Authors: Laurie Plissner
“When they’re in relatively close proximity.”
“So you know all the things I’ve been thinking about you?” Jules asked, looking embarrassed and contrite.
“Everything … from the jealousy to how you want to see me naked.”
Ben was clearly enjoying having the upper hand. Jules’s usually fair skin was the color of a ripe tomato.
Don’t overdo it. You’ve made your point. Be nice to her. She’s my best friend
.
“What about me?” Ben asked.
You’re my best boyfriend. Totally different category
.
“No, you can’t do that,” Jules interrupted. “You can’t do that mind-reading thing with Sasha when I’m around. Sorry, Sash, but you have to use the box. I don’t like feeling left out.”
“FAIR ENOUGH. SORRY. I WAS JUST TELLING BEN TO STOP HASSLING YOU.”
“That’s okay, then. Ben, you heard what Sasha said. You have to be nice to me, and no more listening in on my thoughts.”
“Fine, I’ll try to tune you out, but it won’t be easy—you’re really loud, even when you’re thinking. Come on, ladies, I think this revelation calls for hot fudge sundaes. My treat.”
“Welcome, Sasha. Are you feeling better? Food poisoning can be a nasty business.”
“I’M FINE.”
My panic attack in the restaurant had gone unnoticed; in her mind I was simply the victim of iffy seafood. I was certain she would get suspicious once she thought about it, but after so many years, she was probably feeling invincible.
“It was so nice to finally meet Ben. He is a delightful young man, and very attractive, I must say. He seems to care about you very much. You’re a lucky girl.”
She settled in her usual spot and picked up her pen and legal pad. Still debating how I was going to handle this visit, I was on edge.
“I AM.”
Too keyed up to make conversation, I answered in monosyllables. Unlike Jules, I was a terrible actress. Dr. O. was bound to sense something was up if I didn’t pull it together.
“IS DR. PARSONS YOUR BOYFRIEND?” I would start slowly, ease my way into it.
“No, just a friend. Like you, I’m a single girl.” There was nothing girlish about her. “I was married for more than twenty years, but I got divorced about four years ago.”
Right around the time of the crash. More support for my theory, although I’m sure Ben would see it as a coincidence you could drive a moving van through. A million things happened four years ago—not just my accident. But still …
“DO YOU HAVE ANY CHILDREN?” As long as she was feeling chatty, maybe I could extract some useful information from my prime suspect.
“No children, I’m afraid. My greatest regret in life.” She smiled sadly and looked down at her ringless left hand. “Wait a minute.
I’m
the therapist. I’m the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions.” Clapping her hands together, as if to dismiss all the bad thoughts and redirect our session, she took a deep breath. “So, Sasha, what’s going on with
you
? Any memories swimming to the surface?”
“NO.”
“None at all? I had hoped that your visits to the crash site might have triggered something.”
Dr. O. looked disappointed. She drummed her fingers on her ever-present yellow legal pad. Her frustration didn’t bolster my theory that she was the bad guy. Still too chicken to ask the simple question, I started down another line of inquiry.
“HOW WAS PRAGUE?”
Maybe she would let something slip. Was my sudden interest in her life outside the office enough to set off any warning bells? Would it occur to her that I had figured it out? Or, more likely, would she believe that I had finally grown up and now had the maturity to show interest in someone other than myself?
“One of my favorite cities, although I love every place I’ve traveled. Vienna is extraordinary—Freud and Sacher torte, what a combination. And of course Florence, Rome, and Venice. Istanbul is incredible. Someday you
must
do some traveling. Maybe Ben will take you. He would be an enchanting guide, don’t you think? So sophisticated.”
“HE’S A CATCH. WHERE ELSE HAVE YOU TRAVELED?”
Dr. O. seemed pleased to be taking this trip down memory lane, and for the rest of our session she told me all about her incredible adventures. It was more interesting than looking at photos from someone’s summer vacation … slightly. Suppressing an almost uncontrollable desire to yawn while trying to memorize the dozens of places she’d visited, I made it through the hour.
In a minute, Dr. O. would say, “I’m afraid our time is up,” and I would have squandered my opportunity until next month. Should I do it? Should I man up and just ask her about the perfume? If it was a completely innocuous question, as Ben insisted, it shouldn’t matter. Like he said, he didn’t pick up on any guilty thoughts when he met her that night, and wouldn’t she think about the accident every time she laid eyes on me? I couldn’t argue with that logic, but I was sure there had to be some explanation. Maybe she was able to compartmentalize her thoughts so completely that she didn’t think about that night unless she wanted to. That made sense. How else could she survive her guilty conscience—it would have smothered her by now, unless she was some kind of sociopath.
