“I think I had a set back.” My voice was small and uncertain.
His brows rose slightly. “Tell me about it.”
“I went to see a movie—The Red Shoes.”
A smile flashed on his kind face. “Ah, that’s one of my wife’s favorite movies. Moira Shearer, right?”
I nodded.
“What made you see it?”
“Ryan took me. We went on a date.”
Stroking his beard, he nodded approvingly. “That’s good.”
“No, it wasn’t good.” My voice grew stronger. “It made me really upset. I burst into tears. Uncontrollable tears. I was sick to my stomach all weekend.”
He listened intently. “I see. And why do you think the movie had that effect on you?”
Of course, he knew why. He’d treated me for almost ten years. He just wanted to hear me articulate the reason.
“It made me feel sad.”
“It’s a sad movie,” he commented. “But that’s not really why it had that effect.”
My stomach crunched. Dr. Goodman was so damn smart and somehow he was going to get me to face the truth.
“Did you tell Ryan why the movie affected you?
I shook my head again. “No, I simply told him I was sick. I made him take me home.”
“Does Ryan know anything about your recent past?”
I shook my head again. “Not really.”
“Why haven’t you told him?”
“I hardly know him. I don’t feel comfortable yet confiding in him.”
Dr. Goodman refocused on the movie. “Willow, let’s backtrack. Why do you really think the movie had that profound effect on you?”
I spewed the answer. “I identified with the heroine. Her burning need to dance. It made me miss ballet, but at the same time it made me feel very afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid of falling.” I meant that literally and figuratively. Of falling flat down on my face. And of letting myself fall for him.
“Willow, do you want to dance professionally again?”
“I don’t know. There’s an emptiness in my heart that’s eating at me, but I don’t know if I’m ready.” My voice grew small again. “Dr. Goodman, am I?”
Dr. Goodman lifted his glasses to the top of his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. He did that out of habit whenever he didn’t have a clear-cut answer. Generally, whenever that happened, he responded to my question with another question. Sure enough…
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I’m scared.” My final months with the Royal Latvia Ballet whipped around my mind like a wicked rollercoaster. The ups. The downs. My final free-fall from the stage after Gustave’s betrayal. My wasted body. My wasted life. My head pounded. Trying to assuage the pain, I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my temples with my forefingers.
“Willow, take a couple of deep breaths.”
I did as the good doctor asked, inhaling and exhaling sharply through my nose. My mind calmed down as he continued.
“You know, Willow, there are other ballet companies.”
He was trying to say I shouldn’t go back to Gustave. But the truth was he was my master and always would be. After all the other company directors had rejected me, he was the one who’d cherry-picked me. The one who had driven me to new heights. The one who believed in me. Saw in me what no one else had. Okay, I’d fucked things up. I’d gotten involved with him. Let him fuck my brains out. But I was better now. Physically stronger. More in control of myself. And there was someone else…
As if Dr. Goodman had read my mind, he stroked his beard again and said, “Willow, let’s talk a little more about your relationship with Ryan before our session ends.”
This time, at the mention of his name, my heart skipped a beat and my body heated. I squirmed in my chair.
“What do you want to know?”
“How do you feel about him?”
I couldn’t deny my feelings. “I like him a lot.” Okay, I wasn’t totally being honest. I more than liked him a lot. I was crazy about him. Insanely attracted to him both emotionally and physically. “I feel bad about Friday night. I haven’t returned any of his phone calls.”
“Why is that?”
“I just couldn’t talk to him.”
“Understandable.” Dr. Goodman lowered his glasses back on his nose. “Do you want to see him again?”
My lips twisting, I squirmed again in my chair. “Yes. But I don’t think he’ll want to. I’m too fucked up. I’m not what he needs.”
“Willow, why do you say those things? You’re a beautiful, bright, young woman with the whole world at your fingertips.”
Swallowing hard, I processed his words. I obviously still had major self-esteem issues, or at least, I’d regressed.
“I honestly don’t think he’ll ask me out again.”
A wry smile flashed on Dr. Goodman’s face. “I think he will.”
