The Vampire Shrink (4 page)

After I'd eaten, I brought my laptop over to the table and wrote for a little while. Then I stretched the cramped muscles in my arms and checked the time. Since I had nothing planned for the day, I figured I could either work for a couple more hours, or I could break my routine and do something different. Maybe take a walk in that big neighborhood park I'd been meaning to explore. Jefferson Park was Denver's equivalent of Central Park in New York City, and it had lots of trees, benches, and trails and was only a couple of blocks from my town house.

Yes, exercise. That was the ticket. I looked down at myself. Whether I liked it or not, it was clear that being physically inactive—sitting on my butt all the time—had a downside. I'd promised myself I'd rectify the fitness situation and gain some muscle in other places besides my brain. I changed into a comfortable dark-blue sweat suit, put on my still-in-the-box walking shoes, and headed out the door.

Denver could be counted on to have more than three hundred sunny days per year, and this late October morning was a prime specimen. Actually, the fact that it was mostly sunny in Colorado was one of the few things I would have changed about a state that was, otherwise, paradise. Coming from the Midwest, I loved a good rainstorm and relished the introspective embrace of a gray, overcast day.

The first thing I noticed was how many walkers, joggers, runners, bicycle riders, skateboarders, and pet owners were out on the park trails this early in the morning. And even more interesting was how many of them were holding Starbucks cups in their hands as they engaged in those activities. I marveled at the level of physical coordination it must take to run and drink coffee at the same time.

“Kismet? Kismet! Is that you? I thought you lived around here someplace. You didn't call me back.”

My mouth went dry and my stomach churned. The voice was very familiar. Especially since I'd just listened to it on my voice mail. I wanted to pretend I hadn't heard and run as fast as I could in the opposite direction, but instead I turned around slowly and stared into the dark-brown eyes of Dr. Thomas Radcliffe, my astrologer-humping ex-boyfriend.

Shit
.

This wasn't how I'd imagined our first meeting would be after all this time. In my vision, I was dressed to the nines—painted, polished, and gorgeous. He'd be overcome with remorse for his treatment of me and beg me to take him back. I, of course, would kick him to the curb. But instead, here I was looking like something the vampire had dragged in, wearing old, baggy sweats. I couldn't even remember if I'd brushed my hair before I left.

There was absolutely no justice in the universe, because he hadn't changed a bit. He was still classically handsome and impeccably groomed. He could've been a model who'd just stepped out of
West Coast Magazine
. To add insult to injury, he'd finally grown out his thick black hair, which I'd repeatedly asked him to do during the time we were together. There's just something about a man with great hair.

“Tom. How nice to see you,” I lied, silently pleading with my facial muscles to transform what I was sure was a grimace into an acceptable smile.

I'll be damned if I'll let him know he still affects me.

He came over and almost-hugged me, one of those not-quite embraces—complete with an air kiss on either side of my face, so popular among the rich and famous. “You look just as I remember you.” Which made me want to knee him in the nuts.

He grinned and stretched his arms out to the sides, making a show of his rippling biceps. “You just popped into my head the other day, and I decided to make it a point to see you when I came to Denver.”

Asshole. I just “popped into his head.” So much for my fantasy of the daily inner torture I'd hoped he'd endured as he replayed the loss of me over and over in his mind.

I retreated from his pseudo-hug and made my face as neutral as possible. My gaze slid to his skin-hugging running tights, and I noticed he still wasn't reluctant to advertise all his products and services. No matter how obnoxious he was, he did still possess certain … arousing … attributes. I fought a flood of memories and coaxed my eyes up to his face, straining my brain for something brilliant to say, but instead came out with the verbal equivalent of elevator music. “You're still running every day?”

“Yes, indeed—got to keep one step ahead of Father Time.” He patted his tight abs.

Dr. Cliché. I wonder if this man ever has an original thought.

He tugged on my arm and guided me over to a nearby bench and sat. “Can we sit for a minute? Now that I've got you here, I'd love to catch up. What are you doing these days? Are you writing? Are you married?”

I reluctantly joined him on the bench. “Well …” I managed to get that one word out before he launched into a monologue.

“Things are going so super for me. My private practice in San Francisco is booming, both because of the success of my last book and my radio program. You wouldn't believe how busy I am and how in demand I am as a speaker. Did you see me on
Dr. Phil
? I was one of the experts for a recent segment. Oprah's people are talking to my people. She started a new network—can you imagine what an appearance on one of her shows will do for my books? I live in a fabulous house in one of the finest sections of town, and I just ordered a brand-new Ferrari. I'll take you for a ride the next time I see you …”

I just stared at him as he went on with his manic rant. He didn't seem to notice that I hadn't spoken or that I was gaping at him like he was a nasty squished bug on my windshield. Had he always been this way? What had I been thinking? Had I really been so dazzled by his appearance that I'd ignored his self-absorption? More likely, I'd simply been so desperate for any kind of attention that I blocked out behaviors I didn't want to see. I amused myself for a few seconds by mentally thumbing through the list of personality disorders he fit into.

Hmmm. Definitely narcissistic personality disorder. And with his temper, maybe borderline as well. Obsessive-compulsive. Then there's the sex addiction …

“So whatever happened to Summer, the astrologer?” I interjected loudly, with what I hoped was an evil grin.

