The House Guests

by Emilie Richards

  “So Mrs. Costas taught you that?”

  “You’re supposed to call her Yiayia, too.”

  Amber tried to imagine. “Every time I looked for you, you were with a different group of people chatting away like you’d known them forever. It’s so great to see how easy conversation is for you.”

  “The Costases?” he said. “They’re exactly the kind of family I wish we had. They’re nothing like perfect, but they’re real, like right down to the bone. They’re involved in each other’s lives—”

  “Maybe too much so.”

  “They’re involved because they care. And they made me feel like I was part of that.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Savannah and I hung out for a while.”

  The change of subject was so abrupt, she couldn’t think of anything to say, but that didn’t stop him. “I know she gave you a hard time, but I think maybe hers is harder. She’s miserable. She’s never learned how to get up after she’s been slugged. It’s tough to watch.”

  She tried not to swell with pride at his kindness. “Did you talk about why?”

  “Her dad’s only been dead a little while. And I think moving here was hard because she had to say goodbye to all the places that connected her to him.”

  “You could be right.”

  “Come on, Mom, when you say that, it’s the same thing as when people say ‘that’s interesting,’ or ‘why didn’t I think of that?’”

  “Okay, I’m trying not to be judgmental, but I am impressed at your ability to forgive and forget.”

  “We talked a lot about dads.”

  She couldn’t think of a thing to say that wasn’t simply a reflection of his words, and Will had just proved he was too old to let her get away with that anymore.

  “I told her I didn’t have a father,” he said after a while. “Not that I know about, anyway. I asked her to tell me what it’s like to have one.”

  She took a deep breath. “That was a hard conversation, I’m sure.”

  “I’ve been thinking about it ever since we got home.” He had been looking down, but now he looked up. “I think it’s time you told me the truth about mine. When I was a kid, it felt okay not to have a dad. I had friends whose parents were divorced, and some of them just saw their dads for a week or two a year. So not having a father wasn’t that weird. Now I realize not even knowing your father’s name is plenty weird. I think I’m old enough to accept and understand the truth. Don’t you?”

  Amber had dreaded this moment, which had occurred before but with less thought and much less interest.

  “Being at the party stirred up a lot, I guess.”

  “Please don’t change the subject.”

  She formed her words slowly. “Telling you details won’t accomplish anything, Will. Your father is dead. You’ve always known that. And while I understand you want to know more, there’s nothing I can tell you.”

  “And you can’t tell me why. I’ve heard this before. It’s burned into my brain.”

  “Your father was a good man, intelligent, kind and sensitive, who would have loved you dearly if he could have helped raise you.” She’d always told him that, and she searched for something new to tell him, something that helped him see she was trying to be honest. “Are you worried that maybe he was somebody you would be ashamed of? Because he wasn’t. You’d have been proud to be his son.”

  “Was he married to somebody else?”

  She was stunned, but why? Adultery was a reasonable assumption. She was glad she could erase that possibility.

  “He wasn’t married, and neither was I. And that’s all I intend to say, except that not a day passes when you don’t remind me of him. And that’s a good thing.”

  “I’d like to know his name. I’d like to know who my family is. Don’t I deserve to know?”

  She got to her feet, a signal that the conversation had ended. “You deserve everything and anything, Will. I’d give you the moon if I could. What I can’t give you is more information. Not tonight. Will you please understand and let this go?”

  He looked as if he didn’t want to, but after a while he got up, too. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Sweet dreams.”

  He closed the bedroom door behind him, leaving her to contemplate their conversation and the inevitable fallout. Will was not going to stop asking about his father, and in the next weeks she had to come up with a story, a perfect story with no holes, that explained everything to him in such a way that he would stop asking once and for all.

  A story that in no way was based on the truth.

  12

  ON THE MONDAY MORNING after Thanksgiving, knuckles white and heart pounding, Cassie pulled up in front of the Boardwalk Grand, a five-star hotel not far from Disney World in Orlando. The hotel was a conference hub for well-to-do professionals whose families wanted to visit the parks while Daddy MD or Mommy Esq., attended workshops and meetings.

  She’d made the decision to drive here on Saturday while going through the mail. In the pile was a professional journal Mark had received. After his death she had spent hours notifying all his contacts and canceling subscriptions, but this one had slipped by.

  Cassie had identified Mark’s body herself, and there had been no possibility of a mistake, yet a piece of mail with his name on it was still a knife in her heart. Every time, for just an instant, she wondered if the sender knew more than she did, and her husband was alive after all.

  Opening the pages she’d found a cancellation address, and right below it a half page announcement for a conference beginning the following week in Orlando. Dr. Fletcher Dorman, of Church Street Psychiatric Associates in Tribeca, was listed as one of the speakers.

  At the end of the Thanksgiving celebration, she had looked across the memorial circle into her daughter’s eyes and known that to heal, both she and Savannah needed nothing so much as the truth. She didn’t want Fletcher’s advice or even support. Today she wanted information.

