ichard stepped out of the elevator into a dark hall. He waved to trigger the motion-activated lights before continuing to his office. Fluorescent lighting reflected off the dark windows lining the hallway. He paused in front of his office, savoring the gold lettering tacked to the door. Dr. Richard Hollis, Psychiatrist. After eleven years of schooling, countless hours of clinical research, and enough brownnosing to induce a permanent stain, his labor was beginning to pay off. It’d been a long, treacherous climb, but well worth it.
An image of his father seated behind a thick, mahogany desk, face set in a scowl, flashed through his mind. Words, spoken more times than Richard cared to remember, echoed in his psyche. “You can do better than this, Richard. The weak man settles for mediocrity. While you waste your time listening to music and rotting your brain cells with television, tomorrow’s CEOs are at the library, putting forth the effort required for greatness.”
Nothing Richard did was good enough. But once his book launched, he could finally look his father in the eye. Presented with an autographed copy from the son he deemed unworthy of more than a passing glance, his father would be forced to acknowledge Richard’s abilities. Perhaps they’d even share a celebratory drink.
He unlocked the door and entered the modern yet classically styled office. The dense, chateau carpet cushioned his steps. Breathing deep, he inhaled the rich aroma of soft Italian leather mixed with the faintest hint of ginger wafting from electronic air fresheners.
A quick sweep of the lobby assured him the cleaning staff had come and gone. It was 6:05 a.m. Mrs. Ellis, his secretary, wouldn’t be in for some time, which allotted him blessed silence to work on final book edits.
He crossed the room, gathered the small stack of phone messages from Mrs. Ellis’s desk then continued to his office.
He frowned at the first message. Dr. Appello had canceled their engagement and declined Richard’s request for endorsement, claiming he didn’t have time to read the book. That was inconsequential. Richard wasn’t asking for an academic abstract. A quick scan would suffice, followed by a glowing recommendation, of course.
Settling into his office chair, he grabbed his phone.
His publicist never slept past 4:00, and as expected, answered on the first ring. “Hello?”
However, analyzing the results, or lack thereof, Richard often wondered what the man did with his time. “Good morning. Is it too early to discuss publishing concerns?”
“I’m always happy to talk with you, Richard. What can I do for you?”
“Dr. Appello called.”
“Excellent! I knew he’d respond quickly, and with his endorsement—”
“He declined.” Richard turned on his computer and pulled up his email account. Twenty-five new messages, mostly spam.
“What? Did he say why?”
“He claimed lack of time. Perhaps I should have called him myself.” As his father always said, successful results required self-implementation.
“I spoke with Dr. Pioni yesterday and plan to call him back this afternoon, at which time I will invite him to your engagement dinner. I believe you will have more luck discussing the matter with your colleagues then. Face-to-face.”
“I hope you’re right. Have a good day.” Richard hung up and dropped his phone onto his desktop. Things weren’t progressing anywhere near how he had planned. Not that bemoaning the matter would do any good. No. He needed to continue to push forward, to focus on the positive. Like his upcoming wedding.
He grabbed a silver-framed photo of Ainsley. Seated on a park bench, her green eyes glimmered in the midafternoon sun. Her olive complexion glowed next to her lilac sweater, giving her the appearance of youthful naïveté. She’d been so timid when they first met, like a frightened cat abandoned one too many times. And yet, beneath her unsophisticated, and perhaps even childish, demeanor hid a sparkling gem waiting to be adored and refined. Yes, he was confident he could mold her into a woman of standing. A wife to be admired, one to make his parents proud.
Ainsley tucked a few granola bars into her briefcase, grabbed a cup of coffee, and rushed down the hall. She pulled her jacket and gloves from the coat closet. The file she meant to read the night before lay on the entryway console, untouched. Sighing, she flipped it open. Twenty-five pages of medical research—not something she could digest during the handful of stoplights between her house and Dr. Senske’s office.
OK, so she’d wing it.
As if taunting her, Richard’s deep voice filled her mind. This job is much too stressful for you, my dear. Once we are married, you can spend your time engaged in much more pleasant and rewarding endeavors.
