“I want a ten.”
“That’s perfection.”
“Why not aim high?”
“Perfection does not exist. Men have faults, just like we do. You want the perfect guy? The perfect guy isn’t
real.
”
The words were barely out when Casey’s mind flew to Jenny Clyde’s Pete, and in that instant, she put her finger on what bothered her about the guy. He was too good to be true.
That would suggest the journal was either a work of fiction, or a true story with high exaggeration.
Which was it?
She didn’t know. All she knew was that if
Flirting with Pete
was something her father wanted her to pursue, she had to do it.
Casey didn’t mention the journal to Brianna. She was afraid that Brianna might say it was fiction, which wasn’t what Casey wanted to hear. She wanted it to be real. She wanted to have a relative named Jenny who needed her help. She wanted this Jenny to be a link to Connie’s family.
Finding Jenny was the problem. Casey couldn’t seem to locate Little Falls. She needed more information— for starters, the name of the town where Connie had grown up.
Ruth would know, if anyone did. But Casey wasn’t ready to seek her out, any more than she was ready to explore Connie’s bedroom. Foolish? Perhaps. But the issue was emotional, and emotional issues were stubborn ones. Besides, Casey wasn’t out of other options.
One was Emmett Walsh, the psychotherapist who had taken over Connie’s active cases and had possession of Connie’s computer, his files, and his Rolodex. Casey found his number in the Boston phone book and punched it in. Before it had even rung on the other end, though, she decided that an in-person introduction might be more productive, and she disconnected the call. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she twisted her hair into a backknot, grabbed a key, and went out the door.
She knew where Emmett Walsh lived. She had taken a course he taught; one of the sessions had been held at his house. He lived on the flat of the hill, barely a five-minute walk away.
Though a gentle ocean breeze had kicked up, a lingering mugginess kept the air moist. Leeds Court was ringed with cars still wet from the rain, and the cobblestones were slick and shiny. Sun broke through a scurry of clouds, setting sparkle to droplets on trees, flowers, and stoops, and the charm of it struck her. Setting off down the walk, she alternately felt like a guest who was awed to be visiting such an idyllic place, or an impostor.
Did she belong here? She had no idea.
She reached the narrowed part of the Court just as a neighbor turned in from the street. He wore a suit, carried a briefcase, and put on a smile when he saw her. “How’re you doin’?” he asked as he passed.
His name was Gregory Dunn. He and his wife lived on the east side of the Court. He was a prominent lawyer in town, photographed often and well. If he was fazed at the sight of a new face on the Court, he didn’t let on. Could be a guest, Casey would wonder if she were in his shoes. Could be a thief. Could be Connie Unger’s daughter, come to claim her inheritance. Connie Unger’s daughter? I didn’t
know
Connie Unger had a daughter. She was never here in his life. I wonder why.
Turning onto West Cedar, she walked down to Chestnut and waited at the traffic light. People passed in a steady stream, taking advantage of the two hours of daylight that remained in this summer solstice week. Crossing Charles, she continued on to Brimmer. Emmett Walsh’s house was the only one on the block made of wood.
There were no steps here, no front lawn. The door was flush with a very narrow sidewalk. She rang the bell, praying that in her moment of boldness the man would be home.
His wife answered the door. She worked in the archives at the university, and was old enough and serious enough to look the part.
Casey smiled. “I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner. I’m Cassandra Ellis. My father was Cornelius Unger. Is Dr. Walsh at home?”
The woman stared. “I didn’t know Connie had a daughter.”
“I did,” said the man who came up behind her. Clothes hung loosely from his tall and lanky frame. “The lawyer told me about you when I asked what would happen to the townhouse. I can see the resemblance to Connie— same hair, same eyes, same intensity.”
Intensity. Casey wouldn’t normally choose that word to describe herself. But right now she did feel an intensity inside. To offset it, she quipped, “But you didn’t pick up on the resemblance when I took your OCD class.”
“You took that?” He was clearly pleased. “No. I didn’t pick up on it, but I wasn’t looking for it then.”