  The hotel catered to small conferences. The lobby, which was right in the center of things, had soft gray walls, with mulberry and teal upholstered furniture. After watching and waiting an hour with no sign of a familiar face, she gathered book and purse and asked a front desk clerk where she might find information about the conference in progress. The clerk sent her down the hall to a large meeting room. A registration table staffed by two chatting women was stationed not far from the door, and another held pamphlets and themed giveaways. In the corner she found a signboard that detailed the day’s schedule.

  She noted that Fletcher’s workshop—on the ramifications of changes in mental health law—would take place just before the dinner break. The better news was that a luncheon was scheduled in the conservatory in little more than an hour with a guest speaker and “important announcements.”

  Hoping the announcements were so important every registrant would be there, she checked the map, then crossed the lobby to look for a place where she could unobtrusively watch for the Dormans.

  An hour later conference goers streamed into the conservatory, which was partially open to a patio and the lush grounds beyond. The conservatory ceiling was domed, with filtered glass and beneath it, dozens of plants basking in butterscotch-hued sunlight. Cassie had tucked herself into the space beside the elevator that led to an emergency stairway. While she pretended to talk on her phone, she could see most of the people who were going inside.

  The crowd thinned to stragglers, and then the hall emptied completely. Someone inside the conservatory closed the doors to the hallway, and she heard the screech of a microphone and a woman’s voice welcoming attendees. Either Fletcher was not attending or he had entered from the patio.

  She was contemplating what to do next when she heard footsteps. A man hurried down the length of hall from the lobby toward the closed doors. Her heart sped into action mode. She had seen him
a thousand times, entertained him at her home and partied at his.

  Right before Fletcher reached his destination she stepped into his path. For a moment he seemed confused, like anyone encountering something familiar in an unfamiliar place. She saw when he made the connection, along with shock and, sadly, dismay.

  “Cassie.” He cleared his throat. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you.”

  His laugh was thin and false. “Most people make appointments.”

  She cocked her head. “I’m not in the market for meds or counseling, thanks. I’m here as the wife of your best friend. I thought we were friends, too.”

  “Well, of course. I didn’t mean as a patient. I just wish you had called. I would have arranged some time.”

  She let that hang a moment, then she shrugged. “I think now is as good a time as any.”

  She watched him consider ways to refuse. Fletcher Dorman held himself as straight as an army drill sergeant, which still only gave him an inch over her five-five. While these days he needed glasses, his blue eyes were still clear, and the skin around them largely unwrinkled. Today the eyes were wary.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m supposed to be at that luncheon.” He nodded at the door.

  “And I’m supposed to be at home looking for a job, Fletch. But here I am instead because this is important. Any chance Valerie is with you?”

  “She hates Florida.”

  She hadn’t remembered. “I was hoping to talk to her, too. I was in New York not long ago, but she never returned my calls.”

  “Val is busy these days. She’s taking Spanish three times a week so she can converse with more of the women at the local food bank. She does a lot of volunteer work there.”

  “Let’s stop pretending that ignoring me is normal and acceptable, okay?”

  “You sound upset.”

  She shook her head, to dislodge an angry response and buy a few seconds. “Listen, I was married to a psychiatrist for twelve years, remember? I know the tricks of the trade. Take off your doctor’s hat and let’s just talk like regular people who used to be friends. Do you want to do that here, where we might be overheard? There’s a restaurant off the lobby where we would have more privacy.”

  He inclined his head toward the conservatory. “I already paid for my lunch. Let’s figure out another time to get together.”

  She took a step closer and tried to keep the mounting anger out of her voice. “Do you think your workshop might be a good time for a conversation? I’ll be polite. I’ll even wait until you’re done speaking. I can tackle what I need to know during your Q and A. Would that be better?”

  She probably wouldn’t be allowed into the workshop, but she’d made her point. His shoulders drooped. “You don’t have to threaten me. Let’s get this finished now.”

  “Lead the way.”

  She followed him back through the lobby, and they didn’t speak again until they were sitting in a booth in the farthest corner of the restaurant. She ordered iced tea and a chicken salad sandwich. He ordered coffee.

  “How is Savannah?” he asked.

  “Devastated. Her whole world collapsed. And I don’t have any good explanations.”

  “One of the hardest lessons for an adolescent is discovering that not every problem or question in life has answers.”

  Cassie took a moment before she spoke. “One of the hardest lessons for an adult is discovering how often people make useless conversation when they want to cover up what they think or feel. You don’t want to talk to me because you don’t want to talk about Mark. I don’t have to be a psychiatrist myself to see that.”

  “I’m not trying to marginalize you, Cassie. I was just...” He shook his head.

  “Wasting time?”

  “You seem determined to pretend we’re adversaries.”

  “You’re still wasting time. So let me tell you what I want, and more insightful comments about my state of mind are not on the list. I want to know why Mark resigned from Church Street. The real reason. Not the one he gave me—”

  “What did he tell you?”

