Between Sisters

Chapter Eight

C HAPTER EIGHT

S OME MARRIAGES ENDED WITH BITTER WORDS AND UGLY epithets, others with copious tears and whispered apologies; each proceeding was different. The one constant was sadness. Win, lose, or draw, when the judge’s gavel rang out on the wooden bench, Meghann always felt chilled. The death of a woman’s dream was a cold, cold thing, and it was a fact, well known in Family Court, that no woman who’d gone through a divorce ever saw the world—or love—in quite the same way again.

“Are you okay?” Meghann asked May.

Her client sat rigidly upright, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. To an outside observer, she might have appeared serene, almost unconcerned about the heartbreaking drama that had just played out in this courtroom.

Meghann knew better. She knew that May was close to the breaking point. Only sheer force of will kept her from screaming.

“I’m fine,” May said, her breathing shallow. That was common, actually. In times like these, women often began Lamaze-type breathing.

Meghann touched May’s arm. “Let’s go next door and get something to eat, okay?”

“Food,” was May’s reply, neither an agreement to nor a rejection of the idea.

In the front of the courtroom, the judge stood up. She smiled at Meghann; then at George Gutterson, the opposing counsel; then left the courtroom.

Meghann helped May to her feet. She held on to her arm to keep her steady as they headed toward the door.

“You bitch !”

Meghann heard May’s sharply indrawn breath, felt her client’s body tense. May stumbled to a halt.

Dale Monroe surged forward. His face was a deep, purply red. A blue vein throbbed down the middle of his forehead.

“Dale,” George said, reaching for his client. “Don’t be stupid—”

Dale shook his lawyer’s arm away and kept coming.

Meghann sidestepped easily, putting herself between Dale and May. “Step back, Mr. Monroe.”

“That’s Dr. Monroe, you avaricious bitch.”

“Excellent word usage. You must have gone to a good liberal arts college. Now, please, step back.” She could feel May trembling behind her, breathing too fast. “Get your client out of my face, George.”

George lifted his hands, palms up. “He isn’t listening to me.”

“You took my children away from me,” Dale said, looking right at Meghann.

“Are you suggesting that I was the one who fraudulently transferred assets out of my wife’s reach … or that I stole money and equity from my family?” She took a step toward him. “Or wait. Maybe you’re suggesting that I was the one who banged my daughter’s piano teacher every Tuesday afternoon.”

He paled. It made that vein look even more pronounced. He edged sideways, tried to make eye contact with his wife.

Ex-wife.

“May, come on,” he said. “You know me better than that. I didn’t do all of those things. I would have given you everything you asked for. But the kids … I can’t see them only on weekends and two weeks in the summer.”

He sounded sincere, actually. If Meghann hadn’t seen the ugly truth in black and white, she might have believed he was upset about the children.

She spoke quickly, so May wouldn’t have to. “The separation of your assets was entirely fair and equitable, Dr. Monroe. The custody issues were also fairly resolved, and when you calm down, I’m sure you’ll agree. We all read the depositions that reflected your lifestyle. You were gone in the morning by six A . M .—before the children woke up—and you rarely returned home before ten P . M .—after they were in bed. Weekends you spent with the guys, playing golf and poker. Hell, you’ll probably see your children more now than you did while you resided at the family home.” Meghann smiled, pleased with herself. That had been a smart, well-thought-out argument. He couldn’t disagree. She glanced at George, who stood silently beside his client. The attorney looked like he was going to be sick.

“Who do you think you are?” Dale whispered harshly, taking a step toward her. At his sides, his fingers curled into fists.

“You going to hit me, Dale? Go ahead. Lose what little custody you have.”

He hesitated.

She took a step toward him. “And if you ever hit May again, or even touch her too hard, you’ll find yourself back in this courtroom, only it won’t be money at risk. It’ll be your freedom.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Am I?” Her gaze found his. “Yes. I am. Are we clear on that? You stay the hell away from my client or I’ll make sure your life turns into a shower scene from Oz . And I don’t mean Munchkinland. Every other Friday you can park in front of the house and wait for the kids to come out. You return them on time, as stipulated, and that’s the sum of your contact with May. We’re all clear on that, right?”

