“We’ll see what we can do.” Doug nodded toward the Christmas tree in the corner of the room. “In the meantime, I suggest you enjoy your first Christmas together.”
Matt smiled. “May it be the first of many.”
About the Author
Traci Hunter Abramson is originally from Phoenix, Arizona. After graduating from BYU, she worked for the Central Intelligence Agency for six years before becoming a stay-at-home mom. For the past seven years, Traci has been coaching the North Stafford High School swim team, as well as a local summer swim team. She is the co-author of the cookbook I Don’t Do Pie Crusts. Traci and her husband, Jonathan, currently live in Stafford, Virginia, where Traci serves as the stake Young Women sports director. They are the parents of three daughters. Besides family activities, Traci also enjoys reading, writing, cooking, and swimming.
An excerpt from the novel by C. K. Bailey:
“Please, Daddy . . . It’s dark down here . . . Please don’t leave . . . The light, Daddy. Turn on the light!” Jessie awoke wet with perspiration. She embraced the moist feather pillow.
Sleep was a distant illusion.
Exasperated at the thought of another sleepless night, Jessie pulled herself out of bed and began her nightly ritual. She headed for the bathroom sink. She knew her effort to wash away the haunting dream with a few splashes of cold water would surely fail, so she then donned her favorite flannel robe, set off toward the kitchen and poured a cup of warm chamomile tea. In her younger days, something stronger—probably Jack Daniels—would have occupied the well-used mug. Having relinquished that vice, her taste buds had since found their way to herbal teas.
After carrying the tea down the almost nonexistent hallway to her study, she placed the cup on the edge of the desk. She slipped into the soft leather of her favorite chair, pulling her knees to her chest. A brightly colored, crocheted afghan carefully concealed any patch of skin still exposed to the cool night air.
Wrapping her cold fingers around the warm mug, she slowly began to sip. She drew in a deep breath and calmly allowed her eyelids to close. The little girl locked in the dark, musty basement inched her way back. Jessie’s eyes flew wide open as her head jerked. The splashing tea descended to its usual spot on the table as she rummaged through the neatly stacked papers.
Reviewing the day’s client profiles had become a necessary predawn diversion. While she’d often chided her associates for working too late at the office, she had recently acquired the same habit. Only the environment was different.
Blaring music jolted Jessie’s head from the back of the chair. She had somehow managed a nap. Annoyed at the clamor of the alarm clock in the next room, she couldn’t help but wonder what idiot had invented such a ridiculous way of awakening someone. Moving
reluctantly, she reached the clock on the nightstand by her bed.
In the quiet, Jessie sat staring, contemplating the soft, inviting space that awaited just beneath those covers. Slithering into the cool sheets, she lay for several minutes. When her mind drifted to the image of the scared little girl, she quickly rose and stumbled, half-asleep, toward the shower. Her eyes were not yet capable of suitable focus. The light of the sun, inching its way through the bedroom curtains, offered no additional motivation to see clearly. She had envisioned a long, therapeutic shower, the soothing massage of the hot liquid cascading down her back. Within minutes, however, reality emerged and the warmth dissipated. The cold water began its usual interruption, forcing an early end.
Today would be the first time in four years she would arrive to the office late, but most likely, no one would say a word. It was, after all, common practice for partners to be late.
She glanced through her apartment. Any quest for cleanliness would have to be put on hold. The bed would go unmade, and clutter would linger until evening. She threw on her favorite teal knit suit, which fit snugly around her slender waist. Her long, naturally dark auburn hair would normally be braided, coiled, and pinned up into a more sophisticated look. Today, however, it was pulled back with a black barrette.
Choosing to speed at a minimal excess of five miles over the limit ensured Jessie’s late arrival. A mere fifteen-minute tardiness was more acceptable than the prominent delay a speeding ticket would have created.
Pulling in next to Susan Steed’s car, Jessie sighed. She knew Susan would be the one client to comment on her late arrival. Time-conscious Susan—as the office personnel referred to her—usually arrived fifteen minutes early, hoping for more time in therapy.
To avoid a confrontation in the lobby, Jessie slipped in through the back entrance. No revolving door, no digital keyless entry, and no welcoming committee. Just an ordinary key lock with a simple sign above the door that read Stone, Welch, Arnold, Winston & Associates. Psychologists. Please use front entrance.
Jessie had barely opened her office door when the receptionist’s voice came over the intercom, “Susan Steed has been waiting.”
“I’m on my way.” Jessie didn’t care for the newest receptionist. Tendra was the niece of the founding partner, Elliott, and made sure everyone knew it. At eighteen, her grades had barely allowed her to graduate from high school. Tendra’s explanation for the purpose of schooling was to educate oneself on the “who’s who” of society. She was petite, barely five feet tall, and had shoulder-length, curly, vibrant red hair. Jessie often felt the urge to ask if her bloodlines coincided with Little Orphan Annie’s. Tendra packed a constant air of false sweetness. After thirty seconds of conversation with her, anyone endowed with even minor intelligence grew nauseated.
