all, didn’t know what future he and Cathy might have. He realized he’d just read a funny scene — Spenser deflecting Quirk’s questions with a series of vintage quips, Hawk standing motionless nearby, a grin splitting his features — but it hadn’t amused Peter the way it should have. He slipped a bookmark into the paperback and set it down beside him.
Cathy came down the stairs. She was wearing her hair down and was dressed in snug blue jeans and a loose-fitting white blouse with the top two buttons undone — attire, Peter realized, that could be viewed as either sexy or neutrally practical. She clearly was as confused as Peter, carefully trying to send signals that hopefully would be correct regardless of what mood he was in. “May I join you?” she said, her voice a feather fluttering in a breeze.
Peter nodded.
The couch consisted of three large cushions. Peter was sitting on the leftmost. Cathy sat on the border between the middle one and the rightmost, again trying for both closeness and distance simultaneously.
They sat together for a long time, saying nothing.
Peter kept moving his head slowly back and forth. He felt warm. His eyes weren’t focusing properly. Not enough sleep, he guessed. But then, suddenly, he realized that he was about to start crying. He took a deep breath, trying to forestall it. He remembered the last time he’d really cried: he’d been twelve years old. He’d been ashamed then, thinking he was too old to cry, but he’d had a frightening shock from an electrical outlet. In the thirty intervening years, he’d maintained his stoic face no matter what, but now, welling up within him…
He had to leave, get somewhere private, away from Cathy, away from everyone…
But it was too late. His body convulsed. His cheeks were wet. He found himself shuddering again and again. Cathy raised a hand from her lap, as if to touch him, but apparently thought better. Peter cried for several minutes. One fat drop fell on the edge of the Spenser paperback and was slowly absorbed into the newsprint.
Peter wanted to stop, but couldn’t. It just came and came. His nose was running now; he snorted between the shuddering convulsions that brought out the tears. It had been too much, held in too long. Finally, he was able to force out a few feeble, quiet words. “You’ve hurt me,” was all he said.
Cathy was biting her lower lip. She nodded slightly, her eyes batting up and down, holding in her own tears. “I know.”
CHAPTER 7
“Hello,” said the slim black woman. “Welcome to the Family Service Association. I’m Danita Crewson. Do you prefer Catherine or Cathy?” She had short hair and was dressed in a beige jacket and matching skirt, and wore a couple of pieces of simple gold jewelry — the perfect image of a modern professional woman.
Still, Cathy was slightly taken aback. Danita Crewson looked to be all of twenty-four. Cathy had expected the counselor to be old and infinitely wise, not someone seventeen years her junior. “Cathy is fine. Thank you for squeezing me in on such short notice.”
“No problem, Cathy. Did you fill out the needs assessment?”
Cathy handed her the clipboard. “Yes. Money is no problem; I can pay the full fee.”
Danita smiled as if this was something she heard all too infrequently. “Wonderful.” When she smiled, no wrinkles appeared at the corners of her eyes. Cathy was envious. “Now, what seems to be the problem?”
Cathy tried to compose herself. She’d been tortured for months by what she’d done.
God
, she thought.
How could I have been so stupid?
But, somehow, it wasn’t until she actually saw Peter cry that she realized she had to do something to get help. She couldn’t bear to hurt him like that again. Cathy folded her hands on her lap and said, very slowly, “I, ah, cheated on my husband.”
“I see,” said Danita, her tone one of professional detachment, free of any judgment. “Does he know?”
“Yes. I told him.” Cathy
Cathy came down the stairs. She was wearing her hair down and was dressed in snug blue jeans and a loose-fitting white blouse with the top two buttons undone — attire, Peter realized, that could be viewed as either sexy or neutrally practical. She clearly was as confused as Peter, carefully trying to send signals that hopefully would be correct regardless of what mood he was in. “May I join you?” she said, her voice a feather fluttering in a breeze.
Peter nodded.
The couch consisted of three large cushions. Peter was sitting on the leftmost. Cathy sat on the border between the middle one and the rightmost, again trying for both closeness and distance simultaneously.
They sat together for a long time, saying nothing.
Peter kept moving his head slowly back and forth. He felt warm. His eyes weren’t focusing properly. Not enough sleep, he guessed. But then, suddenly, he realized that he was about to start crying. He took a deep breath, trying to forestall it. He remembered the last time he’d really cried: he’d been twelve years old. He’d been ashamed then, thinking he was too old to cry, but he’d had a frightening shock from an electrical outlet. In the thirty intervening years, he’d maintained his stoic face no matter what, but now, welling up within him…
He had to leave, get somewhere private, away from Cathy, away from everyone…
But it was too late. His body convulsed. His cheeks were wet. He found himself shuddering again and again. Cathy raised a hand from her lap, as if to touch him, but apparently thought better. Peter cried for several minutes. One fat drop fell on the edge of the Spenser paperback and was slowly absorbed into the newsprint.
Peter wanted to stop, but couldn’t. It just came and came. His nose was running now; he snorted between the shuddering convulsions that brought out the tears. It had been too much, held in too long. Finally, he was able to force out a few feeble, quiet words. “You’ve hurt me,” was all he said.
Cathy was biting her lower lip. She nodded slightly, her eyes batting up and down, holding in her own tears. “I know.”
CHAPTER 7
“Hello,” said the slim black woman. “Welcome to the Family Service Association. I’m Danita Crewson. Do you prefer Catherine or Cathy?” She had short hair and was dressed in a beige jacket and matching skirt, and wore a couple of pieces of simple gold jewelry — the perfect image of a modern professional woman.
Still, Cathy was slightly taken aback. Danita Crewson looked to be all of twenty-four. Cathy had expected the counselor to be old and infinitely wise, not someone seventeen years her junior. “Cathy is fine. Thank you for squeezing me in on such short notice.”
“No problem, Cathy. Did you fill out the needs assessment?”
Cathy handed her the clipboard. “Yes. Money is no problem; I can pay the full fee.”
Danita smiled as if this was something she heard all too infrequently. “Wonderful.” When she smiled, no wrinkles appeared at the corners of her eyes. Cathy was envious. “Now, what seems to be the problem?”
Cathy tried to compose herself. She’d been tortured for months by what she’d done.
God
, she thought.
How could I have been so stupid?
But, somehow, it wasn’t until she actually saw Peter cry that she realized she had to do something to get help. She couldn’t bear to hurt him like that again. Cathy folded her hands on her lap and said, very slowly, “I, ah, cheated on my husband.”
“I see,” said Danita, her tone one of professional detachment, free of any judgment. “Does he know?”
“Yes. I told him.” Cathy
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