Bound by Suggestion

by L.L. Bartlett

  Her smile warmed. “Nice to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”

  “I’ve been accused of being totally humorless. Cynical, too.”

  “Which is it?”

  “Probably a little of both.” I polished off the last of my muffin. “Why are you really here? I know it isn’t my charm and good looks.”

  “I was hoping I could appeal to that nobility you spoke of a moment ago. I have a patient who might benefit from your gift.”

  “It’s a curse,” I corrected her.

  She plowed on. “My patient is afraid to confront the emotions she feels.”

  “How could I help?”

  “If you could verify—convince her—she feels them, she might not be so afraid of them.”

  “Why is she afraid?”

  “Repressed memories of sexual abuse. If she could just unlock them—”

  I stood. Rather I jumped up. “No, thanks.”

  “But why?

  “Because I don’t want to be a victim of that abuse.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’d experience exactly what she feels. I don’t need to open myself up to all the psychos in the universe.” I took a breath, more angry than I had reason to be.

  “Then why did you help Richard’s patient?”

  “Do you see all this?” My sweeping hand took in the house, the yard, and the apartment over the garage. “Since I was mugged, I’ve been unable to support myself. Richard’s generosity has kept me afloat and I’m grateful. He asked me to help Paula Devlin. I wouldn’t have done it for anyone else.”

  “So you helped her out of a sense of obligation to your brother?”

  She’d wormed more information out of me than I’d intended to spill. I picked up the hose, began to wet down the Lincoln once again.

  “Another show of denial?” she asked.

  “I have a lot of work to do.” I grabbed the sponge from the bucket to soap down the front quarter panel.

  “You know, if you ever want to talk about this curse of yours, I’d be willing to listen.”

  “As a friend or a therapist?”

  “Take your pick.”

  Why couldn’t this pushy broad take the hint and just go?

  She watched me work for a minute or two.

  “Well, I have a lot of errands to run myself. It was nice talking with you, Jeff.”

  I didn’t bother to look up from my task. “Thanks for the coffee and muffin.”

  “You’re welcome.” She retrieved the empty bakery sack, climbed into her Lexus and backed down the driveway.

  Richard pushed aside the rest of the mail, flattening the letter out on the kitchen table. As he scanned the five names, his stomach tightened. “Merde.”

  The impossible list.

  “What’s that?” Brenda, his wife, asked from her station at the stove, where she stirred a simmering pot of soup.

  God, she was beautiful. Her cocoa-colored skin and deep brown eyes seemed to glow. Though four months pregnant, they hadn’t yet announced their good news. She’d lost their first child at four months. If they could just get past that milestone . . . .

  “My assignment,” he said. “The list of potential contributors I’m supposed to contact. Community titans with deep pockets who’ve never donated to the hospital foundation.”

  “And you’re supposed to turn on the charm and convince them to give where others couldn’t?”

  “I can see Wes Timberly’s hands all over this. He isn’t about to give up his job of committee chair without a fight.”

  “Are you willing to go that far to get the job?”

  Richard thought it over. “Maybe. One day of patient care a week is about all I can handle, but let’s face it, I’m one hell of a fundraiser.”

  “Yes, you are. I just wish . . . .”

  She didn’t have to remind him that she did enjoy patient care. That she could handle it. She missed it, and she might never go back to it. A bitter pill for her, but one she was willing to accept to have their child.

  The wooden spoon scraped the bottom of the pot.

  “Richard, you’ve been involved with the Foundation for only three months. Working your way to the top in so little time, you’re bound to make enemies.”

  He leaned back in the chair. “I didn’t set out to do this. They asked me to help out.”

  “You don’t have to convince me. But what about Wes?”

  “He’s not my problem. Mona makes the decisions, the board acts on them. I haven’t campaigned for the job.”

  “But you’d take it if they offered?”

  He didn’t answer. She already knew he would.

  “I don’t like it,” she muttered, stirring the soup. “Not one bit.”

  He held up the paper. “If I can’t squeeze big money out of these people, it’s moot anyway.” Still, the challenge excited him.

  “Then why not turn your attention to more immediate matters. Like your brother.” Brenda nodded toward the window. “You better talk to him before he rubs all the paint off your car.”

  She was right, as usual. Jeff was another kind of challenge. Right now, Richard knew he was in deep shit with Jeff. He’d seen Krista’s car in the drive and decided not to intrude on their conversation. Jeff’s angry glare at her departure could’ve blistered paint. And Richard knew where that anger would be directed.

  He pushed back from the table, grabbed his jacket from the pantry pegs and headed for the door.

  Richard paused on the back steps. Jeff had moved the Lincoln under the shade of the newly leafed oak tree. A thin skin of wax covered the hood. Where he’d already buffed, it glowed. It wasn’t pure altruism that initiated such industry. Richard wasn’t empathic, but he could almost feel the anger boil from that portion of the yard.

  Shoving his hands in his Dockers pockets, Richard strolled over. “Beautiful day, huh?”

  Jeff glared at him over the hood of the car.

