by Leary, Ann
“You called him at home? Again? After you and he patched things up?”
“Well, yeah. He gets so busy at the hospital that he forgets to return my calls. I need to talk to him sometimes. I was frantic last night. I had this feeling … it was like a premonition that something had happened to him. That’s happened to me before, Hildy. When I was away at school as a kid, I woke up in the middle of the night, hysterical. I knew that my dog, Freshy, had died. I’d had that dog since I was five. I loved her. That morning, right after breakfast, my mother called. Freshy had died. So you can see why I had to reach out to Peter. I thought either something had happened or something was going to happen to him. I had to warn him. You’re not the only one with psychic gifts. I’ve had premonitions before.”
“Did Elise answer the phone?”
“No. Peter did. He wasn’t happy. I told him how worried I was. Told him to be careful because of this sense that I had … that something might happen to him.”
“It’s just not the best idea to call him at home,” I said.
“You think I don’t know that?” Rebecca sniped.
“Sorry,” I said, turning my attention to some papers on my desk.
“No, Hildy, I’m sorry. The whole thing has me a little stressed. It’ll all be better when we sort everything out. How we’re going to tell Brian and Elise. And the kids. But once it’s sorted out, everything will be better.”
“I know,” I said reassuringly. “This is just a tough time. Things’ll get better. What are you doing for the holiday weekend?” Memorial Day was coming up.
“We have to go to Nantucket. Brian’s business partner has a house there.”
“That sounds nice,” I said.
“I hate islands,” she said.
We chatted about the boys and the horses, and then Rebecca was off. But that night, on my way home, I swung by the Newbolds’, and sure enough, a light was on. Peter had come up midweek, just like Rebecca had said he would.
I drove to my office building, but instead of going to my own office, I walked up the stairs to the second floor. I own the building, so of course I have keys to Peter’s and Katrina’s offices. I tried several of the many keys on my key ring before I was able to find the right one to unlock Peter’s door. I pushed the door open, half-expecting to find the office all packed up in boxes, but it looked as it always had. I had been in there on various occasions. Peter’s ceiling used to leak. He had asked me to have it painted a few years back. I had hired a couple of Frank’s guys to do the job and I had gone in when they were finished, just to check on things.
It was a cozy space, with two armchairs facing each other and a leather sofa off to the side. An antique Persian rug covered the beige commercial-grade carpeting that I had installed, at his request, for soundproofing. Along one wall was a bookshelf filled with books about psychotherapy, psychoanalysis, neuroses, personality disorders, depression, addiction, psychosis, schizophrenia. There was Peter’s own book about bonding. There were also framed photographs of the moon above the sea—photos that Peter had clearly taken from his beach. Photos like the ones that Rebecca had told me she was using for her paintings.
I wandered over to his desk. I knew I shouldn’t be poking around his office, but I felt the entitlement of the betrayed. On his desk was a photo of him, Elise, and Sam, right there on the beach in front of their house; in front of the house that I had determined was probably a safe bet at a list price of five million. Next to the desk was a filing cabinet, and, yes, I opened it. He should have kept it locked. It had all his patients’ records in it. There were the names of my manicurist, my daughter’s best friend from high school, the mortgage officer at the Union Bank in Beverly, that nice Brenda from the library, Manny Briggs. What fun I could have had, had I been in a more mischievous frame of mind. But I was looking for one file and it wasn’t there.
I slammed the drawer shut and left the office, locking the door behind me. Down I stomped to my office and logged on to the MLS site. Nothing. Fifty-three Wind Point Road wasn’t on the MLS yet, so there was a good chance that a contract hadn’t been signed. It wasn’t even nine A.M. on a Sunday, but I flipped through my Rolodex—that’s right, I still use a Rolodex—and I found Peter’s contact numbers. I dialed his cell phone first. He picked up on the second ring.
“Hello?” he gasped. He was breathing heavily.
“Peter? Hi, it’s Hildy.”
There was a pause, then more panting. “Hey, Hildy. What’s up?”
“It sounds like I caught you in the middle of something,” I said. Sex is what I was thinking.