May touched her arm, leaned close, and whispered, “Let’s go.”

Meghann heard the tired strain in May’s voice. It reminded Meghann of her own divorce. She’d tried so hard to be strong, but the moment she’d stepped out of the courtroom, she’d broken like an old drawbridge, just crumbled. There was a big part of her that had never stood upright again.

She grabbed her briefcase off the oak library table and slipped her other arm around May’s waist. Linked together, they walked out of the courtroom.

“You’ll pay for this, you bitch,” Dale screamed to their backs. Then something crashed against the floor.

Meghann guessed it was the other oak table.

She didn’t look back. Instead, she kept a steadying hand on May’s waist and led her to the elevator. In the small cubicle, they stood side by side.

The moment the door closed, May burst into tears.

Meghann held May’s hand, squeezing it gently. “I know it seems impossible now, but life will get better. I promise. Not instantly, not even quickly, but it will get better.”

She led May down the courthouse steps and outside. The sky was heavy and gray with clouds. A dismal rain spit itself along the car-clogged streets. The sun was nowhere to be seen. No doubt it had followed the geese south, to places like Florida and California. It wouldn’t return to western Washington full-time until after the Fourth of July.

They walked down Third Street to the Judicial Annex, the favorite lunch spot for the Family Court gang.

By the time they reached the front door, Meghann’s suit was more than a little damp. Gray streaks marred the collar of her white silk blouse. If there was one accessory no local owned, it was an umbrella.

“Hey, Meg,” said a few colleagues as she walked through the restaurant to an empty table at the back. She pulled out a chair for May, then sat down opposite her.

Within moments, a harried-looking waitress was beside them. She pulled a pencil out from her ponytail. “Is this a champagne or a martini day?” she asked Meghann.

“Definitely champagne. Thanks.”

May looked across the table at her. “We aren’t really going to drink champagne, are we?”

“May. You are now a millionaire. Your children can get Ph.D.s from Harvard if they want. You have a beautiful waterfront home in Medina and no mortgage payment. Dale, on the other hand, is living in a thirteen-hundred-square-foot condo in Kirkland. And you got full custody of the kids. Hell yes, we’re celebrating.”

“What happened to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“My life has been hit by a Scud missile. The man I love is gone. Now I find out he might have existed only in my mind, anyway. I have to live with the fact that not only am I alone, but, apparently, I’ve been stupid, too. My children will have to live all their lives knowing that families break, that love is impermanent, and, most of all, that promises get broken. They’ll go on, of course. That’s what children and women do—we go on. But we won’t ever be quite whole again. I’ll have money. Big fat deal. You have money, I assume. Do you sleep with it at night? Does it hold you when you’ve awakened from a nightmare?”

“Did Dale?”

“A long time ago, yes. Unfortunately, that’s the man I keep remembering.” May looked down at her hand. At the wedding ring on her finger. “I feel like I’m bleeding. And there you sit. Drinking champagne.” She looked up again. “What’s wrong with you?”

“This can be a harsh job,” she answered truthfully. “Sometimes, the only way I can get through it is—”

A commotion broke out in the restaurant. Glass shattered. A table crashed to the floor. A woman screamed.

“Oh, no,” May breathed. Her face was pale.

Meghann frowned. “What in the—?” She turned around in her chair.

Dale stood in the open doorway, holding a gun in his left hand. When Meghann looked at him, he smiled and stepped over a fallen chair. But there was no humor in that smile; in fact, he appeared to be crying.

Or maybe that was the rain.

“Put down the gun, Dale.” She was surprised to hear the calmness in her voice.

“Your turn at the mike is over, counselor.”

