“Didn’t say.” The phone rings. Willa stretches across my desk and grabs it. After a short conversation, she hangs up. “That was Mrs. Smythe, your two o’clock. She and her daughter Halee can’t make it this afternoon.” Worry creases her forehead. “Or any other Tuesday, apparently. She canceled their standing appointment.”
My stomach stops growling; I’m suddenly too filled with anxiety to be hungry. “Did she say why?”
“She mentioned the scandal.”
That word again.
“Said she heard about it on LIVE With Regis and Kelly yesterday.”
“Regis and Kelly?”
“Don’t you know?” Willa plants a hand on her hip. “You’re famous, girl. They talked about everything on the program yesterday. Parkview. That poor old guy taking too much Viagra. You and that book.”
“I don’t want fame, I want patients. Get me Mrs. Smythe’s number, would you? I want to call her back.”
When Mrs. Smythe answers, I ask her straight out if she’s dissatisfied with the progress Halee’s made since we started meeting.
“This is difficult for me to say to you, Ms. Dupree. Maybe I’m wrong to judge, but with all I’m hearing on television and seeing in the papers and in magazines, I’ve lost trust in your advice. Face it, your daughter’s as big a mess as mine.”
She’s dead wrong about that, but no way am I going to beg this woman or anyone else to continue using me as a therapist. Don’t get me wrong, I want to, at least a part of me does. For the sake of my career, my mortgage and Erin’s college fund, I want to plead and reason and grapple until Mrs. Smythe takes pity on me. Instead, I grasp on to the threadbare remains of my dignity, wish her well, and hang up.
The second the receiver is down, the phone rings again. Willa looks as antsy as I feel when she picks up. “Cecilia Dupree’s office…yes, sir…I’m sorry to hear that. Would you like to reschedule on a different date?” She looks away from me. “I see…No, I understand.”
Willa lowers the receiver to the cradle and her butt to the edge of my desk. “Tomorrow’s ten o’clock just cancelled.” Her troubled gaze meets mine. “Lord, girl, what’s going on?”
“They’re pulling out because of all the negative publicity.”
“Surely they know you better.”
“Can you blame them? My marriage fell apart, my mother is acting like a teenager, my seventeen-year-old daughter sneaks around behind my back and lies to me, my dog needs Prozac and I can’t stop stuffing my face.”
Shoving the diet shake aside, I open the bottom desk drawer, revealing my secret stash of Reese’s Chocolate Peanut Butter Cups. “If I can’t solve my own problems, why should anyone believe I could help them solve theirs?”
After dinner alone yet again, Max and I sit in front of the TV and channel surf. Mom and Oliver went out to eat and to a movie. Erin opted for fast food with Suzanna over Tex-Mex with me. I’m just glad she’s stopped the silent treatment. We still haven’t talked things out, and I know I should insist she either confess her sins or be grounded the rest of her life, but I’ve decided to ease up. Bide my time. She’s had a lot to deal with lately; we both have. I can’t force her to talk to me. Nor can I watch her every second of the day and night, like I informed Bert. And I refuse to bar the windows.
I pause on Extreme Makeover and watch until the first commercial.
“Tonight at ten,” a familiar local newscaster announces, “join us for all the latest on the Parkview Manor sex scandal….”
All the latest? There’s more I don’t know? I turn off the set.
Picking up a magazine that came in the mail today, I flip through pages of ads for cosmetics, articles about facial peels, lip enhancements, Botox injections. Soon the world will be full of Mrs. Stein clones. A scary thought.
I read a couple of paragraphs about the Botox, then go look in the mirror, scrutinizing my laugh lines, the deepening frown groove between my brows. Maybe if I didn’t go overboard, a quick trip to the plastic surgeon would be okay. A little touch-up couldn’t hurt, could it? Especially if my current trend continues and the only men who interest me are so young they’ve never seen or even heard of an eight-track tape.
Sick of myself, I leave the mirror and head for my closet for warm clothes. A walk, that’s what I need. What I don’t need is to look twenty-something again. I was a confused wreck back then. Forty-one is a much happier place. At least it would be if Bert hadn’t screwed up. Or, more accurately, if he hadn’t screwed the Butterfield girl.
