The Right Time (57 page)

“If Kate loves you anywhere near as much as I do…” She sucked in a breath that turned into a whimper. “You’re going to be a very happy woman.” Then she hurriedly shoved her feet into her shoes, grabbed her bag and dashed for the door. As she grasped the handle, she turned and gave Hennessy the saddest, most heart-breaking look she’d ever seen in her life.

“No!” Hennessy called as the door opened and Townsend slipped out. “Please don’t leave!” She hurled herself to the bed and cried like she’d never cried before.

Her heart hadn’t just broken.

It had been torn from her.

Townsend sat on the sofa
, obsessively fingering nubs of chenille as she tried to wait Dr. Morrow out. But the good doctor was the most patient person in the known world, just the type to jump right back to the question tomorrow if their time ran out.

It had been a month from hell, with Jenna in Utah, woefully unhappy, but unable to even think of breaking away, and Hennessy gone—probably forever.

Dr. Morrow brushed away a spot of lint from her dark red poplin slacks. The woman had style. Preppy style. A dark blue cotton sweater was draped over her shoulders, making her white blouse look positively snowy. It was nice having a shrink who didn’t look like she was going to a funeral. If Dr. Morrow left the office and marched directly to a yacht, Townsend wouldn’t have been a bit surprised.

Hennessy once said goofing off in therapy only hurt Townsend, but being serious about it was costing her mother untold thousands of dollars. Two days a week had grown to three, and now four. They would have gone for seven, but the doc never worked on Fridays or the weekend. She probably finished with her last patient on Thursday, locked herself in a quiet room, and emerged on Monday morning—calm, patient, and dogged.

“Thoughts?” Dr. Morrow asked after a good five minutes had passed.

“I don’t want to take the easy way out,” Townsend grumbled. “I’ve been sober for two years. Two years without any help.”

“I realize that. But you say you think of alcohol over a hundred times a day. Using medication to help you get past this rough spot isn’t being weak, Townsend. It’s simply not.”

She thought of alcohol a hell of a lot more than a hundred times a day. But the doctor had asked if she thought of it more than ten, more than fifty or more than a hundred times a day. It wasn’t her fault the question hadn’t been broad enough.

She yanked at a particularly obstinate nub, pulling so hard the bit of fabric gave way and wound up in her hand. “Sorry,” she said, holding it up to show what she’d done.

“That’s all right. It’s very tough fabric.”

“I used to be tough,” she growled, delivering a sharp punch to the cushion. “You should have known me then. I went from drinking a couple of pints of vodka a day to nothing. No-thing,” she emphasized, glaring at the doctor. “No hospitalization. No treatment center. No sponsor. Just my own will.”

The doctor’s gaze was ridiculously encouraging. “Your will is just as robust as it used to be. Maybe more so. Using medication for a short time won’t make you weak, Townsend. It might allow you to stop obsessing about alcohol and focus on your feelings.”

“All I
do
is talk about feelings.” That was the damned truth. She was either obsessing about Hennessy or Jenna or alcohol. Her whole world had narrowed down to three topics, all of them painful.

“That’s not true. You ride your bike, you row, you write…” She was a nice looking older woman. Probably damned hot when she was young. Every once in a while, when she let herself really smile, Townsend got a little charge. She was so damned lonely, so hungry for affection, she was ready to hump her sixty year old shrink’s leg, ideally while guzzling a fifth of vodka.

“It’s not enough.” She knew she looked like a drowning woman, panicking before she goes down for the last time, but she couldn’t hide any more. Shit was getting real.

“Then do more.” She leaned forward in her chair, a classic New England rocker, probably an antique. The wood creaked softly in the silent room, joints protesting. “The medication I’d like to prescribe will reduce the craving, hopefully giving you some room to breathe.”

“What about the other one? The first one you talked about.”

