Climax: The Publicist, Book Three

by Christina George

  . . . .

  Kate picked her phone out of her purse and dialed a number.

  “Dr. Wilson’s office,” the chipper voice answered.

  Kate hesitated, almost hanging up.

  “Hello? Is someone there?”

  “Y-yes. Hi. Sorry, I was, eh, anyway. I’d like to make an appointment.” Kate tried to stop the unease in her voice.

  It was just a therapist.

  Just a therapist. Everyone in New York seemed to have a therapist, sometimes two.

  But not Kate. Never Kate. She was too strong. She had her friends, her work, and her fiancé. Her life was perfect. She was happy. Still, she’d been sitting in a cemetery talking to a dead guy. It was that realization that made her pick up the phone.

  “She can see you next Tuesday, eight a.m. Does that work?”

  “Sure.”

  “I need to get some information from you so we can schedule this.”

  Kate rattled off her address, insurance information, and date of birth, and when she hung up, she felt a small sense of relief wash over her. She wasn’t equipped to handle this new chapter in her life, the one that involved Mac playing the dutiful husband for perhaps the first time in his life. Nor was she equipped to deal with Nick on a regular basis or, for that matter, wrestling with the memories of their time together. Memories that at times seemed so fresh it frightened her.

  CHAPTER 38

  “Is Kate sick?” Nick burst through the front door.

  Vivienne just blinked. “What?”

  “Kate…is she sick?” Vivienne had been spending a lot of time around Kate and if she was sick, he was sure Viv would know. The word “cancer” had been pulsing through Nick’s head since the cemetery, following him all the way home.

  “Not that I know of.” Vivienne shook her head.

  “Then who has cancer?”

  His sister stopped putting the dishes away, wiped her hands on a towel, and walked over to him.

  “Maybe you should tell me what’s going on. How did this even come up?” her eyes narrowed. “Did you see her again?”

  Nick sighed; he wasn’t going to recount the cemetery story. In hindsight, it seemed odd that they had both gone there at the same time and that Nick just stood around, hiding behind some trees.

  “Yes, I-eh, saw her. Well, she didn’t see me, but I overheard her and I heard her say that someone has cancer.”

  “And you thought it was her.”

  Vivienne could see the sheer terror in her brother’s face, and it pissed her off. That damned Kate.

  “It’s a friend. No one you know,” Vivienne said. It was sort of a lie, but not really. If Nick knew the truth, that it involved Mac and that he had sort of abandoned her to care for his family, he would probably tear out of there.

  Nick exhaled and felt the relief wash over him. “Really?”

  Vivienne walked over and took his hand, “Yes, Brother Dear. Really.”

  Nick ran a hand across his forehead. “Good, that’s good. I mean it’s not. I’m sorry for… well, I’m just glad it’s not her.”

  Vivienne shook her head. “Oh, Nick, this really isn’t going to work—you being in New York.”

  Nick walked to the kitchen, grabbed a glass, and poured himself some water. He took two long gulps and then turned to his sister.

  “It’s fine. Really. I’m fine. She is a friend; regardless of how it ended. I don’t want her to…” Nick’s voice trailed off and that all-too-familiar emotion squeezed his throat.

  Vivienne tipped her head, as if something had just occurred to her.

  “How did you hear about the cancer, anyway?”

  Nick wasn’t sure how to respond. Telling his sister that he’d seen Kate at the cemetery would not help prove his point that he was well over Kate. Although, you know, it was a random thing, running into her there.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said finally, and turned to his sister. “And don’t look at me like that. I just overheard it.”

  Vivienne nodded, not believing him at all.

  CHAPTER 39

  Dr. Wilson’s office was located in the Gramercy Park/Murray Hill part of the city. There were a lot of doctors located in this area, so it made sense for her to have her office here. Kate walked into one that read, “Murray Hill Medical Group.” She rode the elevator up ten floors, and as the doors slid open, she could see a bright, welcoming office located just beyond a double set of glass doors. Kate pushed through them. A smiling receptionist, likely the same one she’d spoken with on the phone, greeted her.

  “Welcome,” she smiled, “New patient?”

