I’m only halfway entertaining these thoughts when I glance over and meet Felicity’s eyes. She gives me a smirk and an eye roll. As usual, she on to me. She’s always been able to read me, to call me out when I resort to bullshit like this. I can see in her expression that my minute of being a dick hasn’t shaken her, though. This isn’t the proof to her earlier declaration that she thinks I want my so-called freedom back. Instead, she’s likely thinking of our time together early on when I was playing games, stubbornly unwilling to trust what I was feeling and what I wanted.
The thing is, that’s not who I am now.
I lean down to murmur into Lizzy’s ear and she shifts her body closer to mine. But her posture sags with my words. Still, she nods and sets about gathering the myriad of paraphernalia that goes everywhere with us and the kids these days.
“Shall we leave you?” Felicity asks. The babies are both fed and she’s getting them burped and settled.
“Lizzy’s going to take Romeo and Ella home. But you’re going to stay for a bit. I want to give you a tour, play some stuff for you.”
The smile she gives me is open and pure and real—it’s the essential her. It’s beautiful, and I know I’d do anything to get her to smile a million times more.
* * *
Once Lizzy has left with the children and with the guys still lingering in the kitchen, Felicity and I have the studio to ourselves. I pull her by the hand and give her the tour and treatment I had thought about giving Lizzy. My not-so-subtle brushes against Felicity's body are ignored, however, and I’m quickly reminded of how numb she’s become to my touch.
I’ve been patient with her lack of desire. I understand that the pregnancy was harder than she had expected. She had debilitating morning sickness for much of it. Her fatigue was so great that she pestered her doctor until it was discovered she had anemia. She felt she was gaining too much weight, though she always looked beautiful to me. And her sex drive dropped to zero. The point is, it never felt easy to her. She had waited all her life for this moment and was disappointed in herself that when it finally did come, she wasn’t responding the way she thought she should. So, besides trying to be supportive, I just waited it all out, thinking once the baby came she would be back to herself.
That didn’t happen. Instead, she veered into these mood swings that would send her from a lovely, competent mother, to someone unable to dress herself in fresh clothes or bathe. And the odd, antagonistic relationship with her best friend, Sophie, reared up again. That spell of jealousy and competitiveness had been squashed well before she even became pregnant and I have no idea what’s changed. All I know is that my wife is having issues coping—with motherhood, with her friendships, with me. And just when I thought that a therapist might be the thing to help, she’s cut that off.
“What were you all working on when Lizzy showed up?” Felicity asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
“I, em, a tune about memory,” I say.
“Memories?”
“Well, sort of.” I don’t explain that the song is one that I’ve written, with only minor help from Gavin. I don’t want to go into it. If I do, it will only add to her burden.
“Can I hear some?”
“Yeah, sure. Let’s go to the Wood Room.”
This larger space is where we have a full setup of all our instruments and is where we had been working out the kinks on the song I mentioned. My Telecaster is resting in its stand. The sound isn’t routed into the room, but rather through the headphones we each have. I place Gavin’s on Felicity, then put the guitar strap over my head and slip on my headphones.
Strumming the guitar, I settle into a place of comfort with it before starting the right rhythm. It’s a rich, lazy tone that fills our ears. I watch Felicity rather than look down at the strings. I’ve always been able to feel my way on the chords, which helps when I want to project a little extra swagger on stage. But it also helps when, like now, I want to see what effect the music has on those listening. I see Felicity’s face softening as the music washes over her. She closes her eyes and moves ever so slightly with the progression.
I lean into the microphone and sing the first few lines:
When it’s all said and done
Will you remember your son?
Opening her eyes with a start, she examines me. The reaction could be because I’m not a singer. Gavin is the singer in our band, of course. I’ve spent all of our career backing him up or doing some chorus singing on my own, but I’ve never taken the lead on a song. Not until now. When I brought the song to Gavin, urging him to put his own spin on it, he refused. He said it was mine to sing and that it was time that I step up to the microphone. My voice is decent, but doesn’t have that raw, sex-fueled tone that Gavin’s does. Not that this particular song needs that kind of edge. This is destined to be a quiet song. And I likely won’t even agree to put it on the album. It’s just something I need to get out and, thankfully, the guys are all for it.
I keep playing and sing a bit more:
When it comes to that final goodbye
Will it come with a wink and a sigh?
It’s melancholic, I know. But I have no other words to give this subject. Gavin knows the impetus of it. Felicity doesn’t, though I suspect she will think it’s about the fear of my own mortality in light of Christian’s passing. That’s not quite right, but I’ll let her believe it is, because there probably is some of that coloring this song. It’s just not the driving force.
I stop playing and singing when I see Felicity’s eyes fill with tears.
“Honey, am I that bad?”
She laughs despite the emotion overtaking her. “No, love, your voice is wonderful,” she says. “I can’t believe I haven’t heard you sing—I mean really sing—before this. And this song, oh it strikes me so deep here.” She presses a hand to her chest over her heart.
“Glad you like it.”
