Not a Word

by Stephanie Black

  “Good job. Who else?”

  “Uh . . . Tanner, because he was Griff’s best friend, and I think he had a crush on you but never could admit it. Maybe he’s obsessed with you now. And . . . Sierra, because she used to make snotty remarks about you.”

  “Yeah, the fat jokes.”

  “Because she was jealous that the most beautiful girl in school wasn’t a size 0, wasn’t ashamed of her body, and annihilated her in the senior class elections.”

  Camille laughed. “She’s still a size zero. Or maybe a point five—the point five is her belly; she’s pregnant. She friended me online a few years back, and I thought, ‘Bring it on, sister,’ and accepted.”

  “Yes, I’m friends with her too. She seems happy. Thrilled about her pregnancy.”

  “No kidding. If she posts one more pic of her husband’s manly hand resting on her baby bump, I might puke, but other than that, I actually like her now. So those are your top three?”

  Natalie handed the phone to Camille. “My forced top three. I was trying to think of anyone who might be ambivalent toward you or who might have been ambivalent toward you a decade ago.”

  “Anybody else you want to add to the list?”

  “I didn’t want to add anyone to the list in the first place. Don’t you have any current-life suspects we could pick apart?”

  Camille tapped the screen on her phone. “You mean, am I dating, or was I dating, or have I rejected anyone recently?”

  “Sure.”

  Camille held up her left hand, tilting the diamonds toward the moonlight. “This scares off most guys. If they know I’m a widow, sometimes they try to hit on me, but I can handle it, and it doesn’t go anywhere. Nobody’s been weirdly persistent, so if it’s a sick romantic obsession, they’re sneaky about it.” She passed her phone to Natalie. “I wrote down the names of anyone I could remember asking me out or trying to flirt with me in the past few months.”

  Natalie read the list and couldn’t restrain a smile. The list was long. “A few of the names are familiar but only vaguely. Like I’ve heard of them or met them in passing but don’t know enough about them to be helpful.”

  Camille took her phone. “I was hoping you’d recognize someone on the list as a client who struggles with an obsession over beautiful, not-size-zero widows.”

  “You do realize that if I recognized one of them as a client, I couldn’t tell you.”

  “I know you couldn’t tell me anything you’ve discussed—”

  “I couldn’t even confirm they were a client. Have you thought of hiring a private detective?”

  “Yes, but . . . I don’t know. Maybe I can’t face the fact that it’s time to let Dante go and move on, so I’m imagining someone stalking me because then I can be scared instead of dealing with the fact that I’m lonely. How’s that for analyzing myself?”

  “Deep. Well done.”

  “I’m developing an obsession that someone is watching me. I’m developing a phobia of self-propelled harvest decorations.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Did you know Bob Chapman’s first wife had a phobia of cats?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Adorable, fluffy, Internet-meme-worthy cats. Cat phobia. Do you think I’ll develop that next?”

  “Relax, Camille. What matters is that whatever is happening is interfering with your peace of mind. You tell me what would help you the most, and I’ll do whatever I can—within ethical boundaries.”

  “I don’t know.” Camille offered the open box of chocolates to Natalie.

  “Choosing chocolates in the dark adds a thrill to the process.” Natalie took one. “What don’t you know?”

  “How much is real, I guess. I swing back and forth, positive I’m getting stalked, then afraid my mind is messing with me. I’m not sure which one I want it to be.”

  “If you’d like to talk to someone about it, Kirk is fantastic.”

  “I know he is. In fact, I recommended your whole practice to someone the other day, so you’re welcome. But I don’t know. I hate doubting myself.” Her voice firmed. “I swear someone SOS’d on my window and moved my decorations.”

  “I believe you. But even if—”

  “I’ll think about it. Maybe I need to let it stew longer. Let’s switch to a frivolous topic. Mostly frivolous.” She tapped her phone. “Check this out. I would have shown it to you weeks ago, but it’s what I bought at MaryLisa’s right before Wade Radcliffe died, so I ended up with all these messy feelings about it and hid it in my closet, but when I finally took it out yesterday, it dazzled me all over again. I realized I was being stupid, choosing not to enjoy it—this is my birthday present from Dante, and it’s divine.”