Right. Such as attending operas and art gallery functions with Richard’s mother. No, thank you. Voltex or not, God had much more exciting, eternal things for her to pursue. If only she could figure out what. An image of the sad child staring out of a third-story Whispering Hills apartment came to mind, weighing heavy on her heart. How were he and his mother? She’d probably never know—would never see them again. Oh, Lord, watch over that sweet boy. Place Your hand upon him.
Snapping her file shut, she tucked it under her arm then wiggled into her designer knockoff, toe-jamming shoes. Her feet, still tender from the day before, protested. What she wouldn’t do for a jeans and tennis shoes kind of day.
After a quick glance in the mirror, she dashed out, locking the door behind her. Spinning around, she tripped over a red Frisbee.
“Sorry about that.” Dressed in exercise pants and a faded crewneck, Chris sauntered over with a boyish grin. The navy fabric accentuated the icelike specks in his blue eyes.
She grabbed the Frisbee and winced as her fingers closed around something cold and gooey. Forcing a smile despite a rapidly mounting gag reflex, she handed it over, casually inspecting her hand. “No big deal.” Best-case scenario? A glob of mud. She glanced at the old dog lying on Chris’s lawn. She wouldn’t even consider the worst-case scenario right now, and she certainly wasn’t going to smell her fingers.
“I’m trying to get old Rusty off his hindquarters, see if we can’t get some blood pumping through those twelve-year-old legs of his.” Holding the Frisbee in one hand, he spread his feet shoulder distance apart and crossed his arms. “You know what they say, use it or lose it.”
A similar phrase, spoken nearly a decade ago by Ainsley’s voice instructor, replayed in her mind. Squelching the thought, she maneuvered around Chris. “As I said, no big deal. You have a good day, Mr. Langley.”
Her heels clicked rhythmically on the concrete as she scurried to her car. Fumbling for her keys, she glanced up to find Chris watching her with an odd, almost quizzical expression.
Looking away, she slid behind the steering wheel. She set her files on the passenger seat for easy access at the stoplights and searched the car for her gigantic bottle of hand sanitizer. It lay on the floor, partially tucked under the passenger seat. She grabbed it, squirted a healthy glob in the center of her palm then sat with dripping fingers and no napkin. Lovely.
After wiping her hand on the floorboard, she turned the key in the ignition and looped her car around. As she neared the end of her cul-de-sac, her phone rang. Richard.
“Good morning, princess.” As usual, a keyboard clicked in the background.
“Sounds like you’re already hard at work.” On Vivian Road, two kids hiked up the paved bike path, bogged down with backpacks nearly as large as they were. The first fallen leaves of autumn swirled around their feet.
“Since 6:00. I’m working on some final edits, trying to find a better way to tie this book into Telioni’s latest research. Or any of the latest research, before my final deadline next Friday.”
“So you’ll be out of pocket for a while, huh?”
“Maybe a little, but I’ve reduced my client load. I doubt I’ll be taking appointments for some time. And if this book does well, perhaps never again.”
“Oh.” Rear lights flashed in front of her. She tapped her breaks and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “I thought you became a psychiatrist to help people.”
“Yes, well, we both know how that’s turned out.” He snorted.
Ainsley bit her bottom lip to keep from responding. His frustration was understandable, considering all the clients he’d worked with, most of whom remained just as messed up now, after years of therapy, as when he met them. If only he’d point them toward Jesus. . . . But reminding him of that would only instigate a fight.
“I wasn’t calling to talk about the depravity of mankind, however. I wondered if perhaps you’d be able to join me for lunch. At Marlique’s at 1:00?”
“How about somewhere a bit more casual?”
“Like where, the Burger Warehouse?” He spoke through his nose.
Ainsley bit back a giggle as an image of his face, puckered in a disgusted frown, came to mind. “Marlique’s is fine. If you think we’ll be able to get in. Did you want me to call?”
“Already done.” The steady tap of typing resumed. “I’ll see you at 1:00.”
Click.
Apparently the question had been rhetorical. When had he become so controlling? She’d be glad when everything settled down and the old Richard returned.
Although in all truth, she hadn’t seen that Richard in quite some time.