by Andrew Kane
That week, he realized just how inspiring she was, how desirous she made him feel. With her, and only her, he believed he could become different, perhaps even forget. In his love for her, he sought his redemption, and in the life they eventually shared together, he had found it. And now they were here to take it from him.
Jacques looked away from the photograph, went to the bar and poured himself a full glass of Maker’s Mark. The best thing about America, he always said, was its bourbon. He looked again at the bottle of pills. There were thirty of them, a month’s supply, more than ample for his purpose.
chapter 2
August 25, 1996
Chicago, Illinois
Dr. Martin Rosen wondered if he was losing his mind. The woman had been perfect – tantalizing, smart, funny – and yet, all he felt was a pressing need to get as far away from her as possible.
He sauntered down Wacker Drive, along the Chicago River, heading toward the Hyatt Regency. It was a typical late-August morning in these parts, bright, humid, in the upper 70s, with a slight breeze from the lake. From across the river, the Wrigley Building’s clock tower told him it was 10:15, just forty-five minutes until his presentation. He knew he should be reviewing his notes, but he couldn’t take his mind off the woman.
He smiled for a moment, eyeing the Wrigley Building and the Tribune Tower, reminding himself that this had always been his lucky town. It was here that he had met Katherine, so many years before, as a freshman in college. It was here he had broken with his past and shed all remaining traces of his former life. It was here he had discovered fun and freedom. It was here he had discovered himself. Or so he had thought.
Yet, after all these years of being away, now that Katherine had disappeared from his life, he wondered if he had really discovered anything at all. He came to the entrance of the Hyatt Regency. He had hoped that the walk might grant him some clarity but it hadn’t. Now he would have to give one of the most important lectures of his career, his mind muddled by other matters.
As a clinical psychologist, he berated himself for his lack of mental discipline, despite his understanding that doctors were no different from patients, and that advice was always more easily dispensed than followed.
He took the elevator to his room on the twenty-second floor, slipped the security card in, opened the door, and went to the dresser to retrieve his lecture notes. As he reached for them, he was halted by his reflection in the mirror. Looking more closely, particularly at his eyes, he searched for signs of disturbance. Not exactly a clinical assessment, he knew, but he had always believed that the eyes were telling.
In his case, he saw nothing but exhaustion, bright blue irises surrounded by red lines, attesting to the less than three hours sleep he’d had the night before. He backed away from the mirror to see more of himself. He had never dwelled much on his appearance, but meeting a beautiful woman changes things.
That daily five-mile run was paying off. Thirty-five years old, a thirty-four waist, and a healthy head of dark hair were nothing to sneeze at. Of course, there were some strands of gray popping up, and a few creases above his cheekbones. But all in all, he couldn’t complain.
Bothered by his sudden preoccupation, he picked up his notes, turned away from the mirror, and noticed that the light on the bedside phone was blinking. He had two messages. The first one, he was expecting: “Hi Daddy, good morning. It’s Saturday, so I don’t have school. Love you, and come home soon!”
He smiled. His daughter, Elizabeth, just 4 years old, was already sounding like a grown up. After another beep, the tape continued for a few seconds with the silent sound of someone about to say something. Then a click. His smile disappeared; he knew it was Nancy, and understood why she was compelled to call yet had nothing to say. His mind drifted back to the previous evening.
It had been raining hard. Sheets of water crashed against the windows of the hotel bar. He sat alone at a table, nursing his Glenlivet, studying the menu. He had flown in that morning, had attended several symposia and lectures throughout the day, and was planning a quick dinner and an early night. That was when he saw her.
She sat at the bar, looking like one of those women he used to see in Ivory Soap commercials: Auburn hair, short and layered; slightly freckled skin; large eyes; the kind of nose some would pay for; full lips; and long legs. Her figure was hidden beneath a conservative beige business suit, but he was still able to tell that she took good care of herself.
The place was crowded – most of the conventioneers were stranded in the hotel due to the weather – and he noticed that she wasn’t with anyone. He figured that she must be waiting for someone. Women who look that good are seldom alone. He stared for a while, couldn’t help himself, but soon became self-conscious and returned to his drink.
Nothing on the menu seemed to grab him, and the noise of the crowd was grating after half a day of airports and flying. He decided to finish his drink, go upstairs and order room service. He paid the check, gathered his papers and got up to leave. As he headed for the exit, he turned one last time in her direction and noticed that she was gone. He looked around for a moment, then saw her coming up behind him. He opened the door and held it for her.
“Thank you,” she said with a slight smile.
He saw now that she had chestnut eyes, a perfect touch to an already flawless package. “You’re welcome,” he replied.
They walked awkwardly toward the elevators and he pressed the button. They waited in silence. He glanced at her name tag: Dr. Nancy Hartledge, San Francisco, CA.
“You’re here for the APA convention?” he asked.
