The Right Time

by Susan X Meagher

  “That must feel wonderful for you,” Townsend said quietly.

  “It does. It truly does.”

  “So, did she guide you to bed?”

  Hennessy flashed on the talk they’d had when Townsend told her about Jenna. What a pain in the ass she’d been. Now she was getting it back, and it sucked. “She’s not like that. I swear. I…” She let the details of their story unreel in her mind.

  It was their story. For them.

  Sharing it with Townsend just wasn’t right.

  Taking a breath, Hennessy condensed the story, telling only the vital parts. “We moved pretty slowly, but finally got together on Easter. Within a short time, I knew I loved her.” She blinked. “And she loves me.”

  Townsend patted her gently and pursed her lips, as if she had to keep them together to avoid bawling. Hennessy hurt like she’d been pummeled, but it was out. She’d told the truth, the part that mattered.

  Wordlessly, Townsend slid out of bed and stretched a little, then walked over to the mini-bar, took out another diet sode, and held it up, silently asking if Hennessy wanted one. After Hennessy shook her head, Townsend sauntered over to the window and stared out at the New York traffic. “God, I wish it could have been me.”

  Hennessy’s breath caught in her chest. This was so hard. “I do too. I’m in love with Kate, and I plan on being with her for the rest of our lives…” She bit down on her lip to keep from crying. “I still wish it had been you.”

  Townsend turned, gazed into her eyes for a moment, then walked over and sat down on the upholstered chair. “Missed chances, bad timing, way, way too much immaturity. That’s a recipe for failure.” She pulled her hair back, then draped it across her shoulder.

  It wasn’t until that second that Hennessy realized part of the reason she’d been so attracted to Kate were the startling similarities to Townsend. How had she missed them until just this minute? Their hair was almost the exact same color, even their skin tone was similar. If Townsend had been a few inches taller…

  “So…? What’s the plan?” Townsend asked, pulling her from her daydreaming. “If she’s starting her residency in Boston, why was she leaving today?”

  “She’s just dashing home for a visit. I’m going to camp, as usual, and she’s going to come to Hilton Head for a couple of weeks.” She took in a breath, already nervous about their plans. “Then we’re going to Beaufort to meet everyone.”

  “You’re telling your family?”

  “I’m not planning on it, at least not right now. But I will tell them. Soon. I can’t love Kate and hide it from the people I’m closest to. That’s not fair to any of them.”

  “What about next year?”

  “Well,” Hennessy said, “Kate’s going to Boston after her visit, and I’ll join her when school starts. We’re going to get an apartment.”

  “Serious stuff,” Townsend said, her voice flat.

  “It is. Then I’ll finish up and try to get into grad school, while Kate works herself silly.” She trailed off. “Lots to do.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “How about you?” Hennessy asked gently.

  “I don’t know how I’m going to handle Jenna leaving. I’ve never had my heart broken…except by you.” She dropped onto the bed and started to cry again, her sobs so forceful that Hennessy knelt in front of her and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. As soon as their bodies were pressed together, Hennessy started to sob too, her tears sliding down her face and into Townsend’s golden blonde hair, so much like Kate’s it freaked her out a little. This was too, too dangerous.

  As soon as she could, Hennessy let go of her rabid hold and moved to the chair and sat down. Townsend’s pitiful cries slowed, then finally stopped. Neither one spoke, both in their own private misery. Hennessy had never had so much to say, and been so unable to say it. They were beyond words. There wasn’t a thing either could say to fix the past.

  The room was a little warm, and Hennessy was overheated from crying. After they’d been sitting there for a long time, her body jerked a few times, her head hitting the wing that protruded from the back of the chair. “I’m afraid I’m gonna nod off,” she mumbled.

  “Go ahead,” Townsend said, her voice raspy from crying. She didn’t offer to cuddle again. That was wise. No matter what Kate thought, it was wrong to cuddle when you couldn’t be sure you weren’t doing it for more than simple comfort.

