In the distance we could see the ocean liners that appeared no larger than toys. I turned away and then looked back every few seconds. It was almost as if they got slightly bigger each time.
Amanda brought us a pitcher of iced tea—true southern style—weak and very sweet.
“I wish I had known about Roger’s change of heart,” I said to Burton as we sipped our tea. “When he called me a couple of weeks ago, he did act different. But I didn’t think too much about it.”
“You’re a psychologist,” Burton said. “I’m surprised you didn’t wonder. I mean, wonder enough to ask or do something.”
“He played games with people. I thought it was just another game.”
“Yes, I suppose that is the way he was.”
“And you know from experience?”
“I know from experience,” he said.
I thought Burton was going to open up to me, but just then we heard the Boston Whaler approaching. Roger had a yacht, but he preferred this for guests on the island.
“It takes, what, three minutes to reach shore in the calm waters?”
He shrugged. “Maybe four.”
We got into the boat, and just for fun I timed the trip. It was exactly three minutes.
“I’ll miss you, Simon,” I said after he helped me with my luggage and I gave him a warm hug.
Burton hugged him as well. “What do you plan to do now?”
He shrugged.
I laughed, and then Burton laughed. It took a few seconds for Simon to catch on.
“The shrug, huh? Oh yes, I do that extremely well. For a moment, I forgot.” He gave me another warm hug. “My answer is that I’m not sure. I’ve saved my money—what is there to spend money on around here? My former wife wants to think about a reconciliation. I believe she’ll say yes. I believe that because God has kept love in her heart alive during the years of our separation. She just wants to be sure. I won’t make any significant change until I hear from her.”
“I’ll pray for you and for her every day,” Burton said. “What’s her name?”
“Sheila,” he said.
“Every day, you will be in my prayers.”
“I don’t know if God listens to me, Simon,” I said, “but I’ll talk to him regularly about you and Sheila. That’s the best I can do.”
“Is start.” He burst into laughter. “That has been like performing for the tourists. I’ll miss the playacting.”
We thanked him again and headed for our cars.
“How about coffee?” Burton asked just before I got into my car.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
We walked from the pier to the nearest restaurant—about half a mile away. Neither of us seemed to know what to say along the way. I marveled again at the sand dunes and the countless rows of sea oats. Everything smelled fresh, and the sun warmed my arms.
After we sat down and had our coffee served, I said, “You and Simon are the first Christians I’ve found attractive.”
“What kind of Christians have you known?”
“I lived with an uncle and aunt for six months when I was in college—six months before they kicked me out. They had so many ‘don’t rules,’ I finally made a huge poster listing all those rules and hung it in the hallway outside my door. I think I listed fifteen things I couldn’t do.”
“Is that when they kicked you out?”
“No. As a matter of fact, they liked it. My uncle was sure I was beginning to learn.”
“Oh oh. That doesn’t sound good.”
“They got the message when I put up the next poster.”
Burton smiled. “I gotta hear this.”
“The first poster said, ‘THESE ARE THE THINGS GOOD CHRISTIANS CAN’T DO.’ On the other I wrote, ‘THESE ARE THE THINGS GOOD CHRISTIANS CAN DO.’ ”
“And what did you write under that?”
“Nothing. I left it blank. The next day Uncle Ed asked, ‘When are you going to finish the poster?’ I answered, ‘As soon as I can think of something to put there.’ ”
“And what happened? Did he fill it in for you?”
“Oh no. He yelled at me. That’s all it took.”
“Wait—you lost me.”
“Sorry.” I sipped my coffee. “You see, one of the rules was ‘Christians can’t get angry.’ When he yelled, I pointed to the rule and said, ‘You can’t do that!’ ”
“And then?”
“He really yelled and told me to get out at the end of the week. But I had the last word.”
“Am I supposed to be surprised at that?” Burton showed those gorgeous teeth, and the light was perfect and his dimples glowed as well.
“I said, ‘Uncle Ed, I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.’ When he asked why, I said, ‘Because I don’t plan to stay that long. I’ll be gone tonight.’ Guess what? I never saw him again. But anytime anyone talked to me about the church or Jesus or being a Christian, I thought of him.”
“I’m sorry about that—”
“I should have added, until I met you and Simon. You two guys are genuine.”
“We try to be.”
We both sipped our coffee and looked out the window. The day had grown extremely warm. We sat outside where the soft Atlantic wind could caress our skin. It messed up my hair. No matter how windblown Burton’s hair, those curls never looked bad. Why do some guys have all the good hair?
From inside, the aroma of smoking fish filled our nostrils. I thought about food—as usual—but I didn’t want to ruin the ambience.
“I want to ask you something,” I said and broke the silence.
“Ask,” he said. The way he answered made me realize he already knew my question.
“You had a secret too. Most of the others told theirs, but you didn’t.”
“And the question—”
“Would you tell me—trust me—with the secret?”
“You’re a therapist,” he said slowly. He wrapped his hands around his cup and stared into the coffee. “You know there’s a time for people to open up.”