My brows lifted. “How do you know that?”
His smile widening, he pointed a knowing finger at me. “Because, my dear, I’m going to make him. He’s going to invite you to his place for dinner.”
And with that and my hopeful heart in my throat, our session ended.
SIXTEEN
Ryan
I was eager to see Dr. Goodman. Willow had snubbed me all week, telling me she was sick. But I didn’t believe a word. I’d even called his office to see if he could fit me in early, but he was totally booked. So, I had no choice but to wait for my regular Thursday morning appointment.
For the first time since Allee’s death, I sat in one of the chairs facing him. I was wired up.
“Ryan, you seem unusually anxious,” he began, sitting in a chair angled to me, his hands folded on his lap.
“I am.”
“What’s going on?”
I blew out a breath and then got straight to the point. “What the hell is up with Willow Rosenthal? What’s her story?”
He met my gaze. “Ryan, you know I can’t tell you. Doctor-patient privilege.”
A combination of frustration and anger rose in my chest; I silently cursed under my breath. “What should I do?”
“Maybe you should consider couples therapy.”
“We’re not a couple.” I was growing edgy. “Any advice?
“Do you want to continue the relationship?”
Jesus. Sometimes, despite all his wisdom, this mind guru could drive me crazy. Answering a question with question. My blood curdling, I hurled back the answer.
“Fuck, yes.” This was the first time I’d ever said the F-word to his face.
Dr. G. twitched a smile. “Good. Then invite her to your place for dinner.”
“Fine.” And with this four-letter F-word, I bolstered myself up from the chair and marched out the door. Our session was over.
SEVENTEEN
Willow
Dr. Goodman worked his magic. Sure enough at the end of the week on Friday, things took a giant step forward. Ryan invited me to his loft for dinner. He asked me what kind of food I wanted. I told him anything but deli. Not that I didn’t like deli, but enough was enough.
Around six o’clock, I got a call from him. He told me he was stuck in traffic, but that I should head over to his loft early and make myself at home. He gave me the code to get in.
“Should I bring anything?”
“Just bring yourself.”
“What should I wear?”
After asking that question, I regretted it, but Ryan told me to dress casually. I felt relieved. I wanted to feel comfortable. So leggings and an oversized sweater was what I had in mind. And my favorite lace-up boots.
Stopping by the local Korean market to buy some flowers, I headed over to Ryan’s place down the street. I walked fast, my heart racing as I did. I was as nervous as I was excited. While I’d walked by his loft numerous times in the past, this was different. When I got to his loft on Hudson, I followed his instructions and punched in the code to get
in. The huge elevator opened, giving me a jolt. I got into the massive carriage, which was big enough to hold a concert grand piano, pushed the up button, and the metal door slammed down. Slowly, creak by creak, the elevator ascended and the door re-opened letting me out in Ryan’s loft. Every nerve was buzzing, much the way they did when a theater curtain rose and I was about to leap onto the stage for the first time and dance.
Hesitantly, stepping out of the elevator, I soaked in his place. It was exactly as he described it in his book, except it felt much bigger with its sparse leather furnishings, high ceilings, and floor-to-ceiling windows. On one wall, I eyed a large built-in bookcase filled with art books and literary classics, and in the corner, the winding stairs that lead to his bedroom. Their bedroom. The bedroom he shared with her. His beloved, stunning Allee. Everywhere I looked, I saw her…them…taken in the short happy time they spent together. They looked so much in love. I could actually feel her presence…as if she had eyes on me and was watching my every move. A ripple of insecurity ebbed through me. Could I ever measure up to Allee? Could Ryan ever love another as much as he loved her?
The sound of footsteps cut into my mental ramblings. They were coming from the kitchen, which was set off by a partition. Was Ryan home? I heard what sounded like a refrigerator door open and close.
“Ryan, are you there?” I called out.
No response.
“Ryan?”
Grabbing a vase, I padded toward the kitchen to fill it with water and the flowers I’d bought. With the anticipation of seeing Ryan, my heartbeat quickened, and then I stopped dead in my tracks when a tall, blond woman appeared. Chicly dressed in a sleeveless black sheath, she was holding a glass of champagne in one hand and a monstrous red leather designer bag in the other. She stared at me with her icy blue eyes.