Her brows knit together, silver hair brushing over her shoulders when she shook her head. “That one’s more appropriate for people who have difficulty being compliant. It doesn’t help with the craving, and that’s where you’re struggling.”

She could almost feel her hackles go up. “I want the one that makes you sick if you drink.”

Clearly frustrated, the doctor pushed back in her chair and rested her chin in a hand. “Why do you want to punish yourself?”

“That’s my thing,” she said, trying to sound flippant.

“I realize that. But when you’re gentle with yourself, you make more progress.”

“I want the one that makes you sick. It makes you
really
sick, right?”

“It certainly can. Nausea, headache, diarrhea. But if the dose is high enough and you ingest a significant amount of alcohol, it can cause much more serious problems.” Her eyes opened wider and her gaze locked on Townsend. “Can I trust you to take only the amount I prescribe?”

“What do you think I’m going to do? OD on it?” She laughed, wincing at how bitter and jaded her formerly cheery laugh sounded. “If I’m going to OD, I’m going with heroin.”

That was a bad answer. Shutters slammed shut in those formerly open and accepting eyes. “I’ll make you a deal.” She picked up her Physicians Desk Reference, the bible of drugs, and slipped on her tortoiseshell reading glasses. Flipping through the pages, she found what she was looking for. Her finger slid across the print, then she nodded decisively. “Let’s start with the medication that will help control your cravings. Just for a month. If you don’t think it helps or it’s not harsh enough for your tastes,” she let a small smirk show through, “we’ll go with your first choice.” She looked over the tops of her reading glasses. “Are you willing?”

“Do I have to take it every day?” She could feel herself give in to the caring gaze leveled at her. When had she become such a wimp?

“I can give you an injection that will be effective for a month.” She nodded crisply. “That’s probably best.”

“Today?”

Before the word was out, the doctor was up and standing in front of a modern cabinet, probably meant as a tall dresser. She withdrew a vial and a new syringe and started to load it up.

Fuck.
Tired of fighting, Townsend shrugged out of her denim jacket and stuck her arm out. A quick swab of alcohol, unironically applied, a sharp prick, a little burning, and it was done. “I doubt you’ll have any side effects, but if you do, they should be minor.” She patted her shoulder, then went back to her desk to dispose of the syringe. “I have one more suggestion.”

“I’d say hit me, but you might.”

“No,” she said, her smile undeniably filled with fondness. “I’ve never felt the urge to hit you, Townsend. You beat yourself up badly enough for both of us.” She went back to her rocker and sat down. “What I’d like you to consider is volunteering at a soup kitchen not far from here.”

“A soup kitchen? Why?”

“I think it might help you. Being around people who struggle with the same disease can be very beneficial.”

“I’m with people struggling with the same disease every damned day. I’m so sick of being around drunks I could barf.”

“This is a different kind of interaction. Very different from a meeting.” She put on a sunny smile, the kind of smile Townsend had no defenses against. It reminded her of Hennessy’s, all optimistic and confident.

“Give me the address.” As Dr. Morrow took a slip of paper and made a note on it, Townsend had to add, “You don’t have to look so smug about getting your way.”

The fond smile grew as the doctor stood, and Townsend got up, too. Closing time. She took the paper, then started for the door. A hand gently settled on her shoulder, and she stopped like she’d been yanked by the hair. She’d never had the urge, but she had it now. “Could I…” She swallowed, embarrassed and almost certain she’d be shot down. But her need was greater than her shame. “Could I have a hug?”

Without pause, Dr. Morrow opened her arms. Townsend sidled up next to her, so tentative she shook. But then a pair of caring arms enveloped her body, and she let out a grateful sigh. She’d pay double if they could just hug for forty-five minutes. She missed Jenna’s hugs so badly she could taste them. But this was all she was going to get. A hug from a woman who liked her well enough—she was sure of that—but if money didn’t change hands they wouldn’t be spending four mornings a week together.