Here goes nothing
.
“THAT PERFUME YOU WERE WEARING THE OTHER NIGHT WAS SO PRETTY. I’D LIKE TO BUY SOME FOR CHARLOTTE FOR HER BIRTHDAY. WHAT’S IT CALLED?”
Was that a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth, did her blink rate increase, did she suddenly look pale, paler than usual? I had been reading a book on the subtle visual cues a person displays when telling a lie. Her voice remained perfectly relaxed.
“You liked it? It doesn’t actually have a name. When I was on my honeymoon, my husband—my ex-husband—took me to a place that blended custom scents. It’s my own private label French perfume. He was so romantic then.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “I stopped wearing it when we got divorced. It reminded me of him, of everything that had happened, and I hated it. But the other day, I found it at the bottom of a drawer, and I just felt ready to wear it again.”
Oh … my … gosh
. Before Dr. O. could dismiss me, I was on my feet and out the door. “See you next month, Sasha,” Dr. O. called after me as I ran to my car.
So much for not behaving suspiciously. I was a crap detective.
In the car, I texted Ben.
I did it. Asked her about perfume. Custom blend. Now what? Going home to check postmark cities with her travel schedule
.
Immediately he texted back.
I’ll meet you at your house. Stay calm. Drive carefully
.
I was hyperventilating, but I managed to make it home without incident—although when I pulled into the driveway I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten there. That was scary. Whatever happened, I needed to get a tighter rein on my emotions. If I was this distracted, I had no business driving.
So the perfume question had been answered. But what about the dozens of exotic destinations on Dr. O.’s passport? Plenty of people traveled all over the world, but when I took out the list that Mike Grant had given us that morning at Shakespeare’s Flowers, every city she had named was there. So Dr. O. definitely had the opportunity to mail those blue envelopes, as the police detectives—or Jules—would say. Another piece of the puzzle was in place, at least in my mind. In Ben’s, not so much.
“So she’s well traveled and she wears a perfume you vaguely remember. It could just be a similar scent. It
has
been more than four years since you smelled it, and flowers kind of smell like flowers. Have you considered that?”
Why did Ben feel the need to play devil’s advocate? He had picked me up at my house, and now we were walking along the beach. We were alone except for a few die-hard runners, as the wind was brisk, and it was cold even though the sun was shining brightly. Although it was spring on the calendar, Mother Nature hadn’t yet turned the page. But the chilly air sharpened my thoughts, and I needed to talk this out with someone.
“The perfume is the same. I know it. And she’s visited all those cities. That’s huge. And she’s a world-famous shrink who claims I can’t be hypnotized, but your mother put me under like it was nothing. She told me I was her only failure—maybe she failed on purpose.”
Everything I was saying made perfect sense. The evidence was piling up. Why didn’t he get it?
“Gather the villagers, grab a rope, and light the torches,” Ben shouted into the wind.
“Way to be supportive. I’m serious.” I punched his arm playfully and he rubbed the spot, pretending I had actually hurt him.
“No hitting. All I’m saying is that what you’re proposing is very serious business. Leaving the scene of an accident is a felony, isn’t it, Counselor?” Not a particularly romantic statement, but it didn’t take much. He bent down and kissed me, his body sheltering mine from the wind. After we came up for air, he said, “Why are we talking about this now? Your aunt and uncle won’t be home for hours, will they? We should go back to your house and warm up. Your nose feels like an ice cube. And I can think of way better things to do this afternoon than play Agatha Christie.”
“You can? Well, before I lose you completely, I looked it up, and the Statute of Limitations in Connecticut for leaving the scene of an accident is five years. In December, five years will have passed. We don’t have much time before the clock runs out. It’s already the middle of April.”
I ran down the beach, and he chased me, easily catching me after about five steps. Not that I really wanted to get away. But I did want him to take me more seriously.
“You’re not going anywhere, Sash, so just relax. On a completely different topic, and not to belittle your quest for justice, but don’t you think your time would be better spent studying for the SAT? You never want to talk about school.”
“I hate school.”
“Very mature. Look, even if you solve every cold case in Connecticut, you have to go to college. And no matter how much sleuthing you do, you can’t bring your family back.”
