The Boyfriend Collector

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  “Well?” I cross my arms.

  “I felt ashamed for the way I treated you.” He doesn’t bat an eyelash. “My father was grossly unfaithful to my mother, a fact I learned the day he died when he selfishly decided to give his confession to me instead of a priest. He admitted to sleeping with anything that walked. Interns, assistants, coworkers. So when you mentioned you’d met him and sought him out…” Dr. Hughes shrugs.

  Wow. Just…wow. I never would have guessed that about Murdoc. He seemed so genuine and passionate. Maybe a little too passionate? Either way, how horrible to learn that about your father right before he dies. But now Bexley Hughes’s behavior yesterday makes sense.

  “So,” I say, “when I mentioned I knew your father, you assumed—”

  “That you knew him.”

  I place my hand over my heart and wince. “I promise I only met the man once, and it was more of a sighting. I sat in an auditorium while he spoke. When I tracked him down, we spoke on the phone. Nothing more.”

  “Trust me, after you left, I realized I was wrong. I doubt you’d show your face to me if you were one of his many women.”

  “Not unless I was an insensitive psycho. Which I might be, since I’m here. Psycho-therapy is your thing, right?”

  He gives me a look.

  “Sorry. Bad joke. But just so you know, your father spoke very highly of you. He said you were the kind of doctor he always wished he could be.”

  Dr. Hughes’s eyes flicker with sadness. It only lasts a moment, but I can tell that he’s still dealing with the aftermath of his father’s death, which is why I add, “I’m sorry that you had to go through that before he passed. I can’t even imagine.”

  “Don’t be sorry. You didn’t break my mother’s heart. You came here looking for help and got handed my baggage. For that, I apologize. And now that I’ve been honest with you, it’s your turn.”

  My stomach knots. I’m not him. I’m not comfortable with his kind of brutal honesty.

  He continues, “Let’s begin with something easy. I talk; you tell me if I’m right. Okay?”

  I toggle my head. “Okay.”

  “Good.” He grabs his notepad and jots something down but doesn’t look at me. It feels intentional, like he doesn’t want me to feel pressured or self-conscious. “Your mother was Lana Hale.”

  So he Googled me. Well, point for him. “Yes.”

  “And she died when you were born?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “Your grandparents were given custody.”

  My spine undulates with a cold heat. I don’t like talking about them.

  “Rose?” he prods.

  “Yes. They were my guardians.”

  He looks at me with indifference. “And when you told me yesterday that your future depends on finding a husband, you were referring to the abuse they’ve subjected you to.”

  “They’ve never touched me.”

  “That’s not necessarily what I’m talking about.”

  “Then?” I ask.

  He scratches his stubble. I kind of hate facial hair, short or long, but it suits him. Maybe because it makes him look less stick-up-the-ass and more like a real man who goes through each day like the rest of us. Hair that needs to be washed, trimmed, or shaved. Razors and shampoo that need to be bought at Target or the grocery store.

  “I’m not sure what’s going on in your home,” he says. “All I know is I showed up yesterday, ready to beg forgiveness for allowing my personal life to bleed over into your session, and instead I found a suspiciously hostile environment where my patient is dressed like a staff member and acts like a hostage in a home that everyone knows is the Hale estate belonging to your late mother.” He leans back. “So, you tell me, Rose. What’s going on?”

  I turn my head and massage my temples. Sonofabitch. This guy is smart, and he goes straight for the jugular. Still, something about him makes me want to be brave. I feel like he expects it from me and won’t settle for less. “They told me that living like I do is the price I have to pay.”

  He frowns. “For?”

  I shrug. “Kind of like a humility-slash-work-ethic boot camp—a requirement for me to inherit my mother’s empire and all of the money she left me.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “That’s because it’s too fucked-up to understand, which is why no one will ever believe me.”

  “I will, Rose. I will believe you.”

  Will he? Because I sure as hell don’t.

  I exhale with a big whoosh. “Well, I was pretty much raised by nannies and tutors. The staff rotated in and out so quickly that I never got to know anyone very well. Plus, it didn’t help that my grandparents always told me to be wary of outsiders. ‘You’re an heiress. All they see is your money,’” I say, mimicking my grandma’s twangy voice.

  “That sounds lonely.”

  “Oddly, it was normal for me. I didn’t know anything else. And when I asked my grandmother why I wasn’t ever with them, she told me that my mother didn’t want me growing up taking everything for granted, because such a ‘lucky girl’ needed to know how she became so lucky. With work. With sacrifice.” I exhale slowly and tell him how they put me to work in the house to earn my keep, all terms of the will. Once I turned sixteen, I started venturing out more, but not much. I wasn’t allowed to drive, and there are no buses in our neighborhood. By eighteen, I knew I was missing out—I did catch the occasional TV show in the staff’s room, and I read magazines brought in. As soon as I earned my high school diploma, I began asking about college and was told if I wanted to go before I inherited, I’d have to pay my own way. “Then last week, I found a copy of the will. Not the fake they showed me a few years ago. All that work, all the things they said about what my mother wanted for me were lies. They made it up.”