A woman in a black pinstripe suit crawled across the floor. She moved slowly until she made it to the door. Then she got up and ran.

Dale either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He only had eyes for Meghann. “You ruined my life.”

“Put the gun down, Dale. You don’t want to do something stupid.”

“I already did something stupid.” His voice broke, and Meghann saw that he was crying. “I had an affair and got greedy and forgot how much I love my wife.”

May started to get to her feet. Meghann grabbed her, forced her down, then stood up herself.

She raised her hands into the air. Her heart was a jackhammer trying to crack through her rib cage. “Come on, Dale. Put the gun down. We’ll get you some help.”

“Where was all your help when I tried to tell my wife how sorry I was?”

“I made a mistake. I’m sorry. This time we’ll all sit down and talk.”

“You think I don’t know how screwed I am? Believe me, lady, I know .” His voice caught again. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “Jesus, May, how did I get here?”

“Dale,” Meghann said his name in a calm, even voice. “I know how—”

“Shut up . It’s your fault, you bitch. You’re the one who did all of this.” He raised the gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

Joe awoke with a fever and a stinging throat. A dry, hacking cough brought him upright before he’d even fully opened his eyes. When it was over, he sat there, bleary-eyed, in desperate need of some water.

A glittering layer of frost coated his sleeping bag, its presence a testament to the altitude. Though the days in this part of the state were as hot as hell, the nights were cold.

He coughed again, then climbed out of the sleeping bag. His fingers were trembling as he rolled up the bag and tied it onto his backpack. He stumbled out of the still-dark forest and emerged molelike and blinking into a sunny day. Already the sun was angry as it climbed the cloudless sky.

Joe dug the toothbrush, soap, and toothpaste out of his pack and, squatting by the rushing rapids of Icicle Creek, readied himself for the day.

By the time he finished, he was breathing hard, as if the exertion of brushing his teeth was on par with running the Boston Marathon.

He stared at himself in the river. Though his reflection wavered in the current, the clear water captured his image in surprising detail. His hair was far too long and as tangled as the underbrush that had formed his bed for the last two nights. A thick beard covered the lower half of his face; it was a quiltlike combination of gray and black. His eyelids hung low, as if in tired defeat.

And today was his birthday. His forty-third.

In another time—another life—this would have been a day for celebration, for family. Diana had always loved a party; she’d throw one at the drop of a hat. The year he’d turned thirty-eight, she’d rented the Space Needle and hired a Bruce Springsteen impersonator to sing the soundtrack of their youth. The place had been packed with friends. Everyone wanted to celebrate Joe’s birthday with him.

Then.

With a sigh, he pushed to his feet. A quick check of his wallet and pockets revealed that he was nearly broke again. The money he’d made last week mowing lawns had all but disappeared.

Slinging his backpack into place, he followed the winding river out of the National Forest. By the time he reached Highway 2, he was sweating so hard he had to keep wiping his eyes. His forehead was on fire. He knew he had a fever. One hundred degrees, at least.

He stared at the black river of asphalt that flowed down to the tiny town of Leavenworth. On either side, spindly green pine trees stood guard.

Town was only a mile or so away. From this distance, he could see the Bavarian-themed buildings, the stoplights and billboards. It was, he knew, the kind of town that sold handmade Christmas ornaments year-round and had a quaint bed-and-breakfast on every corner. The kind of place that welcomed tourists and visitors with open arms.

Unless you looked or smelled like Joe.

Still, he was too tired to walk uphill, so he turned toward town. His feet hurt and his stomach ached. He hadn’t had a good meal in several days. Yesterday, he’d survived on unripe apples and the last of his beef jerky.

By the time he reached town, his headache was almost unbearable. For two hours, he went from door to door trying to find temporary work.

There was nothing.

Finally, at the Chevron station, he spent his last two dollars on aspirin, which he washed down with water from the rusty sink in the public rest room. Afterward, he stood in the candy aisle, staring blindly at the products.

Corn Nuts would be good now …

Or barbecue potato chips.

