by Josie Brown
It was why they were in Dr. Spruill’s office in the first place.
“Look, Bettina, gotta go. I’m…being summoned.” He stood in order to bow grandly to the receptionist.
Unimpressed, the receptionist shook her head.
Ally caught her eye. She was shocked to see the woman’s piteous stare.
Ally wondered, who does she think she is, passing judgment on Brady?
Then it struck her: No, she pities me for being with him.
Well, she’s wrong, Ally reasoned. Sure, Brady can be a pompous ass at times, but he’s also sweet, tender, honest—
And the best father in the world.
In other words, he was the opposite of Ally’s father.
Except for the pompous ass part.
It was something Ally could live with, as long as the rest of him stayed the same.
Taking his hand, she led him into the counselor’s office.
Dr. Sam Spruill’s office was a study in serenity.
The floor, like the walls, was of large-planked knotty pine, but ebony as opposed to its original honeyed hue. The floor was adorned only by a very rough throw rug in the space between the L-shaped sofa and a solitary rocking chair, which stood beside the fireplace flickering with terraced rows of lit candles. Water trickled into the stacked stone cups of the small fountain on the roughhewn table behind the sectional.
Two of the room’s walls were floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the Presidio Park’s forest. A third wall held bookcases filled with primitive sculptures of indigenous origins—of men and women clasped in embraces or in other acts of love.
Dr. Spruill sat behind a glass desk that held only a yellow-lined notepad. When they entered, he stood to greet them. He was almost as tall as Brady, which would mean he was close to six-foot-three inches. His face had few lines. Still, she guessed him to be at least sixty-five.
His long white mane was held back in a man bun, exposing a row of diamond studs pierced on the rim of each of his ears.
He also wore mascara.
He was not what Ally had anticipated. And from the awed look on Brady’s face, he felt the same way.
Dr. Spruill motioned toward the couch. “Please, have a seat.”
“Anywhere?” Brady asked.
Spruill nodded. “Be my guest.”
Ally sighed and shook her head. Brady knew why: she guessed rightly that he was considering the room’s power seat: the rocking chair.
To appease her, he sat in the middle of the couch instead, patting the cushion to his right to encourage her to join him.
Doing the right thing earned him a smile and her place by his side. When she took his hand, he gazed lovingly into her eyes.
She knew Dr. Spruill was watching them. Embarrassed by Brady’s obvious affection for her, she turned away. She didn’t feel as if she’d earned it. Not yet. Not until she conquered the issue that stood in the way of their shared happiness: her fear that he would desert her the way her father had deserted her mother.
She took a deep breath before declaring, “Thank you, Dr. Spruill, for seeing us on such short notice.”
Dr. Spruill took the rocking chair but didn’t sit back into it. Instead, he leaned forward so that he was only a few feet away from them.
“I’m sure it was important. Otherwise, Brady would not have pushed so hard for the appointment.” He smiled gently. “Ally, why don’t you start?”
Ah. Here goes, she thought. Please, God, let me get through this without crying…
“I love Brady with all my heart.” Ally’s voice didn’t tremble—at least, not yet.
Dr. Spruill nodded.
“But…” She wanted to choose her words carefully. She wanted to give the therapist everything possible to help them get over this bump in the road.
Bump? Who was she kidding? It was a chasm of fear that threatened to swallow their future happiness. At this realization, she shook her head, then started again. “But, except for my best friend, Barry—who is gay, and the father of my daughter—I’ve never had a relationship with a man whom I trusted.”
Even as he scribbled on the pad in his lap, Dr. Spruill kept his eyes on Ally. “Not even your father?”
Her chuckle was tepid at best. “Him, least of all! He disappeared when I was a child. He made no attempt to contact either me or my mother.”
“Did she ever remarry?”
Ally shook her head. “She never even dated. She died heartbroken.”
Dr. Spruill nodded sympathetically. “Have you thought about getting in touch with him?” he asked gently.
Brady cleared his throat. “Well…I found him. And I’ve offered to reach out to him on her behalf.”