Ben was right. Even if I unraveled my mystery, I couldn’t retrieve all that I had lost. Mom and Dad and Liz would still be dead. Maybe it was time to start focusing on my future, especially if there was any possibility that Ben would be a part of it. Since the accident, I hadn’t thought about school as a means to an end. I did my work, got good grades … but perhaps it was time to take control of my own destiny, even if that meant letting go of the past.
“Took it back in October, smartass. One of the few benefits of having no social life was that I got lots of studying done. How about you? Aren’t I keeping you from that big blue book of practice questions?”
It was obvious that Ben was really smart, but I had no idea where he wanted to go to college or what he wanted to be when he grew up. That was bad. Note to self: be more interested in boyfriend’s hopes and dreams. Would it be weird if we went to the same school?
His smile was smug. “I already took it as well. At L’Istituto Americano in Florence. Now that we’ve established how disciplined and maybe a little bit obsessive we are, let’s get back to where we are right now. What are you and the other Hardy Boy going to do next? It’s clear you’re not ready to pack it in.”
“I don’t know. Obviously you have a suggestion.”
I waited politely for his mature, rational advice: let it go and move on with your life. Not that I was going to listen to him.
“First, stop. This is where I first kissed you that cold, windy day—I couldn’t resist you in that hat. Remember?”
His hands were on my neck, cradling my head, just as they had that afternoon. My heart beat double-time again—it seemed so long ago, but it was only a few months.
I shook my head. “Not really. I think you need to refresh my memory.”
“Just what I was hoping you’d say.”
He pulled me close and leaned over, studying my face. In that second before his lips touched mine, I could feel how much he loved me, wanted me, even in my imperfect, perhaps unbalanced, state.
After three elderly joggers had trotted by, and each of them had whistled lasciviously, we finally let go of each other. I jumped up and down and then bent over and touched my toes. “You were going to give me some wise words, I think.”
“What are you doing? You look possessed.” Trying valiantly to hold back a laugh, but failing, Ben covered his mouth with his hand.
“I’m trying to get the blood back to my brain. I can’t think straight.” I rubbed my eyes and shook my head. “That’s better. You don’t get at all lightheaded when we kiss?”
“No, but trust me, it’s all good. Maybe because I have a little more experience than you, I have better control over my body.” Was he teasing? “You just need more practice.”
“Exactly how much experience are we talking about?”
Until that moment, it had never occurred to me that Ben had done to other girls what he had done to me. Duh. As he’d just implied, you don’t get so good without lots of practice.
“Exactly what
kind
of experience are you talking about?” he asked.
We sat down on a bench in a copse of trees, out of the wind. Without the stiff breeze, the sun was warm on my face. I leaned back and closed my eyes, breathing in the clean, slightly briny air.
“Where to begin?” Opening one eye, I peered sideways. Here goes nothing. “How many girls have you had sex with?”
“Cut to the chase, why don’t you?”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”
“No, it’s not a big deal. I don’t mind telling you. Just one, but she wasn’t really a girl. She was twenty-six, and I was sixteen.”
Not at all what I’d expected to hear. My mouth fell open.
“Isn’t that illegal? What would a grown woman want with a boy?”
Not that Ben wasn’t totally edible, and more mature than most twenty-six-year-olds probably were, but still. Except for those middle-school teachers in Florida that I’d read about in the newspaper, I thought normal women in their twenties wanted full-fledged men, who shaved every day and had real jobs.
“She was a graduate student at the University of Florence. She was from Paris, and she was writing her dissertation on Italian Renaissance architecture. In Europe, things are different. That kind of age difference isn’t a big deal. But my parents don’t know, so please don’t ever tell them. They would probably be as shocked as you are, and not too happy. But what guy would turn down a beautiful woman who made it very clear that she wanted more than a jogging partner?”
He ran his hands through his curls. At least he had the decency to look mildly abashed.
“Sounds like every teenage boy’s fantasy.”
How could I ever compete with that? Gorgeous, uninhibited, and obviously brilliant to boot.
“It was,” he said matter-of-factly.
“So how beautiful was she?” It sounded like the almost-punch line of a bad joke, but I just kept going.
“Very. Something about you reminds me of her—tiny waist, great curves.” He mimed an hourglass shape with his hands.
“So what you’re saying is you have a type.” But I already knew that. He had told me that statuesque, Amazonian Aubrey was not his taste.
“I never much thought about it, but I guess I do.”
“So that makes me the less-exciting domestic version.”