Jessie set her open briefcase neatly on the corner of the desk, leaving her access to the client files she had taken with her the night before.
Jessie’s office was small in comparison to those of the other partners. She wasn’t one to want to impress clients with expensive furniture, art, or knickknacks. The limited space sported a basic oak desk, a filing case, a coat rack, bookshelves, a couch, and a comfortable, high-back chair for clients. Her license to practice and a picture of a local mountain scene graced her walls. She was comfortable here.
Taking a deep, calming breath, she walked out to meet Susan. Meeting clients in the lobby often helped them feel more at ease. However, Susan, who was already walking toward Jessie, didn’t care much for courtesy, protocol, or anything else that wasn’t originally her idea. She pushed past Jessie and slumped into her usual position on the gray fabric couch in the corner. Jessie had barely closed the door before Susan started in on the frustrations that currently littered her life’s path.
Jessie positioned herself behind her oaken barricade, retrieved Susan’s folder, and laid it neatly on the desk. As Susan’s voice droned on, Jessie moved to her briefcase and removed the files, placing them in the pile before her. She leaned back in her chair and placed her hands on the armrests. The hum of Susan’s voice began to have its usual effect. Entirely void of any and all excitement, Jessie’s eyes became dull and glassy. She lost herself in thoughts of the morning’s nightmare.
“Jessie!” sobbed Susan. “Are you listening to me?”
Jessie blinked her eyes rapidly and turned her attention directly to Susan’s unfriendly stare. “What? Oh . . . I’m sorry. Please go on.”
“Go on? I’ve repeated my question twice now. Aren’t you listening?”
“Of course I’m listening, Susan.”
“Then what did I just ask?”
“Well, . . . you . . . ah . . .”
“Oh, what’s the use! First you’re late—”
There it is, Jessie thought silently.
“And then you don’t even listen to me. What am I paying you for, anyway?” In one fluid motion, Susan was gone.
Jessie softly closed Susan’s file, wishing that her frustrations could close with the same ease. These nightmares are invading too much of my sleep. I can’t seem to concentrate. I’m focusing on the wrong things. You’d think seven years as a therapist would supply me with a greater ability to hide my
anxiety and stress from the outside world! I’ll have to call Susan in a couple hours and apologize. I’ll blame my behavior on the flu or P.M.S.
Opening the file drawer to her right, Jessie put Susan’s folder away and pulled out one marked Karen Edwards. Karen would most likely come in swearing this was the week she and the kids would leave home. How many times would she keep saying this until . . .
A slight shadow darkened the file, interrupting Jessie’s thoughts. “Oh, hello, Elliott,” she said, trying to appear calm. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Not surprised. Seems par for the course lately,” rasped Elliott. Standing at just five feet nine inches, Elliott Stone had the ability to make even the tallest of partners and associates feel inferior. Approaching fifty, he was distinguished in appearance. Slivers of gray glistened throughout his dark hair as well as his neatly trimmed mustache and goatee. His eyes, though seemingly undistinguished in color or size, had a piercing quality. He always dressed impeccably and commanded instant respect. He took his work seriously, often being the first in and the last to leave, which made for an endless client waiting list.
“What? What’s par for the course?” Jessie asked, silently chastising herself for not using the last few minutes to gain a more professional composure after Susan’s abrupt departure.
Elliott rested on a small space on the side of her desk, his hands on his knees. “Oh, . . . not hearing, not listening, not understanding. At least that’s the impression I get from your clients, not to mention the staff and everyone else with whom we are mutually acquainted.”
“Listen, if you’re talking about what just happened with Susan Steed, well, . . . that’s just . . . I’m not feeling quite . . .” She searched for words, her face twisting in thought.
Elliott stood and quietly closed her office door. “It’s not just this client,” he said as he pushed the high-back chair closer and sat. His eyes closed momentarily as he leaned forward and searched for the empathy that he must surely apply. “Jess, I have someone I’d like you to meet. It’s time you worked through things.”
Jessie’s pulse quickened. She felt a rush of blood soar to her head and a sharp pain pierce her chest. If she didn’t know better, she would swear sweat was dripping from her entire body.
“I don’t follow, Elliott.”
“We both know the signs, Jess. I’ve tried to figure out what’s going on inside that head of yours, but you push me away.”
“Who am I meeting?” Jessie snapped, her calm veneer beginning to crack.
Elliott opened the door and motioned for his friend. Jessie rose cautiously. Feeling cornered, she leaned against the bookshelves behind her desk, slowly folding her arms across her chest, again sensing the perspiration build.
“Jessica Winston, meet Ryan Blake,” Elliott said, watching her intently.
Jessie stared blankly. Her mouth felt heavy, as though it were filled with sand. She knew that name.