Or—

“You gotta get a move on, Mister,” said the young man behind the cash register. He wore a tattered brown T-shirt that read: We interrupt this marriage to bring you elk-hunting season. “Unless you’re gonna buy something else.”

Joe glanced up at the clock, surprised to see that he’d been there more than an hour. Nodding at the kid, he took his canteen into the rest room and filled it with water, then used the facilities and headed out. At the cash register, he paused. Careful not to make eye contact, he asked if there was a place he could find part-time work.

“The Darrington farm hires transients sometimes. Usually at harvesttime. I dunno about now. And the Whiskey Creek Lodge needs maintenance men during the salmon run.”

Picking fruit or gutting fish. He’d done plenty of both in the past three years. “Thanks.”

“Hey. You look sick.” The kid frowned. “Do I know you?”

“I’m okay. Thanks.” Joe kept moving, afraid that if he stopped for too long he’d stumble, then fall. He’d wake up in a hospital bed or on a jail-cell cot. He wasn’t sure which fate was worse. Each brought too many bad memories.

He was outside the mini mart, unsteady on his feet, trying to will the aspirin to take effect when the first raindrop hit. It was big and fat and splatted right in his eye. He tilted his chin up, saw the sudden blackness of the sky overhead.

“Shit.”

Before he finished the word, the storm hit. A pounding rain that seemed to nail him in place.

He closed his eyes and dropped his chin.

Now his flu would escalate into pneumonia. Another night outside in wet clothes would seal it.

And suddenly he couldn’t live like this anymore. He was sick and tired of being sick and tired.

Home.

The idea came to him like a balmy breeze, took him far away from this ugly spot in the driving rain. He closed his eyes and thought of the small town where he’d been raised, where he’d played shortstop for the local ball team and worked at a garage after school and every summer until he went away to college. If any town would still accept him after what he’d done, it would be that one.

Maybe.

Moving slowly, his emotions a convoluted mixture of fear and anticipation, he went to the phone booth and stepped inside its quiet enclosure. Now the rain was only noise; it was like his heartbeat: fast, breathless.

He let out a long breath, then picked up the phone, punched 0 and placed a collect call.

“Hey, little sister,” he said when she answered. “How are you?”

“Oh, my God . It’s about damn time. I’ve been worried sick about you, Joey. You haven’t called in—what? Eight months? And then you sounded awful.”

He remembered that call. He’d been in Sedona. The whole town had seemed to be draped in crystals and waiting for otherworld contact. He’d thought Diana had called him there, but of course she hadn’t. It had just been another town to pass through. He’d called his sister on her birthday. Back then, he’d thought he’d be home any day. “I know. I’m sorry.”

She sighed again, and he could picture her perfectly: standing at her kitchen counter, probably making a list of things to do—shopping, carpool, swimming lessons. He doubted she’d changed much in the last three years, but he wished he knew for sure. Missing her blossomed into an ache; it was the reason he never called. It hurt too much. “How’s my beautiful niece?”

“She’s great.”

He heard something in her voice. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she said, then more softly. “I could use my big brother right about now, that’s all. Has it been long enough?”

There it was, the question upon which everything rested. “I don’t know. I’m tired, I know that. Have people forgotten?”

“I don’t get asked so much anymore.”

So some had forgotten, but not everyone. If he returned, the memory would tag along. He didn’t know if he was strong enough to stand up to his past. He hadn’t been when it was his present.

“Come home, Joey. It has to be time. You can’t hide forever. And … I need you.”

He heard the sound of her crying; it was soft and broken and it pulled something out of him. “Don’t cry. Please.”

“I’m not. I’m chopping onions for dinner.” She sniffed. “Your niece is going through a spaghetti phase. She won’t eat anything else.” She tried to laugh.

Joe appreciated the attempt at normalcy, however forced.

“Make her some of Mom’s spaghetti. That should end it.”