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m a friend of Ryan’s,” I stammered.
Madness flickered in her eyes. “His latest slut?”
Her words cut into me. Who was this woman? Did Ryan have a secret girlfriend? Her venomous gaze stayed on me.
“Get the fuck out of here. Ryan belongs to me.” Without warning, she hurled her glass of champagne at me. Splintering on the concrete floor, it narrowly missed me.
“Who are you?” I dared to ask as she dug her manicured hand into her handbag. For the first time, I noticed the initials monogrammed on the front of it. C. V. A light bulb went off in my head. Of course, it must be Charlotte Vanowen, Ryan’s former deranged girlfriend.
“You’re Char—”
Unable to get out the second syllable of her name, my jaw dropped to my stomach as my thudding heart leapt into my throat.
Oh, my God. She was pointing a gun at me!
“Please don’t hurt me,” I pleaded. “I-I’ll leave.”
“Shut up, cunt!” Grabbing a photo of Allee off a console table, she hurled it at me. It crashed on the floor at my feet. Wildly, she threw another and another.
“Please stop!” Shards of glass were scattered everywhere on the floor.
“One more word and you’re going to be as dead as that whore.”
“Please…” My legs like Jell-O, I began to take tiny steps backward toward the elevator, still clutching the vase and the flowers as her face darkened with fury.
“What part of shut up don’t you understand?”
Then as she clicked the trigger, the elevator door slid open behind me.
EIGHTEEN
Ryan
Jesus fucking Christ. What kind of nightmare had I just stepped into?
Fucking Charlotte was here and she was pointing a gun at Willow. My mind raced a thousand miles a minute and so did my heart; one wrong word, one wrong move could set her off. She was fucking insane. Stay calm, I willed myself as the elevator door closed behind me. Stay calm.
I carefully lowered the plastic bag I was holding, filled with cartons of Chinese takeout, to the floor and straightened up, my eyes never straying from the psycho bitch. “Charlotte, what are you doing here? I thought you were in Europe with Max.” Maxwell Wentright III was her mega-wealthy banker husband whom she’d married after she ditched me.
“Things didn’t work out with the dick. But I’m getting a very nice divorce settlement that will easily support your writing career.”
“That’s good,” I murmured, studying her. While she was still striking by most standards with her chiseled features, her beauty had diminished. Her shoulder-length blond hair was dull and disheveled, her body bloated, and her complexion blotchy. From the glazed look in her eyes, she must either be drunk or on something. Or maybe a combination of both. The smell of champagne drifted up my nose and my eyes shifted to the shattered flute on the floor, the crystal shards scattered in a puddle of the golden liquid.
She caught me staring at the mess. “So nice, you remembered my favorite champagne. Dom Perignon. What a lovely welcoming present. I saved you a glass.”
Fuck. She’d consumed almost the entire bottle. She was definitely drunk.
“How did you get in here?”
With a smirk, she flung her head back. “A piece of cake. Your cleaning lady let me up. She was delighted to see me.”
Damn the new cleaning service.
“What do you want, Charlotte?” My voice grew harsher, more demanding.
She let out a haughty, shrill laugh. “Oh, puh-lease, darling, must you ask? I want you.”
My jaw tightened; my body tensed. What should I say? Do? I took a step forward so that I was standing beside trembling Willow. I so longed to take her in my arms and comfort her. Make this bad dream go away.
“Don’t make another move,” Charlotte barked out, the gun still aimed at Willow.
I remained frozen, weighing my options.
“You’ve always been the one for me, Ryan. Such a shame you fell for that lowlife whore.”
Fury rose in my chest at her words. It took all I had not to lash back at her.
“And such a pity about her death.” She tutted. “I’m sorry I didn’t send you a condolence card. But maybe a congratulations card would have been more in order.” She laughed again wickedly.
My blood was bubbling, my cheeks heating. My fists clenched so tightly I could feel my nails digging into my palms.
