To the Manor Dead by Sebastian Stuart Page A

inconveniently came with it) as one more step on his march to the Holy Grail of “personal fulfillment.”
    The truth is I suck at relationships, which is not an easy thing for a therapist to admit. Fortunately I was able to see in my clients what I couldn’t always see in myself: the difference between a healthy give and take between two compatible people, and a desperate need to assuage loneliness and be validated in the eyes of family and society. With Zack, my expectations were realistic and my boundaries clear. I was getting my bearings in my new upstate life, and my second wind to carry me through middle age. I didn’t want a be-all-and-end-all relationship. Zack was a nice, randy guy—and that was enough for now.
    “Pasta primavera sounds great.”
    “We can have each other for dessert.”
    Just as I hung up a man walked into the store—around forty, strong but going to seed, the florid face of a boozer, a paunch, thinning blondish hair, wearing jeans, work boots, a sweatshirt.
    Josie stiffened and shrank.
    “Hi, sweetheart,” he said to her. Then he turned to me. “Hey there, Phil Nealy, Josie’s stepdad.” He attempted a smile, but it came out all oily.
    I stood up. “Janet Petrocelli.”
    He nodded toward Josie. “How’s she doing?”
    “She’s doing great, she’s smart and hardworking.”
    “She is, huh?”
    “And attractive.”
    “If you like gimps.”
    “Can I help you with something?”
    “Nah, I’m not interested in junk.”
    “Well, feel free to leave then,” I said, coming around the desk and approaching him.
    “I just came in to see where Josie was working.”
    “Well, now you’ve seen it.” I went to the door and opened it.
    “Are you kicking me out?”
    “Draw your own conclusions.”
    Just then two women, obviously a couple, walked past me into the store. As they began to look around, Phil Nealy and I exchanged glares. Josie was immobile. I put a hand on Nealy’s elbow, applied pressure, and led him out to the sidewalk. Booze wafted off him like vapors.
    “Listen, do me a favor—don’t come around here anymore,” I said.
    “It’s a free country and I’m her stepfather.”
    “Your freedom ends at my doorstep.”
    “Is that so?”
    “Yes.”
    “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, but you’re messing with the wrong guy.”
    “Right back at ya.”
    I looked him dead in the eye. He glared at me before puffing out his chest, spitting on the sidewalk, and walking away.
    I went back inside. The two women seemed seriously interested in a set of Russell Wright china, but there was no sign of Josie.
    “I’ll be right with you,” I said.
    I went into the back. Josie was sitting in a straight-back chair, gulping air.
    “Hey there,” I said, putting a hand on her shoulder.
    “I’m sorry that I made you hire me.”
    “You didn’t make me do anything.”
    “You’re a nice person and you felt sorry for me.”
    “Bullshit. I hired you because I need help around here and you seem like you have a lot of potential.”
    She looked up at me with flashing eyes, “Oh, go fuck yourself.”
    I suddenly had a massive déjà vu—on all the deeply wounded people I’d taken on, people who needed their psyches rebuilt from the ground up, who had to somehow make peace with horrific childhoods and circumstances, on all the times I’d sworn to myself that I wouldn’t get involved again, that I would protect myself.
    I just couldn’t handle it anymore.
    “I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is going to work out,” I said.
    Josie’s body heaved, she opened her mouth and a thin stream of vomit poured out.
    “Oh, poor baby,” I said, reaching for a stack of paper towels.
    Before I had time to wipe her off, she jumped out of the chair and ran out of the store. I took a couple of deep breaths and walked out front. The two women gave me a concerned look, but thankfully minded their own business.
    “We’ll take the Russell Wright,” the taller one said.
    “It’s