Hearing this, Dr. Spruill’s eyes opened wide. “Ally, did Brady do this with your consent?”
Ally pursed her lips. Finally, she shook her head. “To be honest, no. In fact…I wasn’t too happy about it.”
Dr. Spruill nodded. “I can understand why.”
“Are you saying I did the wrong thing?” Ally winced at the sharpness in Brady’s tone.
“Again, it’s not for me to say. It’s Ally’s call,” Dr. Spruill countered.
Brady stared at Ally.
She knew he wanted her to defend him. She patted his hand. “I know you wanted to help. I appreciate that, Brady. Truly, I do! But…well, I don’t think my father holds the answer to my problem.”
“That may be the case,” Dr. Spruill said. “But, Ally, isn’t it possible that Brady was right in considering that your father is a viable starting point to resolving your fear of commitment?”
Ally frowned. Her look said it all: Whose side are you on, anyway?
As if reading her mind, Dr. Spruill added, “I agree with you that Brady was wrong to seek out your father without your input, let alone your permission—”
“Gee, thanks, Doc,” Brady grumbled.
Ignoring him, Dr. Spruill continued: “But now that you know where the man is, would it hurt to confront him, to hear his side of what happened?”
“What can he say? He left! He never contacted me! I didn’t hide from him! I became successful without him—”
“Would it give you satisfaction to say this to him?” Dr. Spruill asked.
“Yeah, sure,” she admitted. “For about two minutes. And then I’d realize his opinion means nothing to me, for good reason: because he has no right to have one! He has no right to be proud of me.” She stood up. By pacing the room, she hoped she could hide the fact that she was shaking inside. “He forfeited all rights to me and my feelings when he walked out on me.”
Dr. Spruill nodded slowly. “So, you see no need to meet with him, even if it might help your relationship with Brady?”
“I…” Ally glanced at Brady. “I’d do anything to save what we have.” She walked over to Brady and sat down again beside him.
Seeing the tears in her eyes, Brady took her hand in his.
“Ally, you don’t have to do it,” he whispered to her.
“Brady is right,” Dr. Spruill agreed. “You don’t have to do it. But if you choose not to, you’ll never move beyond this issue.”
“But that won’t stop us from loving each other,” Ally insisted.
“You said it yourself, Ally: your issue isn’t the love you share,” Dr. Spruill pointed out. “It’s your inability to trust Brady.”
“I haven’t made it easy for her,” Brady admitted. “When we met, I lied about my marriage. Even when I came clean about my real situation with Jade—the fact that we were divorced—Ally soon learned about my…well, my affair with one of the other mothers in their mommy meet-up group.”
“In all fairness, it was before we became a couple,” she countered with a smile. “It made me think you were…well, horny and desperate. Since then, you’ve been faithful to me.”
“Because I love you.”
“I know,” she whispered as she wiped away a tear.
No one said anything for the longest time. Finally, Ally d
eclared, “Doctor, if you truly think it will help, I’ll meet with my father.”
“To be honest with you, Ally, I don’t know if it will help. But I do know you will be better prepared to confront your past if you do meet with him,” Dr. Spruill replied.
She prayed he was right.
Dr. Spruill rose. “I think we’ve made progress. I’d like to see you next week. If by then you’ve met with your father, we should have a particularly interesting session.”
He held out his hand to Brady first, who shook it firmly. When Dr. Spruill reached for Ally’s hand, she hugged him instead.
He’s wearing CHANEL No. 5, she realized.
Even when they got into the car, she didn’t see the need to mention this to Brady.
Instead, she murmured, “When we get home, give me my father’s number and I’ll call him.”
“If you want, I’ll go with you,” he offered.
Ally shook her head. “Thank you for that, but no need.” She stroked his cheek. “Just be ready to pick up the pieces afterward.”
He kissed her fervently. When they parted, he murmured, “You smell great! New perfume?”
For the first time in too long, she laughed.
Brady frowned, confused. “What? Did I say something funny?”