“This is by far the calmest response I’ve received yet. It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Winston,” Ryan said, extending his hand.
Jessie drew in a slow, deep breath, ignored Ryan’s hand, and turned to face Elliott. “I would like to speak with you privately.”
* * *
Ryan’s six-foot-tall frame was unaccustomed to being shoved out a door, especially by a woman. However unbelievable, the door slammed, barely clearing his nose. He was one of Denver’s most renowned therapists. During Ryan’s college years, a near-photographic memory had established his reputation as a walking encyclopedia of psychology. If he didn’t know the answer to a problem, there most likely wasn’t one. Aside from that, his riveting blue eyes, black, wavy hair that fell to just above his shoulders, and skin tanned dark by the sun caused almost every female head to turn for a second look. Some simply stared. Ryan adjourned to the lobby and pretended to be engrossed in a magazine.
Ryan’s practice had begun during his midtwenties. His client list contained not only the names of normal, everyday people, but also well-known therapists searching for their own path back to reality. After twelve years of practicing, however, he decided he had had enough. His deceased wife’s inheritance, as well as his own bank account, had allowed him to put psychology behind him.
It had been a month since Ryan and Elliott first communicated about Jessie. Following a week of daily conversation, Ryan was forced to put his early retirement on hold. After all, he owed Elliott. But sitting in a lobby waiting for a client to agree to talk with him—on someone else’s terms—was a first for him, too. Clients used to come to his office. If he hadn’t owed Elliott so much, he’d be in his comfortable leather chair, in front of his big-screen TV, sipping a seltzer.
* * *
“Elliott, what is going on?” Jessie barked furiously. “You have no right—”
“Dr. Blake is a friend, Jess,” Elliott cut in. “I trust him. I’ve asked him to spend some time with you, to help you deal with your childhood issues. Nothing else is to be on your agenda, with the possible exception of eating and sleeping.”
“Are you crazy? You can’t force someone into therapy. Besides, he isn’t ‘Dr. Blake’ anymore, if my memory serves me right. I’m certainly not going anywhere with anybody! I can’t afford to leave my clients for a week! Not to mention whatever he’s charging. And besides, doesn’t he have enough to handle with his harem of fifteen wives?” she spat angrily, pointing toward the door.
“Jess, Mormons don’t do that anymore. You’re intelligent enough to know that. And your clients will be fine. I’ll have Tendra reschedule all your appointments.”
Jessie was more than angry now. It wasn’t unreasonable for Elliott to be concerned, but for Little Orphan Annie to be brought into the know—that was crossing the line.
“And since his license has expired, technically you’re just going off with someone who can offer help. There isn’t any fee. I’ve taken care of everything. And you are going through with this. I plan to see you in my office first thing in the morning, a week from Monday. That’ll give you ten days to pull it together.”
Jessie exploded, “Ten days! You and I both know that is totally unrealistic. We’ve been over this. I’m doing the best I can. You can’t tell someone they have ten days to pull it together. He’s a man, Elliott! What were you thinking when you called him? And what happens if I choose not to do this? Huh?” With each sentence, her hands flailed wildly through the air.
Elliott made no reply as he left the office. Jessie turned around and glared out the window, anger and frustration set firmly upon her face.
After several moments, she turned and found Ryan in her office, gazing at her. The look on her face could peel wallpaper. “This is still my office, Mr. Blake. It’s obvious you’re without manners or you would have knocked.”
“It’s Ryan. I did knock—three times. I figured you were a little preoccupied and didn’t hear me,” he replied casually.
Jessie regained her composure. After all, this man wasn’t at fault, she told herself; it was Elliott. “I’m sorry, Mr. Blake. I’m a little on edge. Look, there’s been a misunderstanding. Elliott hadn’t cleared this with me before he sent for you. And, well, your services aren’t needed. If you stop by Elliott’s office on your way out, I’m sure you’ll be well compensated for your trouble.” Jessie motioned toward the door.
Responding to her dismissive gesture, Ryan threw the smile he was famous for. “Elliott said you usually leave around five-thirty on Fridays. I’ll be back then to pick you up.”
His grin gave Jessie the leverage she needed to be rude again. “I’m surprised you find this so amusing, Mr. Blake. Personally, I find this whole ordeal quite ludicrous. We shouldn’t even be having this conversation. I won’t be going anywhere with you at five-thirty.”
Ryan’s countenance withered as the door slammed in front of his 250-pound frame—again.
About the Author
Traci Hunter Abramson was born in Phoenix, Arizona. After graduating from Brigham Young Univer
sity, she spent several years working for the Central Intelligence Agency. She then left the CIA to stay at home with her children and pursue her love of writing. She has written several books, including, Ripple Effect, The Deep End, and Freefall.
Other Books by Traci Hunter Abramson
Undercurrents
Ripple Effect
The Deep End
Freefall
Lockdown
Royal Target
Undercurrents Page 18