“It’s been a long time, Richard.”
“Sixteen years, sir.”
“What charity are you representing?” Jemison asked with an evaluating stare. He was still as sharp as ever.
No way could Richard lie to this man. He took the chair in front of the desk. “The university’s hospital foundation. Something to keep an idle man like me occupied, as my grandmother would say.”
Jemison cracked a faint smile. “Yes, she would. Is that all you do these days?”
“I guess you could say I’m semi-retired, not necessarily by choice.”
“Retirement stinks,” the old man agreed.
“Do you miss the grind?” Richard asked.
“My son runs the firm now. If I had my way, I’d still go in every day—if only to do the crossword. But he couldn’t wait to put the old man out to pasture.”
Richard sat back in his chair. “Dan and I were classmates in high school. I assumed we’d be classmates at Harvard, too. I was accepted at the medical school, but—”
“Marjorie didn’t want you to go away, as I recall.”
“I got a good education here in Buffalo. It worked out for the best in the long run.”
“Are you referring to gaining custody of your younger brother?” Jemison asked.
“I would’ve never gotten to know him, otherwise.”
Jemison leaned forward, resting his arms on his polished desk. “Charles and Marjorie were against that, too, as I recall.”
“This is one time I’m happy to say they were wrong.”
“No regrets?” Jemison asked.
“None.”
Jemison folded his veined hands. “Daniel says you still use the firm.”
“I saw no reason to change. I have fond memories of visiting Grandfather’s office.”
“Not fond enough to go into the law, though.”
“No.”
The silence lengthened. Richard almost squirmed under Jemison’s appraising gaze.
“I understand you’ve married,” the old man said at last.
“Something else Grandmother wouldn’t have approved of.”
“She had nothing against the institution,” Jemison said.
“No, but she wouldn’t have accepted my choice of bride. But then she never approved of my mother. I always thought she drove the poor woman insane,” Richard said, keeping his voice carefully level.
Jemison’s sallow cheeks actually colored.
“Did you know my father?” Richard asked.
“I joined the firm several years after his death. Your grandfather took me under his wing. Taught me everything they didn’t teach me in law school.”
“I’m glad he had such an apt pupil,” Richard said and smiled. “He was disappointed when I didn’t go into law, but he wasn’t the kind to push.”
“He was a thoughtful, decent man,” Jemison agreed, his gaze drifting as though back to the past.
“Yes. He was.”
Another silence fell between them.
“Are you happy, Richard?” Jemison asked suddenly.
Richard’s head snapped up. “Yes, very much so. My wife and I are going to have a baby in October.”
“And your brother?”
“He’s—” Richard paused, thinking about the two unpleasant encounters with Jeff the day before. “It’s good to have him home again.”
Jemison’s sad smile was somehow knowing. “You’re a lucky man, Richard. Don’t blow it.”
Blow it? No way. Things were going too well. Brenda. The baby. And Jeff— Okay, that wasn’t going so well right now, but their rocky relationship would right itself. He hoped.
The old man’s head drooped ever so slightly.
Richard glanced at his watch and rose. “I hope I haven’t stayed past my welcome. It was good too see you, Orson. Let’s not wait another sixteen years before we meet again.”
“Wait. You haven’t made your pitch for the Foundation.”
“I didn’t come to browbeat you. It’s a good cause. But then you no doubt give generously to a lot of good causes. I’ve enjoyed our conversation. I’ll tell them I’ve been here and they’ll probably leave you alone for at least a year. If you’d like some literature, I’ll have them send it.”
“No. If you believe in this foundation then it must be a worthwhile cause. I’ll write a check now.”
“Orson, you don’t have to—”
“I want to.” Jemison reached into the left hand drawer of his massive desk, pulled out a ledger checkbook, and in a firm hand wrote out a check.
Jemison handed Richard the slip of paper. Ten thousand dollars. The Foundation had only hoped for five.
Richard tucked the check into the inside breast pocket of his blazer. “Thank you, Orson. You’re a good friend to the hospital.”
And once again, you’ve saved my neck.
Alexander’s Lounge
was more than just a nice place—it was elegant. I was glad I’d stopped at an ATM on the way. Arriving a few minutes early, I ordered a beer and perched on a stool in the near-empty bar. I straightened my trouser crease and was glad I’d opted to wear a sports jacket. For all its airs, I wondered what the shelf life was for a trendy bar without customers.
My gaze drifted and I saw the lady shrink standing in the doorway, studying me. Caught, she waved. I stood as she approached.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. The traffic,” she apologized.
Traffic, on an early Sunday evening?
She looked sexy in a black cocktail dress—not unlike what Maggie had worn the night before—with a matching short jacket, and sling-back pumps.
“Why don’t we sit over there,” she said.
I followed her, noticing the lack of tell-tale lines under her dress—no panties. She settled in a tapestry upholstered chair in an alcove, which looked like it ought to have been in the lobby of a hotel instead of a cocktail lounge. I took the matching chair that faced her, separated by a small oak table.
A waiter was beside us in moments. “Can I get you something?”
“I’m fine.”
“A glass of white wine, please,” she said.
He nodded and disappeared.
“Nice place.” Oh that golden repartee of mine.
“It’s a quiet place to unwind,” she agreed, leaning back and crossing her shapely legs. They were bare and tanned—from a vacation or a tanning bed?