  “I have to ask, Rose, why do you think your grandparents chose to do that?”

  It’s a question I’ve asked myself a million times. “I think they blame me for killing their daughter. They want to punish me.”

  Dr. Hughes stares down at his notepad. “Do you believe you killed her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even though you know you didn’t have a choice in the matter,” he says.

  “Yes.” He’s not stupid, so I’m sure he gets the fact that had I not been born, she’d likely be here now.

  “Is this why you let them hurt you?”

  “I don’t let them. Not exactly. I mean…I-I don’t know.” Part of me always knew the situation was all wrong, but I didn’t want to believe they hated me. I just accepted that was the way they were. Both grew up in families that were extremely old-fashioned and religious, where children did as they were told, and parents thought their role was to toughen ’em up. Preparation for a harsh world. “It’s hard to explain to someone who wasn’t there, but I never knew my mother, so my grandparents were the only parents I had. I loved them. I trusted them. So whatever they told me, I believed it. At least, to a certain extent.”

  He nods solemnly. “Well, excuse my bluntness, but they’re disgusting pigs.”

  I blink at him.

  He adds, “Anyone who’d abuse a child’s trust like that is nothing but a piece of shit.”

  “Is that a medical term?” I ask.

  “It’s an honest description, one we use to describe members of our species who should be flushed away.”

  I think I like this guy. And now feels like the perfect time to put my cards on the table. “I’m glad you understand because—”

  “Before you go on, you should know that I can’t provide moral support if you’re after revenge—even if I won’t blame you for wanting it.”

  “I’m not after revenge.”

  He stares steadily at me.

  “Okay, I am. But I don’t want them dead,” I say. “I want what my mother left for me. I want her to rest in peace.”

  “You don’t think she is?”

  I look away. He’ll think I’m crazy if I say the truth.

&n
bsp; “Complete honesty, Rose. You promised me that.”

  “How long have you been married?” I look closely at his face, trying to gauge the reaction. I want to know if he really means what he says about being transparent.

  He lifts his dark brows. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because I want to know.”

  “I think the underlying reason for your question is important, especially because you’re steering the conversation in another direction.” He crosses his legs. “So you’re either worried about something or avoiding the topic.”

  He’s smart, but that doesn’t mean I can trust him or that he won’t try to exploit me like everyone else. “Maybe I’m just into you, Dr. Hughes, and I’d like to find out how easy it would be to get you to fuck me.”

  His soft-looking lips turn into hard flat lines. “You need to leave.”

  It’s the answer I hoped for. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it, but I need to know if you’re a man of integrity or just some horny asshole who’s going to try to take advantage of me.” I can’t help being a little paranoid. Like it or not, my grandparents drilled this stuff about men into my head.

  “That was an inappropriate way to go about it.”

  “Yep. So how long have you been married?” Now I’m asking because I really do want to know.

  He hesitates for a long conspicuous moment. What’s the deal? It’s a simple question.

  Finally he says, “Sophie and I have been together for seven years.”

  There. Was that so hard? “Are you happy?”

  “I am unquestionably devoted to her and love her. Nothing could ever make me betray her,” he says with a firm bite. “So it doesn’t matter how beautiful you are, I’m not interested in you. Does this answer your question?”

  He thinks I’m beautiful? Though I didn’t expect the conversation to head this way, I won’t lie, a tiny part of me really needed to hear it. I don’t get many compliments. The other part of me is disappointed. What woman wouldn’t want a man like him to be interested? But the part of me that needs him, the part of me that is so damned wounded and ready to fight, is relieved.

  “Yes. Thank you. It answers my question. Now let me tell you the rest of my story so you know why I’m really here.”

  Bex

  No amount of experience or education can prepare a person for what I’ve just heard. It’s humanity in its lowest form. It’s greed and treachery. It’s cruelty. Parents, even grandparents, are supposed to protect their children and put them first. So when I hear Rose talking about how she was raised—like a sick version of Cinderella—I can’t help wanting to get up, go to the phone, and make a few calls. Surely what’s been done to her is a crime. At the very least it’s fraud if the family syphoned off the money meant to raise her. But more importantly, it’s just wrong, and it takes everything I have to maintain my composure.

  And to think how Rose’s grandmother greeted me so warmly yesterday. Southern hospitality at its finest with “oh, sugar” this and “oh, sugar” that. But I knew the moment I came to the big iron gate that something was off. At first I thought I got the wrong address off the internet, because the guard looked confused, almost panicked, when I asked for Rose and said I was her doctor. He made a few calls and then spoke to someone, I assume one of the grandparents, to ask if he should let me in. Then, when I saw the distress in Rose’s eyes and the way she was dressed—like the maid who’d opened the door—I knew something wasn’t adding up.

  Now it all makes sense. Rose’s lack of trust, the quiet rage behind her wide brown eyes, the spite she feels for the world. It’s going to take years of therapy to work through her emotions. Nevertheless, I’m in awe of her resilience. She’s not cowering in a corner, feeling sorry for herself. She wants to fight and take back her life. I have to admire that.

  “So,” I say, “let’s talk about next steps and what I think you need in order to—”

  “I need a husband. That’s the only next step. That is the only thing that matters right now.”