“I’m running,” Peter said.
“Are you up here?”
“No, I’m down in Cambridge, running along the Charles. What’s going on?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you, Peter. What’s going on?”
There was only the sound of his breathing now. It was slowing down a bit.
“I thought I saw some lights on in your house the other night. And your car.”
“I drove up for a few hours on Wednesday. I had to get some things.”
“I hear you might be selling your house.”
A long pause, then: “Yeah, well, I was going to talk to you about that.”
“Oh,” I said, and I let out a little laugh. “That’s what I figured. Well, I’ll be happy to sell it for you. When are you coming up? I’ll prepare a contract. I already have a buyer in mind.…”
“Um, listen, I was planning to drive up there this afternoon to pick up a few more things. Do you mind if I stop over?”
“Sure, what time?”
“I could be up there by three.”
“Okay, come to the office. I’ll be here.”
“Great,” said Peter. Then he said, “Hildy, I haven’t told anybody about our plans. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t discuss this with … anybody until we’ve had a chance to talk.”
“I’m not planning to talk to anybody in the next few hours, Peter.”
I tried to work on the Santorelli proposal while I waited for Peter, but I couldn’t focus. If Peter was selling, I needed that listing to convince the Santorellis to list with me. If Wendy had one of the most expensive listings in Essex County, they’d want to list with her. Why shouldn’t they? I had to have the Newbold house. I needed it. But even more to the point, I deserved it. Wendy had moved to the area less than ten years ago. Sotheby’s was an international real-estate chain. Peter’s dad believed in our town, believed in supporting local businesses. I had always been good to Peter, as a neighbor, as a landlord. I’d known him since he was just a little boy.
Perhaps he was planning to list with me.
Then why didn’t I know about it yet?
These thoughts ran through my mind, then they ran through my mind again, and then again. By the time Peter arrived, I had whipped myself into a bit of an indignant rage. “Come in,” I hollered when he knocked gently on my door. “It’s open.”
Peter stuck his head inside. “Hey, Hildy,” he said.
“Hey.”
“Do you mind if we go upstairs? I don’t want anybody wandering in while we’re talking.”
“Sure,” I said.
As I followed him to the stairs, I glanced out the window and noticed that my car was the only one in the lot.
“What’d you do, run all the way up here from Cambridge?” I asked.
“What?”
“Where’s your car?”
“Oh, I parked it behind the church.”
Oh Jesus, I thought. Frankie had been right. Peter Newbold was acting like a jittery rabbit. Like somebody’s prey.
When I entered Peter’s office, I looked around as if I hadn’t been in there in some time. As if I hadn’t been in there just a few hours earlier. Peter closed the door behind us and I walked across the room and sat in one of the two armchairs. He opened a small refrigerator in the corner of his office.
“Are you thirsty, Hildy?” he asked.
“No, I’m fi
ne, thanks.”
“I’m dying of thirst. I guess from all the running,” Peter said, and he put a bottle of water to his lips and drank it in great audible gulps. When he turned to face me, he seemed a little taken aback.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, looking around.
“Nothing,” Peter said, chuckling a little. “It’s just that when I’m doing therapy, that’s the chair I usually sit in.”
“Oh. This is your chair? You want me to switch to the other?”
“No, no, not at all,” said Peter, and he sat in the chair facing me. I looked at him. Yes, it was true, he was planning to list with Wendy. I saw it clear as day.
“So,” I said, rubbing the leather arms of the chair with my palms, “this is where all the magic happens, huh?”
Peter forced a smile. “Well, I wouldn’t call it magic.…”
“Right, I guess it’s a science,” I said.
Peter shrugged.
“Or is it an art?” I asked. “I heard on a radio show the other day that medicine is more art than science. I wonder if that’s true for psychiatry.”
Peter said nothing.
“Do you think it is? Do you think what you do is a form of art?” I asked.
Peter looked at me. “No,” he said finally.