  She held the phone out. For the first time in the conversation, Natalie accepted it eagerly. On the screen was a picture of a royal-blue silk clutch purse with silver clasps and a silver chain. The purse was decorated in miniature, glittering tiles that formed a winter scene of a frozen pond surrounded by leafless trees and evergreens with snow shimmering on blue-green branches. Tiny silver stars speckled the sky.

  “That is gorgeous!” Natalie said.

  “That’s the front of the purse. Swipe to the next picture to see the back.”

  Natalie did so. The back of the purse was as intricate as the front, with white crystals of snow falling on a rustic cottage.

  “Next week, I’m debuting it at the Chapman soiree,” Camille said. “I’m sad I never went to MaryLisa’s before that; they had some amazing handmade stuff. Pricey, though, so I guess it’s good I stayed away.”

  “I have a skirt from MaryLisa’s. A gift from Andrea. I never would have been able to afford it myself.”

  “I’m sure she made that point when she gave it to you.”

  “Eloquently. In fact, Felicia told me Andrea made a point of it with Wade when she bought the skirt. She rhapsodized about how thrilled I’d be with this expensive skirt, so far beyond my pitiful budget.”

  Camille snickered. “Flaunt that inheritance, girl.” She took her phone back and looked at the picture. “A local artist made the purse. Her husband was one of Dante’s insane marathon-training buddies. I’m too embarrassed to tell you how much I paid for it, even with my haggling the price down a few bucks, but it’s so beautiful and so unique.”

  “Dante would be delighted that he showed such exquisite taste in choosing your gift.”

  “Right? I’m going to search for formal events to attend this winter so I’ll have lots of excuses to carry it. Symphony concerts or the opera or something. Come with me sometime?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Speaking of the Chapman shindig, did you decide to invite Felicia to go with you?”

  “Yes. I left her a message but didn’t hear back. I’m assuming that means she doesn’t want to come. I don’t want to pester her about it.”

  “You tried. That’s all you can do.”

  “I hope it wasn’t tactless to invite her, but she and Wade always enjoyed it. I thought she might still be interested but wouldn’t want to go alone.” Natalie resumed sipping hot chocolate and scanned the sky, hunting for the Big Dipper—the only constellation she could ever find. “Did you know there’s an app that identifies constellations? We should get it.”

  “Forget learning constellations,” Camille said. “I’m going to learn Morse code. If either the stalker or my grieving imagination comes tapping at my window, I’ll tap back something that will curl their hair.”

  Chapter 8

  “How do you feel about Jonas being so involved in your work?” Dr. Marsh’s voice was kind, encouraging, as though whatever Lacey said, she’d accept it.

  “I . . . well, I’m grateful he’s so supportive.” Lacey settled back more comfortably in her chair. She’d come to her second therapy appointment afraid that if Dr. Marsh struck the wrong spot in her psyche, she’d shatter, but the questions weren’t blows. They were soft, like a cloth cleaning spots off a window so Lacey could look through it. “But
sometimes it . . . I don’t like the pressure. Don’t tell him that.”

  “I won’t tell him anything we discuss. You know that.”

  Lacey nodded.

  “In what ways does his involvement feel like pressure?”

  “Um . . .” Lacey tried to figure out how to answer this question. A few days ago, she wasn’t sure she could have stopped herself from exploding, spilling every horrible thought she’d had about Jonas, but today was better. This was the best she’d felt all week.

  Over eight days of house arrest, she’d done everything she could to act normal, to work hard, to convince Jonas she was fine. Gradually, her strategy had succeeded—first, Jonas had left her home alone while he’d gone running; then he’d started leaving for a few hours at a time to meet with clients instead of only working from home. This morning, she’d even convinced him that Dr. Marsh had ordered her to drive herself to and from her appointment, that it was important for her mental health that she handle her sessions on her own. She’d worried Jonas might call Dr. Marsh and question this fib, but he’d accepted it and returned her car keys and wallet. Maybe he was so relieved that she was going willingly that he wasn’t analyzing why Dr. Marsh would or wouldn’t care how she got there.