  When Hennessy woke, Townsend was typing away on a laptop. “What’s going on over there?” Hennessy asked sleepily.

  Townsend looked up and showed a half-smile. “I’m groveling.”

  “Huh? To whom?”

  “To the person who runs the junior year abroad program at Larkspur.”

  “Uhm…wanna run that by me again?” She stood, stretched, and moved over to sit next to Townsend, craning her neck to take a peek at her computer.

  “Both Jenna and I were going to go to England for our junior year abroad. I thought it would be good for her to get out and experience a different country—one with fewer Mormons,” she added.

  “Yeah? I didn’t know…”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know. Not communicating for nine months has that effect.” She reached out and ruffled her hair, showing she was, at least partially, teasing. “I was accepted, Jenna wasn’t. So I told them I wasn’t going to go. Now…” She locked her gaze on Hennessy. “I think it might be good for me to get away.”

  Hennessy chewed on that for a minute. “Uhm…is it a good idea to be away from your psychiatrist? Your sponsor?”

  Townsend stared at her for a few seconds, trying to keep the sting from her words. Hennessy hadn’t been around to see how hard she’d worked. How much progress she’d made. She might still think things were close to how they’d been on the Vineyard. Townsend gentled her voice and told her truth. “It’s been two years since I’ve had a drink. That’s enough time to make not drinking be the only focus of my life.”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “Hey,” she said, narrowing her gaze. “I’m not cocky enough to think I’ve got this nailed. I’m sure I can find a therapist in England I could work with. And I can Skype with Art. That’s what I did when I went to…” She swallowed. “Italy over Christmas.”

  “I didn’t know you did that,” Hennessy said, her lower lip trembling. “You were so close to France…”

  “I was with Jenna and her mom and her little sister. Not an ideal time to sneak over to Paris to see you, baby girl.”

  “Right. Of course.” She got up and headed for the bath. “Be right back,” she said, closing the door quietly.

  Hennessy leaned against the sink, thinking of all of the times she’d been desperate to reach out to Townsend, how she’d craved contact. Her need to know anything—the slightest bit of news—had gnawed at her for the entire year. But Townsend’s therapist had said it best: try to avoid doing the things you’re compelled to do. Damned good advice. She stared at herself in the mirror for a minute, reminding herself to be supportive. That’s what friends did. They let each other make their own choices, staying in the background, offering total support.

  When Hennessy returned to the bed, she sat down and gave Townsend an encouraging smile. “If you go to England, I know you’ll do well. You’ve got your system down—obviously.”

  “I’ve definitely got a system. And it’s worked so far.” Her voice grew quiet, and she looked Hennessy directly in the eye. “But I’ve been at enough meetings to hear people who’ve had five…ten…thirty years of sobriety go down the drain because something caught up to them. I’m always going to have to be vigilant. Always.”

  “I know that’s true, and I know you will be.” She grasped Townsend’s hand and held it over her heart. “Even if you have a slip or two on the way, this disease is not going to kill you. I’m one hundred percent sure of that.”

  “Thanks for believing in me,” Townsend said as her eyes filled with tears. “Not many things feel better than knowing I have your
support.”

  “And my respect…and my friendship…and my love. Always.”

  “But you’ve given your heart to Kate.”

  “I have. And I’m very careful to keep my promises to her. Relationships don’t mean a thing if they aren’t built on trust.” She composed her thoughts and asked the critical question. “Are you going to hang in there with Jenna?”

  “I am.” She got up and moved to the window, where she spent a few minutes staring out. Hennessy watched her closely, observing her sharp, perceptive gaze move around while she stared down at the busy street. She was still the same feisty girl she’d met three years earlier, but she truly had matured, in the nicest ways. “I wish I could let her go…” She turned and looked at Hennessy for a moment. “But you don’t stop loving someone until you’re sure there’s nothing left. I’m not sure of that yet.”

  “Maybe she’ll get sent to England,” Hennessy said, trying to look hopeful. “Everybody wins.”

