Been In Love Before: A Novel (6 page)

Chapter Nine

Early Monday morning Robert Macgregor sat slumped over his desk in his office at the secondhand shop as his employees began to show up for work. Word had spread quickly about the fire and the total destruction of his home, and genuine offers of help had poured in.

“Good morning, Mac,” said Madge, his eighty-one-year-old front-desk person, who had worked for him for the last twelve years. “I was so sorry to hear about the fire at your place. Were you able to salvage anything, anything at all?”

“No, nothing . . . other than my wedding album. That’s the only thing left. Fate, I guess, had a hand in that. Tess had put it in a steel container under the bed, and it wasn’t incinerated like everything else. Quirky, if you ask me. But thanks for asking,” he said, managing a weak smile.

“You let me know if there is anything I can do to help. Do you need a place to stay? Some clothes? How about a good meal? Join us for dinner tonight?”

“Thanks, but I’m staying at Ryan’s house along with my brother Eian for the time being. I had some of my clothes already at my brother’s place, and they should work until I get back on my feet. I’m going to look through our clothes rack we have here and see if we have anything I can use. I’m sure that . . .”

“Ahh . . . umm . . . ,” Madge started to object.

He looked at her, looking at his clothes. She never approved of the clothes he wore, so he changed the subject. “I may take you up on the meal offer, though. My brother mainly eats out at restaurants, and I’ll be either broke or fatter than a pig ready for butchering if I do that every night.”

Her face brightened. “Sure, anytime, Mac. Just let me know.”

“Thanks, Madge, I really appreciate it.”

He spent the entire morning on the phone with the insurance company and the insurance adjustors, trying to sort things out, when the phone rang. It was Bobby.

“Hey, Bobby, how are you? How’s Patti?”

“We’re okay, Dad; we’re just worried about you. Howya doing?”

“Okay, I guess. The insurance company is going to give me some money for clothes and a hotel, but it’s not a lot of money since I didn’t have it insured for a lot. That old place had a lot of sentimental value. Ryan wants me to stay with him until I find a new place. He wouldn’t hear of it any other way. Shouldn’t take long for me to find a place.”

“Hey, Dad, he’s your brother. Want to come over tonight for dinner? Patti said she would take you clothes shopping, if you like.”

“Thanks, Bobby, I may just do that. Let me get back to you.”
I have plenty of clothes here at the store. Why go shopping and spend hard-earned money for new clothes?
Then he remembered what Ryan had said to him as he left for work that morning: “Stay here as long as you want, but just buy some new clothes.”

“Okay, Dad. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Oh, Bobby, I called that lady at the counseling program and left her a message. Her secretary called me back, and I scheduled a meeting with her tomorrow.”

“You did? With everything else you have going on in your life? You’re something else. Love ya. Gotta go, Dad.”

Customers began to dribble into Robert’s eclectic secondhand store just off West Atlantic Avenue, in downtown Delray Beach. Whatever you needed, you could find it at the Frugal Scotsman. The store was jammed full of items, including stoves, tools, books, barbecue grills, guitars, pots, pans, and racks of clothing for men, women, and children. Three kayaks hung from the rafters, along with tents and bicycles. The aisles were so full you could walk down them only sideways. Around two o’clock the crowd began to thin.

“Mr. Macgregor,” a voice rang out over the store’s loudspeaker, “you have a phone call, line one.”

He walked past his secretary with an inquisitive look on his face and asked, “Who is it?”

“Coleen Callahan, line one,” she said with a smirk, since the company had only one phone line.
“We only need one line. I can only talk on one phone at a time,”
Robert would always say.

He picked up the phone as he settled into his desk chair. “Ms. Callahan? Hi, this is Robert Macgregor.”

“Hello.”

“Thanks so much for returning my call. I don’t really know where to start.”

“Well, I see we are scheduled to meet tomorrow. How did you get my name?”

“I was given your name by my daughter-in-law, Patti Macgregor. Her uncle had been in one of your groups. She seemed to think you might be able to help me. You see . . . I lost my wife two years ago . . . to cancer. I’ve been to counseling groups before and stopped. They just didn’t seem to help.”

“Mr. Macgregor, as a volunteer, I hear that a lot in my role with this program. Most of the people we have in our groups have been through other meetings and not found them to be helpful, until they come to us.” Her voice sounded so pleasant, even captivating. “We are different in what we do and how we do it. We first meet with you and then talk about your interests, your background, as well as your loved one, and what you would like to get out of our program. We also offer bereavement sessions, which you may find helpful; however, we prefer to stress activities to get you out meeting other people in the same situation that you are in. How does that sound, Mr. Macgregor?”

“It all sounds good, except the ‘Mr. Macgregor’ part. Please call me Robert.”

“Okay . . . Robert. I’m a volunteer and usually do my volunteer work out of my business office. The program has a real small budget. I would like to have you come in and sit with me for an initial meeting and evaluation here at my office. It should take no more than thirty or forty minutes.”

“Sure.”

“I know my administrative assistant set a meeting for us at ten o’clock, but could we do it later tomorrow afternoon, say four o’clock?”

