If You Could Read My Mind

by Jeanie London

  Unfortunately, she didn’t get a chance to think about it because she had to deal with her own goings-on.

  She felt a pang of guilt for not telling Michael why she was going back to the radiologist today. Her second visit in less than a month.

  Then again, he hadn’t asked. Nor had he asked about the outcome of her mammogram, although she’d told him she’d gone in for that, too.

  He hadn’t even told her he was going swimming.

  Besides, one abnormal mammogram was not something to freak about, her doctor had told her when ordering this follow-up visit to the radiologist for an ultrasound.

  Jillian had chosen to follow his advice.

  She had a lump, but there were all sorts of lumps, most of them not breast cancer. Today’s ultrasound would go a long way toward telling them which hers was.

  And once she knew what was going on and what the doctors recommended as treatment, she’d inform Michael.

  Or when he acted the tiniest bit interested.

  Whichever came first.

  TO MICHAEL’S RELIEF his new superpower didn’t work on any woman but his wife. Damn stroke of luck because all through the day as he’d been working on his patients while trying to convince himself he hadn’t gone crazy, he kept remembering a chick-flick he’d seen with Jillian. Mel Gibson, who normally starred in decent movies, had been zapped by something or other that had let him hear the thoughts of every woman he saw.

  Just the thought of his office and all those women, staff and patients alike…

  But a day spent listening to his wife’s interior monologue had also given Michael perspective. Now after Jillian had gone to bed on his first day as a husband with a superpower, he had a plan. Heading into their home office, he went straight for the only place he might find answers—the computer.

  If Hollywood had made a movie about a man who could hear inside women’s heads, then Michael couldn’t be the first man with the ability.

  Google was the place to find out.

  Forty-five minutes and what felt like a thousand hits later, and Michael was forced to accept he must be the only person besides Mel Gibson ever to have this power—the only sane one anyway. There’d been a guy in Tucson who’d heard what women were thinking, along with domestic animals and urban wildlife.

  Sinking back in the chair, Michael massaged his temples, trying to ease the ache growing there. It wasn’t yet midnight, and he stared at the blog of the guy from Tucson, still telling himself he wasn’t crazy. Not as crazy as this nut anyway.

  Okay, so he could hear inside Jillian’s head. Where did that leave him?

  He’d never realized that his beautiful and caring wife was so chillingly matter-of-fact. A real testimony to her impulse control, Michael thought. If so much cynicism accompanied all her thoughts, then she did an amazing job of keeping it to herself. All these years and he’d had no idea she possessed such a wry view of life, or of him.

  As much as he wanted to head to bed, close his eyes and pretend he still might wake up from this nightmare, Michael wasn’t so optimistic. He’d thought about telling Jillian. She usually managed to shed valuable light on anything that came up. They shared everything…correction—he’d thought they’d shared everything. The memory of the leather…

  No, until he had a lead on what was happening, he’d decided not to say anything. He didn’t think she’d question his sanity, but wasn’t willing to risk it. Yesterday, he wouldn’t have had a question. But today…If his disturbingly pragmatic wife thought she acted in his best interests, he might find himself in a hospital attached to a thorazine drip.

  Cradling his head in his hands, Michael massaged his temples and tried to think. If he was going to develop a superpower at this late date, why couldn’t it be something useful like super-improved brain power? Maybe he could have figured out how to satisfy his wife properly. He’d been hearing her thoughts all day and hadn’t figured out how to use the information…

  Or had he?

  He did a Google search on women’s fantasies and started at the top, idly surfing page after page of information.

  Women’s fantasies are a normal part of sexuality. They can signal a deeper meaning that may be uncomfortable or socially unacceptable, so a woman’s forbidden fantasies may only be available in her imagination. Any fantasy that increases desire for a partner is considered healthy, whether the fantasy can transition into the physical world or not.