  “Probably Saudi Arabia, given how our luck has gone recently. But wherever she is, I’m going to wait for her—if she’ll give me even a glimmer of hope.”

  “Where does that leave us?”

  Townsend moved back to the bed, sat on the edge of it and put her hand on Hennessy’s cheek. “I think…” she said slowly, “that we need to concentrate on our girlfriends. Whether or not Kate’s the jealous type, she’s not going to want me to have a place in your heart that should be hers. And I know Jenna doesn’t want that.”

  “You’re probably right, about Kate, that is. She’s not jealous, but I know she wants to be the one I share things with. She’s pretty private about some things, and I have to respect that.”

  Townsend’s gentle fingers slid from Hennessy’s cheek, then she leaned over and kissed it. Just once…tenderly. When she sat up again her eyes were watery, but that determined expression Hennessy had come to love had settled on her face. “It’s time for us to move on…apart.”

  Desperation tore at Hennessy. “No! We don’t have to do that!” She fell into Townsend’s arms, crying like a lost child. The thought of losing her again was unfathomable. But Townsend was right. Damn it, she was right.

  “I don’t want to either,” Townsend soothed, tenderly running her hand through Hennessy’s hair. “But I know you, baby girl. This isn’t a trial run for you. You’re all in with Kate, and I’m going to step aside and let you live your life.” She pried herself away from Hennessy’s desperate grasp and moved over to her discarded jeans. As she slipped them on, she was clearly struggling with her emotions. But there was a strength there, a steely resolve that Hennessy envied.

  “If Kate loves you anywhere near as much as I do…” She sucked in a breath that turned into a whimper. “You’re going to be a very happy woman.” Then she hurriedly shoved her feet into her shoes, grabbed her bag and dashed for the door. As she grasped the handle, she turned and gave Hennessy the saddest, most heart-breaking look she’d ever seen in her life.

  “No!” Hennessy called as the door opened and Townsend slipped out. “Please don’t leave!” She hurled herself to the bed and cried like she’d never cried before.

  Her heart hadn’t just broken.

  It had been torn from her.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Townsend sat on the sofa, obsessively fingering nubs of chenille as she tried to wait Dr. Morrow out. But the good doctor was the most patient person in the known world, just the type to jump right back to the question tomorrow if their time ran out.

  It had been a month from hell, with Jenna in Utah, woefully unhappy, but unable to even think of breaking away, and Hennessy gone—probably forever.

  Dr. Morrow brushed away a spot of lint from her dark red poplin slacks. The woman had style. Preppy style. A dark blue cotton sweater was draped over her shoulders, making her white blouse look positively snowy. It was nice having a shrink who didn’t look like she was going to a funeral. If Dr. Morrow left the office and marched directly to a yacht, Townsend wouldn’t have been a bit surprised.

  Hennessy once said goofing off in therapy only hurt Townsend, but being serious about it was costing her mother untold thousands of dollars. Two days a week had grown to three, and now four. They would have gone for seven, but the doc never worked on Fridays or the weekend. She probably finished with her last patient on Thursday, locked herself in a quiet room, and emerged on Monday morning—calm, patient, and dogged.

  “Thoughts?” Dr. Morrow asked after a good five minutes had passed.

  “I don’t want to take the easy way out,” Townsend grumbled. “I’ve been sober for two years. Two years without any help.”

  “I realize that. But you say you think of alcohol over a hundred times a day. Using medication to help you get past this rough spot isn’t being weak, Townsend. It’s simply not.”

  She thought of alcohol a hell of a lot more than a hundred times a day. But the doctor had asked if she thought of it more than ten, more than fifty or more than a hundred times a day. It wasn’t her fault the question hadn’t been broad enough.

  She yanked at a particularly obstinate nub, pulling so hard the bit of fabric gave way and wound up in her hand. “Sorry,” she said, holding it up to show what she’d done.

  “That’s all right. It’s very tough fabric.”