It was the polite answer, Casey knew. He couldn’t possibly remember her. She had studied under him nearly ten years before, and even if it had been only two years, he taught hundreds of students each semester, and had been teaching for more semesters than Casey had been alive.
“But I do see it now,” Emmett went on. “I knew Connie when he was your age. I actually knew him even before that. We went to college together. Bet you didn’t know that?” He stepped aside to let his wife escape, then resumed. “And graduate school. I was actually surprised that he passed his active cases to another old guy like me. Not that there were many cases. Neither of us has anywhere near as many patients as we used to, and most of those are longtimers who pay in cash. Insurance balks when you go on for years. I have to tell you one thing, though: that makes it easy when you want to slow down. You don’t have to terminate patients. You let HMOs do it for you. But you didn’t come here for a lecture. Would you like to come in?”
“I would. But if this is a bad time…?”
He checked his watch. It had a large face and a worn band, and looked like the kind that had to be wound by hand. “I have a few minutes to spare before dinner. I’d invite you to join us, but, quite frankly, I don’t recommend it. We’re having leftovers of a meal that wasn’t particularly appetizing to start with. I have to tell you one thing— getting old isn’t fun. When you have to tailor a diet to deal with diabetes, high blood pressure, and irritable bowel syndrome, the food stinks.” He stepped aside and waved her in. “Come. We’ll talk about Connie. That’s what you want, isn’t it? The lawyer told me more than he probably should have, but I have a way of asking questions, so
of course
I wanted to know about this daughter of my colleague. Did you ever actually meet Connie? Shake hands? Say hello?” He led her into the parlor and gestured her to a seat.
“No,” Casey said. She took an armchair with an upholstered seat and caned back. “I attended lectures he gave. Sometimes, afterward, I’d stand nearby and watch him talk with other people. He knew I was there, but he never invited me over, so I never went. Did he ever tell you about me?”
“Never.”
“What was
wrong
with him?”
“Wrong?”
“Clinically. You knew him. Diagnose him for me, please.”
Emmett sat back on the divan. “I can’t do that,” he said, “and not out of loyalty. I did know him, probably as well as any of us psychos,” he said wryly, “but that wasn’t saying much. He was a quiet person. He didn’t talk about himself. He looked and listened. He asked questions. He was the perfect kind of friend to have, especially for someone like me. I do talk a lot, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Casey had. She figured that Emmett Walsh had said more in two minutes at his front door than Connie Unger had said in five years at his.
“So Connie and I were a good pair,” Emmett went on. “There was no competing for the mike, so to speak. He was never a challenge, never a threat, never a demand. He made it clear from the start that he preferred not talking about himself, so our friendship developed on those terms. He was definitely shy. But was that an inborn trait or learned behavior? I don’t know.” He shot her a crooked smile. “Maybe that says something about my skills as a therapist— or lack thereof— but you have to draw lines sometimes. Connie was Connie;
why
he was Connie was buried deep enough inside so that it never came out by chance. I didn’t feel it was my job to analyze him, so I never did ask the right questions, and then he became pretty famous and was put up there on a pedestal, and understanding his inner workings became moot. I can tell you one thing— he valued our relationship. All these years later, if I had a question and left him a message, he’d call me back within a couple of hours. Did we ever play golf together? No. He wasn’t a golfer. Once or twice I’d get tickets to a show and call him up, but he didn’t like going to the theater. Didn’t like going to movies either.”
But he did like watching them. Casey had seen his collection. “Was he agoraphobic?”
“Of course not. He was out in the public all the time.”
“That was his professional time. He could be functional there and dysfunctional at home— different states of mind in the different rooms of his life.”
Emmett smiled. Dipping his head, he said quietly, “That’s very good.”
Casey hadn’t come for compliments, but she was pleased. “You know that I’m a therapist?”
“Yes. Winnig told me. Did you enter the field because of him?”
“Of course,” she admitted. “But I do like people. I’ve always been good with them. I’m fascinated by what makes them tick.”
“When it comes to Connie, though,” Emmett surmised, “it isn’t objective curiosity.”
“No. He was my father. I have no idea why he refused to acknowledge me. I really would like to know.”
“I’m afraid there isn’t much I can say.”
