Fear Is Louder Than Words: Her stalker taught her fear. Her suspicions taught her terror.

by Linda S. Glaz

  She cleared her throat. “Danny was the kind of guy who told a girl what she wanted to hear.”

  “Danny? Ed’s not Danny. Is there a reason you won’t cut him some slack?”

  “One reason? No. A lot of reasons. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. You said so yourself. And, more importantly, when I do go out with a man, I have … prerequisites.”

  “Your faith thing again.” Donna’s face scrunched up in a way Rochelle had seen before.

  “My faith? Donna, you believe, don’t you?”

  “Of course. John and I attend church. I’m just not one of those ‘Abracadabra, He forgave, abracadabra, now I’m saved’ Christians. I give to charities. I’m a good person, and I don’t need to be saddled with the rest of that nonsense in order to define who I am.”

  “Faith is the absolute in my life, the one thing I can grasp and know it’s relevant.”

  “Ed’s a good man,” Donna said. “Have you noticed that any pictures of him with women in the magazines are photos taken a long time ago?”

  “No. I haven’t had time to follow his nocturnal activities.” Liar. Besides, he had told her otherwise just last night.

  So much confusion. A playboy with no scruples or a good man with a sympathetic heart? Or a combination of both? The answers were of little consequence. She had decided to go it alone until she could regain the footing Danny had knocked out from under her.

  “You think Ed’s a Christian?”

  Donna hesitated a second. “He’s always talked about it. So, yeah, but probably a normal one. Not like Brett and Jeannie Galloway. You know.”

  “No, I don’t know.” Confused, Rochelle wrinkled her nose.

  “Okay, they’re ones who are Jesus this and Jesus that. Although, that might be a good fit for Ed. He could use an emotional crutch right about now. He’s lived a fairly self-absorbed lifestyle and this might reel him in a little. For a while.”

  “That’s what you think Jesus means?”

  Donna’s brow arched, ending any further discussion. “You don’t plan to change your mind about calling Ed, do you?”

  Rochelle shook her head. “Not likely.” Going out with Danny had been for the sake of a friend. See how that turned out.

  Donna grabbed a newspaper. “Okay then, what’s on the agenda?”

  “I thought maybe—”

  “Wait, wait!” Donna spun around as she snapped the fingers of both hands. “Do me a favor.”

  Rochelle winced. No promises. “And what would that be?”

  “Tell me what you thought?”

  “About what?”

  Donna’s eagerness shone on her face like a kid finding a fuzzy caterpillar for the first time. “Did you follow up with the clinic? Were you impressed?”

  What did Dale Carnegie say about something if you were intrigued but not exactly sure how you felt? Interesting. “I’m finding it interesting.”

  And a few other opinions she wasn’t ready to share.

  CHAPTER 30

  TWO DAYS AFTER ROCHELLE’S initial inquiry, Dr. Reinholdt had arranged for her to be at a new-patient orientation. She arrived early and gazed about, awed by the splendid facility. Not only resplendent, but spotless. Much like the babies from here. Perfect.

  A young man by the front door mopped the granite tiles, his gaze lowered to the floor. All the other employees appeared cheerful and outgoing. Perhaps the job didn’t lend itself to merriment. From the look of the spotless floor, maybe he was merely overworked.

  Dr. Reinholdt introduced himself and held out his hand. “This way, Ms. Cassidy. Watch your step. I was afraid you wouldn’t make it.”

  “So the mothers all agreed?” Her pen flicked over the notepad in her hand.

  “More than happy to be part of your story.”

  “That will make my job easier. I knew when Donna said you called Cody a wunderkind, I couldn’t resist hearing more.” She failed at stifling a soft chuckle. “You see, I’m picturing miniature Einsteins and Chopins. After meeting Cody, I’m ready to see all you do here.”

  “He is one of our finest specimens.”

  When they entered the center’s meeting facility, he introduced her to the expectant mothers with all the flare of a ringmaster.

  Rochelle smiled and nodded.

