he took notes on the layout.

  The fake session thing had started as a lark, a way to yank her chain. He hadn’t a clue what had prompted him to actually tell her something real. He wanted to take her to bed, sure, even get to see her for a time. He’d never intended to let her in, though.

  He was a man who prided himself on keeping people at arm’s length. That was what he’d grown up with. That was what journalists were taught, especially when dealing with subjects. He hadn’t a clue what had prompted him to start babbling about stuff long past. Maybe it was her office, a space that felt more like a sitting room than a clinic. Maybe it was that he’d gotten too involved in the role-playing. Maybe it was that way she had of looking at him as though she were listening to him with every fiber of her being, creating that humming link between them like some kind of a tractor beam.

  Jillian Logan was good at what she did. Very, very good.

  “These are the examining rooms,” she said now, waving a hand down the hall.

  “What’s down there?” He pointed to another door.

  She gave him an opaque glance. “The day care center.”

  The source of all the controversy. “I suppose I should at least see it,” he said.

  When they neared it, they could hear the laughter of children over the sounds of the SpongeBob Square-Pants theme, unless he was much mistaken. The door opened and a brunette stepped out. “Hi, Jillian.”

  “Hi.”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  Jillian hesitated. “He’s doing a tour of the clinic.”

  Gil stepped forward. “Gil Reynolds of the Portland Gazette. I’m here shadowing Jillian for a profile.”

  The woman paled suddenly, her hand in his tensed. He felt more than saw Jillian’s sigh.

  “Gil, I’d like you to meet Nancy Logan.” Jillian paused. “Robbie Logan’s wife.”

  Hell.

  The move to introduce himself had been automatic. He’d been a journalist long enough that he knew you could never tell who you might need for a source. Now he knew why Jillian had avoided identifying him, though. Nancy Logan’s hand was suddenly damp in his and icy cold, but no cooler than her eyes.

  Gil could have thought of a few thousand other things he’d rather do than meet her—hike Mount Hood in bare feet, say, or scrub the Hawthorne Bridge with a toothbrush. It was one thing to okay a story on Robbie Logan; it was another thing to face the man’s wife.

  Her face held lines of strain; her clothing drooped a little as though she’d recently lost weight. We didn’t set out to hurt anyone, he wanted to tell her. We didn’t mean to catch you in the cross fire. “Nice to meet you,” was all he could say.

  Nancy merely nodded. “You’ll excuse me.”

  And that quickly she was gone. Jillian waited only a moment before hurrying after her.

  And Gil stood there, feeling like a complete creep.

  Jillian burst into the ladies’ room after Nancy, who was nowhere in sight. From one of the stalls emanated the sounds of someone being violently ill.

  “Nance, is that you?” Jillian asked, wetting a handful of paper towels.

  She took the muffled sound of misery as assent and stepped into the neighboring stall to hand the towels under the barrier. Nancy’s hand clutched at them. Wanting to give her privacy, Jillian stepped outside to get a cup of water from the cooler. Back in the bathroom, she merely waited, handing the water over when the sounds ceased.

  “Thanks.” The door to the stall opened and Nancy stepped out, smiling weakly. “Sorry about the disgusting noises.”

  “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I should have told you Gil was going to be here so you didn’t get blindsided. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “It wasn’t Gil,” Nancy said. “I was already feeling queasy.”

  “Do you have some kind of twenty-four-hour bug?” Jillian watched as Nancy reached in her pocket and pulled out a toothbrush and travel-sized toothpaste. She raised her eyebrows. “Or is it more like a nine-month bug?”

  And Nancy’s face crumpled.

  “Hey,” Jillian said. She led Nancy around the corner to the lounge area and sat her on the couch. “Don’t cry, Nancy. You should be excited. You’re going to be a mom. This is great news.”

  “No it’s not.” Nancy blinked and a tear rolled down her cheek. “I’m pregnant and Robbie’s gone. He’s gone and I don’t have a clue where he is. He could be hurt, he could be falling apart. Anything could be happening to him and I can’t help.” She lowered her face to her hands.