I looked around his office and then out the window to my right. From where I sat, it was possible to see down into the inside of the church next door. The choir was rehearsing, as they often did on Sunday afternoons. From Peter’s office, I could finally see who led the choir. It was Lucy Louden, a music teacher at Wendover Academy. I watched her right hand carving time into the air and her mouth moving in exaggerated syllables. The members of the choir gazed up at her and then down at their hymnals as they sang along. I thought of dear Mrs. Howell, of how she’d taught me to hold notes. How she’d helped me, once, by sewing up the loose hem of my Sunday skirt with a needle and thread she kept in her desk. How she’d gently squeeze my shoulder sometimes when she walked behind my chair during Sunday school.
“So you’ll be selling the house that’s been in your family for … four generations, is it?”
“Three.”
“Oh, only three?”
“Yes.”
I turned and faced him again. I nodded. Peter looked so ill at ease. I liked the distance between the chairs. It was a good distance for readings. My aunt Peg always had her customers (her “clients,” she called them) sit not too close, but not too far away, either. Ten or twelve feet was the optimal distance. Farther away, she couldn’t really read them. Closer, they could get carried away. “They want to crawl into your lap sometimes,” my aunt had told me. “People get pretty emotional and it helps if there’s some kind of space between you.”
“Is there a standard to the way you set up chairs in an office like this? A shrink’s office?” I asked Peter.
“What?”
“I know people used to lie on couches, facing away. But now I understand that it’s typical to face the patient. I was just wondering if there’s some kind of recommended distance between the patient and the shrink.”
“There is, actually. I can’t recall the exact number of feet, but this is roughly the correct space. You need to have a—oh, why are we even talking about this?”
“No, I’m interested, really.”
“Well, there’s a whole science behind the therapeutic office environment. You want the patient to feel safe, of course. You don’t want too many distractions. People often don’t notice anything about the office until they’ve been here many times. Then they’re so aware of it that they notice the slightest change. Like a plant that’s been moved from one side of my desk to the other. It’s important for a patient to feel that this is a safe place in order for the therapy to be effective.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “Did you ever know my aunt Peg?”
“Of course,” said Peter, “the fortune-teller. Everybody knew her. I think my mom went to see her a few times, although she didn’t usually believe in that stuff. My dad told her she was wasting her money. He thought your aunt was a bit of a charlatan. I hope you don’t mind my saying that.”
“Of course not. Many people thought that, but in fact, she wasn’t a charlatan at all. She wasn’t deliberately trying to perpetuate some kind of hoax or fraud. She really believed she had psychic powers, though she was just really good at doing what you described that night at Wendy’s dinner party. Cold readings. Guessing. It was all trickery, but even she didn’t know that. I think that’s the difference. I think a charlatan is a deliberate fraud.”
“I suppose,” said Peter.
“I know you’re no charlatan. You truly believe there’s some kind of science that takes place here, that your vast training enables you to analyze and offer insight, but it’s just another kind of cold reading. I bet you could say the same thing to a dozen randomly selected people, offer the same insight, and it would apply to them. Like a horoscope.”
“You’re simplifying things, Hildy. Actually, you’re being a bit ridiculous. My years of practice and my training allow me to offer a little bit more than a horoscope.”
I nodded. He believed himself.
“You know,” I said, “I’ve never claimed to have any gifts, any kind of powers. I always tell people that it’s like a magician’s act. I’ve never claimed to be a psychic or profited from it. It’s always been just for fun.”
“But sometimes you do profit. You’re able to access information from people, so you profit from what you learn. Even if the profit is just a little enjoyment. A little self-satisfaction.”
“Oh, well, I guess you would know something about that. About what feeds a … what did you tell Rebecca I was? Oh yes, an emotional vampire.”
“I’m sorry Rebecca told you that. It’s not what I think, Hildy. I was just furious at her for telling you about us.”
“Never mind. Let’s talk about the house,” I said. “You’re going to give me the listing, right?”
“No, we’re giving Wendy the listing, Hildy. But you already knew that.”
“Why, Peter? Why Wendy and not me?”
“You know why.”
“Yes, it’s because of Rebecca.”
