Enjoy this free sample of the heartwarming House of Hearts, a House of Jewels novel by Amber Jakeman. The closed-door House of Jewels family saga follows the business and romantic fortunes of the Huntley family of jewelers.
Chapter 1
Lisa patted Rossco’s rough brown fur as he blinked at her and tried to lick her hand.
“See you tonight, old fella,” she said, as she opened her car door and slid in.
“January 4,” said the dashboard calendar. Eighteen months to the day since she’d fled west with just Rossco and a few boxes of possessions. Eighteen months of professional fulfilment. And a ton of personal guilt.
She must phone her parents again, remind them of how happy she was in her new life, how she hadn’t meant to hurt them. She didn’t blame them for what went on between Art and her. What hadn’t gone on, more like it.
Lisa loved this part of her commute. Once she’d left her peaceful Boulder City home and then the outskirts of Vegas, she passed the garish towers of Downtown and slipped into the lower-rise, older blocks, where the 1950s neon signs never failed to cheer her. She congratulated herself once more on her escape, on the fact she’d been able to study while Art had tended the samples in his lab and devoted himself to his research. She’d finished one degree after another, then found her dream job and perfect career – counselling.
As she pulled into the clinic, Lisa opened her glove compartment and put her name tag in her pocket. It still gave her a thrill.
Dr Lisa Bakker. Group Counsellor and Diversion Therapist. The Peters Clinic. She loved to encourage others to better understand themselves and their behaviour, to recognize and act on better choices, to grow and thrive.
With its palm trees and curved, 1930s style white facade, the front of the clinic and health retreat always made her heart lift. She parked next to Dr Peters’ “Reserved” sign.
The receptionist’s parking spot was still vacant, the one dark moment of her morning. At 8.50am, unless Mindy had caught the bus or walked, she’d either be late or absent all day – again. Lisa would have to lodge an official complaint with Dr Peters.
She checked her hair and lipstick in the rear-vision mirror, flicked a dog hair off her slim grey skirt and entered the side door of the counsellors’ suites.
Normally, she loved this part of her day. She’d have a few moments alone in her consulting room to center herself and review her notes, but with Mindy AWOL again, she’d have to sort the clients’ folders herself. She’d end up running behind all day.
And with Dr Peters away in Europe for ten days, she had more appointments than ever. She’d asked her to stand in to welcome a couple of her new clients – the ones who’d join her group sessions later in the day.
She headed into reception, and sure enough, there was no Mindy. Nothing prepared. Lisa reached for the folders just as Dr Peters’ first new client arrived. She glanced at him again. Was there something familiar about him?
He sized her up with a cheeky half-smile.
Distractingly good-looking, he wore a tight white t-shirt and faded jeans. Eyes the color of faded denim. Nice teeth, chewing half of his bottom lip. Was he staring at her? At her legs?
Damn Mindy for not being here to do her job! Especially with this extra case load.
Lisa gathered up the folders – in a hurry now – and dropped them. They skidded all over the floor. Disaster.
In a flash, the man was down on his knees, scooping them up. Thank God. Her skirt was a bit tight for bending over. So, he was a gentleman. Why did that bother her?
“Thank you,” she said, accepting them and disappearing to her room to sort them as quickly as possible. She slipped on her white coat, positioned her name tag, glanced at the front of the top folder, and reappeared in reception.
“Will Huntley, please,” she said. Why was her heart beating so hard? Lisa smoothed her hands down the side of her jacket.
He stood, that grin in place, as if he knew he could make her blush.
“Welcome to The Peters Clinic,” Lisa said. She held out her hand, her smile professional. “I’m Dr Lisa Bakker, part of the team. Dr Peters has asked me to get things started for you. Follow me, please.”
…
On her way home at the end of the day, Lisa called in at the grocery store for fresh vegetables and pasta. Jilly, her old friend from grad school, in town to visit her mother, was coming for dinner and a talkfest. Wonderful, outspoken Jilly, Jilly who’d told her about Vegas, who’d shared her love of skyrunning with her back in college. Without Jilly, none of her new life would exist, this patch of sunlit color in a universe of gray.
When Jilly arrived, she didn’t waste a minute. She hugged Lisa, dumped her hot-pink handbag on the couch and followed her into the kitchen, where she washed her hands and helped prepare the meal.
“So, Lisa, hooked up lately?”
Good old Jilly, fast and fearless. Love-life front of mind. Maybe growing up with her mother had made her believe it was the only sensible topic of conversation. Scoping stepfathers, matchmaking, how to avoid her mother’s mistakes …
Lisa slid the chopped tomatoes into the steaming sauce as the silence stretched.
“Come on, Lisa,” Jilly said. “You’ve got to get out there. Eighteen months? And we both know it’s been longer than that. Look, Art never even gave you a love-life. If that’s why you left him, maybe you should have just stayed.”
