BooksBarbecue
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Chapters (88)
  1. Cover Page
  2. Front Flap
  3. Title Page
  4. Acknowledgments
  5. Dedication
  6. Contents
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. 63
  70. 64
  71. 65
  72. 66
  73. 67
  74. 68
  75. 69
  76. 70
  77. 71
  78. 72
  79. 73
  80. 74
  81. 75
  82. 76
  83. 77
  84. 78
  85. 79
  86. 80
  87. Back Flap
  88. Back Cover

Inside a bank lobby on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, Scott filled out a deposit slip, and got on line behind a delivery boy with a large bag of coins. When it was Scott’s turn, the number 13 was blinking on a board that indicated the next free window. He smiled and headed over.

“Hello.” The teller stared straight at him, her gray eyes cold.

“Hello.” Scott nervously slid the deposit slip and the check under the partition that separated them.

The teller looked at both sides of the check several times and studied the deposit slip. She turned to her computer and started tapping away at the keyboard. The whole process was agonizing for Scott. He felt as if he’d passed a note demanding all the money in the bank. Finally she punched the check and the deposit slip in a machine, and handed him his receipt. “Thank you.”

“Thank you.” Scott turned and made a beeline for the exit. Get me out of here, he thought. When he returned to his car, he felt euphoric. Impulsively he decided to call Hayley. He picked up his phone, found her name in his contact list, and was about to press send when a call came through. It was Jillian.

“Hey,” he said.

“Where are you? Did you meet with the Binders?” she asked. “No, they cancelled. How’s it going at the Petrone garage sale?”

“Not good,” she said.

“Not good at all.”

59

Hayley had been sitting in the trendy rooftop restaurant with Carwood Douglas, producer of the upcoming celebrity therapist show, and his group of fawning assistants, for over an hour.

“I have a thought,” Carwood pronounced. “At the party we should hand out little notebooks and pens. We’ll tell everyone to pretend they’re shrinks and to ask others how they feel. It would be quite the icebreaker, don’t you think? And of course there would be couches everywhere. Couches and tissue boxes.”

“Wow, that’s fabulous,” one of his assistants enthused.

“Brilliant,” another opined. “Absolutely brilliant.”

“Hayley?” Carwood asked, tilting his champagne glass toward her.

Hayley cleared her throat. “My feelings are that it would definitely work.”

“Your feelings! How divine!” Carwood snapped his fingers. “Waiter, let’s have another bottle of champagne. Hayley, you are the perfect person to plan my soiree.”

Something tells me this guy will never have a party, Hayley thought. He just wants to talk about it. “We’ll make it a smash,” she said, hedging her bets.

“Hayley”—Carwood leaned toward her—“you want to know the biggest lesson I learned after years and years of therapy?”

“Of course.”

“What doesn’t kill me only makes me stronger. Don’t you agree?”