Something I’d never be able to give Maggie.
I ran my finger around the rim of my glass.
Herschel decided to wash the sleek black fur on his leg.
Had Richard ever really fucked up? I knew virtually nothing about his life before Brenda. He loved her, but had he ever hurt her. I mean really hurt her, inadvertently, like I’d hurt Maggie?
The silence wore on my nerves.
I rested the glass against my bottom lip, breathed in the heady bourbon. I hadn’t exactly told Richard the truth. The cycle of rejection had begun with me six weeks before. I’d sold two photos to Upstate Magazine. After polishing off a bottle of champagne, Maggie and I were celebrating—in the sack. Eyes closed, I’d run my fingers through her hair.
“I love you so much,” she’d murmured and kissed me.
“Shelley,” I breathed into her ear.
She stiffened in my embrace.
Shelley, my dead, ex-wife. A woman I had not been happy with. A woman I tried not to think about. Had tried to forget.
Maggie’s humiliation stung me.
“Maggs, I’m sorry.”
It wasn’t enough to just regret it; I had to experience it with her. All the crap from when her husband left her welled up in a second, overwhelming her—and me. And nothing I could say or do could make it better.
I’d held her during the night, hoping she’d feel—understand—the depth of my love for her.
The next morning, conversation was stilted. The memory of her eyes, shadowed by hurt, still haunted me. She’d stayed away for days. That must’ve been when Irene moved Doug back in. Did his arrival ignite some kind of wistful hope in Maggie, rekindle something they had long ago? Something to erase the hurt that I had caused her?
Or maybe the relationship I’d thought so perfect had just been bullshit after all.
“I believed in you, Maggie . . . .”
Downing the last of my drink, I stared at my empty glass. I considered pouring another, then decided against it.
Richard was right. Did I want to end up a drunk like my mother and pass out on the couch every night?
Right then I did. I mean, why not?
Instead I capped what was left of the bourbon. I struggled to my feet and staggered across the room to replace the bottle on my make-shift bar. I knew I should call Richard to apologize. I owed him a lot. But—dammit—I was tired of owing him. Calling him could wait until morning.
I thought about my lonely bed—the one I thought I’d be sharing with Maggie anymore. How could she dump me for such a stupid reason, and for a guy who’d treated her shabbily so many years ago?
My anger swelled and I wanted to punch something. I looked around the comfortable room, remembered the months of work Maggie and I had put into it.
I didn’t want to break anything. I wanted revenge.
That’s when I remembered the crushed business card in my raincoat pocket. Searching through the sea of clothes on hangers in the closet, I found the coat and fumbled in the pocket. Krista Marsh’s card was creased but readable.
I picked up the phone and punched in the numbers.
“Doctors’ service.”
“I wanna leave a message for Dr. Marsh.” God, did I sound drunk? I spoke slowly, deliberately. “Please have her call Jeff Resnick. It’s not an emergency.”
“Spell that please,” the crisp voice requested.
I did—and left my number in case Krista had ditched it.
Hanging up the phone, I flopped back onto the couch. Herschel’s penetrating gaze met mine. He folded his front legs under his chest, bowed his head and closed his eyes as though in disgust.
Sorry, buddy, but the missile was launched. Now to wait for the explosion.
Chapter 3
I awoke the next morning . . . alone.
Maggie had only been out of my life for fourteen hours and already I missed her with an intensity that startled me.
I never realized how much I hated being alone.
It took me a few moments to realize that I hadn’t awakened with a hangover. That was good. I didn’t need another day in bed with a monster headache. Richard’s concern about my drinking was well-founded. But I wasn’t going to get paranoid about it, either. No way would I let this break-up with Maggie drag me down the road of alcoholism that my mother had traveled when my father left her. And I wasn’t about to give up drinking, either. Maybe that’s why I liked being a bartender. I could flirt with alcoholism without succumbing to it.
I rolled over and stared at the ceiling. I’d thought Maggie and I were soul mates. How could she trust—give herself to—Doug again? I’d seen their engagement picture. Tall, good-looking, and rich—thanks to his family’s printing business—Doug had stood behind Maggie with a possessive hand on her shoulder. He had money. I had none. What did he want with Maggie all these years later? I loved her. She was beautiful to me, but with his bucks Doug could have any woman he wanted—younger, prettier—why did he suddenly want my woman?
And was Maggie so insecure that she’d choose money over love?
Why not? Love and sex are great—but they don’t pay the rent or put food on the table. I could never offer her the security that Doug could. She hadn’t trusted what we had, not like I had—but then I had nothing to lose. Had she looked at me as a liability, someone she’d have to support for the rest of her life? Who could blame her for choosing the easier more secure path?
Me, that’s who.
Maybe I should’ve asked more questions. Maybe she’d wanted me to fight for her.
Envy chewed at my gut like a cancer. To be wanted by two men had to be one hell of an ego trip—especially for a woman over forty. Nobody had ever wanted me like that.
And yet . . . Krista Marsh was curious about me, or at least my empathic ability. She was probably my age—maybe a year or two younger, and attractive. Maybe even beautiful. Could I be more than just an intellectual curiosity to her?