She laughed. “Gosh, I’d forgotten. Hers was awful.”

“Better than her meat loaf.”

After that, a silence slipped through the lines. Softly, she said, “You’ve got to forgive yourself, Joey.”

“Some things are unforgivable.”

“Then at least come home. People care about you here.”

“I want to. I can’t … live like this anymore.”

“I hope that’s what this phone call means.”

“I hope so, too.”

It was that rarest of days in downtown Seattle. Hot and humid. A smoggy haze hung over the city, reminding everyone that too many cars zipped down too many highways in this once-pristine corner of the country. There was no breeze. Puget Sound was as flat as a summer lake. Even the mountains appeared smaller, as if they, too, had been beaten down by the unexpected heat.

If it was hot outside, it was sweltering in the courthouse. An old air-conditioning unit sat awkwardly in an open window, making soft, strangled noises. A white flap of ribbon, tied to the frontpiece, fluttered every now and then, defeated.

Meghann stared down at the yellow legal pad in front of her. A neat stack of black pens were lined up along one side. The desktop, scarred by decades of clients and attorneys, wobbled on uneven legs.

She hadn’t written a word.

That surprised her. Usually her pen was the only thing that worked as fast as her brain.

“Ms. Dontess. Ahem. Ms. Dontess. ”

The judge was speaking to her.

She blinked slowly. “I’m sorry.” She got to her feet and automatically smoothed the hair back from her face. But she’d worn it back this morning, in a French twist.

The judge, a thin, heronlike woman with no collar peeking out from the black vee of her robes, was frowning. “What are your thoughts on this?”

Meghann felt a flare of worry, almost panic. She looked again at her blank legal pad. Her right hand started to shake. The expensive pen fell from her fingers and clattered on the table.

“Approach the bench,” said the judge.

Meghann didn’t glance to her left. She didn’t want to make eye contact with her opposing counsel. She was weak right now—shaking, for God’s sake—and everyone knew it.

She tried to look confident; perhaps it worked. As she crossed the wooden floor, she heard her heels clacking with each step. The sound was like an exclamation mark on the sentence of her every breath.

At the high oak bench, she stopped and looked up. It took an act of will to keep her hands open and at her sides. “Yes, Your Honor?” Her voice, thank God, sounded normal. Strong.

The judge leaned forward to say softly, “We all know what happened last week, Meghann. That bullet missed you by inches. Are you certain you’re ready to be back in a courtroom?”

“Yes.” Meghann’s voice was softer now. Her right hand was trembling.

The judge frowned down at her, then cleared her throat and nodded. “Step back.”

Meghann headed back to the desk. John Heinreid stepped in beside her. They’d tried dozens of cases against each other. They often shared a glass of wine and a plate of oysters after a long day in court.

“You sure you’re okay? I’d be willing to shove this back a few days.”

She didn’t look at him. “Thanks, John. I’m fine.” She went back to the table, slid into her seat.

Her client, a Mercer Island housewife who couldn’t possibly live on nineteen thousand dollars a month, stared at her. “What’s going on?” she mouthed, twisting the gold chain of her Chanel handbag.

Meghann shook her head. “Don’t worry.”

“I’ll restate, Your Honor,” John said. “My client would like to stay these proceedings for a short time so that he and Mrs. Miller can obtain counseling. There are, after all, small children involved. He’d like to give the marriage every opportunity to succeed.”

Meghann heard her client whisper, “No way,” as she planted her hands on the desk and slowly rose.

Her mind went blank. She couldn’t think of a single argument. When she closed her eyes, trying to concentrate, she heard a different voice, gruff and desperate. It’s your fault, you bitch. Then she saw the gun pointed at her, heard an echoed blast. When she opened her eyes, everyone was looking at her. Had she flinched or cried out? Shit. She didn’t know. “My client believes that the marriage is irretrievably broken, Your Honor. She sees no benefit to counseling.”