I looked away, feeling out of place. Why would this woman ever be interested in me—beyond mere curiosity, that is? I thought about my working class mother who’d married above her station, desperately trying to live that life, and not succeeding, either. But then this wasn’t a date. It was a talk. That made it safe. No commitment—no expectations.
The wine arrived and Krista sank deeper in her seat. “So, what made you decide to call me?” she asked, a soft Southern lilt to her voice that I hadn’t noticed before.
“Let’s just say I gave it some thought and decided to listen to what you had to say.”
“I’m interested in this ability you have to feel emotions for people.”
“Not
for
them. I experience
what
they feel. Sometimes I get insight, sometimes I don’t. You said this patient of yours doesn’t feel emotions.”
“That’s what she tells me.”
“And you want me to meet her and see if she’s lying?”
“I was hoping you could help her unlock the emotions she’s suppressing.”
“You said she was abused.”
“Grace was in a car accident some time ago. She’s wheelchair bound and has lived in an assisted-living facility for the last five years. The state’s been remiss on background checks on its new employees.”
“What was it? Fondling? Rape?”
“Both. She’s developed a severe distrust of all men.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-three.”
Jesus.
Back off, my gut said. But as I looked into Krista’s concerned eyes, I found myself interested.
“The insurance company’s finally settled and Grace would like to leave the home and move into a more independent living situation. It would be good for her, but she hasn’t worked through her anger. That’s where you come in. I’m not expecting miracles. Although, from what I’ve seen—”
“Look, Krista, I can’t read everybody I meet.”
“Then you’d be willing to try?”
My stomach tensed. I took a fortifying sip of beer. “I—I suppose I could. When?”
“Her next appointment is Tuesday at ten o’clock.”
“Have you already spoken to her about this?”
“Yes. She’s willing to meet you.”
Done deal? She’d been pretty damned sure of herself.
“Then what?” I asked.
“We all . . . talk. Get to know each other.”
A shiver of revulsion ran through me.
Back off!
my gut warned louder.
“Do you mind if we try something now?” Krista asked, and fumbled with her purse, taking out a deck of Rhine’s cards—the universal, stereotypical test for psychics—made up of five different shapes: square, circle, wavy line, cross, and star.
“No, please.”
“I just want to prove to myself that you can’t read me. Will you humor me?”
I glanced around the nearly empty bar. “These aren’t laboratory conditions. You’ll never get it in a journal, if that’s what you hope.”
“I’ll look at the card and try to transmit to you what it is I see.”
I leaned back in my chair, trying to quell my anger.
Krista cupped the first card in her hand, held it to her forehead and closed her eyes. “What shape am I thinking about.”
I stared at the table in front of me. Saw condensation on my beer glass. Felt like an asshole.
“I’m not getting anything, and I wish you’d put them away. You’re embarrassing me.”
Nonplused, she shrugged, put the card back in the pack. “It was a triangle.” She returned them to her purse and took out a photograph, her steady gaze assessing me. “Will you let Grace try?”
She handed me a color snapshot. The girl—young woman, I had to remind myself—looked about fourteen. Her thin, twisted limbs and the tilt of her chin gave the impression of many sharp angles. Short-cropped dark hair framed her acne-scarred face, but there was a brightness in her eyes that invited compassion. The more I thought about her, the more I anticipated her aura. Like a child, she’d enjoy playing the card game, which would help to break the ice.
“Okay,” I muttered. “I’ll meet her.”
Krista’s smile was enigmatic. “Thank you.”
I handed back the photo.
Krista picked up her glass and sipped her wine. “So, tell me more about yourself.”
“I’d rather hear about you.”
“Personal or professional?”
“Both.”
“I’ll show you my diplomas on Tuesday. They impress the hell out my patients.”
“How’d you end up in Buffalo?” I asked.
“Kismet. I also have relatives in the city. When the opportunity arose I thought, why not relocate.”
“You an only child?”
“Yes,” she leaned forward, giving me an excellent view of her décolletage. “The center of my parents’ universe.”
I’d never been the center of anyone’s universe.
“Who’s the center of your universe?” she asked.
I looked away. Now that Maggie was gone . . . .
“Richard, I guess. For most of my life, I’ve been—” An ironic smile tugged at my lips. “A satellite in his universe. He’s a dynamic individual.”
“Yes. He is. You admire him, don’t you?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“But you’ve never measured up to him.”
Her cool, assessing stare bothered me.
“He’s a doctor. I’m a bartender.”
“You’re letting your occupation define who you are.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
She blinked, startled. “With what you can do, there’s obviously a lot more to you than pouring beers and mixing drinks.”
“Not to society at large.”
“How about to yourself?”
I thought about it for a moment. “Maybe I’m a victim of circumstance, but victimhood leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”
“Then do something about it. Take charge of your life.”
“How? My headaches leave me useless a couple of days a week.”
“A negative attitude can be just as crippling.”
“You ever have a migraine?”
“All through college.”
Bluff called.
She leaned forward. “Has it occurred to you that your pain could be psychosomatic?”
“It’s real.”
“What triggers it?”
“Usually flashes of insight.”
“But not always?”
“No.”
“Have you charted it? Tried to figure out?”
“Richard and I have been through this so many times—”
“Richard isn’t a psychiatrist.”
I took a breath, trying to squelch another burst of anger. “My problem is not psychological in origin. I had my head caved in with a baseball bat.”