His pen poised over the blank notebook, the cover of the leather portfolio forgotten for a moment. But she knew, once he began writing, he’d jot down all sorts of thoughts and use that cover as a shield—like she shouldn’t see how crazy she actually was.
“How long have you been…” What was the accurate title? Shrink? Therapist? Psychologist? Psychiatrist? “A doctor?”
“I opened my practice two years ago. My background’s in philosophy, but I assure you, my credentials are long and up-to-date. When did you first consider speaking to a professional?”
“My sister gave me your card a few weeks ago, but it’s not the first time she mentioned therapy.”
“Do you get along with your sister?”
“Sort of. We used to be tight, but over the last two years things sort of fell apart. She calls a lot, but I hardly pick up.”
“What changed?”
Life. She shifted, unfolding her hands then picking at a hangnail on her thumb. She slid her hands under her butt to stop fidgeting. “My husband died.”
God, it still hurt to hear those words and recognize that it was her voice speaking them.
“I’m sorry. Did you have a happy marriage?”
She nodded. “The happiest. He was perfect.”
“Impressive. Though, I find perfect to be a relative term. Would you mind telling me what makes a man perfect in your eyes?”
She chewed her lip. “Well, he was just … everything. We started dating in middle school. He was there for all my firsts. He taught me how to drive, showed me how to fish, and even tried to teach me to play guitar. Nash was an amazing musician. He could pick up any instrument and make it sing. He had natural talent.” She remembered how frustrated he’d become at her inability to even hold a guitar properly. “He never learned how to read sheet music.”
“He sounds like a very talented musician. What was he like as a husband?”
She smiled. “Kind. Funny. Everyone loved his silly side. Sometimes he was too silly.”
“Explain too silly. Can you give me an example?”
Her brow pinched as she tried to remember a specific time. It didn’t take long for one to come to mind. “He was impossible to fight with. I’d get aggravated about something and he’d make me laugh. Everything was a joke to him.”
“Did this tactic of his alleviate the need for an argument?”
“Sort of.” She shrugged. “He’d defuse the situation, but nothing got fixed. So, if I was pissed that he let the laundry sit in the washer all day, I’d say something, he’d make a joke or do something to make me laugh and then it would be over. I couldn’t stay mad at him. But a few days later, the laundry would be forgotten in the wash again.”
“And what was the consequence of the laundry being forgotten?”
“Did you ever leave a wet batch of laundry in a washing machine on a hot August day, Dr. Devereux?”
“I’m afraid I have not, and please, call me Alec.”
“Well, Alec, it stinks to high heaven. The fibers carry this horribly musty stench and it doesn’t always wash out. If left long enough you sometimes have to throw the clothes away.”
“So this irritated you because it was wasteful.”
“Well, yeah. It wasted water, money, time, and clothes. But mostly it pissed me off that I brought it up over a dozen times and he still left them sitting.”
“So you felt ignored.”
Wait. What? Her defenses shot up. What was happening? Who was this guy to assume Nash ignored her? “No, I mean…” She frowned. Nash loved her. “He didn’t ignore me. I was his world and he was mine.”
“Okay.”
He agreed easily enough, but she sensed he’d made an unfair judgment. She waited for him to make some sort of note in his fancy book, but he just kept looking at her.
She squirmed uncomfortably, finding the silence awkward and testing. “He brought me flowers almost every month. He always kissed me hello and goodbye. He made sure we always went to bed at the same time. My husband didn’t ignore me.”
“My interpretation was misplaced.”
“Yeah. It was. I mean, Nash was a guy, so of course he left dishes all over the house and never put his clothes in the hamper. He lost the cap to every single toothpaste we owned. And he probably spent a solid hour every week searching for his keys, because he could never remember to hang them up by the door. But none of that matters in the end.”
“Of course.”
The pitch of her voice heightened. “And yeah, some nights I’d want to have a nice date night and it would be a fight just to get him to take off the silkscreen T-shirt and put on something nice, but who cares? He always took me out when I wanted. He always paid attention to me in his own way.”