JONATHAN KELLERMAN. THERAPY

“Hey, guy.”

He snorted, shook a drizzle of saliva my way, licked my hand.

“Lonely, huh?”

His head dropped, but his eyes remained fixed on me. One ear twitched.

“Really lonely.”

He gazed upward and let out a low, hoarse moan.

“Hey,” I said, bending on one knee and ruffling his neck, “she’ll be home tomorrow.”

In the old days, I’d have added, I miss her, too.

Spike snuffled and rolled over. I scratched his belly. “How about some exercise?”

He snapped to attention. Pant, pant.

I had an old leash stored in my office closet, and by the time I brought it back he was jumping and yelping and scraping at the door.

“Nice to be appreciated,” I said.

He stopped fussing. His expression said, Don’t get carried away.

*

His stubby little legs and attenuated palate could handle a half mile up the Glen and back. Not bad for a ten-year-old pooch—in bulldog years, he was well past retirement. When we returned, he was famished and parched, and I filled his bowls.

While he ate, I called the most current number I had for Ned Biondi. Ned had retired as a senior writer for the Times years ago, talked about moving to Oregon, so when I got a no-longer-in-service message, I wasn’t surprised. I tried Oregon information, but he wasn’t listed.

I’d treated Ned’s daughter years ago, a brilliant girl with too-high standards who’d starved herself and nearly died. I supposed the fact that Ned hadn’t bothered to leave his forwarding was encouraging. The family didn’t need me anymore. How old would Anne Marie be, now—nearly thirty. Over the years, Ned had phoned to fill me in and I knew she’d gotten married, had a child, was still waffling about a career.

The information always came from Ned. I’d never achieved much rapport with his wife, who’d barely spoken to me during therapy. Once treatment was over, Anne Marie didn’t speak to me either, not even to return follow-up calls. I mentioned it once to Ned, and he grew apologetic and embarassed, so I dropped it. A year after discharge, Anne Marie wrote me an elegant letter of thanks on pink, perfume-scented stationery. The tone was gracious, the message clear: I’m okay. Back off.

No way could I call her to locate Ned. Someone at the paper would know where he was.

As I started to punch in the Times’s main number, call waiting clicked in.

Allison said, “Hi, baby.”

“Hey.”

“How’s your day been?”

“Not bad,” I said. “Yours?”

“The usual . . . do you have a minute?”

“Something wrong?”

“No, no. I was just—yesterday, when I came by—Alex, you know I like Robin, we’ve always gotten along. But when I drove up . . . seeing you two . . .”

“I know what it looked like, but she was just thanking me for taking Spike.”

“I know.” Her laugh was flimsy. “I called to tell you I know. Because maybe I let out a little jealous vibe. I was a little bugged. Seeing her kissing you.”

“Chastely,” I said. “On the cheek.”

She laughed again, then grew silent.

“Ally?”

“I couldn’t ascertain the site,” she said. “All I saw was two people who . . . you looked like a couple—you looked comfortable with each other. That’s when it hit me. All the history you have with her. There’s nothing wrong with that. I just started contrasting it with—it just seems as if we’re a ways off from that . . .”

“Allison—”

“I know, I know, I’m being neurotic and insecure,” she said. “I’m allowed to do that, once in a while, right?”

“Sure you are, honey, but in this case it’s not warranted. The only reason she was there was to hand off Spike. Period.”

“Just a peck on the cheek.”

“That’s it.”

“I don’t want you to think I’ve turned into some possessive, paranoid chick—oh, listen to me.”

“Hey,” I said, “if the situation were reversed, I’d react the same way. Robin has no interest in me, she’s happy with Tim. And I’m thrilled to be with you.”

“I’m your main squeeze.”

“You are.”

“Okay, I got my self-esteem injection,” she said. “Sorry for bugging you in the middle of the day.”

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