“I want more of it. More of you like this.”
For a second, I think she’s getting flirty, that I might be able to grab her and take her to the bathroom for a quickie. But the spark in her eye isn’t about being turned on, it’s about her thinking I’m sharing my emotions. She’s long told me I don’t have to keep my own counsel the way I tend to do. She wants me to turn to her rather than trying to be in control of everything all the time. I should, she’s right, but it’s not in my nature. I’m not one to complain or vent or share. I’d rather hold things close, at least until I feel like I’ve figured out the next step forward.
“I want more of you like this,” I return, deciding to try to force this into something lighter as I pull her closer to me. Maybe I can get her into a more playful mood. I grab her backside with one hand and give her my sexiest smile. “There’s a time-honored tradition of christening the studio, honey. Let’s do our part, yeah?”
She laughs but disentangles herself from my touch. Again.
“I’ll make it quick,” I try, “like the old days.” I’m referring to when we were first together back in school, a time she remembers as me not having lasted very long in bed. I’ve come a long way since then and we both know it.
“Con, they can all probably hear this, right?” She gestures to the microphone.
“Ah, if they can, they better mind their own bloody business.” I try to pull her back to me, but she steps away.
That’s my Felicity, always backing away from me.
15
Felicity doesn’t stay much longer and when she leaves it’s with a sense that we have purposely left things unresolved. Her glib attempt to give me an “out” in our relationship, or at least to feel like wanting that would be normal, is unsettling. It weighs on me so much that after a couple hours of work, I beg off, saying I need to run an errand and will be back in an hour.
I don’t have Amelia Patterson’s phone number. I could find it easily enough, but what I need requires an in-person visit anyway, so I go to her office with the hope that she’ll be there. The waiting room is empty and
I’m about to knock on the interior door when I notice the red glow of a light on what looks like a doorbell. I assume that means she’s with a patient and isn’t to be disturbed. Checking my watch, I see that it’s nearing the top of the hour. Based on Felicity’s appointment, that should mean that whoever is in there now should be wrapping things up.
I should have anticipated the reaction I get when the door opens, but my mind was elsewhere. A young woman, her eyes shining from lingering tears, looks up and does a double-take. She raises a shaking hand to her mouth as recognition sets in.
“C-C-Conor Quinn,” she stutters.
This is the last thing I want. I don’t want to take selfies with a fan, I don’t want to put on my signature sexy smile, I don’t want to charm the girl so that her impression of me is as she might have fantasized.
But that’s exactly what I will do. Because if I don’t, she might walk away disappointed and my image would be damaged. And God knows I care about my image. My concern with image—mine and the band’s—has helped ensure we are where we are today. I’ve always made sure I’m in great shape and that I make every fan, journalist, and record executive—man or woman—feels like I’d be honored to take them to bed. It is amazing how much that has helped push along our career. And it suits me, too. I won’t deny the ego rush I get in playing these games.
Ms. Patterson must have heard the commotion because she soon joins me and the awe-struck fan in the waiting room. I hadn’t met her the last time I was here for Felicity, so I introduce myself.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Conor,” she says as I take her hand into mine.
As I release her, I let my fingertips trail over the inside of her wrist. I’ve found that extra touch tends to do something to a woman. When she hesitates, eyeing me for a second longer than necessary, I feel that thing I’ve known since I was a teenager. It’s the heat of a woman’s desire for me. With loose curls of long brown hair, intelligent blue eyes, and shapely legs, she’s nice looking, if a little plump.
“Tammy,” Ms. Patterson says, turning to her client, “I’ll see you next week, yes?”
Though her eyes never leave mine, Tammy nods in response. She still hasn’t made a move to leave. This isn’t the first time I’ve rendered a woman incapable of functioning. It doesn’t help matters that I smile at her and give her a wink.
“Next week, then,” Ms. Patterson repeats.
Tammy blinks once, then several times rapidly. “Yes, next week,” she says and hugs her tote bag to her side as she walks to the main office door. She turns and gives me another look before finally stepping out.
“So, what might I do to you?” Ms. Patterson asks. The rush of blood to her cheeks doesn’t stop there. The blush runs down her neck and onto her chest.
Before she can stumble to correct herself, I speak. No need to let her stick her foot deeper into her lovely mouth. She and I know she’s hot for me and that’s enough for my amusement.
“I need to talk to you about my wife,” I tell her.
“Is Felicity okay?”
“That’s what I need you to answer, actually.”
“Oh. Well, I see. But—”
“Before you say you can’t answer because of a privacy privilege, she tells me she’s no longer seeing you in a professional capacity. So, I would think that frees things up a bit, doesn’t it?”
She assesses me for a moment, her posture rigid. Then she relaxes a degree and turns to her office door. “Come inside for minute, won’t you?”
I follow her into the room. Except for the unfortunate color of the dark green walls, it’s a welcoming space. The lighting is warm, and the furniture is comfortable. I don’t take a seat, though. I didn’t come here to be analyzed. I won’t be sucked into that.