  Okay, Michael got that part. If Jillian was looking for a thrill, she would never suggest a trip to a public place—not when they knew practically every law-enforcement officer in the county. She would never risk a permanent page on the sheriff’s Web site, where everyone in Natchez could type in her name, pull up her mug shot and learn she’d been busted for lewd and lascivious at Eastbrook Square Mall.

  That left her to explore her fantasies in her imagination, so he searched the meanings behind women’s fantasies.

  Men’s and women’s fantasies are more alike than previously believed. Both sexes fantasize most often about being intimate with their current partner. Men’s fantasies tend to be more visual and get to the sex acts more quickly. Women’s tend to involve more foreplay and tactile stimulation. More importantly, women’s fantasies tend to focus on the relationship dynamics between couples.

  Michael would certainly agree with that assessment after being treated to a front-row seat at the leather one. Jillian had gone wild in his arms, so there was no denying the fantasy of more foreplay and tactile stimulation had enhanced the relationship dynamic between them. He wasn’t going to dwell on the fact that she’d done things he’d never thought about doing with her—she’d been fantasizing about him, after all.

  Michael hadn’t been in top form last night anyway. Once he’d realized he could hear inside her head, his body had gone on autopilot. Now that he thought about it, the fact that he’d been able to make love to her at all had been pretty impressive. How many guys wouldn’t have been able to keep it up when facing as many shocks as he had last night?

  The thought made him feel better.

  But he still wanted to understand what need she might be trying to fill.

  Typing in Exhibitionism Fantasies, he grimaced when the screen kicked back a variety of fetish sites. He managed to dredge his way through those to some sites that provided a more psychological overview by experts on fantasies rather than a daily delivery into his e-mail box of graphic images that made his hair stand on end. Apparently there were a lot of fantasies women shared in common.

  Strangers in the night: or taking a walk on the wild side

  The more the merrier: or the security of being comfortable with one’s body

  Place me on display: or the confidence to arouse others

  Sexually ravaged: or the competent woman relinquishes control

  Okay, this is exactly what he was looking for—specific fantasies and the reasons behind them.

  So what category had her fantasy fallen under?

  Strangers in the night seemed obvious. Although Jillian fantasized about him, in her imagination he’d been a stranger who’d pulled up on a motorcycle and dared her to climb on.

  He read the narrative on the deeper meaning of this fantasy, about how a moral and spiritual woman might find taking a walk on the wild side a liberating experience.

  Michael could see the appeal. Jillian had a strong moral center. She’d been raised to believe the best about people and help whenever she was able. Her upbringing had molded her into a bit of a crusader.

  Okay, when he thought about Camp Cavelier and the Main Street Rehab Project, Michael conceded she was more than a bit.

  Definitely not the More the Merrier—thank God! But Place Me on Display and Sexually Ravaged both had possibilities.

  Having the confidence to arouse others wasn’t something he’d have thought Jillian would care about. Then again she had made comments about her appearance lately. She’d even mentioned her metabolism slowing down. Seemed reasonable to think sh
e wanted to feel better about her appearance—and his.

  She’d just turned thirty. Was she feeling her age? She hadn’t said anything to him. In fact, her birthday had been pretty low-key because she’d been knee-deep in negotiations over the purchase of Camp Cavelier. The reasoning had possibilities, but as he hadn’t been a mind reader until yesterday…

  The competent woman relinquishing control fitted perfectly. Michael could definitely see the appeal—especially as she’d been buried inside one of her crusades. Was indulging in fantasy a way for her to take a mental break? If so, was there anything that he should be doing to help her?

  Should he ask?

  Some women can feel uncomfortable about their fantasies bridging the distance between imagination and physical.

  Well, if Earnest Wernberger, Ph.D., renowned researcher of women’s fantasies for the past two decades said there might be a problem, Michael would wait until he had more information before opening his mouth.

  The following week

  “DR. MICHAEL gets the first bite.” Widow Serafine used her ladle to brush his hand away from the bowl. “After he says the blessing, of course. Can’t forget to thank the Lord for good health, good food and all this wonderful company.”