“No benefit?” John argued. “Certainly, after fifteen years of living together, it couldn’t hurt to spend a few hours with a therapist. My client believes that the children’s welfare should be paramount here. He’s merely asking for an opportunity to save his family.”

Meghann turned to her client. “It’s a reasonable request, Celene,” she whispered. “You won’t look good if we fight this battle in front of the judge.”

“Oh. I guess …” Celene frowned.

Meghann returned her attention to the bench. “We’d ask for a time limit and a follow-up court date to be set now.”

“That’s acceptable to us, Your Honor.”

Meghann stood there, a little unsteady on her feet as the details were worked out. Her right hand was still trembling and a tic had begun spasming in her left eyelid. On autopilot, she packed up her briefcase.

“Wait. What just happened?” Celene whispered.

“We agreed to counseling. A few months or so. No more. Maybe—”

“Counseling? We’ve tried counseling—or did you forget that? We’ve also tried hypnosis and romantic vacations and even a weeklong couples’ self-help seminar. None of it worked. And do you know why?”

Meghann had forgotten all of that. The information that should have been at her fingertips had vanished. “Oh” was all she could manage.

“It didn’t work because he doesn’t love me,” Celene’s voice cracked. “Mr. Computer Software likes male prostitutes, remember? Blow jobs under the Viaduct and in X-rated theaters.”

“I’m sorry, Celene.”

“Sorry? Sorry. My children and I need to start over, not relive the same old shit.”

“You’re right. I’ll fix this. I promise I will.” And she could. A phone call to John Heinreid that threatened to reveal Mr. Miller’s preferred sex partners and it’d be handled instantly. Quietly.

Celene sighed. “Look, I know what happened last week. It was on every channel. I feel sorry for that lady—and for you. I know that husband tried to kill you. But I need to worry about myself. For once. Can you understand that?”

For a terrible moment, Meghann thought she was going to lose it. How in God’s name had she glanced at Celene Miller and seen just another pampered, spoiled housewife? “You should be taking care of yourself first. I did you a disservice in here. I screwed up. But I’ll fix it, and you won’t be paying a dime for this divorce. Okay? Can you trust me again?”

Celene’s frown released. “Trusting people has always been easy for me. It’s part of why I’m here.”

“I’ll catch up with John right now. We’ll talk tomorrow about what I came up with.”

Celene tried valiantly to smile. “Okay.”

Meghann put a hand down on the desk to steady herself as she stood there, watching her client walk out of the courtroom. When Celene was gone, Meghann sighed heavily. She hadn’t realized that she’d been holding her breath.

She reached for her yellow pad, noticed her trembling fingers and thought: What’s wrong with me?

A hand pressed against her shoulder, and she jumped at the contact.

“Meg?”

It was Julie Gorset, her partner.

“Hey, Jules. Tell me you weren’t in the courtroom today.”

Julie looked at her sadly. “I was. And we need to talk.”

The Pike Place Public Market was wall-to-wall people on a sunny summer’s day. Now, at nighttime, it was quiet. Sweaty vendors in gauzy clothes were busy packing up their homemade crafts and loading them onto trucks parked outside on the cobblestone street. The night air rang out with the ping-ping-ping of delivery trucks in reverse gear.

Meghann stood outside the Athenian’s open door. The bar was hazy with cigarette smoke; the expansive Puget Sound view sparkled in the few open spaces between patrons. There were at least two dozen people at the bar, no doubt shooting oysters—drinking them raw from a glass jigger. It was a house tradition.

She glanced from table to table. There were plenty of possibilities. Single men in expensive suits and college boys in cutoff shorts that showed their lean torsos and checkered boxers.

She could go in there, put on her kiss me smile and find someone to spend time with her. For a few blessed hours, she could be part of a couple, no matter how false and fragile that pairing might be. At least she wouldn’t have to think. Or feel.

She started to take a step forward. Her toe caught on the threshold and she stumbled sideways, skimming the door’s side.