  Now Jonas was at work for the whole day. After her appointment ended, she planned to go straight to where she knew Camille would be today: eating lunch at the India Pearl buffet. Jonas and Camille had talked about how she never missed a Friday buffet. Lacey craved a dose of watching Camille.

  Dr. Marsh sat in silence, still waiting for her to answer the question.

  Quickly, Lacey said, “He gets concerned if he feels I’m not productive enough. He says to be successful I need to build up an inventory, so if I’m not creating enough new projects, he’ll . . . well, he has a lot of good suggestions about managing time and focusing and stuff like that. It’s so nice of him to be concerned about me being successful.”

  “Do you feel he pressures you to create your artwork at a pace that’s not comfortable for you?”

  “Oh, he’s just trying to keep me from wasting time daydreaming.” Lacey focused on Dr. Marsh’s office carpet. She liked the soft gray speckled with deep blue. “I don’t concentrate very well, so he’s helpful about encouraging me.”

  “You’re the artist,” Dr. Marsh said. “Do you think you might enjoy your work more—and even be more productive—if you worked at your own pace, not at Jonas’s?”

  “I’d be too slow. I’m lucky he keeps me going.” She toyed with the phone in her lap—the phone Jonas could track. She’d figured out how he’d located her last week: she’d discovered a new tracking app on her phone. She could have deleted it but didn’t want him to know she’d noticed it.

  “What would be the consequences of creating your artwork at a slower pace?” Dr. Marsh asked.

  Hoping the gesture looked absentminded, Lacey set the phone on the strip of cushion between her thigh and the arm of the chair. She’d removed the mosaic cover she usually had on her phone so the slick metal would slide easily. “Um, I wouldn’t be as successful.”

  “Do you feel that way, or are you repeating what he’s told you?”

  “Um, I can’t sell as much if I don’t create as much.”

  “Is that your goal? The maximum number of pieces sold, even if you feel the pieces could have been better with more attention and time?”

  Lacey shifted in her seat, her thigh nudging the phone closer to the crack between the cushion and the chair arm. Maximum sales wasn’t her goal, and she sensed Dr. Marsh already knew that. “I think Jonas figures the pieces are good enough now that people will buy them, and once I’m established, I can take the time to create spectacular stuff.”

  “That’s Jonas’s opinion. What do you think?”

  Could she tell Dr. Marsh what she thought? Lacey felt the way she had when they’d visited that Chicago skyscraper and she’d had the chance to step into one of those tilting glass boxes to get a view of the city below. She’d been fascinated, wanting to step forward but terrified to do it.

  She hadn’t stepped forward.

  “I, uh . . .” Lacey squirmed. “I . . . I don’t know what I think. But I made this purse once . . . and that was the first time I’d tried something like that. It took ages. Just a small purse, an evening clutch, but it . . . it turned out so beautiful. It was winter scenes. Thousands of micro-tiles . . . so many hours to piece it all together. Jonas was out of town, so he didn’t know I was spending so much time on one project.”

  “Did you enjoy being able to spend the amount of time you wanted on that project?”

  “It was wonderful. I loved it.”

  “How did Jonas react when he returned and saw your new project?”

  Lacey pushed the toe of one shoe against the carpet and drew it back, imagining transparent plexiglass beneath her feet. “He . . . thought I could have spent my time better. He didn’t yell or anything. Just told me not to spend so much time on a project that would never bring in enough money to make the time worth it. He couldn’t imagine anyone would spend more than fifty bucks on a purse.”

  Dr. Marsh smiled. “Versace would disagree.”

  “I told him people pay thousands of dollars for designer purses, and he said they’ll only pay that if you’re already famous; nobody will pay big money for an unknown artist. I know he was right. Almost right, I mean. The purse did sell. Not for thousands, but . . . a lot of money. To me, I mean. It was a lot to me. Nothing like how much he makes. He’s a financial planner and is really good at it. He has a lot of clients.” She gave her phone another subtle nudge. “I think he was surprised someone paid that much for my purse.”