  Kate nodded. Her throat felt tight. She had a strong sense that this was not a good idea. At all. But she convinced herself that she’d go to one session and tell Andrew it just didn’t work out. Therapy wasn’t for everyone. He’d understand, of course.

  While Kate was still standing at the front desk, a door at the other end of the office swung open.

  “Well, hey there!” A portly woman who Kate guessed to be in her early sixties stood in the doorway. She was a little shorter than Kate and wore her fiery red hair in a bouffant-type style that Kate hadn’t seen in years.

  The woman started walking towards her, a hand outstretched.

  “I like to greet my new patients personally.” A smile lit up her round face and wrinkled her eyes. Kate picked up a slight Texas drawl. Kate took her hand.

  “You must be Katharine. I’m Ruth Ann Wilson.”

  Kate could feel her heart kick up in her chest; this wasn’t what she expected at all. Her eyes fell on the pantsuit the doctor was wearing. The light lime green fabric stretched tight across her portly body. The jacket flared at the bottom in an odd seventies style that Kate hadn’t seen in years.

  The woman caught her gaze and smiled. “Polyester. Don’t you just love polyester?”

  Kate bit her bottom lip. “Eh, I can’t say that I’ve ever worn it.” Polyester?

  Dr. Wilson was still holding Kate’s hand and leaned in.

  “I know. I don’t get why no one makes this stuff anymore. I have these suits tailor-made.” Then she turned to her receptionist, “Thanks, Jenny. I’ll take it from here.”

  The receptionist, clearly accustomed to this, kept working, oblivious to the lime green polyester pantsuit standing in front of her.

  “Now, listen, we don’t stand on formalities here,” the doctor said as she led Kate to her office. “I want you to call me Ruth Ann.”

  Really? She had yet to meet a doctor that didn’t relish being called “Doctor.”

  “And please call me Kate.”

  “Kate it is,” Ruth Ann laughed.

  Ruth Ann opened the door into a large, bright office and let Kate walk through. The office was very retro, and for a moment Kate thought she’d walked onto a Mad Men set. There was a couch at the far end of the wall—a long, button couch in a muted shade of orange. A “convertible couch,” she recalled. Kate had worked on a décor book when she was still at MD. It was a retro book that rode on the heels of the Mad Men fame. Most of the pieces in Ruth Ann’s office seemed very familiar to her, right down to her Kistler chair, ball clock that hung on the opposite wall, and the shag rug that was the centerpiece of her sitting area. Kate realized that although the office seemed like a collection of old, mash-up retro pieces, it was actually quite expensive. Most of them were either recreations or bought at pricey retro stores.

  “Have a seat, Child.”

  Ruth Ann pointed to the couch and Kate sat down.

  “Dr. Wilson, thank you for…”

  The doctor’s hand went up and she clucked her tongue, “Remember, no formalities. Ruth Ann, please. But not Dr. Ruth, okay?” Ruth Ann tilted her head back in a braying laughter. “Oh, God, I have nothing in common with that woman. I mean, is she even really a doctor? Does anyone know for sure?”

  Kate wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so she just smiled.

  “I…I really don’t know,” she offered, feeling somewhat intimi
dated by Ruth Ann’s overly exuberant personality.

  Ruth Ann sat down in the Kistler chair, grabbed a blank pad of paper, and smiled at Kate, “So, Andy sent you. God, I love that man. I have all of his albums. I’ve known Andy for years, back when he still thought he was straight.” Ruth Ann laughed loudly at her own comment. “Oh Lord, Andy and I have been through the mill together.”

  Ruth Ann’s face drifted off, briefly remembering her time with the rock star. Then she turned to Kate. “Now, what brings you here today, Kate?”

  Kate put down her purse and fumbled with the edging of the couch. “I, well, my life has gotten complicated.”

  The laughter again. This time it shook her entire body. This wasn’t at all what Kate expected. “Why, everyone’s life is complicated. I’m afraid you’ll have to do much better than that, my dear.”

  Kate took a deep breath and continued. Once this appointment was over she was never, ever coming back here. This whole thing was a bad idea. From the ill-mannered therapist to the I-miss-the-fifties décor.