  “Brenda made five-mushroom soup for lunch. Smells really great. Want to join us?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Richard wet his finger, held it in the air as though gauging the wind. “The temperature just plummeted. May I ask why?”

  Jeff straightened, his gaze boring into his brother. “What did you tell Krista Marsh about me?”

  “Only the basics. Believe it or not, I respect your privacy.”

  Jeff eyed him for a long moment. “Not that I can see.” He went back to rubbing the wax. “Krista wants me to help one of her patients. Did she tell you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I don’t want to do it.” He sounded like a petulant child.

  “Then don’t.”

  Jeff kept polishing.

  “Brenda said the power steering went out the other day.”

  Jeff looked up. “On her car?”

  “No, the Lincoln.” Richard nodded toward his car. “Maybe it needs fluid.”

  “I’ll check.”

  Another long lull.

  “What’re you doing tonight?” Richard asked, changing the subject.

  “Maggie’s coming for dinner.”

  Richard smiled. “We haven’t seen much of her lately.”

  “Yeah, neither have I.”

  “Are things all right between you two?”

  “I don’t know. She’s been distant lately.”

  “Distant how?”

  Jeff straightened, his jaw set. “We haven’t had sex in six weeks. Is that distant enough for you?”

  Richard looked away, embarrassed. “Look, I’m sorry about Krista.”

  “Apology accepted. Now will you butt out of my life?”

  “I worry about you, kid.”

  “I’m almost thirty-seven, so feel free to stop.”

  An awkward silence fell. Jeff wiped away the cloudy wax.

  “Thanks for washing the cars.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Richard stared at his shoes. “If you change your mind, there’s pl
enty of soup.”

  “Tell Brenda I appreciate the offer, but—”

  But.

  How often was there a ‘but’ where Jeff was concerned?

  A damned shame.

  “See you later, kid,” Richard said.

  “Yeah. Later.”

  The apartment was immaculate. Bathroom, kitchen—floors mopped, sheets changed. I’d even vacuumed the cat hair from the furniture. Everything had to be perfect for Maggie’s arrival. If everything was perfect, she couldn’t find fault with anything.

  Anything but me, that is.

  Footsteps on the stairs leading to my loft apartment told me that my girlfriend had arrived. At least . . . I considered her my girlfriend—lady, lover, soul mate. Had been for just about fourteen months.

  Maggie knocked on the door, then breezed in with a non-committal, “Hi,” and brushed past me, avoiding any physical contact. There was only one reason for that; she didn’t want me—an emotional leech—to know what was going on in her heart and mind.

  I got a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach and was glad I hadn’t put the steaks on the grill.

  I was about to get the old heave-ho.

  Maggie took in the starched tablecloth, polished candlesticks, and wineglasses on the table. “Looks like you went to a lot of trouble. New candles and everything.”

  “I wanted tonight to be special.”

  She had her back to me.

  “Are you going to take off your coat?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  Maggie settled her jacket on the back of the chair, instead of hanging it up. Ready for a quick getaway? She looked spectacular in a black cocktail dress I hadn’t seen before. I couldn’t take my eyes from her.

  She took a chair instead of the couch—that way she could maintain her distance and I wouldn’t be able to sit next to her, touch her.

  God, I was paranoid.

  “Where’s Herschel?” she asked, looking around for my cat.

  “On the chair in the bedroom, last time I looked.”

  She toyed with the bracelet on her wrist.

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Uh . . . not right now,” she said, without looking up.

  We could dance around the issue all evening, but what was the point?

  “What is it, Maggie?”

  She glanced up at me, confused. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been acting funny for weeks. It’s time you leveled with me.”

  She looked away. “Nothing’s going on.”

  I stared at her, disbelieving. “You come in here bombarding me with negative vibes and expect me to believe nothing’s wrong. Come on, let’s just get it out in the open.”

  Her expression hardened. “God, you’re blunt.”

  “I’d rather get the bad news up-front than have you lie to me.”

  “I haven’t lied to you.”

  “Then what’s going on?”

  She wouldn’t look at me. “Okay,” she said, and exhaled a long breath. “I . . . I’ve been seeing someone else.”

  No surprise. The signals were there. I’d felt them, interpreted them, understood them. A painful sense of déjà vu came over me. My wife, Shelley, had left me because of her greater love for cocaine.

  “Then it’s a lie of omission.” I had to work at keeping my voice level. “Where’d you meet him?”

  “College.”

  My anger surged. “This wouldn’t be the wonderful Doug, would it? Your first true love? The one who dumped you a month before the wedding?”

  Maggie’s eyes blazed. “Yes.”

  “When did he show up?”

  “About a month ago at Irene’s.”

  It all made sense now. Maggie’s older sister had made it a crusade to break us up. “You aren’t good enough for her,” Irene had grated when she’d cornered me in her kitchen last Christmas. I’d endured several hours of the cold shoulder from all of Maggie’s family and hadn’t graced them with my presence since.

  The Brennan clan resented me because of an accident last fall that had totaled my car and left me with a mild case of whiplash. Maggie, however, had nearly bled to death. She carried a five-inch scar on her right calf and tended to limp when she got tired. Then at Thanksgiving, someone came after Brenda and clobbered Maggie in the process, giving her a concussion.

