Hope steadied Lacey’s composure. “You’ll tell him I don’t need this?”
“I won’t tell him you don’t need this because I don’t think that’s true. I think therapy would benefit you. But I will tell him there’s no point in forcing you to come here, that I can’t help a client who doesn’t want to be helped, and it needs to be your choice.”
Hope shattered and made a heap at the bottom of her stomach. She knew how Jonas would interpret those words: “Your wife isn’t cooperating. Take her home and convince her to cooperate.”
“I’m not crazy,” Lacey said again.
“Who told you that you are? You said Jonas didn’t.”
“No one . . . told me that.” Not recently. Not since her father.
“Are you worried that you’re crazy?”
“I said I wasn’t!”
“You said you weren’t crazy. Are you worried you might be crazy?”
“No!” She stared at Dr. Marsh’s tiered skirt, the bottom tier draping over her feet. Stalking people wasn’t normal, but she wasn’t stalking. She was watching, learning . . . but what about yesterday when she’d gone to Camille’s house while Camille was at work and had rearranged the autumn decorations on her porch? That wasn’t learning anything; that was playing with Camille’s mind. If the police had caught her, they’d have arrested her. If she’d insisted she wasn’t stalking Camille, that she was only admiring her, the cops would have locked her in a padded cell.
Stalking Camille. She was stalking her, stalking the widow of her husband’s old running partner, stalking a woman she’d met face-to-face only twice: once at Dante Moretti’s funeral, once when Jonas had taken her to Camille in hopes that Camille’s boss might be interested in her mosaics. Lacey had told herself she’d stop, but when she tried to, she ached like she was starving or addicted to a drug she couldn’t get.
Tears plopped onto her blouse.
“Lacey,” Dr. Marsh said softly. “What makes you think you might be crazy?”
Lacey blinked and focused on the toes of the shoes showing beneath Dr. Marsh’s skirt. They were nice shoes, wine-colored leather flats. “What would . . . happen if I . . . was crazy?”
“Crazy isn’t a diagnosis. It’s a catch-all word that’s completely useless here. Something’s bothering you, interfering with your life. If you’re willing, I can help you work through that.”
Help. What kind of help? Locking her up so she couldn’t peek in Camille’s window? Doping her until her brain was so foggy she couldn’t do anything at all?
“I have a suggestion,” Dr. Marsh said. “I’ll go tell Jonas that for now, I need to meet with you one-on-one so he doesn’t pace out there, expecting me to call him in. I’ll tell him to return in”—she checked the clock on the wall—“in an hour. Then we can chat for a while. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to tell me, but I think I can give you a better idea of what therapy involves, and you can decide if you want to continue with it.”
Jonas wouldn’t want to leave the office. He’d protest. He’d demand to join Lacey. But Dr. Marsh wouldn’t get intimidated. She was a confident woman, like Camille.
Are you going to stalk Dr. Marsh too? The thought whirled through her mind. What if she did get obsessed with Dr. Marsh like she was obsessed with Camille?
“I’ll go talk to him.” Dr. Marsh stood.
Lacey swallowed. “Could you maybe . . . could you tell him . . . he doesn’t need to pick me up? He should go to work. Tell him . . . tell him I’ll take the bus home.”
“Of course. I’ll be right back.” She walked out of the office and closed the door behind her.
Lacey thought about getting up to test the doorknob to see if the door was locked but realized that didn’t make sense. Dr. Marsh hadn’t unlocked the door before going out, and Lacey hadn’t heard any lock click after she’d closed the door. She wasn’t trapped. She could leave whenever she wanted. She didn’t have to be here.
Yes, she did, because she didn’t have the guts to tell Jonas she’d fled while Dr. Marsh was out of the room. She tried to visualize herself as Camille facing Jonas, shaking her head and smiling. “Jonas, I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. I don’t need a psychologist.”
