“No? How can you be sure? Have you had other patients who were whores?”
“Lucy—”
“For seven years,” she said, between clenched jaws, “I haven’t touched a guy. For seven years I’ve been double-tithing my income to the poor, not eating meat, doing every good deed I can find to cleanse myself. That’s why I wanted to be on that jury. To accomplish some greater good. And now I finally find a man I like, and I’m feeling dirty—judged by you just like I judged Shwandt. I should have gotten out of it. Who am I to judge anyone?”
“Shwandt is a monster,” I said. “You got caught up in something.”
She turned her back on me. “He’s a monster and I’m sleazy—we’re all defendants in one way or another, aren’t we? Is that the only reason you don’t want me near Milo, or is he involved with someone else?”
“It’s not appropriate for me to discuss his personal life.”
“Why not? Is he your patient, too?”
“We’re here to talk about you, Lucy.”
“But I like him, so doesn’t that make it relevant? If he wasn’t your friend, we’d be talking about him.”
“And I wouldn’t know anything about his personal life.”
She stopped. Licked her lips. Smiled. “Okay, he’s committed. Though I know he’s not married—I asked him if he was and he said no.” She turned sharply and faced me. “Did he lie to me?”
“No.”
“So he’s going with someone—maybe living with someone—is she beautiful? Like your wife? Do the four of you double-date?”
“Lucy,” I said, “stop tormenting yourself.” Knowing my reticence was feeding her fantasies. Knowing I couldn’t warn Milo—strangled by confidentiality.
Turning her back on me, she pressed her hands up against the glass doors, saw the fingerprints she’d made, and tried to wipe them off with a corner of her sweater.
“Sorry.”
Nearly sobbing the word.
“There’s nothing to be—”
“I can’t believe I just said all those things. How could I be so—”
“Come on.” I guided her back to her chair. She started to sit, then walked past it, snatching up her bag and racing for the door.
I reached her just as she opened it. A marine breeze ruffled her hair. Her eyes were watering.
“Please come back, Lucy.”
She shook her head violently. “Let me go. I just can’t take any more humiliation.”
“Let’s talk it ou—”
“I can’t. Not right now. Please—I’ll come back. I promise. Soon.”
“Lucy—”
“Please let me go. I really need to be alone. I really need that.”
I backed off.
She stepped out onto the footbridge.
CHAPTER
8
Had I screwed up or was it something that couldn’t have been avoided?
Seeing a friend of his was a mistake.
Who knew trauma counseling would turn into this?
Damn, what a mess!
I tried to call her an hour later. No answer. One more try, an hour after that, and I decided to give her time to think.
That evening, Robin and I cooked sand dabs and home fries and lingered over the meal. I was preoccupied and tried to hide it by being extra affectionate. She knew something was going on but said nothing as we watched the sunset.
Then she went to do some carving, Spike fell asleep, and I got in the Seville and drove aimlessly up the coast, getting off the highway at Ventura, for no particular reason, and gliding through dark, empty streets. Lots of boarded-up storefronts and FOR LEASE signs. The recession had hit the town hard, and seeing it did nothing for my mood.
When I got back, Robin was in bed reading Command: Shed the Light.
She closed it and dropped it on the covers. “Why did you check this out?”
“Research.”
“Into what?”
“The dark side.”
“Such garbage. I can’t believe this is the same guy we had to read in English.”
“The critics couldn’t believe it either. It killed his career.”
“He used to write totally differently,” she said. “Dark Horses. That long poem about Paris: “The Market.’ I remember Dark Horses especially because we had to analyze it in freshman English. I hated the assignment but I thought the book was fascinating, the way he turned the racetrack into a miniature world, all those quirky characters. This stuff is dreadful. What happened?”