“No, no!” she sputtered, “It’s nothing.”
Who will have changed more by our next session, she wondered, Dr. Spruill, or me?
Chapter Two
Same day, a half-hour later.
“Mes chères—I’m home!”
Eleanor Morrow Connaught’s declaration was greeted with silence.
As she walked through the various rooms of her home, her surprise turned to annoyance. It was too blustery of a day—not the sort of weather that her very pregnant daughter, Bettina, should be traipsing about, and certainly not with Eleanor’s beloved granddaughter, Lily, in tow.
She’d come home two days early from her holiday in Montecito because she was worried for Bettina.
While there, Eleanor had made several attempts to reach Bettina to wish her a happy new year. Bettina never answered her phone. And since Hera didn’t own one, Eleanor was worried enough to head back.
Where were they, anyway?
Perhaps with Matthew?
Her son and daughter’s impatience with each other usually kept them at arms’ length. It was the only reason Eleanor hadn’t bothered to call him regarding her concerns for Bettina—at least, until now. Despite this, Eleanor knew Matthew would have called her had he been aware of any disaster befalling his pregnant sister.
Standing in her large empty mansion, her desperation was worth his annoyance.
It took Matthew four rings to answer. “Darling,” his mother purred, “I’ve returned.”
“Ah…Mother.” Matthew’s mildly amused and always befuddled tone never failed to make her wince. “Let me be the first to wish you a Happy New Year!”
“You aren’t, but I always appreciate the thought.” She smiled in spite of herself. “Frankly, I thought I’d give Lily that honor. But neither she—nor Bettina, or Hera, for that matter—are here. In fact, I called all day yesterday as well. Bettina never picked up her phone. I came home early because…well, I’m worried she may have been sick.”
“Bettina is fine,” he informed her. Reluctantly, he added, “But, from what Lily told me when I dropped by with Dante yesterday, Bettina didn’t want to get out of bed all of yesterday. I offered to check in with her, but Lily insisted that she and Hera had everything under control. ”
“Matthew, really! The last thing she’d agree to is choking down one of Hera’s homeopathic potions.” Eleanor was quite aware of Bettina’s feelings for Hera, as was her son. That was cause for concern in itself. “What if Bettina is seriously ill? What if they went to the hospital?”
“Lily insisted Bettina had no fever. Mother, Bettina was probably just exhausted. Too much partying.”
“Your sister doesn’t ‘party.’”
He chuckled. “Oh, she partied, alright— with Daniel Warwick, at Barry and Christian’s wedding. You couldn’t get the two of them off the dance floor. In fact, she left with him.”
“Daniel Warwick? Ah! …Then, I guess I shouldn’t be so worried.” Eleanor was well aware of Daniel Warwick’s interest in her daughter. To be honest, for the past month, she prayed it went beyond his investigation of Bettina’s soon-to-be ex-husband, Art Cross.
“Mother, it’s been pouring rain all morning, and I really don’t want to leave Lorna. She’s feeling queasy. Considering Dante’s mood, I have my hands full.”
Like Bettina, Matthew’s wife, Lorna, was also pregnant, but with twins. The births were due around the same time. Lorna already had one health scare. Her doctor had recently ordered complete bed rest.
“You’re right,” Eleanor conceded. Considering Matthew and Lorna’s child, two-year-old Dante, was autistic, Eleanor could not blame Matthew for putting his wife’s needs first.
“If they’re not home, then my guess is that they’re out shopping for groceries or something.”
“You feel everything’s fine?” Eleanor’s doubts weighted her every word.
“Yes, I do,” Matthew insisted. “It’s not as if you left three adolescents home alone. Only one of them is a child.”
Eleanor sighed. “True, and Lily has a good head on her shoulders too.”
Matt chuckled. “What do you mean, ‘too’? The child I’m referring to is Bettina.”
He was right.
Eleanor hung up with a sigh.