  “Well, I’m dating a man, and he’s…”

  “How long have you been dating him and how did you meet?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I need details, Kate. If I’m going to help you figure stuff out, you’re going to have to share details with me. Now, tell me how you met.”

  Kate recounted the story of her time at MD and meeting Mac, who was married at the time. She told her of their engagement and Carolyn’s illness.

  “So, you stole him away from his wife, and now you’re worried he’s going back to her, right?”

  The words “stole him away” slapped Kate across the face. “No, no, that’s not it at all, and I didn’t steal him.”

  Ruth Ann tilted her head, “Then what would you call it? Sugar coating your life won’t fix it.”

  Kate felt like she couldn’t breathe. She hadn’t stolen Mac, had she? He’d been separated from her for years. Of course, Ruth Ann just didn’t get it.

  Ruth Ann watched her, waiting for her to respond. Finally, she said, “Kate, before we go much further, let me tell you the rules here. We don’t make excuses, we don’t rationalize away, we don’t justify, and we don’t sugar coat. Too many women, and men for that matter, get stuck in a life they never bargained for because they give up too much to get it. They excuse away bad behavior and try to justify partners who don’t treat them right.” Ruth Ann leaned forward in her chair and pushed her notepad back onto her lap. She looked Kate straight in the eye and said, “Life is too short not to be adored. And clearly you aren’t sure if you are, which is why you’re here.”

  Kate was starting to get upset. Of course Mac adored her. There was no question. She just needed to deal with the situation at hand. She felt the start of a slow burn in her cheeks. This wasn’t going to work out at all; she’d give Ruth Ann one hour, then try to forget this whole train wreck of a therapy session ever happened.

  “Kate, I want to know about your work. Tell me what you do for a living,” Ruth Ann continued.

  Kate took a deep breath and told her about her work at MD, being a publicist turned publisher.

  She watched as Ruth Ann thoughtfully jotted down some notes. “Now, tell me what your interaction is like, you know, with the authors you are promoting.”

  Kate frowned. What the hell did this have to do with anything? she wondered. She hesitantly decided to give in to Ruth Ann’s request, all the while watching that ball clock on the wall. Suddenly, the décor annoyed her. She felt like any minute Ruth Ann would continue with her inappropriate behavior and offer her a Scotch.

  “Well, you know. Some are great and some aren’t,” she responded flatly. She didn’t need to go into the details of some of the maniac authors she’d worked with. Like Haley, who threatened to jump off of a roof just because Oprah had canceled her segment.

  Ridiculous people.

  Ruth Ann leaned forward again; Kate prepared herself for more odd wisdom. “I want to know what your job is like, Kate. Tell me about the worst author you’ve ever worked with.”

  The question perplexed Kate for a moment, because she realized she couldn’t pick just one. If Ruth Ann had asked her for the best author, that was easy. Andrew certainly had been wonderful, as had Janet Easter, her lovely romance novelist who was grateful for anything Kate did for her. Mostly, once a campaign was over she pushed the author and their book as far out of her mind as she could. Just move on. That was her motto. One foot in front of the other. If she dwelled on every ungrateful author, she’d never want to work with another author…ever, and she certainly didn’t want to drum all of that up again. And she definitely wasn’t going to tell her about Michael Singer, who had been selling children on the black market, which had gotten him thrown in federal prison just in time for his book launch. The whole mess had cost Kate her job—although after that debacle she’d given it up willingly, and sent her to California and straight into the arms of Nick, only to leave him again for Mac.

  God, her life sounded like a freaking poorly written soap opera.

  “Kate?” Ruth Ann raised an eyebrow, realizing she’d struck gold.

  “I-I can’t. I don’t know which one to pick.”

  “Then tell me about whatever one comes to mind,” Ruth Ann said softly.

  Kate felt nervous. Her palms were getting damp. What the hell did this have anything at all to do with Mac? Ruth Ann was staring, and it was starting to unnerve her. Finally, Kate told the story of the cop duo she worked with when she was still at MD. And then Bernie had tried to undermine the book signing by under ordering books, and Mac had saved the day. Yes, it was a perfect story. It showed how loving and caring Mac was. Kate smiled when she was finished, proud of herself.