“We like to say that they’ll open up when they feel safe.”
“True,” he said, “but it’s more than safety. I still have a couple of things to work out within myself first. I hope you’ll understand that—as a therapist and as a potential friend.”
“As a potential convert,” I said. I smiled to deflect my disappointment.
“It’s not easy for me to open up,” he said. “But I will—eventually.”
“I am disappointed, but I’ll wait.”
“In the meantime,” Burton said, “I’d love to talk to you about the Christian faith.”
“Again, I thought you’d never ask.”
“You’re serious? You’d really like to talk about God?”
“I’m serious. This time. Honest,” I said, and I meant it. “As I told you earlier, I never met any real Christians before—”
“Or maybe you weren’t ready to meet real Christians. Maybe you let a few of the odd ones scare you away from opening up.”
I laughed. He had me, and he knew it.
“There is a Sufi saying, and maybe you know it. ‘When the pupil is ready, the teacher appears.’ ”
“That’s not fair,” I said. “I quote that to clients all the time. In fact, I even have a lovely poster of that on my office wall that one of my appreciative clients made for me.”
“Maybe it’s time for someone to quote those words to you—and for you to listen.”
“Okay, teacher, I want to be a ready pupil. Truly. I mean that.”
He learned forward. “I know you do.”
“Isn’t this the time where you grab me and kiss me and—”
“Not yet. One day, maybe. Not yet.”
“I can wait. I can be patient too.”
“It will also give me a chance to know you better.”
“I’m counting on that as well.”
“After we get back to Atlanta,” Burton said, “may I take you to dinner one night?”
“Do you take all inquirers to dinner?”
“No, not all,” he said and smiled. “Only two kinds.”
“Oh? Who are they?”
“Serious males and women with red hair.”
“Titian.”
“What are you saying?”
“My hair. It’s not red. It’s titian.”
“Okay, I’ll amend that to say serious males and titian-haired women.”
“In that case, I’m always free on Tuesday evenings.”
Excerpt from EVERYBODY WANTED ROOM 623
When the desk clerk first mentioned Stefan Lauber’s death, I didn’t react. The truth is, I was only half listening. Although I came to see Stefan, I had agreed to meet him at the Cartledge Inn for my own reason. It was a good excuse to get away from the Clayton County Special Services, where I headed up the mental health unit.
Today I was in an especially low mood. The reason was James Burton. Burton, as he likes everyone to call him, is pastor of a church in this area, and we met at the Georgia coast a few months ago. He’s the first genuine Christian with whom I ever talked. That’s the trouble. I like him. Okay, more than that, I might even be in love with him, but I don’t love his God. That is, I think I love Burton—and about four days a week I’m positive that I do. It’s been a long time since any man has aroused my emotions like that curly-haired preacher.
Even if I do love him, the friendship can never lead to anything—not even a single kiss. Burton is so stubborn, he wouldn’t let anything develop in our relationship—I mean a male-female connection. I can be his parishioner or a professional to whom he refers people in need. (And he’s done that twice since we met.)
He also angers me. He’s so likeable. And kind. Okay, and he’s cute—really cute. He’s no hunk, but I’d settle for those dark blue eyes and I’d love to run my fingers through those soft, dark brown curls.
Many times I’ve wished he’d make some kind of move on me, but he’s so hung up on his religious commitment, and I’m too honest to fake the faith.
So that’s how all of this started. As I approached the desk of the Cartledge Inn and asked for Mr. Lauber, my thoughts were centered on Burton.
It was the first time I had been to the inn, which was built out of red brick that had weathered and lightened over the decades into a pale, rose-colored patina. The double front door was made of thick, dark cherrywood. The place had originally been an inn, built around 1920, just after World War I. A few years ago, the present owners turned it into a retreat center and motel. It’s located about three miles outside Atlanta’s Stone Mountain Park.
Because his words hadn’t sunk in, I said to the clerk again, “Lauber. Stefan Lauber.”
He stared at me.
“I think he’s registered here.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said? He’s dead.” He leaned forward and whispered, “Murdered.”
“Murdered?” I mouthed the word. “But how? I mean . . . I talked to him on the phone only yesterday.” My response didn’t make sense, but I was so shocked I wasn’t thinking logically.
“Someone put him away last night.” The clerk tugged at his magenta blazer. “I’ll probably get in trouble for telling you this, but he was murdered right inside his room. Room 623.”
The clerk adjusted the pin above his pocket, which read Craig Bubeck. “He was a nice man too, and had been with us for several months. He didn’t deserve to get murdered.”
I wanted to ask whom he thought deserved to be murdered, but I didn’t. Temporarily I had forgotten Burton. Right now I needed to process this information.
“He asked me to come see him this morning,” I said, although I was talking to myself more than to the clerk. “He said it was important and . . .” I stopped myself before I began to babble.
