“Hi, Doctor, Louise at your service. Just took one from a Holly Ruche. She said no emergency but to me she sounded kind of upset so I thought I’d be careful.”

“Thanks, Louise.”

“All these years talking to your patients,” she said, “you pick things up. Here’s her number.”

I walked to the front of the restaurant, made the call.

Holly Ruche said, “That was quick. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“No bother. What’s up?”

“Is there anything new on the … on what happened at my house?”

“Not yet, Holly.”

“I guess these things take time.”

“They do.”

“That poor little thing.” Sharp intake of breath. “That baby. I was all about myself, didn’t even think about it. Now I can’t stop thinking about it. Not that I’m OCD or anything.”

“It’s a tough thing to go through, Holly.”

“But I’m fine,” she said. “I really am … um, would you have time to talk? Nothing serious, just one session to clear things up?”

“Sure.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well, thank you. I couldn’t do it tomorrow. Or the day after.”

“What works for you, Holly?”

“Um … say in three days? Four? At your convenience.”

I checked my calendar. “How about three days, one p.m.?”

“Perfect. Um, could I ask what your fee is?”

“Three hundred dollars for a forty-five-minute session.”

She said, “Okay. That’ll work. Seeing as it’s only once. Where’s your office?”

“I work out of my home.” I told her the address. “Off of Beverly Glen.”

“You must have fantastic views.”

“It’s nice.”

“Bet it is,” she said. “I’d have loved something like that.”

CHAPTER
10

There are many reasons I became a psychologist. Some I understand, some I’ll never even be aware of.

One motive I think I do get is the urge to protect, to make up for the abandonment that ruled my childhood. It’s a trait that usually fits the job well, earning patient gratitude and delusions of godliness.

Sometimes I get heavy-handed, offering armor-plate when a thin sweater will do. That’s why figuring out how much to tell Robin about the bad stuff has always been an issue. I’ve learned to include her, but I’m careful about the details.

On this one, I didn’t even know how to start.

Robin’s an only child. Her mother’s a difficult woman, emotionally stingy, self-centered, competitive with her daughter. The loving parent was her dad, a master carpenter. He taught her what he knew about wood and the joy of craft, died when Robin was young. Now she works with power tools, doesn’t take well to being smothered by testosterone, no matter how well intended.