  Gaga. The expression Rochelle’s mother had used when a woman gazed at a man with foolish glitter blinding her eyes. Okay, Dr. Reinholdt definitely impressed with his credentials, but he was, after all, only a human, albeit a human with a remarkable resume.

  Wasn’t that why she’d come? Though she’d dug through the article about him with a voracious appetite, she saw his smooth exterior and uncanny ability to steer and encourage lending itself to a different specialty—motivational speaking.

  “Thank you, Dr. Reinholdt and ladies. Without your consent, I wouldn’t be able to be part of your journey at the clinic. I know, with your help, and your stories, I can share the pioneering work being done here with my listeners.”

  She expected real buzz about PhD when she highlighted the clinic on her show.

  Dr. Reinholdt’s gaze traveled from one woman to another and found its way at last to a squat woman in the corner. Like a drumstick, his pen tapped on the charts resting in his lap.

  “And you must agree to all the terms outlined here in order for us to keep you as a patient. Ladies, it is crucial you maintain a consistent pace with the classes as well as your dietary supplements. Without these, the whole program collapses. Have you any questions for me or for Ms. Cassidy?” With a touch of speculation, his eyes focused on the woman’s face, and he seemed unnerved for a moment.

  Rochelle noted, “And if at any time I’m meddling, simply say the word. I want to understand what goes on here, but I plan to stay out of your personal business.”

  Sitting off to the side, nearly hidden by a potted palm, the rather stout woman with mousy red-brown hair hoisted her hand. Rochelle noticed immediate withdrawal once all eyes bore down on her.

  “Dr. Reinholdt. I don’t know if”—she sucked in her bottom lip until a red ring underscored it—“if I want to play God with this baby.” She grinned, a pink tint quickly covering plump cheeks that looked like she smiled a lot. “I just want whatever I get, super smart or like me, rather average. And, yet, I want my baby to have opportunities I missed out on. Do you understand what I’m getting at?”

  Dr. Reinholdt acknowledged the sentiment with a tap on his upper lip followed by a finger pointed in the woman’s direction. Rochelle thought it might be the most genuine gesture she had seen him display since meeting him—almost paternal. One that said I understand, but don’t worry, I have everything under control for you and your baby.

  “That’s a very pertinent thought, Ms.—?”

  “Smith. Mrs. Smith.”

  For the third time in the last few minutes, Rochelle thought Dr. Reinholdt appeared a bit off-guard as if trying to recall an incident. His eyes widened. “Are you Mrs. Ashford-Smith by any chance?”

  Rochelle’s mind went to work clicking through past interviews like a computer racing full speed. Something about Mrs. Smith seemed familiar to her, as well.

  “Please just use Smith. It’s easier. The hyphenated name was my mother’s idea.”

  Jackpot! One of Detroit society’s interesting marriages. Heiress meets young, up-and-coming prosecutor. Rochelle had met Bunny Ashford, the mother, at the North American International Auto Show Charity Preview in Detroit a couple years ago. The brief encounter had been enough for her to realize the woman would not have allowed any daughter of hers to drop Ashford for Smith. Jack Smith. Definitely not Ivy League.

  “All right, Mrs. Smith, you raise an important issue. But the fact of the matter is, we only enhance your own system and your body’s ability to produce a highly competitive offspring, both in intelligence as well as physical prowess. Your baby is exposed in-utero to fine arts, and the disciplines of math, foreign language, and literature.”

  His hands fluttered as he talked. Ro
chelle empathized. She, too, would be rendered speechless without her hands as props; one of the reasons she was grateful for radio.

  “And on a lighter note, you will also have access to state-of-the-art nutrition.”

  “A diet?” Mrs. Smith groaned. “I’m not very good at dieting.”

  Rochelle leaned back, unable to stop her lips from curving. Studying people had long ago become a hobby she loved. Another reason she trekked the path of talk show host.

  “I don’t mean to suggest you’ll diet per se. I simply mean we will provide you with information to help you meet optimal nutritional requirements for both you and baby. Your baby will absorb nutrients from your system whether or not you increase enough to meet his needs.