Bundled up in a coat, earmuffs and gloves, I leash Max and head out. It’s been a while since we walked and it shows on both of us. I decide on our usual route, down to the end of our street, turn left to the park, circle it, then return to our street and head back to the house.
A chill nips the air, but it’s more invigorating than uncomfortable. Max must disagree. He’s sluggish as we run through the training manual routine. After once around the park, I decide to walk a couple more blocks rather than head home, hoping to perk him up. When I try to pass by our street, though, Max puts on the brakes and glues his butt to the sidewalk.
I tug his leash. “Come on, boy. We’re adding some variety to our routine.”
He tugs back, looks at our street, then back to me.
“Don’t be such a fuddy-duddy. I swear, I must be rubbing off on you.” I tug again and, when he doesn’t budge, I walk over to him and squat so that we’re eye-to-eye. “Look buster, I’m the boss here, and I say move it. Understand?”
He lays a slobbery dog kiss on my cheek.
I stand. “Look at us, Max. Out of shape, lethargic.” Scared to death of all these changes in our lives. “It’s time we stop moping around and get back on track. What do you say? Come on. Let’s do it.”
Again, I tug the leash. No deal.
“Fine then. Be that way. I thought I could at least count on you not to make my life difficult.” I drop the leash and start walking the direction I want to go. “Run home if that’s what you want to do,” I yell as I walk away with my back to him.
Max barks, so I look over my shoulder at him while I continue to walk. He’s still perched right where I left him. “Sit there until your butt goes numb. See if I care.”
I turn in time to see the curb, too late to stop my next step off of it. Stumbling, I cry out. My right ankle twists as I fall.
Max comes running, dragging his leash behind him. He circles me in a prancing panic, barking and licking my face. I try to stand, but it hurts so much that I sink to the ground and squeeze my eyes shut tight to stop the tears.
Pushing to my hands and knees, I crawl to the corner and grab hold of the Stop sign pole. I pull myself up onto my left foot, take a breath, try my weight on the right one. I jerk my hurt foot up again. “Ow, ow, ow!”
Max barks and stares at me.
“Sure, now you’re sorry.” Holding tight to the pole, I bend and grab his leash. I hop three steps on my left foot, put my right foot down to rebalance, wince and squeal, pick it up, hop three more steps. Headlights turn the corner and approach. A welcome sight, though I feel like an idiot.
Nate’s Porsche pulls to a stop alongside me. He rolls down the window and I hop over and lean against the trunk. “What happened?” He gets out and helps me around to the passenger side. Max jumps into the floorboard at my feet.
“I twisted my ankle.”
Nate goes back around and slides behind the wheel. “Want to tell me about it?”
“Not really.” Crossing my arms, I stare out the window and sulk. “So, you just happened to be cruising my neighborhood?”
“Haven’t heard from you lately. I called your office. Willa said you went home early again.”
“No reason to stay. All my patients are bailing thanks to my sudden sorry reputation.”
For several seconds, he doesn’t say anything, then, “I tried your house. The phone’s been busy all afternoon and evening.”
“It’s off the hook. Too many calls wanting my side of t
he story.”
He takes off in the direction of home. “I want to talk to you about the case.” When I shoot him a skeptical glare he says, “No, really. I have an idea.” He pulls into my driveway. “Are your mother and Erin home?”
“No. Some people in this family actually have a social life.”
“My, we’re in a cheery mood, aren’t we?”
“Sorry. Mother’s out with Oliver. Erin’s studying at Suzanna’s.”
I’m close to tears as Nate helps me into the house with Max at his heels. It’s not just the ankle. Everything in my life feels out of my control. What happened to the together woman I was two years ago? I’m tired of this gloomy cloud hanging over my head, tired of getting pelted with grapefruit-sized hailstones.
Nate checks out my swelling ankle and decides no bones are broken. I direct him to the bathroom cabinet for an ice pack and an Ace bandage.
When I’m settled on the sofa, my ankle wrapped, iced down and propped on a pillow on the ottoman in front of me, Nate sits at my side.