She was about to take her bag upstairs when it occurred to her that she should check downstairs in the old servants’ quarters, where Bettina and Lily had set up residence since Art’s disappearance. Perhaps they just didn’t hear her enter—
Except for Prince Vsevolod Ivanovich, the house was indeed empty.
Seeing Eleanor, he wagged his tail. She scratched him just where he liked, under his chin. He nuzzled her leg appreciatively before he started up the stairs.
Eleanor was about to follow him when something caught her eye: the Pacific Heights Moms & Tots Club Member Directory lay on top of the narrow desk beneath the room’s only window.
On Christmas Day, she’d been informed by one of Lorna’s friends, Jillian Frederick, that she and two other of her daughter-in-law’s pals—Jade Pierce and Ally Thornton—were throwing Lorna a surprise baby shower on the last Saturday in January. Of course, she’d agreed to come. But when she asked Jillian if she knew whether Bettina’s friends were organizing a shower for her as well, the younger woman’s answer was a guilty shrug.
Not that Eleanor could blame her. Lorna’s friends were loyal to her daughter-in-law almost to a fault. Whereas Bettina’s friends…
Well, who were Bettina’s friends, anyway?
Eleanor hesitated only a second before making the decision to thumb through the directory in order to peruse the names. Perhaps a couple would stand out to her…
Sadly, none did. Sure, she recognized the names of her friends’ daughters or those of acquaintances from some of the many charity boards on which she sat. But, when Bettina tossed out their names, it was usually accompanied by an acid-tinged chuckle.
Bettina, you are your own worst enemy…
Ah, wait:
Kelly Bryant Overton.
In high school, Kelly and Bettina had been thick as thieves. It didn’t concern Eleanor that she hadn’t heard Bettina mention Kelly’s name in the years since. In fact, the lack of any acknowledgment whatsoever was a good sign since Bettina only grudgingly mentioned those she approved of, but never failed to spew venom on her enemies. It was all the encouragement Eleanor needed to dial Kelly’s telephone number.
After three rings, Kelly answered with a curt, “Yes?”
Eleanor was not deterred by the younger woman’s disconcerting brusqueness. In a clipped tone, she declared, “Kelly, this is Eleanor Morrow Connaught.”
A sign of recognition was demonstrated via Kelly’s de
ferential declaration. “Ah, yes, Mrs. Morrow Connaught…Eleanor. So—unexpected, but certainly a pleasure to hear from you! Happy New Year!”
That’s more like it.
“The same to you and yours. Pete, and little”—Eleanor glanced down at the directory. What was the name of Kelly’s child again? The directory’s damned type font was so small that she had to squint to see it—
Ah, there it was: “Willy.”
A second of silence. “It’s, um, Peter. And Wills.” Despite its tinge of annoyance, Kelly’s admonition could not have been gentler.
“But of course,” Eleanor murmured. “Peter and Wills. Bettina mentions them so fondly.”
“Does she?” The question came with a whiff of Eau de Suspicion.
“Why would you doubt it?” Eleanor countered.
“No reason,” Kelly answered coolly. “What can I do for you, Eleanor?”
“I was wondering if you were aware of a baby shower being given in Bettina’s honor,” Eleanor murmured nonchalantly.
Kelly’s answer was complete silence.
What a fool I am, Eleanor suddenly realized. If this woman means nothing to Bettina, I will have put my daughter in an embarrassing position. She will be livid. Why, she’ll never forgive me…
Kelly covered the phone so that Eleanor Morrow Connaught couldn’t hear her snort. So, the old bat thinks someone is throwing a baby shower for her daughter? That’s rich!
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell the older woman not to hold her breath for an invitation. Even if Bettina’s husband hadn’t absconded with the savings of half the club’s members—make that half of the trust funds of San Francisco’s elite—those who knew Bettina Connaught Cross would be too intimidated to even consider such a dauntless undertaking. Bettina’s party planning (make that Stanlee Gattee’s, on her behalf) was in a class by itself. The kindness of such a gesture would wither under Bettina’s harsh scrutiny of the event’s flaws.