She’d already tried to say those words, and they hadn’t worked; if she tried them again, they still wouldn’t work. Even if she held out for a day or two, that wouldn’t be enough. She’d earn herself weeks of Jonas’s lectures, his interrogations, his watching her, his promise that he wouldn’t even consider having children until she cooperated. Eventually, she’d shatter, and he’d sweep up the broken mess and carry it back to Dr. Marsh’s office. Or to the hospital.
Maybe it was better to stay here today and learn more about what Dr. Marsh wanted to do in therapy. She’d said it would just be questions. Talking. Maybe Lacey could even share some of the things that bothered her. Like the way she was terrified to go into their basement, even though her brain knew there was nothing dangerous down there. It wasn’t like her father had slithered in through a window and set up camp next to the storage boxes.
This might be okay. Lacey could talk to Dr. Marsh without telling her about the stalking. No matter how much Dr. Marsh swore to keep confidences, Lacey could never tell anyone what she’d done.
What she was doing.
Chapter 5
In the twilight, Natalie parked in front of Felicia’s house and picked up a gift bag from the passenger seat. After too many days of useless worrying, she’d decided to try to make contact with Felicia again, this time by dropping off a small gift. She’d chosen a book of famous poems about animals, an easy book to read in small doses and to pick up or set down according to Felicia’s mood. Felicia enjoyed poetry, loved animals, and would appreciate the original watercolors illustrating each poem. Natalie wasn’t confident her old friend would want to talk to her, but she was confident she would like the book.
As she walked toward the house, the man raking leaves off Felicia’s lawn stopped working and smiled at her. He was wearing jeans and a Georgia Tech T-shirt and had damp dark-brown hair sticking up unevenly in front—Natalie guessed he’d messed it up when wiping sweat off his forehead. He must have been working hard to be sweating that much; it was a chilly evening.
Wade’s son. Natalie had met him at the funeral but only for a few words of condolence and a handshake.
“Hi,” he said. “Looking for Felicia?”
“I am, yes.”
“Unfortunately, she’s not home.” He pulled off his work gloves and held out a hand. “Gideon Radcliffe. Felicia’s stepson.”
“Natalie Marsh.” She shook his hand. “We met briefly at your father’s funeral.”
“Oh, right. I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.”
“I don’t know how you could. You shook hundreds of hands that day.”
“But I’ve heard Felicia talk about you. You’re the one whose family lived next door to her when you were a kid, right?”
“Yes.” Natalie kept a neutral expression on her face, wondering what Felicia had told Gideon. About the yelling she could hear through her windows when Roxanne Marsh was in a manic phase? About the times Natalie had crept to Felicia’s door to ask if she had any cereal and milk they could borrow because her father was on a business trip, her mother hadn’t gotten out of bed in two weeks, and she and Andrea couldn’t find anything for breakfast?
About the fact that Natalie had ended up the family outcast, cut from her mother’s life, disinherited at her death?
“I’m so sorry about your father,” Natalie said quickly. “How are you doing?”
“Ah, you know, day by day. Push on. Keep working. That kind of thing. I decided to move to Ohneka to help with selling or closing down the store and to be here for Felicia.” He lifted the rake and shook a few yellow leaves off the tines.
“Where were you before?” Natalie asked, then remembered Felicia talking about it. “Ithaca, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. But I found
a good job with the City of Ohneka; I’m a civil engineer. This is a great place to live, and I found an apartment not far from here, so I can help Felicia out if there’s a plumbing emergency or something. It was a . . . good time for a new start.”
That reminded Natalie of another reason he’d probably wanted to leave Ithaca: when she’d been on a lunch date with Felicia last summer, Felicia had mentioned that her stepson’s fiancée had dumped him mid-wedding-planning. What a rotten year for Gideon. “I’m sure Felicia is grateful to have your support.”
“Hey, she’s family. My dad would haunt me if I didn’t look out for her.” His face changed, right brow dropping and right side of his mouth stretching in what looked like half contemplation, half wince. “His death devastated her.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks.” Wind blew a layer of Gideon’s leaf pile around the yard. He shivered. “Gets cold once I stop moving.” He dropped the rake, walked to the porch, and grabbed the sweatshirt draped over the rail.