Lisa stared at her old friend. No wonder that tech company had snapped her up for their human resources team. Jilly nipped any nonsense in the bud, called a spade a spade, and she was usually right. Jilly might be outspoken, but she was also wise. There was always some truth to what she said. Even if Lisa rightly accused Jilly of always having too many boyfriends, it wouldn’t change the fact that Lisa had never had enough.
She’d had a husband, instead – Art. Straight out of school. And how was she to have guessed that a fine family friend wasn’t necessarily good husband material? He’d been as disappointed with her as she’d been with him, no doubt, not that they’d ever spoken about that. In their eight years together, they hadn’t spoken about much at all.
Lisa sighed and twisted open the lid of a jar of tomato paste, then dumped the contents in the frypan.
“I don’t know,” she said. “There isn’t much time for romance, Jilly. I work flat out with people all day, and when I come home, I go for a run and then I’m tired. Besides, Rossco gives me all the love I need right now.”
“Evidently. But I didn’t mean ‘love.’ I actually meant ‘sex.’ How’s your sex life?”
“Not everyone requires hot, uninhibited sex every night, Jilly.”
“Okay, but no sex? None at all? You don’t realize what you’re missing. It’s not natural. Physician, heal thyself.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Lisa said, hiding her face in the cutlery drawer, clattering and jangling as she searched for matching forks. It had been a while. Maybe since never, if she was honest. Had she ever had proper sex, sex you read about and heard about where your lover knows what they’re doing and cherishes every part of you and you’re both in ecstacy? Had she ever experienced sex beyond the rapid, embarassed fumbling in the dark which Art had attempted? Sex with Art had never improved, no matter how much she read up on what should be happening. In the end it had been easier just to avoid it all.
“It doesn’t have to be about sex, even,” said Jilly, picking up on Lisa’s hesitation. “How about a simple date? Just one. Give yourself a chance. You know, we’re both twenty-eight. In fact, I’m willing to bet you’ve never been on a date. I just worked it out, Lisa! You married that old creep straight out of school.”
“Jilly!”
As the high school principal’s only child in a conservative small town, Lisa might as well have had “do not touch” tattooed on her forehead. Marrying Art straight after her high school graduation seemed the perfect solution at the time.
Born shy, with parents who wanted to protect her from the evils of the world, she’d grown up with fairy tales and books as her best friends, only to discover that “happy ever after” didn’t necessarily follow the white wedding.
Tertiary education broadened her mind and gave her the qualifications to make her own way professionally and financially. But it wasn’t possible to study “Perfect Relationship 101” or even “Elementary Dating.” Well, sure, eventually she learned about the Gottman Institute, but she’d committed to addiction therapy as her specialty by then, and her own love-life had never been a priority.
“Okay,” said Jilly. “All that’s in the past. You escaped. All I’m trying to tell you is that the sky won’t fall in if you go on a date or three. It’s not like you have to go out there and match up with Dream Lover or Mr Right straight away.”
Jilly helped herself to a stray piece of uncooked pasta and crunched on it.
“It’s just about having fun,” Jilly said. “Playing the field. Call it what you want. It’s all very cosy here. Now don’t get me wrong. I love the way you’ve decorated this place.” She waved her hand at Lisa’s blue-and-white kitchen. “And I couldn’t be happier that your career’s going so well. You’ve got a great job, by all accounts, and we all love Rossco, though he does need a bath, just between you and me…”
Lisa inspected the pasta and dumped it in the colander, steam rising in a cloud around her. Now her cheeks were pink for two reasons.
“Fun,” Lisa said. “Yeah, dating. I get it. I’ll think about it. Now, what about you, Jilly? Been on any dates? Had a night at home lately? That’d be new and different. I suspect you enjoy enough excitement for the two of us.” She selected two big bowls from her wooden dresser.
“In fact, Jilly, here’s a challenge. I’m willing to bet you’ve never been on an actual date, either. You just have to meet a man and he falls for you. They’re all putty in your hands. I’ve known you for seven years, and in all that time you’ve never once been on your own. Men adore you.”
Lisa pointed at her friend with the cutlery she’d selected. “One smile and they’re yours,” Lisa said. “It’s different for me. Men don’t go for me. Maybe they worry I’m analysing them all the time. Maybe I am!”
“Lisa, you’re gorgeous! You might be the world’s best addiction therapist, but you don’t even notice when men find you attractive. You’re a beautiful human being.”
“That’s so lovely of you to say, but not everyone wants to date a giant.”
“You are not a giant. Okay, you’re tall. So? Models are tall. You know what? I’m willing to bet that if a man looked at you like he wanted you, you wouldn’t even notice. Open your eyes. Let yourself thaw out a bit. You’re a long way from that conservative home town now.”
“Maybe.” Often it was easiest just to agree with Jilly. “So come on, how’s your new job? Your mom must love it now you’re only one state away. I love it. Thanks for the visit.”
