Bound by Suggestion (5 page)

He folded his hands. “I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.”

I drained my glass. “Yeah, me, too.”

A long silence followed.

“Have you had dinner?” he asked.

“We never got that far.”

Richard eyed the glass in my hand, then glanced at the half-empty bottle on the floor beside me. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Not enough.” I picked up the bottle, poured myself another, neat. The ice had long since melted.

“Don’t you think you might want to ease off on that?”

“No.”

“Jeff—”

“When was the last time a woman dumped you, oh older, wiser, better-looking brother of mine?”

“Jeff—”

“I’ll bet you’ve never been dumped.”

He said nothing.

“Did you do the dumping, or did you and your former lady friends mutually agree to split?”

His voice hardened. “Something like that.”

“I’ve always been dumped.” I took a deep swallow, had to cough. “You know, I saw it coming. I just didn’t want to believe it. I thought Maggie was the one. True love and all that shit. I thought this psychic crap gave me an edge. That I’d know if somebody really loved me. She fooled me anyway.”

“What went wrong?” he asked.

“You mean which one of us is to blame?”

“Yeah.”

I thought about it long and hard. And copped out. “Maybe no one’s to blame. Sometimes things just happen.”

Yeah. Right.

I drained my glass. Richard just stared at me.

“Why don’t you come over to the house? We’ll have some coffee and talk,” he said.

“What’s to talk about?”

“About how you’re going to deal with this. Like a responsible adult or a lovesick teenager.”

“That’s easy for you to say, you’ll have someone warming your bed tonight.”

“Okay, maybe that was callous, but I’m talking about the alcohol. I don’t want to see you end up—”

“A drunk—like our mother?” My eyes bored into his, as big a challenge as I’d ever given him.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, what did you mean? Because if alcoholism is a disease, then brother you’re as sick as me.”

His mouth tightened. “What’re you talking about?”

“Every time you come home from the clinic you make a bee-line for the scotch. You want other examples?”

His eyes blazed. I’d definitely hit a nerve.

“You’re upset. You’ve had too much to drink. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I sure as hell do. And I don’t like you pointing the finger at me when you’re no better.”

He stood. “Okay, push me away, but I’m not going far. You know where to find me if you need me.” He headed for the door, paused, looked at me with—disgust? Disappointment? I wasn’t sure. He pulled it shut behind him.

I listened to his footsteps on the stairs, and then heard the outer door slam.

The ugly quiet lengthened.

Herschel glared at me in disapproval. Why not? I’d intended my insults to wound Richard. Just like a disgusting drunk.

Petty resentment flared. Not just for his talking to Krista, or chiding me about my drinking. It went much deeper than that. Back to the basics.

Our mother had loved him more than she’d loved me. Maybe I’d never be able to forgive him for that—for something he’d had no control over. And why was I mad at him anyway? It was Maggie. No, her conniving, pretentious bitch sister, Irene, I should be angry with. Just because I didn’t have Richard’s money. Who besides her cared? Money hadn’t brought Richard happiness. Just . . . comfort.

Something I’d never be able to give Maggie.

I ran my finger around the rim of my glass.

Herschel decided to wash the sleek black fur on his leg.

Had Richard ever really fucked up? I knew virtually nothing about his life before Brenda. He loved her, but had he ever hurt her. I mean
really
hurt her, inadvertently, like I’d hurt Maggie?

The silence wore on my nerves.

I rested the glass against my bottom lip, breathed in the heady bourbon. I hadn’t exactly told Richard the truth. The cycle of rejection had begun with me six weeks before. I’d sold two photos to
Upstate Magazine
. After polishing off a bottle of champagne, Maggie and I were celebrating—in the sack. Eyes closed, I’d run my fingers through her hair.

“I love you so much,” she’d murmured and kissed me.

“Shelley,” I breathed into her ear.

She stiffened in my embrace.

Shelley, my dead, ex-wife. A woman I had not been happy with. A woman I tried not to think about. Had tried to forget.

Maggie’s humiliation stung me.

“Maggs, I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t enough to just regret it; I had to experience it with her. All the crap from when her husband left her welled up in a second, overwhelming her—and me. And nothing I could say or do could make it better.

I’d held her during the night, hoping she’d feel—understand—the depth of my love for her.

The next morning, conversation was stilted. The memory of her eyes, shadowed by hurt, still haunted me. She’d stayed away for days. That must’ve been when Irene moved Doug back in. Did his arrival ignite some kind of wistful hope in Maggie, rekindle something they had long ago? Something to erase the hurt that I had caused her?

Or maybe the relationship I’d thought so perfect had just been bullshit after all.

“I believed in you, Maggie . . . .”

Downing the last of my drink, I stared at my empty glass. I considered pouring another, then decided against it.

Richard was right. Did I want to end up a drunk like my mother and pass out on the couch every night?

Right then I did. I mean, why not?

Instead I capped what was left of the bourbon. I struggled to my feet and staggered across the room to replace the bottle on my make-shift bar. I knew I should call Richard to apologize. I owed him a lot. But—dammit—I was tired of owing him. Calling him could wait until morning.

I thought about my lonely bed—the one I thought I’d be sharing with Maggie anymore. How could she dump me for such a stupid reason, and for a guy who’d treated her shabbily so many years ago?

My anger swelled and I wanted to punch something. I looked around the comfortable room, remembered the months of work Maggie and I had put into it.

I didn’t want to break anything. I wanted revenge.