  “I used to be tough,” she growled, delivering a sharp punch to the cushion. “You should have known me then. I went from drinking a couple of pints of vodka a day to nothing. No-thing,” she emphasized, glaring at the doctor. “No hospitalization. No treatment center. No sponsor. Just my own will.”

  The doctor’s gaze was ridiculously encouraging. “Your will is just as robust as it used to be. Maybe more so. Using medication for a short time won’t make you weak, Townsend. It might allow you to stop obsessing about alcohol and focus on your feelings.”

  “All I do is talk about feelings.” That was the damned truth. She was either obsessing about Hennessy or Jenna or alcohol. Her whole world had narrowed down to three topics, all of them painful.

  “That’s not true. You ride your bike, you row, you write…” She was a nice looking older woman. Probably damned hot when she was young. Every once in a while, when she let herself really smile, Townsend got a little charge. She was so damned lonely, so hungry for affection, she was ready to hump her sixty year old shrink’s leg, ideally while guzzling a fifth of vodka.

  “It’s not enough.” She knew she looked like a drowning woman, panicking before she goes down for the last time, but she couldn’t hide any more. Shit was getting real.

  “Then do more.” She leaned forward in her chair, a classic New England rocker, probably an antique. The wood creaked softly in the silent room, joints protesting. “The medication I’d like to prescribe will reduce the craving, hopefully giving you some room to breathe.”

  “What about the other one? The first one you talked about.”

  Her brows knit together, silver hair brushing over her shoulders when she shook her head. “That one’s more appropriate for people who have difficulty being compliant. It doesn’t help with the craving, and that’s where you’re struggling.”

  She could almost feel her hackles go up. “I want the one that makes you sick if you drink.”

  Clearly frustrated, the doctor pushed back in her chair and rested her chin in a hand. “Why do you want to punish yourself?”

  “That’s my thing,” she said, trying to sound flippant.

  “I realize that. But when you’re gentle with yourself, you make more progress.”

  “I want the one that makes you sick. It makes you really sick, right?”

  “It certainly can. Nausea, headache, diarrhea. But if the dose is high enough and you ingest a significant amount of alcohol, it can cause much more serious problems.” Her eyes opened wider and her gaze locked on Townsend. “Can I trust you to take only the amount I prescribe?”

  “What do you think I’m going to do? OD on it?” She laughed, wincing at how bitter and jaded her for
merly cheery laugh sounded. “If I’m going to OD, I’m going with heroin.”

  That was a bad answer. Shutters slammed shut in those formerly open and accepting eyes. “I’ll make you a deal.” She picked up her Physicians Desk Reference, the bible of drugs, and slipped on her tortoiseshell reading glasses. Flipping through the pages, she found what she was looking for. Her finger slid across the print, then she nodded decisively. “Let’s start with the medication that will help control your cravings. Just for a month. If you don’t think it helps or it’s not harsh enough for your tastes,” she let a small smirk show through, “we’ll go with your first choice.” She looked over the tops of her reading glasses. “Are you willing?”

  “Do I have to take it every day?” She could feel herself give in to the caring gaze leveled at her. When had she become such a wimp?

  “I can give you an injection that will be effective for a month.” She nodded crisply. “That’s probably best.”

  “Today?”

  Before the word was out, the doctor was up and standing in front of a modern cabinet, probably meant as a tall dresser. She withdrew a vial and a new syringe and started to load it up.

  Fuck. Tired of fighting, Townsend shrugged out of her denim jacket and stuck her arm out. A quick swab of alcohol, unironically applied, a sharp prick, a little burning, and it was done. “I doubt you’ll have any side effects, but if you do, they should be minor.” She patted her shoulder, then went back to her desk to dispose of the syringe. “I have one more suggestion.”

  “I’d say hit me, but you might.”

  “No,” she said, her smile undeniably filled with fondness. “I’ve never felt the urge to hit you, Townsend. You beat yourself up badly enough for both of us.” She went back to her rocker and sat down. “What I’d like you to consider is volunteering at a soup kitchen not far from here.”