Throwing back the covers, I headed for the kitchen. Herschel appeared when I opened a can of cat food. I made coffee as the cat wolfed his breakfast.
I thought about the blonde shrink as I sipped my coffee. I met a lot of women at the bar where I worked part-time. A few of them had shown interest in me. I hadn’t pursued any of them because I was involved with Maggie.
But I wasn’t involved anymore.
My gaze kept traveling back to the business card still on the coffee table. Krista probably wouldn’t return my call until Monday. That would give me a whole day to figure out what I’d say to her.
I took a shower, dressed, and thought about mooching Richard’s Sunday paper when the phone rang.
“Jeff? It’s Krista Marsh. You called?”
“Yes. I . . . I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday, and I wanted to apologize. I wasn’t brought up to be rude, and I’m afraid I might have been.”
“Apology accepted.”
“I thought we could meet for a drink and talk about your offer.”
“Which one?”
“Well, I’m not looking for a therapist.”
“I think that’d be nice. There’s a place near the hospital, not too far from you.” She gave me the address. “See you about six?”
“Sure.”
Richard stepped out of the Lincoln and took in the mock Tudor home’s ivy-covered, creamy stucco facade. It was just as he remembered it. When he was a young boy, some forty plus years ago, Orson Jemison had been the brash new partner in Richard’s grandfather’s law firm. Morton, Alpert, Fox and Jemison had been, and still was, one of the most respected law firms in Buffalo.
Jemison’s house hadn’t changed. Richard wondered if the man himself had. It had been more than two decades since he’d visited the house—since the day he’d sat in Jemison’s home office discussing the malpractice suit against him. Jemison had advised the hospital’s own team of attorneys, and the medical board had ruled in Richard’s favor. His debt of gratitude to the old man still weighed heavy.
>
Richard rang the bell. After a while an elderly black woman with wiry white hair and a gray uniform dress opened the door.
“Mister Richard? Lord you haven’t changed,” she said, ushering him into the marble-tiled foyer.
“Miss Emma?”
“You gots a good memory, suh.”
“You look just the same.”
“Oh, you lie beautiful,” the wrinkled old woman said and chuckled.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you.”
“I be lucky to have a job at my age. ’Cept he won’t let me do nothing but polish silver, dust and mend. And he pay me far too much. I don’t tell him that, a course. Come ’dis way.”
Richard followed her through the spotless house to the study he half-remembered.
Miss Emma’s gnarled knuckles rapped on the door. “Mister Orson? Mister Richard is here.”
“Thank you, Miss Emma,” Richard said, and clasped the old woman’s hand. The light that shone in her rheumy eyes nearly broke his heart. She let go and turned, tottering back down the corridor.
Orson Jemison had not aged as well. Wizened and bent, the old man sat behind the behemoth of a mahogany desk looking nearly as ancient as his housekeeper, though he had to be at least twenty years younger.
It had been a mistake to come.
Richard stepped forward and offered his hand. The old codger took it—still a firm handshake.
“It’s been a long time, Richard.”
“Sixteen years, sir.”
“What charity are you representing?” Jemison asked with an evaluating stare. He was still as sharp as ever.
No way could Richard lie to this man. He took the chair in front of the desk. “The university’s hospital foundation. Something to keep an idle man like me occupied, as my grandmother would say.”
Jemison cracked a faint smile. “Yes, she would. Is that all you do these days?”
“I guess you could say I’m semi-retired, not necessarily by choice.”
“Retirement stinks,” the old man agreed.
“Do you miss the grind?” Richard asked.
“My son runs the firm now. If I had my way, I’d still go in every day—if only to do the crossword. But he couldn’t wait to put the old man out to pasture.”
Richard sat back in his chair. “Dan and I were classmates in high school. I assumed we’d be classmates at Harvard, too. I was accepted at the medical school, but—”
“Marjorie didn’t want you to go away, as I recall.”
“I got a good education here in Buffalo. It worked out for the best in the long run.”
“Are you referring to gaining custody of your younger brother?” Jemison asked.
“I would’ve never gotten to know him, otherwise.”
Jemison leaned forward, resting his arms on his polished desk. “Charles and Marjorie were against that, too, as I recall.”
“This is one time I’m happy to say they were wrong.”
“No regrets?” Jemison asked.
“None.”
Jemison folded his veined hands. “Daniel says you still use the firm.”
“I saw no reason to change. I have fond memories of visiting Grandfather’s office.”
“Not fond enough to go into the law, though.”
“No.”
The silence lengthened. Richard almost squirmed under Jemison’s appraising gaze.
“I understand you’ve married,” the old man said at last.
“Something else Grandmother wouldn’t have approved of.”
“She had nothing against the institution,” Jemison said.
“No, but she wouldn’t have accepted my choice of bride. But then she never approved of my mother. I always thought she drove the poor woman insane,” Richard said, keeping his voice carefully level.
Jemison’s sallow cheeks actually colored.
“Did you know my father?” Richard asked.
“I joined the firm several years after his death. Your grandfather took me under his wing. Taught me everything they didn’t teach me in law school.”
“I’m glad he had such an apt pupil,” Richard said and smiled. “He was disappointed when I didn’t go into law, but he wasn’t the kind to push.”