“I’ll let you get back to work,” Natalie said. “I’ll stop by another time.”
“Hey—” Gideon yanked the sweatshirt over his head and shoved his arms into the sleeves. “You . . . you’re a psychologist, right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you . . . ? This is awkward. I’m going to sound like the guy cornering the doctor at the ball game and asking about his heartburn. But I’m worried about Felicia.”
Natalie slid the gift bag handle onto her wrist so she could button her long sweater. “Worried in what way?”
“Hey, uh . . . as long as the theme is ‘awkward,’ how would you feel about coming inside for a few minutes? You must be cold out here. No problem if you’d rather not. I realize I’m a stranger, and I’m imposing on you.”
“You’re not imposing. I’m worried about Felicia too. And I’ve heard enough about you to not consider you a stranger.”
From his uneasy smile, she knew she’d provoked the same concern she’d had when he’d recognized her name: How much did Felicia say about me?
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll keep it short.” He picked up his rake and leaned it against the tree. Natalie headed up the stairs to the front door; he followed.
In the house, a savory aroma nudged Natalie’s hunger and made her contemplate what in her fridge she could fix in a hurry. Gideon shed his shoes in the entryway. Natalie started to do the same, but he said, “Don’t bother; you’re fine. My shoes are a mess from the yardwork.”
“I don’t mind. I know Felicia prefers no shoes on her carpet.” Natalie left her flats near the coat tree. The tiled entryway chilled her stocking feet.
Gideon led her to the living room, where she sat on the couch and adjusted her skirt to cover her toes, glad for the thick pile of the carpet. Gideon sat opposite her in the green leather armchair Natalie had loved when she was a child. She’d been pleased when she’d first visited Felicia in the home she’d bought with Wade and had seen Felicia had kept the chair. A decade later, it was still in superb shape.
“Thanks for taking the time to talk to me,” Gideon said.
“I’m glad to do it.” She set the gift bag on the cushion next to her. “Tell me about Felicia. I’ve tried to connect with her, but she doesn’t usually respond.”
“Is it cold in here?” Gideon rubbed his hands together. “If she’s going to be gone for hours, she usually turns the thermostat down. Let me fix that.” He stood and jogged out of the room. The furnace kicked on.
“Should warm up soon,” he said as he reentered. “Felicia is off meeting with a woman in Rochester who is interested in possibly buying my father’s store.”
“All of Ohneka will appreciate it if the store stays open,” Natalie said. “Though it won’t be the same without your father at the helm.”
“Yeah. Financially, it would be nice for Felicia if she could sell it. She doesn’t want to run it herself. She was a big help with it, but it was his passion, not hers.”
“I remember when she owned The Chicken Noodle,” Natalie said. “She used to bring us leftover soup or cookies or bread, and the food was always marvelous. I still like the café, but I don’t think it’s ever been as good as it was before she sold it.”
“That’s what people tell me. I was surprised when Dad told me she’d decided to ditch it. I thought she was still going strong.”
“Yes, it surprised us too. I was away at school, but I remember my mother telling me Felicia was hitting the big-time, getting hired to cater the opening of Maison du Canard. Though that might have—” She stopped. Gideon was part of Felicia’s family; why was outsider Natalie telling him this? “I’m sorry. You must already know this story.”
“I don’t think I do. And I can’t remember what Maison du Canard is, though I’ve heard of it.”
“You’ve probably seen it. It’s that glass-walled reception hall built on Kahrakwa Pond, next to the art museum.”
“Oh yeah, yeah. Cool building. She catered the opening?”
Natalie fingered the raffia handles of the gift bag. She felt gossipy, but she’d stirred Gideon’s curiosity, and it was better to finish the story than refuse to explain. It would be pointless to act like something that had been local headline news was private. “The man who’d donated the money to build the hall—Robert Chapman, I’m sure you’ve heard his name—loved Felicia’s food, and he hired . . . ” She hesitated, thrown by the change in Gideon’s expression. He’d been listening with courteous attention, but now he’d averted his eyes, and an emotion darker than interest or concern shadowed his face. “Do you know Robert Chapman?” she asked, unsure what she’d said that had disturbed him.