And suddenly, all she could think about was what would really happen. She’d meet some guy whose name wouldn’t matter, let him touch her body and crawl inside of her … and then be left more alone than when she’d started.

The tic in her left eye started again.

She reached into her handbag and pulled out her cell phone. She’d already left a desperate-sounding call me message on Elizabeth’s answering machine, when she remembered that her friend was in Paris.

There was no one else to call. Unless …

Don’t do it.

But she couldn’t think of anywhere else to turn.

She punched in the number, biting down on her lip as it rang. She was just about to hang up when a voice answered.

“Hello? Hello?” Then: “Meghann. I recognize your cell phone number.”

“I’m going to sue whoever invented Caller ID. It’s ruined the time-honored tradition of hanging up on someone.”

“It’s eight thirty at night. Why are you calling me?” Harriet asked.

“My left eyelid is flapping like a flag on the Fourth of July. I need a prescription for a muscle relaxer.”

“We talked about a delayed reaction, remember?”

“Yeah. Post-traumatic stress. I thought you meant I’d get depressed; not that my eyelid would try to fly off my face. And … my hands are shaking. It would not be a good week to start quilting.”

“Where are you?”

Meghann considered lying, but Harriet had ears like a bloodhound; she could probably hear the bar noises. “Outside of the Athenian.”

“Of course. I’ll be in my office in thirty minutes.”

“You don’t have to do that. If you could just call in a prescription—”

“My office. Thirty minutes. If you aren’t there, I’ll come looking for you. And nothing scares off drunk college boys like an angry shrink named Harriet. Understood?”

Honestly, Meghann was relieved. Harriet might be a pain in the ass, but at least she was someone to talk to. “I’ll be there.”

Meghann hung up the phone and put it back in her purse. It took her less than fifteen minutes to get to Harriet’s office. The doorman let her in and, after a short question-and-answer routine, pointed to the elevator. She rode up to the fourth floor and stood outside the glass-doored office.

At precisely 9:00, Harriet showed up, looking rushed and poorly put together. Her normally smoothed black hair had been drawn back in a thin headband and her face shone pink without makeup. “If you make a crack about the headband, I’ll charge you double.”

“Me? Be judgmental? You must be joking.”

Harriet smiled at that. They’d often discussed avid judgmentalism as one of Meghann’s many flaws. “I had to choose between being on time and looking decent.”

“Clearly, you’re on time.”

“Get inside.” Harriet unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Even now, late at night, the office smelled of fresh flowers and worn leather. The familiarity of it immediately put Meghann at ease. She walked through the reception area and went into Harriet’s large corner office, going over to stand in front of the window. Below her, the city was a grid of moving cars and stoplights.

Harriet took her usual seat. “So, you think a prescription will help you.”

Meghann slowly turned around. Her eyelid was thumping like a metronome. “Either that or a Seeing Eye dog. If the other one starts, I’ll be blind.”

“Sit down, Meghann.”

“Do I have to?”

“Well, no. I could go home and finish watching Friends .”

“You watch Friends ? I would have guessed you tuned in to PBS. Maybe the Discovery Channel.”

“Sit.”

Meghann did as she was told. The comfortable chair enfolded her. “I remember when I hated this chair. Now it seems made for me.”

Harriet steepled her fingers and peered at Meghann over her short, clear-polished nails. “It was a week ago today, wasn’t it? When your client’s husband tried to shoot you.”

Meghann’s left foot started to tap. The plush gray carpet swallowed the sound. “Yes. The funny thing is, the publicity has gotten me clients. It seems women want a lawyer who makes a man that crazy.” She tried to smile.

“I told you you needed to deal with it.”

“Yes, you did. Remind me to put a gold star next to your name on the door.”

“Are you sleeping?”

“No. Every time I close my eyes, I see it all again. The gunshot whizzing past my ear … the way he dropped the gun afterward and sank to his knees … May rushing to him, holding him, telling him everything would be all right, that she’d stand behind him … the police taking him away in handcuffs. Today, I relived it in court.” She looked up. “That was lovely, by the way.”