“I am seeing Felicity again. We have a coffee date at our regular appointment time,” she says.
“Yes, I know that. And the way you both say it makes it sound like therapy is somehow continuing, but Felicity seems to think she’s all better and has no need for any kind of structured help.”
“You disagree with her decision to stop therapy?”
“I do.”
“Have you spoken with her about that?”
“I have, as I said. She said she feels more herself now and that therapy isn’t necessary. But I’d like your opinion on that.”
“You sound concerned.”
Her measured tones have struck my last nerve. “Of course, I do. This is my wife we’re talking about. She’s my partner, the mother to my children. The other day, she was incapable of caring for them and instead curled up at my feet like a shamed dog. I’m incredibly concerned. I came here because I can’t trust her judgement about quitting therapy. I need to figure out how I can help her and whether she’s any danger to herself or the babies.”
She nods, and I can see her thinking of what she will say next. She strikes me as someone who tries very hard to be careful with their words, and rightly so. But there’s some other layer of consciousness going on here that I can’t quite pinpoint. It goes beyond the normal therapist caution because she should have pat answers at the ready. But she’s struggling. When she speaks, it’s clear she was telling herself not to say what she finally does. Because it’s not what a therapist would say.
“When she came in this morning and said she was done with our sessions, I knew it was an overcorrection on her part. She feels good because she’s on an upswing right now.”
“An ‘overcorrection’?”
“I’m guessing you know the number of issues she’s dealing with—”
“Postpartum, right?”
She hesitates and her eyes flick over me, as if assessing what more she should say. “I can’t diagnose her with postpartum. Partly because I don’t know enough, but also because I’d rather her primary physician take on that role.”
“Then, what good are you?” I snap. It’s rude, but I came here for assurances, not excuses and shifting responsibilities of care to others.
Despite my tone, she doesn’t flinch or even alter her pleasant expression. She must have had a lot of experience in maintaining that façade.
“I think I can be of help for her other concern. She’s dealing with a lot. I think the children have brought to the surface a whole host of things and they’re overwhelming her right now.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, trying to think of what else my wife hasn’t been telling me.
“I do believe more therapy would be hugely beneficial to her. That’s why I went to coffee with her. That’s why we’ve got another coffee date. Because sometimes, it helps to get therapy in an unconventional way. Some people are more open in a different setting.”
I take a moment to digest this. Though I’m grateful that she has taken it upon herself to step out of the normal confines of traditional talk therapy, it doesn’t quite sit right.
“I’m a bit confused here,” I admit. “Are you saying you’re continuing to be her therapist, but in the guise of a friend? That you’re deceiving her into getting help?”
She takes in a deep breath and slowly lets it out. “I suppose you could make that argument, but what I’d say is that I’m only interested in being her friend. If I can impart some of my training with her in the course of this friendship, then all the better.”
“Fuck me,” I whisper. I’m trying to wrap my head around this idea, but I’m thrown. Thrown by the fact that this woman is suggesting she treat Felicity in this way. It’s either an incredibly generous act of kindness toward someone in need, or an irresponsible manipulation of someone too vulnerable to know better. And what does it make me if I go along with it?
“I understand that this sounds unusual,” she says. “But I hope you will give me the benefit of the doubt because I really have nothing but good intentions. In fact, I don’t have any big plan at all, other than wanting to be sure that Felicity is managing.”
I examine her for some telltale sign of an ulterior motive but find none. What I do detect is a woman
who wants to help. I think of the progress she’s had with Danny Boy and wonder if her methods were similarly unconventional. Danny Boy’s apology to me for having stolen my guitar at the end of the last tour comes to mind. There’s no doubt in my mind he never would have made that effort if it hadn’t been for someone like Ms. Patterson intervening to steer him in the right direction. That realization helps me accept this unorthodox arrangement. Though, I’m quick to make one thing clear.
“I’m not paying you.”
Her brows crease. I’ve offended her.
“Why would you? Of course, you wouldn’t.”
“Will you let me know if you think I should be concerned?”
“I’m not in the habit of sharing my girlfriend’s confidences with their husbands.”
I roll my eyes at her sudden discretion. My evident frustration elicits a caveat from her.
“But, if she tells me something truly worrisome, I will make sure you know about it.”
“Good.”
We exchange mobile numbers and I start to take my leave, but she seems to want to say more. I worry it’s to do with Felicity and urge her to speak.
“It’s nothing,” she says with a smile.
“You’re sure?”
She hesitates a moment longer. “I just wonder if you might keep from telling Daniel about this, about my involvement with you and Felicity.”
“Daniel?” I’m stumped at the name for a second. “Oh, Danny Boy? No worries on that, honey. I’m not after involving Danny fucking Boy in my personal issues, that’s for sure.”
“I see.”
“I’m sure you know him better than most at this point. So, you can understand why I wouldn’t trust him with something as delicate as this. I mean, no offense, he has come a long way and I give you all the credit, but in the end, he’s still Danny Boy, isn’t he?”
Felicity Found (Rogue Series Book 6) Page 8