Gideon picked a twig off one sleeve. “I know of him. I haven’t met him.”
Natalie hastened to finish, wanting to change the subject. “Unfortunately, there was an accident at the reception, and Mrs. Chapman—Sheryl, his first wife—died. Felicia witnessed it, and from what my sister told me, it was traumatic for her.”
Gideon’s brow wrinkled. Should she tell him he had a leaf fragment clinging to one eyebrow? “That’s right; I remember my father mentioning it. Do you think that stress had anything to do with her deciding to sell the café?”
“I don’t know.” Natalie felt foolish for bringing it up. “I admit I always assumed the stress of that experience was a factor, since she sold the café a few months after that, but I don’t have anything definitive to back that up. She’s never been willing to talk to me about Sheryl’s death, and I’ve seen her change the subject if anyone else asks.”
“Huh.” Gideon finally resumed eye contact. “Do you . . . do business with Robert Chapman?”
“We lease our office space from Chapman Development. Is that what you mean?”
“Do you know him? Personally, not by reputation?”
“Yes. His company is renovating an 1890s building, and I’ve been meeting with him about the possibility of opening a mental health clinic there. I’ve been seeking funding from him, actually. Clinic fees would be on a sliding scale—everything from free on up, according to a client’s financial situation. My goal is to make mental health services more available and affordable.”
“That’s a great goal,” Gideon said, but he sounded guarded. “What’s he like?”
Natalie pictured short, wild-white-haired Bob Chapman. “He’s quirky. Doesn’t care about conventions or expectations. He’s a fascinating, sometimes overbearing, funny guy. He married again and adores his wife; he also has an adult daughter, but unfortunately, they’re estranged. Let me apologize; I’ve been rambling instead of listening to you. How is Felicia doing?”
Gideon pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, then pulled them down again. “Have you talked to her much lately?”
“Unfortunately, I haven’t. Since your father died, we’ve only had short conversations. Like I said, she often doesn’t answer her phone or respond to texts. That’s why I stopped by with this.” She touched the gift bag. “I understand if sh
e doesn’t feel like talking to me, but I want her to know I’m thinking of her and I’m here if she needs a friend.”
“She always told me nice things about you.”
“I appreciate that.” Natalie smiled at him and sat silently, waiting for him to continue. He averted his eyes again and rubbed his thumb on the face of his watch as though cleaning it. If he’d been a client, Natalie would have waited longer, letting the silence coax him into speech, but in this context, the silence made her uncomfortable. “Is she taking care of herself?” Natalie asked.
“Yeah, sure, she’s fine physically. Exercises, eats well, I think. In fact, she’s okay all around, as okay as she can be right now. Just needs time. Speaking of eating well, she left soup in the Crock Pot. She made a ton of it and told me to help myself. Have you had dinner? Might be nice for you to taste her soup again.”
“It smells delicious,” Natalie said, puzzled. Gideon had invited her in here to listen to his concerns about Felicia, and now he didn’t seem to want to share those concerns. “But I don’t want to intrude on your evening.”
“You’re not intruding. It’s split pea with ham. When I was a kid and my mother would make split pea, I wouldn’t touch it because it looked disgusting. I’m glad I got past that. I was missing out. Give me a minute to get things ready.” He sprang up and hurried out of the living room.
Natalie debated what to do. Did he want to talk about Felicia over dinner, had he changed his mind about confiding in Natalie at all, or was something else going on? You mean is he the first guy in history to use his stepmother’s grief and split-pea soup as a ploy for hitting on a woman? Dream on.
Did she want to stay? Yes. Felicia had always spoken highly of Gideon, and it wasn’t her style to gush insincere praise, even about a family member. Natalie was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and see if he relaxed enough over dinner to tell her what was worrying him about Felicia.
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