  I was a trouble magnet, and Maggie’s family wanted her to have nothing to do with me.

  “Have you slept with him?” I asked.

  She wouldn’t look at me.

  “Maggie?”

  “Yes, dammit!”

  Too many emotions vied for prominence: anger, disappointment, and, above all, burning betrayal.

  “Then, I guess it’s over.”

  Maggie finally faced me, her eyes filled with anguish. “No, I—I still love you.”

  “And I love you. But I won’t share you with someone else.”

  We stared at each other for a long minute.

  All the special times we’d shared. Talk of the future, sharing our pasts. All the trust I’d given her.

  I swallowed. “You’d better go.”

  “Jeff, I—

  I marched over to the door and held it open for her. “Just go.”

  She grabbed her coat, and paused, looking like she wanted to say so much, then turned away and headed down the stairs.

  I closed the door.

  Why the hell had I given her an ultimatum?

  Why didn’t I go after her—stop her? Talk to her.

  Her engine turned over and the tires squealed as she took off down the drive. Then, all was quiet.

  I don’t know how long I stood in the darkening gloom, staring at nothing, before I ended up in front of my liquor cabinet. Grabbing ice from the bucket, I filled an old-fashioned glass. Then I poured the bourbon.

  I must have been on my third drink when suddenly Richard was standing in my open doorway.

  “Jeff?”

  He flipped the switch and the lamps on either side of the couch flashed on.

  My hand flew up to cover my eyes. A startled Herschel flew off the back of the couch.

  “Jesus—give a guy some warning.”

  “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

  “Getting drunk.”

  He took the chair opposite me. Herschel circled around to stand in front of the TV, glaring at the intruder, his black tail poised straight in the air.

  “What happened?” Richard asked.

  “Old boyfriend came back into town. Maggie dumped me.”

  “Just like that?”

  I nodded. “Just like that.”

  He folded his hands. “I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”

  I drained my glass. “Yeah, me, too.”

  A long silence followed.

  “Have you had dinner?” he asked.

  “We never got that far.”

  Richard eyed the glass in my hand, then glanced at the half-empty bottle on the floor beside me. “How much have you had to drink?”

  “Not enough.” I picked up the bottle, poured myself another, neat. The ice had long since melted.

  “Don’t you think you might want to ease off on that?”

  “No.”

  “Jeff—”

  “When was the last time a woman dumped you, oh older, wiser, better-looking brother of mine?”

  “Jeff—”

  “I’ll bet you’ve never been dumped.”

  He said nothing.

  “Did you do the dumping, or did you and your former lady friends mutually agree to split?”

  His voice hardened. “Something like that.”

  “I’ve always been dumped.” I took a deep swallow, had to cough. “You know, I saw it coming. I just didn’t want to believe it. I thought Maggie was the one. True love and all that shit. I thought this psychic crap gave me an edge. That I’d know if somebody really loved me. She fooled me anyway.”

  “What went wrong?” he asked.

  “You mean which one o
f us is to blame?”

  “Yeah.”

  I thought about it long and hard. And copped out. “Maybe no one’s to blame. Sometimes things just happen.”

  Yeah. Right.

  I drained my glass. Richard just stared at me.

  “Why don’t you come over to the house? We’ll have some coffee and talk,” he said.

  “What’s to talk about?”

  “About how you’re going to deal with this. Like a responsible adult or a lovesick teenager.”

  “That’s easy for you to say, you’ll have someone warming your bed tonight.”

  “Okay, maybe that was callous, but I’m talking about the alcohol. I don’t want to see you end up—”

  “A drunk—like our mother?” My eyes bored into his, as big a challenge as I’d ever given him.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Well, what did you mean? Because if alcoholism is a disease, then brother you’re as sick as me.”

  His mouth tightened. “What’re you talking about?”

  “Every time you come home from the clinic you make a bee-line for the scotch. You want other examples?”

  His eyes blazed. I’d definitely hit a nerve.

  “You’re upset. You’ve had too much to drink. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “I sure as hell do. And I don’t like you pointing the finger at me when you’re no better.”

  He stood. “Okay, push me away, but I’m not going far. You know where to find me if you need me.” He headed for the door, paused, looked at me with—disgust? Disappointment? I wasn’t sure. He pulled it shut behind him.

  I listened to his footsteps on the stairs, and then heard the outer door slam.

  The ugly quiet lengthened.

  Herschel glared at me in disapproval. Why not? I’d intended my insults to wound Richard. Just like a disgusting drunk.

  Petty resentment flared. Not just for his talking to Krista, or chiding me about my drinking. It went much deeper than that. Back to the basics.

  Our mother had loved him more than she’d loved me. Maybe I’d never be able to forgive him for that—for something he’d had no control over. And why was I mad at him anyway? It was Maggie. No, her conniving, pretentious bitch sister, Irene, I should be angry with. Just because I didn’t have Richard’s money. Who besides her cared? Money hadn’t brought Richard happiness. Just . . . comfort.