“Do you know where he grew up?”
Emmett nodded. “A little place in Maine.”
“Named?”
Emmett gave her a crooked smile. “A little place in Maine. You wouldn’t have heard of it.”
Casey smiled back. “Try me.”
Emmett chuckled. “That’s all I know. I was quoting Connie. ‘A little place in Maine. You wouldn’t have heard of it.’ “
“And you didn’t push?”
“No,” Emmett said without apology. “It was obvious he didn’t want to say, and there was no reason we had to know.”
Casey tried another angle. “Did he ever mention having siblings?”
“No. Not a word about any. When we were in college, he used to mention his mother, but I assume she’s been dead a while.”
“Did you ever meet her? At graduation, maybe?”
“No. She didn’t come. Actually,
he
didn’t come. Back then, it wasn’t the big ceremony it is today. A good part of the class just picked up their diplomas at the dean’s office, and that was that.”
“Did he ever mention a town called Little Falls?”
Emmett flattened his mouth, squinted, thought for a minute. “No.”
“Did he ever mention a man named Darden Clyde?”
Emmett thought again, shook his head again.
“What about Jenny Clyde?”
“No.”
“MaryBeth Clyde?”
“No.”
“Would any of those names be in his case files?”
“I can tell you that easily enough,” Emmett said, pushing himself up from the divan. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” And he was. Barely a minute later, he returned with an album tucked under his arm and Connie’s Rolodex in his hand. “Clyde. C-L.” He began flipping cards. “Cardozo. Chapman. Cole. Curry. Sorry, no Clyde.”
“Might he have listed them under their first names?”
“Why would he do that?”
“If they were relatives of his.”
Emmett raised his shoulders and shook his head, but all the while he was flipping cards again. “No Darden.” He flipped more. “No Jenny.” And more. “No MaryBeth.”
Casey took another tack. “Did you find anything in his case files that had to do with a journal called
Flirting with Pete?”
“A journal?”
“Journal, memoir, book?”
“
Flirting with Pete?
No. Who’s Pete?”
“I don’t know,” she wailed softly, with a desperation that was only half in jest.
“Emmett?”
came a call from the back of the house.
Emmett called back, “Be right there.” Raising bushy brows, he whispered a conspiratorial, “I have pictures.”
Casey’s heart skipped a beat. “Pictures of Connie?”
“In college. Want to see?”
“Very much.” She switched to sit on the divan by Emmett’s elbow and waited eagerly while he thumbed through pages. She imagined snapshots of grinning friends, faces stuck into the camera lens, party shots, perhaps an embarrassing photo or two— which were the kinds of snapshots she and her friends would have of themselves. When Emmett finally flattened a page and pointed at one faded black-and-white, then a second and a third, she saw that his collection was quite different from hers. The faces here were sober, the poses straight, the bodies clothed. Most were group shots of young men sitting at a table or gathered in front of a window. The closest they came to looking like they were partying were the beer steins they held.
Emmett began to sing in a wavering voice.
“Oh, fill the steins of dear old Maine
—
shout till the rafters ri-ing
—
stand and drink a toast once again
—
let every loyal Maine man sing.”
He met Casey’s questioning gaze. ” ‘The Maine Stein Song.’ It’s from the University of Maine. Connie used to sing it to us after we’d gotten a drink or two or three in him. It’s the closest he ever came to sharing a part of his past.”
Casey was fascinated by the college-age Connie. He had been very good-looking, with light-colored straight hair, a pleasant smile, and wire-rimmed glasses. Though slighter of build than the others, he was dressed as they were. He stood on the far right in the lineup.
Actually, it was like that in all of the snapshots, she realized, turning back a page to check two others. He was never in the middle, always just there on the end. He did look shy. But there was more, a look that was at the same time tentative and hopeful, like he wanted to be with his friends but didn’t dare get any closer lest he be asked to leave.
Casey wondered if he felt like an impostor, too, and, if so, why. “He didn’t go to the University of Maine,” she pointed out.
“His father did,” Emmett said. “Actually, that’s not quite right. His father
worked
there. He was a janitor.”