  “How did you feel about the sale?”

  “Oh, great! Except . . . ” She thought of Wade Radcliffe’s accident and his wife’s obsession with finding out who’d bought the purse on the day he’d died. “Um, I think the store that sold it is closing, so I won’t be able to sell there again. I’d like to make another purse though. I have some ideas, and if local stores don’t want it, I could sell it online. But I’m supposed to be working on designs for a wall mural.”

  “Are you under contract for a wall mural?”

  “No.” She pretended to straighten her long knit skirt and bumped the phone again. One more nudge and it would be down the crack, and she could plausibly “forget” it. If Jonas checked the app, he’d think she was still at her appointment. After she watched Camille, she’d return and tell the receptionist she thought she’d left her phone in Dr. Marsh’s office. “Not a contract, but . . . someone who works for Robert Chapman . . . you know who Robert Chapman is?”

  “I do.”

  “Who in Ohneka doesn’t, right? Jonas hopes he can get me a commission to do a mural for that old building Mr. Chapman’s company is renovating, and he wants me working on ideas for it, just in case. It’s a long shot though, and I already have several ideas. I just don’t want to pour more time into them when it’s so unlikely they’ll hire me.”

  “Have you told Jonas you would prefer to work on a purse right now?”

  “Um . . .” Lacey shifted position, bumping the phone into the crack. “He wouldn’t agree with that.”

  “He wouldn’t respect your point of view?”

  “Um . . . he’s a smart guy, so . . . he usually knows how best to do things.”

  “Do you respect your point of view?”

  The question stuck painfully in Lacey’s mind. When she tried to tug it loose, it clung with hooked thorns. “I . . . um . . . I don’t know.”

  Dr. Marsh’s hazel eyes studied Lacey. “What kind of feedback does Jonas give you when you do express your point of view?”

  Lacey thought about the cinnamon apples and the raspberry sauce she wanted to make. She still hadn’t told Jonas about it. “If I . . . if he thinks I’m wrong, he’ll tell me, but he doesn’t yell or swear or anything bad.”

  “If he tells you he thinks you’re wrong, how do you respond?”

&nbs
p; “Well . . . I mean . . . I don’t want to argue.” Lacey resisted the impulse to touch the phone one more time to make sure it was out of sight. “He always takes care of me.”

  Dr. Marsh had an unhurried, meditative expression on her face that made Lacey want to slow down and ponder the questions again—maybe answer them more thoroughly.

  “What do you think he would do if you did defend your point of view instead of defaulting to his?” Dr. Marsh asked.

  Lacey curved both hands around her knees, fingering her skirt. She’d wanted a different pattern of fabric, but Jonas had told her this print would look better on her. At least he’d liked the beaded scarf she’d bought. She’d been ecstatic when she’d spotted a scarf exactly like Camille’s coral-and-gold one. “Oh . . . uh . . . he’d probably . . . explain again why he was right.”

  “What if you held to your point of view, even when he tried to persuade you he was right?”

  “I don’t know,” Lacey said. “I’ve . . . never done that.”

  * * *

  After she’d escorted Lacey to the waiting room, Natalie returned to her office. She approached the chair where Lacey had been sitting, slipped her hand into the crack between the cushion and the arm, and pulled out Lacey’s phone. Lacey had been subtle when maneuvering the phone out of sight, but Natalie had noticed it; she’d been on the verge of asking Lacey if she was expecting a call when Lacey had first set it on the cushion. In Lacey’s first session, she’d left the phone in her purse, and her fidgeting with it this time around had piqued Natalie’s interest.

  So Lacey was the local artist who had made Camille’s new purse—which meant Dante’s “insane marathon buddy” had been Jonas Egan. Jonas, friends with Dante? Why did that information fit so awkwardly, like shoes on the wrong feet? The fact that Jonas dominated his wife didn’t mean he was an all-around jerk. Why shouldn’t he have decent friends like Dante? But Camille must not have seen much of Jonas and Lacey together—the way Jonas controlled her would have driven Camille up the wall, and Camille likely would have vented about it when she’d shown Natalie pictures of the purse.