That’s when I remembered the crushed business card in my raincoat pocket. Searching through the sea of clothes on hangers in the closet, I found the coat and fumbled in the pocket. Krista Marsh’s card was creased but readable.

I picked up the phone and punched in the numbers.

“Doctors’ service.”

“I wanna leave a message for Dr. Marsh.” God, did I sound drunk? I spoke slowly, deliberately. “Please have her call Jeff Resnick. It’s not an emergency.”

“Spell that please,” the crisp voice requested.

I did—and left my number in case Krista had ditched it.

Hanging up the phone, I flopped back onto the couch. Herschel’s penetrating gaze met mine. He folded his front legs under his chest, bowed his head and closed his eyes as though in disgust.

Sorry, buddy, but the missile was launched. Now to wait for the explosion.

I awoke the next morning . . . alone.

Maggie had only been out of my life for fourteen hours and already I missed her with an intensity that startled me.

I never realized how much I hated being alone.

It took me a few moments to realize that I hadn’t awakened with a hangover. That was good. I didn’t need another day in bed with a monster headache. Richard’s concern about my drinking was well-founded. But I wasn’t going to get paranoid about it, either. No way would I let this break-up with Maggie drag me down the road of alcoholism that my mother had traveled when my father left her. And I wasn’t about to give up drinking, either. Maybe that’s why I liked being a bartender. I could flirt with alcoholism without succumbing to it.

I rolled over and stared at the ceiling. I’d thought Maggie and I were soul mates. How could she trust—give herself to—Doug again? I’d seen their engagement picture. Tall, good-looking, and rich—thanks to his family’s printing business—Doug had stood behind Maggie with a possessive hand on her shoulder. He had money. I had none. What did he want with Maggie all these years later? I loved her. She was beautiful to me, but with his bucks Doug could have any woman he wanted—younger, prettier—why did he suddenly want
my
woman?

And was Maggie so insecure that she’d choose money over love?

Why not? Love and sex are great—but they don’t pay the rent or put food on the table. I could never offer her the security that Doug could. She hadn’t trusted what we had, not like I had—but then I had nothing to lose. Had she looked at me as a liability, someone she’d have to support for the rest of her life? Who could blame her for choosing the easier more secure path?

Me, that’s who.

Maybe I should’ve asked more questions. Maybe she’d wanted me to fight for her.

Envy chewed at my gut like a cancer. To be wanted by two men had to be one hell of an ego trip—especially for a woman over forty. Nobody had ever wanted me like that.

And yet . . . Krista Marsh was curious about me, or at least my empathic ability. She was probably my age—maybe a year or two younger, and attractive. Maybe even beautiful. Could I be more than just an intellectual curiosity to her?

Throwing back the covers, I headed for the kitchen. Herschel appeared when I opened a can of cat food. I made coffee as the cat wolfed his breakfast.

I thought about the blonde shrink as I sipped my coffee. I met a lot of women at the bar where I worked part-time. A few of them had shown interest in me. I hadn’t pursued any of them because I was involved with Maggie.

But I wasn’t involved anymore.

My gaze kept traveling back to the business card still on the coffee table. Krista probably wouldn’t return my call until Monday. That would give me a whole day to figure out what I’d say to her.

I took a shower, dressed, and thought about mooching Richard’s Sunday paper when the phone rang.

“Jeff? It’s Krista Marsh. You called?”

“Yes. I . . . I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday, and I wanted to apologize. I wasn’t brought up to be rude, and I’m afraid I might have been.”

“Apology accepted.”

“I thought we could meet for a drink and talk about your offer.”

“Which one?”

“Well, I’m not looking for a therapist.”

“I think that’d be nice. There’s a place near the hospital, not too far from you.” She gave me the address. “See you about six?”

“Sure.”

Richard stepped
out of the Lincoln and took in the mock Tudor home’s ivy-covered, creamy stucco facade. It was just as he remembered it. When he was a young boy, some forty plus years ago, Orson Jemison had been the brash new partner in Richard’s grandfather’s law firm. Morton, Alpert, Fox and Jemison had been, and still was, one of the most respected law firms in Buffalo.

Jemison’s house hadn’t changed. Richard wondered if the man himself had. It had been more than two decades since he’d visited the house—since the day he’d sat in Jemison’s home office discussing the malpractice suit against him. Jemison had advised the hospital’s own team of attorneys, and the medical board had ruled in Richard’s favor. His debt of gratitude to the old man still weighed heavy.

Richard rang the bell. After a while an elderly black woman with wiry white hair and a gray uniform dress opened the door.

“Mister Richard? Lord you haven’t changed,” she said, ushering him into the marble-tiled foyer.

“Miss Emma?”

“You gots a good memory, suh.”

“You look just the same.”

“Oh, you lie beautiful,” the wrinkled old woman said and chuckled.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“I be lucky to have a job at my age. ’Cept he won’t let me do nothing but polish silver, dust and mend. And he pay me far too much. I don’t tell him that, a course. Come ’dis way.”

Richard followed her through the spotless house to the study he half-remembered.

Miss Emma’s gnarled knuckles rapped on the door. “Mister Orson? Mister Richard is here.”

“Thank you, Miss Emma,” Richard said, and clasped the old woman’s hand. The light that shone in her rheumy eyes nearly broke his heart. She let go and turned, tottering back down the corridor.

Orson Jemison had not aged as well. Wizened and bent, the old man sat behind the behemoth of a mahogany desk looking nearly as ancient as his housekeeper, though he had to be at least twenty years younger.

It had been a mistake to come.

Richard stepped forward and offered his hand. The old codger took it—still a firm handshake.