“Yes.” She smiled again, this time showing her teeth. She eyed his tag. “You’re Martin Rosen! I’ve heard of you.”
“The one and only. I think.”
She chuckled.
A bell sounded as the elevator door opened. “Here’s our ride,” Martin said.
She was about to step in, but hesitated. “Tell me, Dr. Rosen, do you have any idea where a person can get a real Chicago pizza?”
Martin stiffened at what he suspected was an invitation. At one time in his life, Chicago-style pizza had been his specialty, as had knowing how to handle a come-on from a strange, beautiful woman. “My friends call me Marty,” he responded as the elevator door closed in their faces.
“There goes our ride,” she said.
Martin smiled.
“About the pizza?”
“Well, there’s a place on Superior Street that’s pretty famous, Gino’s East.”
She looked directly into his eyes, and softly asked, “Care to join me?”
They caught a cab and, ten minutes later, found themselves sitting in Gino’s East. Martin looked around the restaurant, noticing that its appearance hadn’t changed in the years since he’d last been here. The interior was completely unfinished, something akin to a large camp bunk, with past patrons’ names marking up the bare wood walls and ceilings. There was a healthy crowd despite the storm outside.
“I hope the food’s better than the decor,” Nancy said, looking around.
“I guarantee it. Best there is.”
The waitress came for their orders.
“Medium deep dish, the works,” he said to the waitress.
“The works?” Nancy asked.
“Trust me.”
Nancy ordered a Diet Coke and Martin got a Sam Adams. He thought it wise to ease up on the Scotch for a little while.
The waitress left and a stilted moment came upon them, as if each had suddenly realized they were total strangers. Nancy looked at the ceiling. “How did they get their names up there?”
“A ladder, I guess. Standing on the table wouldn’t do.”
“Not unless you’re eight feet tall.” She looked at him again. “I saw in the schedule that you’re giving a lecture tomorrow.”
“I saw that too.”
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“Really though, the topic, confidentiality, it’s a good one. There’s a lot to say about it these days. That’s what your book is about, isn’t it?”
“You mean to say you haven’t read it?”
“Sorry.”
“I knew there was someone, somewhere.”
“But I have heard of it at least.”
The waitress returned with their drinks, a basket of bread and a tossed salad for them to share. Martin took a sip and began doling out the salad. He was surprised at the pleasure he was taking in her company.
He skillfully shifted the conversation to her, and discovered that she was a child psychologist who split her time between hospital work and private practice. She seemed comfortable and enthusiastic discussing her work, a trait that Martin envied. He was tempted to mention the nightmares his daughter, Elizabeth, had been having but stopped himself. That was a can of worms. And he already knew what was causing the nightmares anyway.
The pizza arrived, oozing cheese, pepperoni and anchovies, and was quickly devoured. To top things off, they each had a cappuccino and shared a tiramisu. The intimacy of sharing aroused Martin. He wanted her, all right, about as much as he wanted her to disappear. He made a mental note to contact his own shrink as soon as he got home.
As they left the restaurant, another brief moment of awkwardness struck. The sky had cleared and they walked north on Rush Street, where jazz and pop music clubs had opened up to the sidewalks. From a block away, an old Sinatra tune emanated from Jilly’s, one of the city’s more historied nightspots. Martin felt his heart drop; the sights and sounds stirred painful memories.
“Sounds like a fun place,” Nancy said.
“It is if you like Sinatra, Bennett, and Sammy Davis.”
“You mean that’s Jilly’s?”
“’Tis. The ‘chairman of the board’ himself used to hang out there.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Sounds like you’re a fan.”
“Of Sinatra, who wouldn’t be? Sexiest man ever.”
“Sexier than Elvis?” he asked.
“No contest!”
“Come,” he said, gesturing toward the club. “Let’s see if we can get near the place.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.” She took his hand as they crossed the street.
Lucky for them, the downpour had kept a lot of people at home, and they were able to gain entry without a reservation. They worked their way through the crowd and managed to find a table in the back next to the keyboard player, a heavyset black man with a goatee and a raspy voice. A waitress descended upon them immediately. For Martin, it was Glenlivet time again; for Nancy, the house champagne.
“So, come here often?” Nancy said, smiling.
“Oh, I’d say every fifteen years or so.”
“That long, huh?”
He nodded.
She looked at him. And as if she could read the anguish inside him, she put her hand on his. “You okay?”
He hesitated. “Sure.”
She left it alone. The keyboard player was singing “Under My Skin,” and she started humming along.
“Sounds like he’s gonna do Sinatra all night,” Martin said.
“Doesn’t bother me.”
“Let’s see if he takes requests.” Martin turned around and said something to the keyboard player.
“Does he?” Nancy asked.
“If I told you, it would spoil all the fun.”
A few seconds later, the keyboard player started singing: If I don’t see her, each day I miss her. Gee, what a thrill, each time I kiss her…
Nancy blushed. It couldn’t have been a more perfect choice.