“Can we make it earlier than four? I have a dance lesson at five o’clock.”

“You dance?”

“Ah . . . yes, of course. Doesn’t everyone?”

“Wonderful. Okay, how about two o’clock tomorrow?”

“That works great. I do have one question for you, though.”

“Yes . . . ?”

“I remember . . . years ago, I went to school at Saint Mary’s with a Coleen McGrath. Your voice sounds vaguely familiar. That doesn’t happen to be you, does it?”

“Yes, it is. My legal name is Coleen McGrath Callahan. You said your first name was Robert? Robert Macgregor? And you went to Saint Mary’s?”

“Yes. Do you remember me?”

“No, I’m sorry. I can’t say that I do.” A twinge of guilt went through her body. “But it was a very big class with a lot of students. I only went there for three years before my parents moved and I transferred to a different school.”

“Oh well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, two o’clock. Bye for now.”

Coleen hung up the phone but continued to look at it in a strange sort of way, daydreaming back to her school days.

Robert Macgregor?
Wow!
She had lied; of course she remembered him—she remembered him so very well. Tall, dark hair, broad shoulders, with an easy smile and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. He drove the girls wild at school. She had the biggest crush on him all through school but never had the nerve to approach him. Good girls just didn’t do that back then. He asked her out to the movies a few times; she was always shy around him. He was so persistent and kept asking until she finally started going out with him.

She smiled as she thought about what she was going to wear the next day for their meeting. Yes, it was going to be a very special day.
And he dances! I wonder how much he’s changed? Time will tell,
she thought, as she hummed an old tune and left her office.

As Robert hung up the phone, he could not get her out of his mind. How would she look after all these years? Would she remember him? She had said she was widowed. Was she . . .

“Hi, Pop!”

He looked up to see his irreverent and very pregnant daughter-in-law standing before his desk. Patti looked as if she was going to have the baby right there in his office as she asked, “You ready?” Then she plopped down heavily into a nearby chair.

“For what?” he asked.

“Clothes shopping. Didn’t Bobby tell you?”

“Well, he mentioned something about you wanting to take me shopping, but, Patti, I have so many clothes right here at the store. And I can just use them if . . .”

“Nope. No fights and no arguments. Get your car keys; we’re going to the mall. Now.”

He looked at the old and worn clothes he had gotten from his brother’s house, and his gaze went from the picture on his desk of him and Tess at the cabin fishing, to the telephone. He recalled his conversation with Coleen. “Okay, let’s go.”

Patti was shocked, as she had fully expected to have a long, drawn-out discussion with him about spending money on clothes, then they would negotiate which stores, which clothes, and an overall budget, and after two hours he would finally agree to go. She had never expected that he would capitulate so easily.

He walked from his desk and helped her from her chair. Then he hugged her and whispered, “Thanks, Patti. I love you as one of my own.”

Her eyes began to fill with tears from her father-in-law’s sudden display of affection; then she looked at him. “I love you too, Pop, but you’re still going shopping with me.” She kissed his cheek and put her arm in his and said, “Come on, let’s go before we both break down in tears.”

Chapter Ten

Monday morning Ryan Macgregor arrived early at his office, hoping to speak with his partner, Doctor Mary Gladings. He noticed that her car was not in her assigned parking spot as he guided his SUV into the space next to hers, marked “Dr. Macgregor.” She had asked him to cover for her while she was on an extended cruise with her husband and family, just in case any of her patients needed to speak with someone in an emergency. He himself usually did limited talk therapy but was going to be lecturing at a convention about the benefits of mixed therapy and medications. Talking to patients would be good practice for him.

He waited in the car for a few minutes, hoping to see her, but then remembered that she was leaving that day and would not be in the office for at least a week. He would talk to her when she returned. Maybe he would take some time off when she was back in the office. It had been years since he had had any vacation.
Or maybe next year,
he thought.

He entered through the private rear door to his office and set his briefcase next to his desk as he perused his calendar of patients.
Busy day,
he thought. A patient just about every forty-five minutes, then an hour for lunch at one o’clock and then busy again until three p.m. He took a deep breath and flipped the switch. A green light went on in the waiting room to alert June, his longtime assistant, that he was in his office and ready to see patients. A few minutes later she knocked on his door and nudged it open, holding a mug of coffee in one hand and two chocolate chip cookies on a plate in the other.

“Good morning, June. How many times do I have to tell you, you don’t have to bring me coffee . . .” He looked at the homemade cookies and finished by saying, “But I do appreciate you bringing me these homemade cookies. Thank you.”

“Happy to oblige, Dr. Macgregor.” She laid a napkin on his desk and set the plate of delicious morsels on top, next to his steaming cup of coffee. “There you go. Let me know when you’re ready for your first patient. They are already outside waiting.” She walked to the door and paused before turning. “And Dr. Macgregor, I added a patient at ten a.m., one of Dr. Gladings’s. His file is on your desk. You said it was okay if one of hers called in and had to see someone. I hope you don’t mind?”

He looked up from his newspaper and cookies and said, “It’s all right. Who is it?”