  Michael folded his spoon into a palm, wondering if the widow intended to make the troops of campers pray before they attacked each meal. That was something he’d like to see. “Thanks, Lord, for meeting our needs today. And thanks most especially for good health, good food and wonderful company.”

  “Amen,” everyone said in chorus.

  “Now eat up, Dr. Michael, and tell me if that isn’t the best gumbo ever to warm your tongue. If you like it, I know everyone else will.”

  “It smells wonderful,” Brandi, the newest hygienist, said.

  “I thought the smell was that incense.” He pointed to the small bowl of smoldering blue powder currently residing beside the sink. “A bayou luncheon ritual?”

  Widow Serafine winked. “A little something extra. Thought it was a good idea to ask our Blessed Mother to keep her eyes on everyone around here. Figured it was the least I could do since y’all have been so welcoming.”

  “Appreciate all the help we can get around here.” Michael wondered what religion this woman practiced and whether he wanted to know enough to ask.

  He didn’t, so he helped himself to a bite of hot soup instead. Oh, man…Closing his eyes, he enjoyed his first taste of real food in nearly a week.

  “Best gumbo you ever ate, Dr. Michael?”

  Wood chips would have probably tasted good right now since he hadn’t eaten anything but fruits and vegetables in so long. But he didn’t admit that to Widow Serafine. He just met her gaze and exhaled an appreciative sigh. “The best meal I’ve ever eaten. If I don’t make it to the bottom of your pot—and that’s a big if—I’m going to insist you let me take some home.”

  “I brought along plenty of plastic containers so everyone can. Sure did cook enough.”

  No doubt there. She’d not only served up a massive pot of gumbo, but all the side dishes right down to a home-baked key lime pie that taunted him. He’d been good for a week now. Would it kill him to cheat just one day?

  But he had to admit, the combination of a lighter diet and daily lap swims already had him feeling better. Lighter, too, even if he wouldn’t venture onto a scale just yet.

  But someone was going to have to eat all this food, and since everyone was indulging themselves in Widow Serafine’s feast enthusiastically, he might as well join in.

  Jillian caught his gaze over her bowl and smiled.

  He’s so sweet. Even though he isn’t happy about being involved with the camp, he has made Widow Serafine’s whole day.

  Two points for him, Michael thought. But he only returned her smile. He was getting used to hearing her voice inside his head, and finding out what was happening inside her pretty head proved very educational.

  And not all traumatizing—thankfully.

  There were definite benefits to insider information. What Jillian thought and what came out of her mouth frequently weren’t one and the same. He’d been taking advantage big-time. Knowing what she was thinking meant knowing all the right questions to ask.

  “So how are things going at the camp?” he asked Widow Serafine. If Jillian thought he was sweet, he’d run with the opportunity to look even better.

  “Things are going great, Dr. Michael.” Widow Serafine replaced the lid on a crock filled with rice. “Ike’s been showing Raphael around. He’s already tending to the horses and making a list of what needs to be done. Figured he’d do best to prioritize before jumping into too much doing.”

  “Sounds like a good plan.”

  Widow Serafine nodded. “We’re all getting to know the place. The boys did pull down the old sign at the road. Seemed like a good place to start. Raphael has been doing the building, and Philip’s taken charge of carving the camp logo.”

  “Turns out that Philip has a knack with a wood burner, too,” Jillian added. “You won’t believe the new sign. It’s positively gorgeous.”

  “The boy sure does have a gift,” Widow Serafine agreed. “When the power went out after the hurricane, everyone in Bayou Doré lined up to borrow him. I swear he could start a fire with two sticks. Went through quite a spell when he was younger.”

  Oh, please don’t let Philip start a forest fire. I really don’t need to give Michael another reason to think I can’t handle this camp.