  “Remember this, your baby will have his share whether you volunteer it or not. This is one of the reasons for our delicious packaged supplements.”

  Dr. Reinholdt stood, placed his leg atop a footstool, and gazed from under a deep brow. Rochelle realized that he enjoyed posing for the ladies, allowing them deliberate glimpses of perfection. This pose for an intelligent look, that pose to show concern, this one saying he expected their undivided attention. Her insides quaked with amusement.

  “Let’s look on the positive side. Almost every baby born as a result of our efforts tests at least one to two years ahead of other children by age three. We’ve surpassed the cutting edge here, ladies.” He paced the floor, but stopped and spread his arms wide, pulling the women into an intimate inclusiveness. “You are the cutting edge by whom all others will be measured.”

  As the group congregated for their tour, Rochelle slid into place, following the women as they circuited the education center. She listened, not missing a single impression:

  “I heard this building cost over two million dollars to renovate. A lot of commitment.”

  “Not true. The center was donated by an anonymous client who believed in Dr. Reinholdt’s work. My cousin actually met the wife of the man who made the donation.”

  “But I heard Dr. Reinholdt has holdings in a construction company and had this place built from his own blueprints.”

  “No, no. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Could it be any more beautiful here?”

  “No, it couldn’t be.”

  “It’s perfect.”

  “He’s perfect.”

  Who was this miracle man? Really.

  CHAPTER 31

  The Last Supper.

  Warmth blasting through the heater enticed Ed to linger in the comfort of his truck rather than face his parents. Even the icy cold outside would be nothing compared to the emotional frost inside. He checked his watch. Almost five.

  A mental picture of Rochelle flashed in front of him. Strong in spite of what had happened to her. With an impatient flick of his hand, he shut off the engine. If she could face her demons with courage, so could he.

  Another glance at his watch and he stepped outside, strolled over an icy walk, and marched to the door. With a light rap, he wondered when he’d started knocking like a stranger.

  The door opened and his mother stretched wide her arms. She smelled familiar, like flowers and chocolate cake. Stepping into the foyer, he bent down and his lips brushed her cheek. He extended his hand toward his father—solemn as always. “Mom. Dad. You’re looking well.”

  Passing through the terra cotta foyer, Ed trailed his fingers over the wall. Cold.

  He shivered.

  For the next few minutes the three sat in the large, expansive living room, the chilly weather the most intimate topic, though Ed’s palms sweated. He glanced over his parents’ shoulders, surveying the house. Twelve rooms of the finest furniture and artwork, not a shred of warmth.

  Brow raised, he gazed at the painting of his maternal grandparents which had hung over the cherrywood tea cart as long as he could remember. His biggest fans. He’d been named after his grandfather, Edward Clinton Currier. He missed them.

  At last, when dinner was ready, they took seats at the mahogany table, which had been in the family for almost a hundred years. Glancing across the room, Ed caught his image in the long mirror over the sideboard and frowned at the unhappy face.

  He could at least be congenial. “I had hoped a friend of mine would have come with me.”

  “Friend?” His mother’s eyes softened. “A woman?”

  “Well, yes. Just a friend though.” He tugged at the neck of his shirt, drained his glass of water, and attacked the spikes of spring leaves in his salad. “But I doubt she’ll ever see me again, so I guess it’s a moot point.” Why had he shared that?

  Laying down his fork and easing back in his chair, his father said, “Please tell me she’s not that girl you found over a month ago dallying in a parking structure.”

  “Where did you hear about Rochelle?”

  “Bob Jansen mentioned hearing it on her program.”

  Ed lifted his napkin to clean away any remaining raspberry vinaigrette. “I didn’t realize she had discussed it on the show.”

  Prickly silence settled over the meal again.

  Donning the look Ed had hated as a child, his father said, “Why couldn’t she just have said thank you and left it at that? Instead, she’s turning the attack into a three-ring circus. Ratings, perhaps?”

  His father hoisted the napkin to his lips, a frown deepening with each word. “Who is she? Nobody. It won’t matter that you’re only friends. Your career, Edward. You should always think of your career first.”