  I stare for a long moment, wondering if I’ve missed something while preoccupied with my own thoughts. “A husband?” Why are we back on this topic again?

  “I have to be married in thirty days or my grandparents get everything.” She winces. “Man, that sounds even more ludicrous when I say it out loud.”

  “Rose, I’m not a lawyer, but I have to believe the next step, besides getting you away from them and giving you the emotional support you need, should be filing a lawsuit.”

  “Lawsuits can be lost, which would leave me with nothing.”

  “Have you spoken to a lawyer?” I ask.

  “I went to one of those freebie guys downtown, so I don’t know how good he is, but yes. My grandparents have also been consulting a lawyer—the one who’s been in on it from the beginning. He’s an old friend.”

  Well, crap. That means whatever they’ve been doing to Rose, or plan to do, hasn’t been without legal considerations.

  “What advice were you given?” I ask.

  “The will is worded in such a way that only my husband and I—together—can be beneficiaries. Not one or the other, but both. And the only day to claim the inheritance is on my twenty-first birthday. Not one day before. Not one day after. That’s why my only option is to marry.”

  “Why don’t you contest the will?” Because clearly her big plan is to find a husband in thirty days. That’s not a good plan.

  “I’ve already considered it, and I’ll consider it again if I fail. But I’ve got four weeks to find someone. If I don’t, then yes, I can sue and take my chances.”

  “So you just need to marry. That’s it?”

  She shakes her head. “Yes. Well, sort of. The man has to be selected by my grandparents, or at least invited to my coming-out party this Friday.”

  “Your grandparents get to pick your husband? The same grandparents who have been stealing from you?” I can’t see how Rose will win this.

  “There’s some teeth in the language to ensure they’re not shopping at the nearest prison, but yeah.”

  “Doesn’t that worry you?” I ask. Because it should.

  “They’re only focused on two things: complying, down to the letter of the law, with that will, and showing off to all their rich friends. I think that gives me a good shot because they’re too stuck-up to invite anyone who’s ‘beneath them.’”

  In a way, her naivety is sweet and gives me hope. It says that her view of the world and of the people in it isn’t so dark that she’s a lost cause. Because me, I’m thinking about all the ways this could go south on her.

  She continues, “After the party, then starts the process of weeding through the men. I have to pick someone I can trust. Someone who really loves me. Because the entire estate goes to both of us jointly. There are no limitations on what he or I can do with the money. So, technically, he could give it all away two minutes into our marriage without my permission. He could spend it on horse races or other women. I wouldn’t be able to do much more than file for divorce and try to take half, but the money could be long gone by then if I’m not careful.”

  This situation keeps getting uglier, and I have to keep reminding myself that my concern is for the patient’s mental health. I can’t give legal advice or get involved. But, dammit, I want to. Someone needs to help this woman. She needs an ally who isn’t going to screw her over.

  “Rose,” I say, “as your therapist—”

  “That’s where you’re mistaken, Dr. Hughes. I don’t want therapy.” She goes on about this party happening in two days and how the men there are her pool of candidates. “But my grandparents can’t know what I’m up to. I need you to cover for me so everyone thinks I’m here with you. In exchange, I can pay you two thousand dollars. I know that’s only a hundred dollars a session and lower than what you normally get, but it’s all the money I ha—”

  “You’re asking me to take money while you go out on dates?”

  She nods.

  That�
�s beyond unethical. Not only does Rose need therapy, but then I’d be lying about giving it to her. “I don’t think I can do that.”

  “Why? What have you got to lose?”

  “My reputation, for one.”

  “Well, I have nothing and no one, and I have everything to lose. Everything.”

  “I’m sympathetic. Truly. But I can’t—”

  “I understand.” She stands.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Like I just said, I only have thirty days—not a minute to lose. So if you can’t help me, then I need to find a new alibi. Fast.” She’s leaving, and I don’t want her to. Part of me fears if she walks out that door, she’ll never ask anyone for help again. The world she’s in will swallow her whole, even if she finds a husband or has all the money in the world. A person does not get past this kind of betrayal and pain without help. She will always be the poor little girl who was taken advantage of when, really, anyone can see that she’s smart, beautiful, and has the kind of untapped fire I’m guessing comes from her mother.

  Even today, Lana Hale is still a household name. I wouldn’t be caught dead reading a romance novel, but I’ve seen a few movies based on her work. The Firefly, about a woman who falls off a cliff and is stuck for thirty days in a ravine, won an Oscar. Yeah, it was a sappy story, but even Sophie—who’s not big on movies—loved the final scene where a firefly draws the attention of a rescue dog and saves the woman. The point is, Rose Marie Hale doesn’t see her potential. With the right person by her side, she can have a happy life. An extraordinary life. Something inside me says that I am the person to open her eyes to that.

  “I’ll agree to help you on one condition,” I say.

  She blinks those large stunning eyes at me. “Yes?”

  “You commit to seeing me once a week. You keep your money and the other days for yourself, doing whatever it is you need to do. I don’t care or even need to know what that is. I only ask that you keep your appointments with me and stick to our rules.”