Peter kept his gaze on me and I could see that I was correct.
“Why are you pulling me into this thing with you and Rebecca? I couldn’t care less about what you guys are up to. No offense, but I find your whole affair rather dull. I could really use the listing, though, Peter.”
“I’m sorry, Hildy, it just seemed … cleaner to keep you out of it. You’ve become such good friends with Rebecca.”
“I’ve known Rebecca for less than a year, but I’ve known you all your life. How is that fair? And are you forgetting that I’m the only private real-estate business left in Wendover? Your dad used to care about local people, about small businesses. I thought you did, too.”
“Sure, Hildy, it’s just that—”
“You’re not being sensible here, Peter. Everybody knows you and I go way back. Don’t you think it’ll raise a few eyebrows if you don’t list with me?”
“I’m really sorry, but it’s less complicated this way.”
“‘Less complicated’?” I was becoming exasperated. “Peter, what I don’t understand is why you would compromise yourself by being with Rebecca? Why would you risk it? Oh, wait, I see now. You really were in love with her.”
Peter said, “Of course I loved her. I guess, maybe, I love her still.”
“Yes,” I said softly. I almost felt sorry for him. “Then why can’t you go away with her? Just move off someplace exotic?”
“There are laws, Hildy. There are laws that ban therapists from seeing their patients, and I’d lose my medical license if it was discovered that I was having an affair with Rebecca. Besides, she doesn’t love me. I know that now, even if she can’t see it yet. It was all an illusion for her. She saw me as a powerful figure in her life—a sort of father figure. Plus, she has the boys, and I have Sam and Elise. I’
ve discussed all this with Rebecca. She knows it’s over, but she’s having a hard time coping. I thought I’d wait to tell her about the move. Make it a clean break.”
“Wait until when?”
“Until she’s … adjusted.”
He looked down and then, after rubbing his forehead, he gazed up at the ceiling and back at me.
“There’s something more,” I said. I saw that he was holding something back. He was so exhausted that he just gazed at me and let me go to work.
“There’s something you’re looking forward to. You’ve been offered a position someplace? Is it something like that?”
He was so easy to read.
“It’s a better position. It’s abroad.” (This was a guess; his glance down and to the left showed me I was off.) “No, no, I see it’s not. It’s pretty far though.” (Yes, I caught the affirmation in his glance.) “It’s on the West Coast.” (Right again.) “Yes, it’s in California. You’ve been meeting with administrators. You went to California twice—wait, no, more, three or four times over the last few months. It’s in … L.A.” (Ugh, no.) “Not L.A. San Francisco…”
Peter was trying to keep his breathing regular, but I saw him catch his breath for a nanosecond when I said “San Francisco.” Bingo.
“Well?” I demanded.
“Hildy, it’s the kind of appointment you work toward your whole career. I’ll be the director of one of the most prestigious psychiatric hospitals in the country. I start in three months. So, you’re right, that’s why we’re selling. Elise is very excited. Her family is from the West Coast, and, well, we’re heading out to San Francisco next week to look at houses.”
“Have you told Wendy that she has the listing?”
“Yes.”
I turned and looked out the window at the church. The choir was finished practicing. You could just barely see them now through the fogged panes. They were gathering their coats from the pews, bidding each other good-bye. Soon they would be home with their families. You had to envy them, from where Peter and I sat in his darkening office. You had to envy them, heading home now to their families and their honest Sunday suppers.
The daylight was almost gone, but Peter hadn’t turned his office light on. I was certain he was afraid Rebecca might drive by and see it, so we just sat there in the cold, dim room. I gazed around and noticed that the floor slanted to such a degree that Peter had needed to wedge a small paperback book under one of the desk’s legs to make it stand even. It was an old building. Over the years, it had settled at a slant. I thought about the people—maybe even some of my own ancestors—who might have sought counsel from one of the ministers who lived and worked there in the parsonage, many years ago. I wondered if any of those ministers had fallen, like Peter, from grace. It was always from love, this kind of undoing. I pitied Peter; really, you had to feel sorry for him. I tried a different tack.