“I’ve been talking to Everett about your case.”
“Your brother?”
“Yeah.”
“What does he say?”
“He’d like to represent you.”
“But that’s your job.”
“The ethics, remember? It’s clear you’re not comfortable mixing business with pleasure. And when I think about it rationally, I know you’re right.”
“Nate…” He smells like shaving cream. God, I love that scent on a man. I want to bury my nose in his neck and take deep breaths. “I thought we agreed to keep our personal relationship at a handshake level?”
“CiCi…” Nate scoots closer, hooks a strand of hair behind my ear. “As much as I want this case, I want you more. Everett and I aren’t legally partners. We’re sole proprietors. There isn’t anything unethical about getting involved with your brother’s client. And Everett’s a great attorney.” He grins. “Almost as brilliant as me.”
He keeps talking. I listen, but my mind returns again and again to three little words. “You want me?” If he doesn’t say yes, I’ll be forced to eat an entire carton of double-chunk chocolate.
Nate shuts up and grins wider. “That’s what I said. So…what do you say?”
I place my hand at the back of his neck, bring his face close to mine. “I say, you’re fired.”
CHAPTER 23
When the alarm goes off at seven, I cover my head with a pillow and swing blindly at the radio to stop the buzzer. Why get up? Yesterday, all my appointments for today cancelled. Other than my three o’clock, that is. You-Can-Call-Me-Hank. What a guy. The only patient I have left, and he doesn’t even really want therapy, or need it. What he wants, and thinks he needs, is a sparkly woman on his arm to match his sparkly gold neck chain.
With the buzzer silenced, I burrow deeper into the covers and clear my mind. Or try to. Music flows into my room through the ceiling vent. Erin’s alarm. I press the pillow tighter against my head.
A memory of Bert surfaces. The two of us in this very bed when we had the old mattress, muffling our laughter while trying out every position we can think of that won’t make the springs squeak so Erin won’t hear us through the vent.
Groaning, I throw the pillow aside and sit up. No more thinking about Bert and the old days. Get over it. Be a big girl and move on. Quit being a victim. That’s what I’d tell a patient. Not so bluntly, but the message would be the same.
The phone rings as I limp into the bathroom on my sore ankle. I decide to let Mother or Erin pick up. I’ve just stuck my toothbrush into my mouth when someone knocks at the door.
“Mom, it’s for you.”
I poke my head out the door. “Who is it?” I ask, the brush still in my mouth.
“Nathan Colby,” she whispers, extending the cordless phone.
I stare at it and continue brushing.
Erin frowns. “Where’s Nana?”
“Isn’t she cooking breakfast?” I say around the brush.
“No, and she isn’t in her room. The bed’s made.”
“Go look out front. Maybe she went to get the paper and ran into Mrs. Stein.”
Glaring, Erin jabs the phone at me. “Mom, I’m going to be late. Here.”
Choice time.
Three nights ago after I fired Nate, we ended up in my bedroom. Wouldn’t you know it? Erin picked that night as the first one in months to be home by eight. The slam of her car door interrupted us before any clothes came off. I’m thankful for that. And not. Thankful, because getting in over my head with him so soon, before we really thought it through, would’ve been a mistake. Not thankful, because right or wrong, I wanted to make that hot, sweaty, irresistible mistake.
Turning, I spit into the sink, rinse my mouth, then face Erin again. She fidgets, huffs, rolls her eyes. I take the phone and close the bathroom door.
“Hello, Nate.”
“Okay, what’s the deal? Am I that bad of a kisser?”
I recall the feel of his mouth on mine and a hot wave of want almost makes me stagger. I lean against the sink. “You’re the best kisser I’ve ever kissed.”
“You sure? Because if I’m not, we can practice until I get it right.”
I smile. “In that case, you’re terrible.”
He chuckles. “How’s the ankle?”
“Better. Still a little tender, though.”
“Why haven’t you answered my calls?”