  Their server arrived with the iced tea and coffee, and she waited until the woman was gone. “I’d rather start fresh.”

  “So you can see if our stories match?”

  She ignored that. “I also want to know your personal take on why he left, not just the official line. And who else, if anyone, was involved in the decision. I would like to know if Mark was ousted without a fair financial settlement. Although I’m not sure I’ll believe whatever you say about that.”

  The last request seemed to surprise him. Mark had always said that Fletcher’s major professional weakness was his inability to keep his expression neutral. Patients were led to say what he wanted them to, simply by watching him carefully. Now he looked genuinely perplexed.

  “The settlement was completely fair. You don’t have details?”

  “Mark was in charge of our finances. He said something to the effect that the attorneys had come to an agreement, and he was just glad to be out of Church Street. When I asked for details, he told me they were complicated, but I didn’t have to worry.”

  “Do you have records?”

  She had records, a ridiculous number of boxes that had arrived along with everything she had moved to Florida. Mark, who had never kept a sock with a hole in it or a shoe that was scuffed, had hoarded paper. She had despaired when the movers asked if she wanted them to pack all the contents of filing cabinets and bookshelves. Without time to go through the papers, to toss out years of receipts, ancient bank statements and sentimental birthday cards, she’d had to bring it all along.

  “I have records,” she said. “But it’s going to take a long time to sort through them.”

  “Then I’ll send you what I can about his settlement from Church Street. Once I get back.”

  “I would appreciate that.”

  Her sandwich arrived, and wordlessly she offered him half, but he shook his head. She took a few bites to give him time to consider the other items on her list.

  It didn’t take long. “I’m not sure where to go with this, Cassie. Mark was a fine psychiatrist, a great member of the team, and all of us were surprised when he resigned and didn’t give a good reason.”

  “You were surprised?”

  He hesitated a second too long. “Yes.”

  “You weren’t.”

  “Somewhere in between yes and no, then.”

  “Why?”

  “You really want to hear all this? It won’t bring him back.”

  “I’m not here for a resurrection.”

  He spoke hesitantly, as if he was feeling his way from word to word. “In Mark’s last year at Church Street, he seemed to be burning the candle at both ends. He was stressed. He had a few confrontations with colleagues, which was not like him. Suddenly he had no patience with discussions, and apparently no time for them, because he ignored other people’s opinions and did whatever he felt was best. Even when it wasn’t.”

  Fletcher’s story felt too close to home. Mark had been stressed at home, too. “Was there somebody in particular he clashed with?”

  “When we brought Mark on board, he was the youngest psychiatrist on staff. He came in with a lot of new ideas and opinions, and people well along in their careers weren’t always happy to hear them. The same thing happened when we brought Tom Wallings into the practice.”

  Tom Wallings was the latest doctor to come on board, the one Mark claimed he’d tried to help. Cassie liked the young man, although he could be brash, even hotheaded.

  “So Tom was the problem?”

  “Mark was the problem. He had no time for Tom, not for anybody, as a matter of fact. But Tom came in with lots of ideas and energy, and that irritated Mark.”

  “And you think that’s why he bailed?”


  “I think Tom’s unrestrained enthusiasm was an addition to Mark’s stress but not the root. If Tom had come in a year before, I think Mark would have enjoyed him, mentored him, even mediated. Instead Tom constantly irritated him, and he overreacted.”

  Cassie was aware there was more Fletcher didn’t want to say, that he was parsing his own sentences, making sure he didn’t lead her in a direction he didn’t want to go.

  “What was his official reason for leaving?” she asked. “What did he say?”

  “His written resignation expressed gratitude for all we had accomplished together, and then he said he felt he was growing in new directions as a doctor. He wanted a different platform to explore them.”

  “Did he talk to you about those different platforms?”

  “Not really, no. He left it up in the air.”

  Cassie sat back and lightly slapped the table. “I want the real story, Fletch. Not a sanitized version. Why didn’t you talk? You had always been so close.”

  “There’s nothing else concrete I can tell you.”

  “Then tell me what everybody was thinking. Not what you could prove in court, okay? You’re supposed to be masters of insight. What did all those psychiatric heads come up with when you put them together?”

  His shoulders sagged, as they had in the hallway. He really was easy to read. This time he spoke as if he was no longer forming every sentence ahead of time. “Things deteriorated faster than I’ve indicated. And when the whole staff got together without Mark to discuss the problem, collectively we thought something was going on in his personal life, maybe at home, that was causing him stress. Because his short temper, his impatience, were so uncharacteristic.”

  “Nothing new was going on at home.” She paused. “Except that Savannah and I were seeing the same things you saw at the office.”

  “And that’s what he said when we met to discuss our concerns. That everything at home was fine.”

  “We met? You and Mark?”

  “No, by ‘we’ I meant all the doctors. Nobody wanted to be the one to go out on a limb alone, because quite frankly, nobody was sure how he would react.”