“He was a thoughtful, decent man,” Jemison agreed, his gaze drifting as though back to the past.
“Yes. He was.”
Another silence fell between them.
“Are you happy, Richard?” Jemison asked suddenly.
Richard’s head snapped up. “Yes, very much so. My wife and I are going to have a baby in October.”
“And your brother?”
“He’s—” Richard paused, thinking about the two unpleasant encounters with Jeff the day before. “It’s good to have him home again.”
Jemison’s sad smile was somehow knowing. “You’re a lucky man, Richard. Don’t blow it.”
Blow it? No way. Things were going too well. Brenda. The baby. And Jeff— Okay, that wasn’t going so well right now, but their rocky relationship would right itself. He hoped.
The old man’s head drooped ever so slightly.
Richard glanced at his watch and rose. “I hope I haven’t stayed past my welcome. It was good too see you, Orson. Let’s not wait another sixteen years before we meet again.”
“Wait. You haven’t made your pitch for the Foundation.”
“I didn’t come to browbeat you. It’s a good cause. But then you no doubt give generously to a lot of good causes. I’ve enjoyed our conversation. I’ll tell them I’ve been here and they’ll probably leave you alone for at least a year. If you’d like some literature, I’ll have them send it.”
“No. If you believe in this foundation then it must be a worthwhile cause. I’ll write a check now.”
“Orson, you don’t have to—”
“I want to.” Jemison reached into the left hand drawer of his massive desk, pulled out a ledger checkbook, and in a firm hand wrote out a check.
Jemison handed Richard the slip of paper. Ten thousand dollars. The Foundation had only hoped for five.
Richard tucked the check into the inside breast pocket of his blazer. “Thank you, Orson. You’re a good friend to the hospital.”
And once again, you’ve saved my neck.
Alexander’s Lounge was more than just a nice place—it was elegant. I was glad I’d stopped at an ATM on the way. Arriving a few minutes early, I ordered a beer and perched on a stool in the near-empty bar. I straightened my trouser crease and was glad I’d opted to wear a sports jacket. For all its airs, I wondered what the shelf life was for a trendy bar without customers.
My gaze drifted and I saw the lady shrink standing in the doorway, studying me. Caught, she waved. I stood as she approached.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. The traffic,” she apologized.
Traffic, on an early Sunday evening?
She looked sexy in a black cocktail dress—not unlike what Maggie had worn the night before—with a matching short jacket, and sling-back pumps.
“Why don’t we sit over there,” she said.
I followed her, noticing the lack of tell-tale lines under her dress—no panties. She settled in a tapestry upholstered chair in an alcove, which looked like it ought to have been in the lobby of a hotel instead of a cocktail lounge. I took the matching chair that faced her, separated by a small oak table.
A waiter was beside us in moments. “Can I get you something?”
“I’m fine.”
“A glass of white wine, please,” she said.
He nodded and disappeared.
“Nice place.” Oh that golden repartee of mine.
“It’s a quiet place to unwind,” she agreed, leaning back and crossing her shapely legs. They were bare and tanned—from a vacation or a tanning bed?
I looked away, feeling out of place. Why would this woman ever be interested in me—beyond mere curiosity, that is? I thought about my working class mother who’d married above her station, desperately trying to live t
hat life, and not succeeding, either. But then this wasn’t a date. It was a talk. That made it safe. No commitment—no expectations.
The wine arrived and Krista sank deeper in her seat. “So, what made you decide to call me?” she asked, a soft Southern lilt to her voice that I hadn’t noticed before.
“Let’s just say I gave it some thought and decided to listen to what you had to say.”
“I’m interested in this ability you have to feel emotions for people.”
“Not for them. I experience what they feel. Sometimes I get insight, sometimes I don’t. You said this patient of yours doesn’t feel emotions.”
“That’s what she tells me.”
“And you want me to meet her and see if she’s lying?”
“I was hoping you could help her unlock the emotions she’s suppressing.”
“You said she was abused.”
“Grace was in a car accident some time ago. She’s wheelchair bound and has lived in an assisted-living facility for the last five years. The state’s been remiss on background checks on its new employees.”
“What was it? Fondling? Rape?”
“Both. She’s developed a severe distrust of all men.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-three.”
Jesus.
Back off, my gut said. But as I looked into Krista’s concerned eyes, I found myself interested.
“The insurance company’s finally settled and Grace would like to leave the home and move into a more independent living situation. It would be good for her, but she hasn’t worked through her anger. That’s where you come in. I’m not expecting miracles. Although, from what I’ve seen—”
“Look, Krista, I can’t read everybody I meet.”
“Then you’d be willing to try?”
My stomach tensed. I took a fortifying sip of beer. “I—I suppose I could. When?”
“Her next appointment is Tuesday at ten o’clock.”
“Have you already spoken to her about this?”
“Yes. She’s willing to meet you.”
Done deal? She’d been pretty damned sure of herself.
“Then what?” I asked.
“We all . . . talk. Get to know each other.”
A shiver of revulsion ran through me. Back off! my gut warned louder.
Bound by Suggestion Page 4