Martin smiled, his first truly comfortable smile of the evening.
Believe me I’ve got a case, of Nancy, with the laughing face…
“You’re a romantic, Dr. Martin Rosen. No one would ever know it, but I do now.”
“Our little secret?”
“Cross my heart, but only if we dance.”
Martin looked around. “There’s no one dancing.”
“So what?” She stood up, led him by the hand, and began moving to the music.
The moment seemed to grab him, to restore in him something he hadn’t felt in a long time. They held each other tightly as other couples followed their lead and also started dancing.
“And a trendsetter to boot,” Nancy said.
Martin had no response. He was lost.
They danced till the keyboard player took his break, then returned to their table.
“So, what’s a guy like you doing unattached? You are unattached, I assume?” Nancy asked uneasily.
“Completely.”
She lightened up. “And the answer to my first question is?”
“A very long story,” he answered soberly.
She looked into his eyes. “A sad story?”
“Yes.”
She reached out and touched his cheek. “I’ll stop asking questions.”
“It’s okay.”
“I know, but I’ll stop anyway.”
He looked back into her eyes. “You do have a laughing face.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
They stayed until the club closed, then caught a cab back to the hotel. They sat in the back seat, the alcohol and music wearing off, and the reality that they lived on opposite sides of the country settling in. Tomorrow, after his lecture, Martin would be on a plane to New York, and later that week, Nancy would return to San Francisco. When – and if – they would ever see each other again was an issue neither wished to broach.
They exited the cab and entered the hotel. It was after four in the morning and the lobby was empty.
“Well, I guess this is it,” Nancy said.
Martin responded with a somber look.
The elevator came, and they stepped in. Martin pressed his floor and was about to press Nancy’s, when she grabbed his hand. “I don’t think either of us wants to say goodnight just yet.”
He looked at her and realized that he no longer had any choice in this thing. For more than two years, he had been numb to women. And now, standing next to him, Nancy Hartledge of San Francisco, whom he had just met, was causing all that to change. From the moment he had laid eyes on her, he knew he was in trouble.
They went into his room and fell into each other’s arms before the door closed. Their mouths connected in a deep, long kiss, their hands grasping at each other’s clothing. Martin felt himself rise. He had forgotten such a wanting; it had been much too long.
Nancy pressed up against him, pulling him closer, unbuttoning his shirt. Her blouse was a pullover, necessitating a momentary, painful break in contact as he peeled it off. It wasn’t until she started at his belt buckle that he suddenly retreated.
“What, Marty, what is it?” she asked, reaching for him as he stepped back.
“I can’t, I’m sorry. I just can’t do this.” He took her hands in his and looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he repeated tenderly, trying to pull himself together.
His sadness somehow infected her. “It’s okay,” she said, squeezing his hands.
He reached down, picked up her blouse, and handed it to her. Looking at her, he took a deep breath and said, “I think you’d better go.”
With that, her sympathy transformed into anger. “Yes, I suppose I should.” She threw her blouse on, picked up her bag and walked past him to the door. “I hope you figure your life out, Marty,” she said. “I can see that you’re confused and in pain.” Her eyes were watering. “I hope you fix that one day.”
And she was gone.
Now he felt he was unraveling, wondering if she would actually attend his lecture, knowing her presence would only distract him. He sat down and tried concentrating on his notes, then got up and walked to the
window. From here, he could see across the river and much of Michigan Avenue. Once again, he was reminded of Katherine, of the endless strolls they used to take along Michigan Avenue, their times at the beach, their evenings on Rush Street. He wasn’t sure if it was Nancy Hartledge or the view; either way, this town was getting to him.
He realized that any normal man would have relished a night with Nancy, would have extended his stay just to have more time with her. But he wasn’t normal, hadn’t been for the past two years, and wasn’t going to be anytime soon.
He thought of calling his daughter, Elizabeth, but decided to wait till after the lecture when his mind would be clearer. He felt guilty for leaving her alone with the nanny; it was the first time he had done that since her mother had died. But she was in good hands, he assured himself.
He still had time, so he picked up the phone, dialed his office, and grabbed a pen and pad to write down messages. The first three messages were from patients, two current, one prospective. Nothing urgent. He scribbled the names and numbers on the pad, he would return those calls on Monday morning. Then came the fourth message: “Hi Marty, it’s Ashok Reddy. I know you’re still away, but I’m sure you will call in for messages. Anyway, I have a case that has your name written all over it. A real mystery of sorts; nobody here can make heads or tails of it. And wait till you hear who the patient is. Give me a ring.”
It was typical of Reddy to whet his appetite like that, he thought, looking at his watch. As enticed as he was to call Reddy on the spot, he had run out of time. His audience awaited him.
Martin scanned the crowd as the chairperson approached the podium. It was five minutes after the hour, and these things usually began on time. He didn’t see Nancy Hartledge and, strangely enough, that bothered him.