Her intoxicated eyes narrowed, zooming in on Willow. “I must say, with the exception of me, you have the worst taste in women. This little redheaded shrew is so beneath you. I think it’s time you say goodbye to her.”
I tried to make sense of her words. What did she mean by goodbye? With love, there are no goodbyes. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Willow. Not now; maybe never. My mind went into overdrive. I had to placate her.
“Yes, Charlotte, you’re right. Why don’t you put the gun down and let her leave. Then, it’ll just be you and me. The way it’s supposed to be.”
Instead of lowering the gun, her other hand joined the trigger-happy one. The expression on her face grew more furious, more determined, more irrational. Madness flickered in her eyes.
“This time I’m eliminating the competition right up front. Taking no chances.”
She steadied the gun in her hand. Fuck! She was out of her mind. Out of control. Without overthinking it, I darted in front of Willow. I held Charlotte fiercely in my gaze.
“If you kill her, you’re going to have to kill me first.”
Charlotte’s face hardened. “Get out of my way, you idiot.”
“Shoot me!” I yelled back.
“Oh God, no, Ryan!” I heard Willow whimper.
“DO IT!”
The gun shook in the psycho bitch’s hand as her nostrils flared. My heart was beating like a jackrabbit’s, not knowing how this was all going to play out. Her lips pinched, her breathing grew labored. The gun stayed pointed.
Think, Madewell, think! Stealing a glance at Willow, an impulsive idea flashed into my head. Facing life or death, I had to take a chance. I had no choice.
“Catch!” I shouted at Charlotte.
> “Huh?” she mumbled as I grabbed the vase Willow was holding.
With my best little league pitch and all my force, I flung it at the insane bitch. I held my breath as it—SMACK!—hit her hard in the head. YES! Dropping the gun, she crumpled to the floor, unconscious. On my next breath, I whirled around and lifted the now sobbing Willow into my arms.
“It’s okay, baby.” I smoothed her hair and kissed her scalp as she clung to me, her arms and legs wrapped around me. Like I was her lifesaver. I was.
“Ry-man, you would have taken a bullet for me?”
“Baby, I would take a knife to my heart if I had to.”
And at this very moment, something changed. I felt something toward Willow that I hadn’t felt in many years. The word was in my heart and on the tip of my tongue, but I wasn’t able to say it. At least not out loud. No, I wasn’t falling in love. I already had and didn’t want to lose her.
Ironically, fucking, blackmailing, sicko Charlotte, who had almost destroyed my relationship with Allee, had cemented my relationship with Willow.
I couldn’t save Allee. But I saved Willow. I was her Superman.
As I held her in my arms and smothered her with kisses, I looked up once, and I swear I saw Allee heading toward the elevator.
She gave me a thumbs-up. “Nice job, Madewell. Fuck the bitch.”
I smiled. She was never one to mince her words.
“Oh, and don’t forget to eat dinner. Chinese is the best… make sure to open your fortune cookies.”
And with that, she disappeared.
NINETEEN
Ryan
Thank God for my sister, the brainiac in the family. The rational one, who could solve any problem. After knocking out Charlotte, I bound her hands and feet with some old silk ties, then immediately called Mimi and told her what had happened. My sister despised stuck up Charlotte almost as much I did. “Should I call 9-1-1?” I asked her, not really wanting to do that. Mimi advised against it, feeling as I did that police involvement and an arrest would likely end up all over the news and the Internet—the last thing either of our prominent families would want. Charlotte was mentally ill and needed help, so Mimi arranged for her to be discreetly committed to an asylum in Westchester where she could be treated. When Charlotte came to, I read her the riot act, giving her two options: either she agreed to go to the asylum or I would call the police and press charges, not only for breaking and entering, but also for attempted murder. I took photos with my phone of the mess she’d created in her rampage and collected her gun. Charlotte had a melt down, screaming and cursing, throwing obscenities at both Willow and me, but she had no choice. Forty-five tense minutes later, four burly medics arrived from the asylum and forced her into a strait jacket while she kicked and screamed, then strapped her onto a gurney before carting her away.
Endless Love Page 7