  Jillian rubbed her back as she wept. “Nancy, you’re not in this alone. We’re all here with you, everyone in the family. We all want him home. Robbie will be back.”

  Nancy sat upright. “When?” she demanded. “He’s been gone five weeks and the only thing I’ve heard from him is one lousy letter. He won’t answer his cell phone. He doesn’t even know about the baby. And what am I going to do when his probation officer calls?” Her words dissolved into fresh sobs. “I need him back, Jillian.”

  “I know you do, honey,” Jillian murmured, sympathy washing through her as she felt Nancy shake. She herself was upset, the family was upset, but it couldn’t hold a candle to what Nancy was feeling, especially now. They had to find Robbie and bring him home before he found himself in worse trouble, that was all there was to it. But unless he was ready to return, it wouldn’t do any good at all.

  Oh, it was such a mess, Jillian thought in frustration. Damn Gil’s paper, anyway.

  Gil’s paper.

  Newspapers could be used to build things up as well as tear them down. If she worked with Gil, really worked with him, maybe she had the power to do more than help the Children’s Connection. Maybe she could help Robbie.

  And if she had to cultivate Gil Reynolds to do that, she’d do it.

  Nancy’s storm of weeping finally abated and she raised her head from Jillian’s shoulder.

  “I guess that was long overdue,” Jillian said. “Feel better?”

  “A little.” She gave a watery smile.

  “Good. You know all my numbers. Anytime you need to talk, I’m here. And Nancy, about the baby—” she hesitated “—it’s your decision and your news but you should really think hard about telling the family. It’s good news we can all use but there’s something else more important—they can’t help you unless they know. You don’t have to do this alone. We’re Logans, all of us, and family’s there for family. Trust that because it’s real.”

  Nancy looked at her for a long moment and then nodded. “You’re right.”

  “You’re going to make my parents very happy,” Jillian told her. “The next generation is what family’s all about.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “And think, in just a couple of weeks you’ll get to raid Jenny’s closet for all of her maternity clothes.”

  The day flew by, or maybe it was because Gil found himself fascinated by watching Jillian. He’d a
lways had a knack for getting people to open up to him. It was one of his best skills as a reporter.

  Jillian, though, made him look like an amateur. She had a way of creating a circle between her and her clients that made them comfortable with her. It was just like the way he’d found himself drawn in with their little mock session. One moment, he’d been joking around; the next, he’d found himself telling her things that some of his closest friends didn’t even know. He still wasn’t quite sure how it had happened.

  He watched the parade of clients walk into her office full of trepidation and come out relaxed, relieved, bearing signs of upset, perhaps, but better off for it.

  And she went through the hours and session after session without flagging. Her focus was absolute, her attention to her clients complete. Finally, though, the day was done.

  “Don’t you ever get burned out by the end of the day?” he asked her. “I think if I were you I’d run screaming from anyone who wanted to talk with me, even if they were my best friend.”

  “You mean compassion fatigue?”

  “There’s a term for it?”

  She gave him a pitying smile. “We social workers have a term for everything. And it’s a very real risk.”

  “So how do you deal with it?”

  She shrugged. “Spend time in a totally different environment. Outdoors. A lot of people use exercise or even meditation.”

  “I didn’t mean how do social workers deal with it,” he corrected, “I meant how do you?”

  And that quickly, she closed up. He could see it in her eyes, in the set of her shoulders and the frustration hit. He’d done dozens of hostile interviews over the years and still come away with information. He tried everything he knew on Jillian Logan and she just shut him out. She might have excelled at listening but the minute he asked her a question about herself, even something as innocuous as where she went to school, she tensed, speaking so slowly it felt as if she was weighing each and every syllable.

  Or she didn’t answer at all.

  “You know, this isn’t going to be much of a profile if you won’t talk to me,” he said.

  “I thought it was supposed to be about the job, not me. You’re finding out what you need to know about that, aren’t you?”