“The police were here last night for more than two hours. At least that’s what Doris said. She’s the other clerk, and sometimes she exaggerates. They came back again this morning. They don’t seem to want to stay away. Ghoulish, if you ask me. But after all, how much time do they need to search one room? A hotel room is a hotel room, and I have no idea why they searched the room again and again. I mean, how long does it take to search one room?” The fiftyish, wimpy clerk must have tipped the scales at 115 pounds. He rambled on, but I had stopped listening, to his obvious disgust.
“How was he murdered?” I asked to break his monologue.
“Shot. With a gun, you know. Right in the heart. At least that’s what I heard.” He pulled back slightly and looked around to make sure no one could hear. “I didn’t see the boy, you understand, but that’s what Doris told me this morning. You see, this month, because of vacations, we’re doing twelve-hour shifts and—”
“Do they know who did it? Do they know why someone killed Stefan—uh, Mr. Lauber?”
He shook his head. “The police don’t know anything, or at least nothing that I’ve heard. Since you’re asking, I’ll tell you what I do know. Mr. Lauber called for room service at 4:22 and asked for a meal to be brought to him at 7:00. Wasn’t that considerate of him? None of our other guests would think to order in advance. Anyway, when the waiter arrived, he knocked, and no one answered. The door was slightly ajar, so he assumed Mr. Lauber had left it open for him because maybe he was in the shower or something. Just as he pushed the door fully open, he called out, ‘Room service.’ ”
“Yes?” I asked. “And what happened?”
“That’s it.”
“What do you mean by ‘That’s it’?”
“The body. Once he had stepped into the room, he spotted Mr. Lauber’s body sprawled on the floor, facedown. Blood. Lots of blood.”
“That must have been horrible.”
“It certainly is. They’ll have to replace the carpet. The owners hate it when the inn incurs unexpected expenses like that. He was shot. Didn’t I mention that? Shot right in the heart with a .38. I don’t know anything about guns, but Doris—”
“The other clerk—”
“Right, Doris told me. I didn’t see anything myself, you understand, but this morning one of the detectives stopped at the desk and we talked. He told me a few other facts.”
“Really?” I didn’t mean anything by the question. I was processing information.
Craig must have assumed I doubted him, so he leaned forward again and whispered, “All right, he didn’t actually tell me, but I overheard him on his cell phone when he told someone else. I was clever at it. I kept my back to him so he wouldn’t think I was listening, but I heard every word. Every single word.”
Stunned, I couldn’t say anything, and I must have looked like an utter fool with my mouth hanging open.
“Mr. Lauber didn’t suffer, so that’s a blessing. I’m sure of that fact, because on his cell, the detective said he died instantly.”
I wondered why people thought that the news of instant death was supposed to comfort anyone. Whether they suffered three seconds or ten minutes or died instantly, they were still dead.
“Dead,” I said. I finally had enough presence of mind to move away from the front desk. I walked toward two sofas upholstered in apricot-colored fabric. The antique tables matched the walls. The lobby definitely had an elegant look about it. I sat on the end of the sofa and pondered the situation. How odd that Stefan had been insistent—almost demanding—that I come to the inn to see him. He had apologized for asking but said it was extremely important. Now I wondered what “extremely important” meant.
I didn’t know Stefan that well. I’m a therapist, and he had started to come to our mental health center. Because I’m the director, I don’t see many clients. His coming in itself was odd because he could afford a private therapist. Most of our clients come because they have no insurance and they pay on a sliding scale, which goes all the way down to five dollars a session. Stefan said a friend had recommended me—a psychologist named David Morgan, whom I respected. Stefan freely admitted he could pay, and we billed him at the rate of $60 an hour, which is our h
ighest payment level. The fee hadn’t seemed to faze him. Later I realized that money was certainly no problem for him.
At first he came once a week, and then he asked for twice-weekly appointments. “I have a number of things to think through,” he said. “Business issues mostly, but being with you pushes me to return to my room and think seriously.”
I studied him to be sure he wasn’t flirting with me. Not that I would have minded, but I’m a therapist and nothing else, and now and then a man thinks he has to hit on me. I wouldn’t have been able to date him if he had asked—which he didn’t—but he was still quite a hunk. A little old for me by maybe ten or fifteen years. The wrinkles of wear around his eyes and mouth made him appear to be in his late forties—about ten years older than his actual age—but he could still get any woman’s attention when he entered a room.
A week ago he asked if he could see me privately and if I would come to the Cartledge Inn. I don’t usually do that, but I sensed he had serious problems—the kind that he was determined to resolve—and I was willing to provide individual attention to such clients. At our center we’re moving toward a behavior-model therapy for everything, and we’ll eventually do only group counseling to save money. Consequently, we’ve been mandated to accept fewer individual patients. Even though I granted Stefan personal sessions, he paid the center. I don’t do private counseling as a sideline; that had never seemed ethical to me. Because of our policy change, the board of directors encouraged us to take a limited number of private patients if we felt they needed special help.
For the next few months, we’ll still be able to accept patients who can pay the minimum scale or more if we believe they’ll benefit. I felt Stefan Lauber was one of those individuals who had made amazing progress and wouldn’t need a therapist long.
Everybody Loved Roger Harden Page 19