She hesitated before she said, “Jeffrey Long. He was very insistent. I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong?”

He started to say something but thought better of it. She had only been following his instructions. “No, it’s fine, June, really.”

Ryan was not ready for someone like him today; he had seen him once before when Mary was out of town for a wedding and had ordered a special blood test done on him. He constantly babbled about such nonsense going on in his life. During his last visit, Long had spoken incessantly about his refrigerator’s needing a replacement part and how the manufacturer did not make the part anymore since his refrigerator was nearly fifteen years old. He talked in a monotone, on and on. But that’s what Ryan was there for, to listen to people drone on and on and . . .

The door opened, and in walked his first patient. His day was about to begin.

The morning seemed to crawl by as he thought about Mary Kate’s wedding preparations, the endless stream of invoices, the continual details, the dresses, the bridesmaids’ phone calls referred to him, the number of contractors and consultants they both had to deal with. “I thought that’s why we hired a wedding planner,” he once told his daughter, to her inevitable response: “Oh, Daddy.”

He had finished his notes on his first two appointments when June buzzed him. “Dr. Macgregor, Mr. Long is here to see you.”

“Give me just a minute, please, and then you can send him in.” He wanted to review his file again before seeing him.

“Yes, sir.”

He opened the file and saw that the results of the blood test had ruled out other conditions and confirmed his suspicions: the diagnosis was dysthymia, resulting in mild to sometimes severe depression. Strange, there was no note of any medication for it. He read the file and finally saw a note at the bottom of the last page: “Patient refuses to take any and all medications.”
That explains it.

He buzzed her a few minutes later, saying, “Okay, June, you can send him in.”

“Good morning, Doc. Thanks for squeezing me in today,” Jeffrey Long said. He took his place on the sofa and rearranged the pillows to his liking. He next stood and closed the blinds half an inch; he said the light bothered his eyes. He looked as if he had not slept, bathed, or changed his clothes in ages. He was wearing a soiled tan T-shirt and rumpled trousers. He managed a weak smile and said as he sat down. “Mornin’, Doc.”

“Morning, Jeffrey. How’ve you been?” Ryan asked, as he sat in his usual chair behind him.

“Good. I finally bought a new refrigerator. I was afraid that my last one would give out and leave me stranded without a . . .” He continued.

Why won’t he take any medication? Especially since it has been shown in studies to help others like him?
His mind drifted. Ryan began to doodle on his notepad.
Mary Kate’s tenth birthday party. Cake was in the fridge. Everybody was there, except for Mum and Da. I miss them. Why are we having so many people at the rehearsal dinner? You rehearse, you eat, and . . .

“The refrigerator was first to go, then the microwave. Everybody says things start to go bad after ten years. Next it’ll be the goddamn . . .” He heard Jeffrey mumble in the distance.

If only Gracie were here. She would know what to do. She always knew what to do. What would she think of Mary Katherine’s future husband? She would embrace him and tell me to do the same. Right. I guess he’s all right, but everything about the wedding is just so rushed. What’s the rush? These young folks, sometimes I just don’t know how . . .

“. . . then my wife got so mad . . . that was just before she died . . . she asked me to . . . I needed someone to talk to . . . the pain . . .” Jeffrey’s voice went in and out of Ryan’s consciousness, but one word stuck in Ryan’s subconscious vocabulary:
died
. It was a painful word for him.

Ryan looked up to observe Jeff still lying on the sofa, almost serene, with his arms folded on his chest. He shifted in his seat and wrote Gracie’s name everywhere on the notepad, surrounded by a heart and with his name penciled underneath. It was only then he heard something strange . . . silence. Jeff had stopped talking. Then Ryan heard a loud metallic click. When he looked up from his notepad and turned his attention to his patient, he was staring down the barrel of a gun, a very large black gun—pointed directly at him.

“Do I have your attention now, Doc? Huh? What do you say?”

“Yes . . . ,” he managed to stammer, his eyes never leaving the black hole of the gun barrel facing him and following his every move. “Yes, you do. You have my full attention.”

“Good. Now why don’t you put down your notepad and sit over here where I can keep my eyes on you,” Jeff said, motioning him with the gun to a chair at the foot of the sofa. “Then we can talk more comfy-like. Okay?”

“Sure, Jeff, but you don’t need a gun. Why don’t you put it on the table, and then we can talk as long as you want. Okay?”

“No . . . I kinda like holding it. I like the power it has over people. Gets their attention. Come on now, move over here,” he said again, pointing to the large brown leather chair.

Ryan stood and found that his knees nearly crumpled beneath him as he made his way slowly to his desk and reached for the phone.

“Over here, Doc!” Jeff shouted, insistently pointing at the chair.

“I was going to tell my assistant to clear my calendar for this morning so we can talk as long as you want. This way we won’t be disturbed. Okay?”

“Okay, but use the intercom so I can hear her as well, and don’t try any funny business.”

His hand was shaking as his finger went toward the intercom button. Then he saw the gun pointed at him, and it sent a shiver down his spine.

“Easy now, Doc. Real easy,” Jeff whispered behind him.