  Huh? A spoonful of gumbo curbed Michael’s impulse to react. His objection to buying the camp had never been about whether or not Jillian could handle the workload—if anyone could, she was that person—but about the cost. And not just the money. Their lives were already busy enough. Too busy, he was now realizing as he’d been trying to carve out some time to work out.

  He wasn’t sure why Jillian thought otherwise, and filed that piece of inside information away for further consideration.

  When he had time, of course, always in short supply.

  “Marie-Louise is already planning the menu,” Widow Serafine explained. “Ike showed us what the cooks have been serving up, and it’s a wonder you’ve got campers coming at all. Canned baked beans? Thought I was going to swoon. We should serve traditional Southern food. Give everyone a taste of old home.”

  “There are a lot of campers, Widow Serafine. Sounds like a lot of cooking.”

  “Pshaw. Marie-Louise has been helping me feed the folks in Bayou Doré since she came to live there. Before that she was helping her granny feed a bunch of hungry ranch hands. And from what Mrs. Jillian tells me about the junior counselor program, we’ll have plenty of assistants. Those young ’uns will all be taking turns in the kitchen, so we’ve got to teach them right.”

  “True enough.” Michael knew firsthand how the program worked because he’d survived it. He’d peeled so many potatoes during his reign his hands still hurt thinking about it.

  But all three years of training had been worth the effort once he’d gotten to spend the summer between his junior and senior years in the exalted position of cabin counselor. Under his rule, Company Thirteen had racked up more awards than any year since the camp opened, a record that still held today.

  Michael knew because he’d checked as soon as the ink had dried on the title papers.

  There’d been one perk to buying the place.

  Two, actually. This old bayou granny sure could cook, and by the time he’d decided to trade his diet for the key lime pie, Michael knew the campers were going to be a lucky bunch this summer, whether or not they wound up peeling potatoes.

  “You be sure to invite me for lunch on the camp’s monthly visiting day,” he told Widow Serafine, after they’d helped dole out the leftovers.

  “You own the place, Dr. Michael. You can come for a meal anytime.” She eyed him with a grin. “I doubt you’ll eat up all the profits from the looks of you.”

  Which was exactly what he needed to hear as he’d just fallen off the w
agon with his diet. And with a smile, he maneuvered the cooler in his arms until he could shove open the back door to let Widow Serafine get through. But she stopped halfway through, shaking a bottle around the doorway.

  “Just another extra,” she assured him. “A few sprinkles of holy water to bless your place.”

  Jillian only smiled, but Michael could hear her thinking.

  Probably a good thing there isn’t a church within walking distance of the camp. I can see Widow Serafine spit-polishing the campers on Sunday mornings and filing them off for services.

  Michael stood rooted to the spot in his newly blessed doorway, hands clutching the cooler. He might not understand how he’d developed the ability to hear Jillian’s thoughts, but he could pinpoint when his new superpower had started—the day Widow Serafine had shown up at his office with a broken bridge.

  The following day

  JILLIAN UNDERSTOOD why Michael drove his own car to the clinic. He’d started swimming, which meant he went to the pool during lunch. He felt better, so she should do whatever she could to support him. That was her job as a wife. While he hadn’t been playing from the same rulebook about Camp Cavelier, he had opened the door to finding a resolution.

  Even though he hadn’t once mentioned the subject in the week since they’d made up from their argument.

  But Rome hadn’t been built in a day and resolving this problem wouldn’t happen that quickly, either. She needed to trust that Michael hadn’t forgotten.

  Even though he forgot everything else.

  She cautioned herself to patience, but when he told her, “I’ve got an errand to run after work tonight, Jilly, so don’t expect me home until late,” and offered no other explanation, she found her patience tested big-time.

  And when she overheard the new hygienist discussing Michael with their long-time hygienist, red flags started flying.

  Jillian had happened across the conversation innocently enough. She’d been hidden away in the records room that doubled as her office, hashing out some unpaid claims with an insurance company. The last of the morning patients were filing out the door by the time she emerged from insurance-company hell.