“Who? Oh yes. She was a sweet thing. Simply adored me. Thought I walked on water. But we were from two different worlds, and she wasn't a good fit for where I was going. We parted the best of friends.”

Yeah, sure. I'll bet. I wonder what her version of the breakup is.

He glanced down at his diamond-studded watch. “Oh damn. Look at the time. I've got to hurry back and get dressed for my presentation. Hey, here's an idea—why don't you come to the conference with me, and you can listen to my lecture? I bet you'll really learn a lot from it. What do you say?”

How typical. He's jogging in a diamond watch.

“As tempting as that sounds,” I said sarcastically, which, judging by his solemn head nodding, he'd totally missed, “I'll have to pass. I have clients.”

“Bummer! It's a shame you can't attend, but I know how seriously you take your work.”

He said that as if it was a bad thing. He'd always viewed my refusal to join him in the fast lane as a character flaw, as well as a personal disappointment.

“Yeah.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “It really is a drag that I'm too burdened with my mundane private practice to spend time discussing your superficial—er,
super
—life. Maybe the next time you're in town.”

He gave a quick pout—he actually poked his bottom lip out—patted my arm, then offered his fake “I'm really just one of the guys” grin.

“I was going to keep this as a surprise for you, but I guess I can tell you now. I expect I'll be seeing a lot more of you, as I'm doing a series of workshops in Colorado, and I'd love to discuss the possibility of using your office part-time while I'm here. Could we get together for dinner and talk about it?” He flashed me a toothy California smile.

Welcome to the wonderful world of Tom Radcliffe's ego. Plenty of room for everyone, folks; step right up. Watch out for the smelly little piles. Enter at your own risk.

He stood and began running in place. “Tell you what—I'll just drop by your house after the conference is over next Friday night. I got your new address from a close friend who works for the APA Directory.”

“Hey!” I frowned. “You're lying. Clinician contact information is confidential. No way they gave you my address. It's protected. I even paid extra to make sure.”

“Obviously, you don't remember how persuasive I can be. Especially after a few drinks in the right setting.” He winked, then stroked his fingers along my cheek. “Wouldn't you like to be reminded of my special skills?”

Before I could answer “Hell no,” he jogged away backward, yelling, “I'll see you then.”

Suddenly, everything about Tom Radcliffe seemed hilarious. I sat on the bench and laughed out loud. Luckily, no clients were around to witness my temporary, joyful insanity. I did have a reputation to uphold, after all. Sitting alone in the park, laughing hysterically, wouldn't be good for business.

How could I have been in love with such a narcissistic egomaniac? Such a superficial moron? I'd spent the last two years grieving and miserable, and now I couldn't for the life of me remember why. As long as we kept enough miles between us and a bedroom, I might never be tempted to recover the memory.

I had no doubt he'd gotten my address by seducing an APA employee. Ethics had no meaning in Tom Radcliffe's world. An official complaint was definitely in order.

I smiled through a brisk walk around the park and whistled all the way back to my house. Maybe my life was looking up.

The buzzing of the alarm clock woke me early on Monday, giving me plenty of time to do some writing and organize the online research I'd gathered before I had to leave for my appointment with my therapist, Nancy. I felt so energized by the vampire-wannabe project that by the time I realized I was hungry, it was too late to do anything about it. I'd missed last month's session and didn't want to be late for today's.

I drove to the Cherry Creek office and parked in front of her Victorian building.

“Nancy?” I knocked on the wood-paneled door frame.

“Come on in, Kismet.” She walked toward me, a warm smile on her face. “Nice to see you. It's been a while.”

I strolled into her cozy psychotherapy office and squeezed the hands she'd held out to me in greeting. “Hi. I'm sorry I had to cancel our last appointment. Client emergency.”

“Not a problem. We both know how it is.” She nodded toward a couple of oversize chairs. “Let's get comfortable.”

“Yes, let's.” I sank into the soft cushions and sighed. “I'm glad to be here today. I really need a session; lots going on.”

“Would you like some herbal tea? I just made one for myself.”

“No, thanks. I'm good.” I propped my briefcase against the chair.

She sat across from me, Earth Mother incarnate. Full figured, she wore a vibrant, multicolored flowing dress, her long, curly white hair caught on top of her head with a jeweled butterfly clip. Bright-green eyes crinkled at the corners. “That's a lovely suit. What an exquisite color of blue—it really brings out your eyes. Is it silk?”

I looked down at my pantsuit and brushed one of my long hairs from the sleeve. “Yes, it is. I'm glad you like it. We can thank the good taste of the salesclerk for this outfit.” We often began our sessions with light conversation because Nancy wanted to give me a moment to settle before we began—a standard therapy technique. As calm and in control as I remained when sitting in the other seat at my own office, like any client I always felt a little nervous about what the session might uncover.

“Well, let's get right to it, then. Where would you like to start?”

Nancy had been a psychologist for forty years, and I'd been seeing her for individual therapy for quite a while. She was my supervisor during part of my licensing process. After I completed the requirements, though I no longer needed supervision, I chose to continue working with her just because she was such a skillful and insightful counselor. The fact that we also had a healthy mother-daughter dynamic in play didn't hurt my personal growth, either. It was never too late for quality parenting.