First Real Kiss

Chapter 4

Sheridan

All Tilly, my client who reminded me of Minnie Mouse, wanted to talk about at her monthly visit was how sorry she was for everyone in Roland’s family. Nothing I did could steer her back toward her own coaching session needs. Usually she chatted on about her diet—what had gone right and what had gone wrong—her wins in her daily battle against phone addiction, and how her cats were doing.

Cats.

If I were ever to get a pet, it wouldn’t be a cat.

“It was so sad about Roland. No one saw it coming. We were all so taken off guard. To me, that was the worst part.” Tilly sniffled into her Kleenex. I offered her another one from the tissue box. “But you did such a nice job writing up that message to the family from all of us. The family was grateful. I heard them say so a dozen times when I ran into Roland’s parents at the grocery store.”

“Thank you, Tilly. It was an honor to pay tribute to a good life.” If only I could do more—like get Roland’s horrid doctor to admit his wrongdoing and apologize to the family. “I wish it had been a longer life.”

Grrr. Luke Hotwell needed to take responsibility for what he’d done to Roland. I’d tried to call Jane the second I left the hospital a few days ago, but she’d been in court at the time, and I hadn’t had a chance to talk it over with her since.

Tilly stabbed at her phone screen. Sometimes that was her crutch, the thing she usually came to life-coaching sessions to work on. Phone addiction is a real malady. Pervasive, really, isolating us from each other. I work on it first with every client. Apparently, Tilly still had a ways to go.

“When you’re finished checking social media,” I nudged.

“Oh, this isn’t social media! It’s the news. Did you hear about that attack in the hospital parking garage? Look.” She held out the screen for me to see. Normally, I’d ignore it, but she seemed really upset. “See? It’s right here in Torrey Junction, not up the road in Reedsville or up near the border. Here. Our own little village!” She was breathing hard.

I took the phone from her and was about to shut it off and give her strategies on how to protect her emotional reservoir against things we see in the news, but—

“Oh, my goodness. A doctor was attacked.” The identity was kept confidential, and the attacker hadn’t been apprehended. “That’s terrible.”

My intuition shouted, It’s Dr. Luke Hotwell! Who else could it be?

I tried to shush it—for lots of reasons, some of which made me feel guilty, since a rotten-to-the-core part of me whispered that he had it coming. The guy was a jerk to everyone.

But a bigger, better part of me was slugged with a sudden yearning to go check to see whether he was all right. Whether he needed a bowl of homemade soup.

Which—was stupid. I was suing the guy for his maltreatment of my client and friend. Well, probably suing. I still needed to talk over the details with Jane.

“That’s all our time today, Tilly.” I’d let her go over a few extra minutes. “Same day and time next month?”

“Sure, Sheridan.” She pushed to her feet and gave me a huge hug. I end all my client meetings with a firm hug, heart-to-heart, for a full six seconds. It’s important. Hugs are healing. Unlike being told you have no chance of extending your life beyond a certain date.

There went my ire, flaring up like a recurring infection. I should’ve used my own coaching skills on myself and doused it. However, I figured my anger might come in handy if I were actually going to follow through with the lawsuit. Anger, when kept in proper bounds, could help fuel right action.

But was I suing? A class-action suit was huge and out of my depth.

Tilly had been my last appointment of the morning, so I headed out of my coaching office, attached to the garage, and into the kitchen where I popped a piece of bread in my toaster—the appliance that smiled back. Mom made fun of me for the big yellow smiley-face sticker on the side of the chrome, but psychology studies showed that morning smiles could set the tone for the whole day. I grinned back at the little steel box for the whole time its glowing elements turned my bread from white to golden brown, and then I reveled in the endorphins of the smile.

Smiles were powerful. Dr. Hotwell should learn a thing or two about smiling. The guy was probably born with a perma-frown.

My fridge was emptier than usual. Better go to the store soon. I pulled out a notepad and made a list, but I could only find the purple pen. Brown rice, milk, eggs, hand lotion. A bouquet of pink and white peonies would be nice, but I’d splurge on them some other time. Until then, I had the joy of anticipation.

Looking forward to an event is half the enjoyment. I taught my clients to give themselves plans for future rewards, and then to be sure to follow through on them.

Bluebird Chocolates, I added—and starred it on the list. I wasn’t waiting for that one. After my run-in with the Grump-Face Doctor, I deserved to hork down a full pound of the gourmet chocolates made right there in Torrey Junction.

I thought to add a to-do list, too. Pick up dry cleaning, organize all client files, tidy client meeting room, wrap gift for Mom and Dad. I coached my clients to make a list and then get the little hit of serotonin that comes when crossing each one off, so I should live by my own advice.

Other than the sounds of my neighbor, who pretty much never stopped mowing or trimming his lawn, the house was quiet. Unsettlingly quiet. After years of living alone, I should have been used to it, but some days it was worse than others.

I dialed Jane. “Hola!” she shouted. It was really loud wherever she was. “Sorry. I’m at the pool with the kids. Do you know that swim fabric stretches until the third month of a fourth pregnancy? After that, someone should paint the words Jimmy Dean on my stomach.”

“So, you’re super busy?”