  When Ed tried to chew a roll, it felt like glue. The roof of his mouth too dry to swallow, he poured another glass of water and finished it in three gulps. “I’m glad I was there to help her.”

  His father’s sour face twisted with disdain. “You’ve changed, Edward.”

  “You prefer the old Ed? I’m trying to become a better person.” Sweat crept under Ed’s arms. “Don’t you see that? I want to be better than the man I was just weeks ago.”

  A strange ache pierced his heart.

  “You’ve always behaved like a man’s man.”

  “More points for my man card?”

  Suddenly the realization hit him. He really didn’t care about the celebrity life anymore. Since he’d known Rochelle, a lot of other things had changed as well. He had tried to change, and not just for her. For himself. For the sake of being a decent human being. Wasn’t that what life was all about?

  “Do you realize how lucky I am I didn’t get into a world of trouble living the way I did? I have a lot of friends who ran around and caught … Sorry, Mom. But you understand what I’m saying. There, but for the Grace of God.” Grace. What his Sunday school teacher had called it.

  “Listen, Edward.”

  “No, you listen. I don’t want to argue. You’re right about a lot of things, but not about me changing my priorities. I have them straight for the first time in my life.” Ed didn’t know how to explain. He no longer sought the things he had before. Finding Rochelle in that horrible, helpless condition had changed his life more than all the well-intended lectures from his best friend Brett, an extremely vocal Christian. The attack on her had made him re-evaluate his own behavior.

  Count to ten. Count to ten. If this is going to work, I’ll have to count to ten thousand and still bite my tongue.

  “Truce, Dad? Or should I go home right now? I don’t want us saying things we’ll regret.”

  His father’s arched brow painted a familiar picture. Not even Ed’s favorite piece of chocolate cake could entice him to stay where he wasn’t wanted.

  Unwanted. How was it his father had made him and John feel like that their entire lives? John had finally found love in Donna, but Ed kept searching … and searching.

  He slammed back from the table. “Never mind, that was a foolish question.” He pecked his mother on the cheek and whirled on his heel. “Mom. Thanks.”

  He grabbed his jacket from the front closet, donned his new leather gloves, and opened the door. It slammed on him
with a finality.

  Even the house wants me gone.

  CHAPTER 32

  THE PERFECT BABY. ROCHELLE’S head whirled with the possibilities. Wasn’t that what the clinic was all about? Perfection? Nowhere else would a mother and baby’s health both tie so inextricably together with an assist from science—the most modern technology. Yet, she didn’t understand why they hadn’t shouted it louder. Oh, she’d read in a couple magazines the claims Dr. Reinholdt was making, but this technique could redefine the boundaries of reproduction. She envisioned people stampeding through the doors like a fast food outlet.

  “I’ll take one blond, blue-eyed boy with a side order of intelligence.”

  “How about a baby girl, brunette, with a math aptitude for dessert?”

  Rochelle laughed at the possibilities. Were they pipe dreams or realities?

  If genetics played into the equation the way she assumed it would, that could mean an end to disease or at least the predisposition toward it.

  And yet, playing God altered the final result.

  Unsure how she felt about that, her mind kicked into overdrive deciding which way to lead her segment. Dr. Erik Reinholdt: genius or mad scientist?

  A little after five, the classrooms opened and an attractive woman about thirty years old with stunning black hair and large, round indigo eyes approached her. The woman’s flamboyant smile and outstretched hand greeted her.

  Her voice tinkled with enthusiasm. “How do you do? I’m Lindy Lange.” She stared a moment. “Don’t I know you?”

  With a slight shake of her head, Rochelle returned the hand clasp. “Rochelle Cassidy. No, I’m afraid I’ve only met a handful of ladies so far. You weren’t part of the new class roster.”

  “Do I look like a new mom? Well, you know me now. And if there is any little bit of juicy info I can help you with, don’t be afraid to ask. As you can see, I’ve attended PhD for quite a while.” She smiled. “An eternity, actually.” Reaching out, her fingers lovingly caressed her bulging stomach with long, gentle strokes.