Releasing her hold, she stepped back, cheeks hot with embarrassment. “Thanks,” she mumbled, then grabbed the door handle and hurried out. When she hit the street, she lifted her chin and let the sun warm her face. There was no way the drug could be working yet, but the voice that had been gnawing at her, telling her to duck into the first bar she passed and drink it dry was strangely silent. She fingered the slip of paper in her pocket. Maybe helping other people wasn’t such a bad idea. It couldn’t be worse than sitting in a dingy room, talking about not drinking.

Hennessy sat on a sandy perch, just high enough to give her a good perspective. Dawn hadn’t broken yet, but a stream of fishing boats, running lights clearly visible from a distance, crept along the horizon, heading for deep water. She wasn’t sure what they caught out here, but probably big stuff. Maybe tuna or something like that. If she was going to live in New England for a while, she was going to have to learn things like this: birds, fish, trees, flowers. You needed to know your environment to appreciate it.

Kate had picked her up at the airport the night before, and the scents of Beaufort still clung to her. The day before, at dawn, she’d been out with Daddy and Grandaddy, puttering out a few miles, then casting their nets to trawl for an ever declining harvest of shrimp. Now she was looking out at the same damned ocean, but it seemed like another world.

Her gaze kept traveling across the sea, searching for Martha’s Vineyard. She knew it was to the West, across Nantucket Sound, but didn’t think she’d be able to see it even if there were a giant beacon on it, which there wasn’t. Townsend’s term didn’t start until September, so she’d probably be on the Vineyard right now. A fond smile settled on Hennessy’s lips, like it almost always did when she thought of Townsend. With any luck, she was busy charming the locals into forgetting her past. If anyone could do it, she could.

Kate would be up soon, but she liked to lie in bed and daydream, something Hennessy had never been able to do. If Kate was still in bed when she went back, they’d make love. But only if Kate’s parents weren’t up yet. There was no way she was going to give a little wave, sashay past the family, then spend the next hour in bed.

It was stunningly generous of them to rent the house for a week. It wasn’t nearly as opulent as Miranda’s palace on the Vineyard, but it was still damned nice. That’s just the kind of people they were. They wanted to give Kate a nice beach break before she knuckled down to begin her residency, as well as welcome Hennessy into the family. They hadn’t stated that last goal, but it was clear. They already treated her like one of the clan—something her own family would take years and years to do with Kate. But she hadn’t yet told her family about their relationship, so it wasn’t really fair to compare.

She turned to take a look at the house, still dark. Standing, she let the breeze whip her hair around, always feeling free and untethered to have her hair blowing in a brisk ocean wind.

It was time to go in and slip back into bed. Kate would like that. As she walked gingerly across the wet sand, carefully avoiding a few tiny crabs skittering across the surfline, she tried to figure out why she wasn’t jumping in and ravishing Kate the way she thought she would. While at camp, she thought of nothing else, picturing her throughout the day, longing for her in bed. But here—back in Massachusetts—Townsend kept invading her brain, distracting and annoying her. This was
their
place, and Kate seemed like an intruder. Hennessy couldn’t admit that, of course, but Kate knew something was up. When Hennessy had claimed exhaustion last night those searching eyes scanned her like she was a Runic text she was bent on deciphering. Nothing escaped her.

Hennessy was going to have to keep her secrets close. Kate knew exactly what Townsend meant to her—at one point in time. If she wanted to know what her feelings were today—she was going to have to ask. That might not have been fair, but she wasn’t going to dive into a relationship while confessing how cold her feet were. That was just mean. They were together, and they were going to stay together. You could take a Boudreaux’s promise to the bank. Her loving Townsend was a separate issue.

After brushing the sand from her feet, Hennessy stealthily snuck back inside, finding Kate lying on her side, eyes fixed on the door. “Why’d you leave?” she asked, her gaze troubled.

“I woke up early, but you were still snoring.” She could make the joke since Kate slept like she was in a state of suspended animation. Not a sound ever came from her.