“It’s not your fault. He’s the one to blame.”

“I know that. I also know that I handled their divorce badly. I’ve lost my ability to really feel for people.” She sighed. “I don’t know … if I can do this job anymore. Today I completely screwed a client. My partner has asked me—ordered me, really—to take a vacation.”

“That might not be a bad idea. It wouldn’t hurt you to develop a real life.”

“Will I feel better in London or Rome … alone?”

“Why don’t you call Claire? You could go stay at her resort for a while. Maybe try to relax. Get to know her.”

“That’s a funny thing about visiting relatives. You need an invitation.”

“Are you saying Claire wouldn’t want you to visit?”

“Of course I’m saying that. We can’t talk for more than five minutes without getting into an argument.”

“You could visit your mother.”

“I’d rather contract the West Nile virus.”

“How about Elizabeth?”

“She and Jack are in Europe, celebrating their anniversary. I don’t think they’d appreciate a guest.”

“So, what you’re saying is, you have nowhere to go and no one to visit.”

“All I said was, Where would I go?” It had been a mistake to come here. Harriet was making her feel worse. “Look, Harriet,” her voice was softer than usual, and cracked. “I’m falling apart. It’s like I’m losing myself. All I want from you is a drug to take the edge off. You know me, I’ll be fine in a day or two.”

“The Queen of Denial.”

“When something works for me, I stick with it.”

“Only denial isn’t working anymore, is it? That’s why your eyelid is spasming, your hands are shaking, and you can’t sleep. You’re breaking apart.”

“I won’t break. Trust me.”

“Meghann, you’re one of the smartest women I’ve ever known. Maybe too smart. You’ve handled a lot of trauma in your life and succeeded. But you can’t keep running away from your own past. Someday you’re going to have to settle the tab with Claire.”

“A client’s husband tries to blow my brains out, and you manage to make my breakdown about my family. Are you sure you’re really a doctor?”

“All I have to do is mention Claire and the walls go up. Why is that?”

“Because this isn’t about Claire, damn it.”

“Sooner or later, Meg, it’s always about family. The past has an irritating way of becoming the present.”

“I once had a fortune cookie that said the same thing.”

“You’re deflecting again.”

“No. I’m rejecting.” Meghann got to her feet. “Does this mean you won’t write me a prescription for a muscle relaxant?”

“It wouldn’t help your tic.”

“Fine. I’ll get an eye patch.”

Harriet slowly stood up. Across the desk, they faced each other. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

Meghann swallowed hard. She’d asked herself the same question a hundred times.

“What do you want?” Harriet asked finally.

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Well, if you know the answer, why ask the question?”

“You want to stop feeling so alone.”

A shudder passed through Meghann, left her chilled. “I’ve always been alone. I’m used to it.”

“No. Not always.”

Meghann’s thoughts spooled back to those years, so long ago now, when she and Claire had been inseparable, the best of friends. Then, Meg had known how to love.

Enough. This was getting Meg nowhere.

Harriet was wrong. This wasn’t about the past. So Meg felt guilty about the way she’d abandoned her sister, and she’d been hurt when Claire rejected her and chose Sam. So what? That water had flowed under the bridge for twenty-six years. She wasn’t likely to drown in it now. “Well, I’m alone now, aren’t I? And I sure as hell better figure out how to get my shit together. Thanks for the help with that, by the way.” She grabbed her purse off the floor and headed for the door. “Send tonight’s bill to my secretary. Charge whatever you want. Good-bye, Harriet.” She said good-bye instead of good night because she didn’t intend to come back.

She was at the door when Harriet’s voice stopped her.

“Be careful, Meghann. Especially now. Don’t let loneliness consume you.”

Meghann kept walking, right out the door and into the elevator and across the lobby.

Outside, she looked down at her watch.

9:40.

There was still plenty of time to go to the Athenian.