I stare into the mirror at my less than radiant complexion, spot a gray hair at my temple, fumble around in my top drawer until I locate the tweezers. I put on my reading glasses, lean closer to the mirror and see that the hair is pale blond, not gray. A ridiculous surge of relief shoots through me. “How old do you think I am, Nate?”
“I don’t know. Thirty-seven? Thirty-eight?”
“Try forty-one. And you’re…what? Thirty?”
“Thirty-three. So, what are you saying? I’m not experienced enough for you?”
Erin knocks on my door again. “Mom, open up. Look at this.”
“Just a minute,” I say to Nate, then open the door. She hands me a note with Mother’s handwriting scrawled across it, then shrugs and leaves.
Ran an errand with Oliver. Nothing to worry about. Home soon. Left warm sweet rolls in the oven for your breakfast.
Nothing to worry about? Ha! Please tell me they didn’t elope.
Still staring at my mother’s perfect script, I say into the phone, “Sorry about that.”
“Anything wrong?”
“Mother’s AWOL. She left a note saying not to worry. So I won’t.” Yeah, right. “Where were we?”
“You said I’m not experienced enough for you.”
“I didn’t say that.” I slip the reading glasses off of my nose and frown at them. “I was about to say I’m too old for you. You probably never even saw Footloose or danced to the Bee Gees. You probably have perfect up-close vision. What could we possibly have in common?”
“Lust?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Seriously. You’re a young, interesting, sexy, unencumbered guy. You’ve got it together. You could have any hot babe you want. Why me?”
“Because—”
“I’m middle-aged, boring, chubby. A divorced single mother. My life is a mess right now.”
“Boring? The Parkview Manor madam? You’re kidding me, right?”
“Very funny.”
“And you’re not chubby, you’re curvy. I like curvy.” When I start to interrupt, he continues, “I don’t care if you’re forty-one.”
I close my eyes. “My ex is making a fool of himself with a girl seventeen years his junior. I don’t want to follow in his footsteps.”
“I’m eight years behind you, CiCi, not seventeen. So what are you really afraid of?”
Of risking my heart again. Of screwing up. Of getting hurt. I could go on.
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Good. Have dinner with me tonight. It’s
Friday. No work in the morning. We could go to a movie, too.”
A real date. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. “I can’t.”
“Tomorrow night, then.”
I chew the earpiece of my glasses. “I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll call you in the morning. Answer the damn phone. If you don’t, I’ll just come over. There’s no hiding from me. I know where you live.”
An uneasy laugh ripples out of me. “I’ll answer. I promise.”
At eight-thirty Mother’s still not home. I call Willa to tell her I won’t be in until Hank Bocock’s appointment this afternoon. I plan to spend the morning worrying while painting the sunroom daffodil-yellow.
The moment Willa picks up, I hear a television in the background. “Do you have your feet on my desk?” I ask in lieu of a greeting, knowing she’s in my office.
“Girl, you are not going to believe what’s happening around here. The phone was ringing when I walked in a half hour ago and it hasn’t stopped since.”
My heart does a swan dive to the pit of my stomach. “More cancellations?”
“What do you mean? You didn’t have any appointments left to cancel.”
“Didn’t?”
“Now you’re booked solid through Wednesday of next week. Not a one of them under the age of seventy.” Willa hoots. “They’ve been reading about you and the scandal, hearing about you on television. They all say the same thing, CiCi. That they’re behind you.”
“I can’t believe this.”
“I’m telling you, these people are thrilled about what you started at Parkview. They say no one ever takes their matters of the heart seriously. One old gentleman’s driving all the way from Oklahoma City just to bend your ear.”
I sink into a kitchen chair, lift a sweet roll from the pan Erin left on the table, take a bite and wash it down with my diet shake. “So, what? Now I’m the geriatrics’ Dr. Ruth?”
Willa laughs. “Is that so bad? I think—oh…sweet Jesus…oh, my…” She shrieks.
“What? What’s going on?”
“Get to a television set and turn it on channel four. Hurry! They just cut in with a live report.”
Still holding the phone, I run into the den and switch on the set. I flip to four. It must be a job requirement that female news reporters be blond, I think, as the perky, young bomb-shell appears on screen, microphone in hand.
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