  Ruth Ann stopped writing and looked at her. “Why did you leave MD?” She totally ignored the fact that Kate had just told her a story about how wonderful Mac was.

  It was annoying.

  The irritation slid up her spine and was starting to give her a headache. Kate didn’t want to answer that question. Frankly, it was none of her business. Instead she said, “It wasn’t a good fit anymore.”

  Ruth Ann smirked, “You’re lying, Kate. I’ve read people long enough to know that, and, might I add, you suck at it. Another rule: We don’t lie in this office. If I catch you in another one, this session is over.”

  Promise? Kate felt like she was normally a rational and calm person. I mean, she had to be, right? With authors going bonkers around her and a publishing company to manage, she had to be sane and in control. Kate did not like sharing details of her life with anyone, well maybe except Grace and Andrew. But that was different. They were good friends. They weren’t sitting in their retro chairs with their notepads judging her and giving her “rules.” It was annoying and it was unnerving, and now she felt as though she may be having a heart attack. Personal details were not her thing at all. She was a publicist; no one cared about her personal life. You show up and sell books; that’s your job.

  “You’re going to be a tough nut to crack,” Ruth Ann smiled. “I love a challenge. Remind me to send Andy a box of his favorite chocolates for sending you my way.”

  God help me, she thought. I’m going to kill Andrew.

  “Kate, why don’t we start over?” Ruth Ann smiled, and Kate felt her face burn again. Her eyes flew to the clock. Five minutes had passed? This session was like being on a treadmill times seventeen. Or maybe this therapy time was calculated in dog years. Maybe she could fake an emergency. Oh, God, I have another author on a roof threatening to jump. Gotta run.

  “Kate?”

  Kate looked out the window. Maybe she could be a jumper today.

  She wondered what that would be like, everyone running to her rescue instead of calling her to save them. She was always saving someone or some book.

  Kate considered that maybe she should wear a cape for Halloween. She and Mac could go dressed up as publishing superheroes. No, that wouldn’t work. Mac hated dressing up
. He’d never go along with it, even as a joke.

  “Katharine Mitchell?” Ruth Ann yanked her from her costume daydream.

  Kate inhaled a long, deep breath. There was no sense in prolonging the agony, and for Andrew’s sake she was determined to stay the full hour. So she told Ruth Ann about why she left MD. The funny thing was that when she started, she almost couldn’t stop. At times, the memories of it, the fall she’d taken, the humiliation of it, choked the air out of her lungs.

  Kate talked about Nick, how he pulled her out of the fire and helped her find a place that she could heal and grow and morph into a better version of herself. Kate finished and fell into a silence, remembering that time in excruciating detail. The day she found out that the author of the biggest title of her career was selling children into slavery and she had no idea. She was promoting a criminal. It was altogether different from promoting the criminally insane.

  “This wasn’t your fault, Kate.” Ruth Ann’s voice was gentle.

  Kate shuffled her thoughts aside and looked at the therapist that she’d just confessed one of her darkest and most shameful secrets to. Kate did not respond to her. Ruth Ann watched her carefully.

  “Kate,” she said finally, “tell me more about Nick.”

  She blinked. Nick? This session was about Mac, not Nick. Not the man she’d thrown in front of a bus after he’d rescued her.

  “What was it like to be with him?” Ruth Ann pushed again, and Kate could feel her heart race. Once again this wasn’t what she came to talk about. She had an agenda. Why the hell didn’t the therapist get that? Ruth Ann pushed her notepad back again and leaned forward. Kate prepared for more wisdom.

  “Tell me, Kate. I want to understand what drew you to him and what caused your breakup.”

  Mac and Mac, Kate thought, but certainly she wasn’t going to say that. Of course it was more complicated than that.

  It always is.

  Finally, Kate told Ruth Ann about Nick, but she was very guarded in her descriptions. Whatever residual feelings she had for Nick were normal, and she certainly didn’t want to hash them out in therapy.