…
Lisa brushed her hair as she got ready for bed. Had Jilly been right? There was no way Lisa wanted a life like Jilly’s. But a little bit of fun wouldn’t go astray, now that everything else was so stable in her life. The thought scared her. But did she really want to hide away forever?
And that bit about her not even realizing guys found her attractive? Maybe Jilly was right about that, too. Only that morning, there’d been that new client, Will Huntley, the handsome Australian. The way he’d scooped up those folders and handed them over. Chivalrous. Had he been giving her the eye? Had he been thinking of her in that way?
Brush mid-air, she stopped and studied herself in the mirror – caught herself smiling. Because he really had been looking at her. At her ankles, and then into her eyes, for just a second too long. Long enough to notice her blush.
She put down the brush and stared into her own eyes. Jilly was right. She was tall but she wasn’t exactly ugly. Why did the thought he might find her attractive please her so much? Because it did. A sudden thrill gave her cheeks a fresh, healthier glow, and her eyes sparkled.
And then in her consulting room, he’d been embarrassed to have mistaken her for the receptionist. She laughed, remembering how he’d done a double-take.
Earlier, in reception, he’d been so self-assured with her, so at ease in his own body. Arrogant, in a casual way. Lean and effortlessly handsome in that t-shirt, which sat tight over his pecs and biceps. Show-off.
She grabbed the brush again and swept it through her hair, finished the job, threw it on the dressing table, and jumped into bed.
In fact, for Will Huntley, being so handsome was a big part of his problem. Everything came too easily for people like that, and when the going got tough, they were lost, with alcohol and gambling a major temptation. It was why they ended up coming to therapists like her.
Lisa turned over and plumped her pillow. Well. Jilly might be sad to hear it, but there was no risk she’d ever get involved with Will Huntley. Bad-boy Will was strictly off limits. She was a professional. No clinic client could ever be dating material.
Her job was to focus on their minds and their behavior, not their bodies. Though his body had, in fact, been spectacularly distracting. And his eyes. They’d been so curious, so alive. And his smile. It seemed genuine. He’d laughed at his mistake about her role. She liked that in a person; a sense of humor.
And then he’d had the grace to admit he hadn’t been looking forward to the treatment. That he’d actually only agreed to it because of the food at the retreat, not because of the clinic’s reputation for helping people stop gambling. Cheeky.
So yes, he did have some appealing qualities, but that was literally no business of hers. Completely irrelevant.
Dating someone like Will Huntley would be ridiculous. Not only was he an addict, he was a client. So, even if they were attracted to each other, the American Psychological Society code of conduct forbade such relationships for two years after therapy ended. There. It was utterly impossible. Easy. She was a good girl. Professional. She’d never broken a rule in her life.
Rossco whined and nudged her knee, desperate for a last pat before he settled in his basket. She tickled his ears and had his tail wagging in no time, thumping against the side of the bed. She and Rossco were happy. Happy enough. Well, maybe she should take a risk now and then. Okay. Maybe one date. With somebody. One day.
Chapter 2
Will felt lucky.
The clinic in the Vegas health retreat his mother had lined up for him had a receptionist with legs to forever and beautiful, honey-brown eyes. Bonus!
She was avoiding his gaze as she fussed about near the counter, sorting folders.
Coming in here twice a day for three weeks would be no hardship after all, Will decided. Yes. It was better than watching fish in a tank or rifling through a stack of tired magazines. He could do this.
He took a seat on the white couch, which was plush, tasteful; the exact opposite to the pavements of outer Vegas. Not that sleeping rough was a choice.
From check-in last night to “show up for treatment,” this retreat was like a five-star hotel. Not bad. Not bad at all. He linked his fingers behind his head, leaned back and gave her a little smile. Not a full-on flirt. Just some encouragement …
It backfired.
Suddenly the folders spun out of her grip, dropping and sliding across the tiled floor like gambling chips shoved towards a winner.
In her tight skirt, she hesitated, staring at the chaos.
“Allow me,” Will offered, dashing across from the couch and scooping them up with the speed and dexterity of an athlete.
“Thank you,” she said, flustered. “So sorry. Back soon.”
He chuckled. Had he rattled her with his chivalry? Good. Despite rock-bottom poverty, he hadn’t lost his touch.
She retreated down a corridor and returned several minutes later in a white lab coat, more composed, folders neatly stacked and presumably in some kind of order. When she resettled them on the corner of the counter, she selected the top one and called out to him.
“Mr Will Huntley, please.”
He stood and followed her down the hall and into another white room. There was an abstract painting in pastel colors, a low table with a box of tissues and a cactus in a white pot. Beyond the window was a courtyard with more cacti.
“I’m Dr Bakker, Mr Huntley,” she said, closing the door, her smile tight. Professional. Warm yet distant.
“Oh.” Will barely hid his astonishment. He studied her with renewed interest, embarrassed to have underestimated her. She was so young. He wasn’t sure whom he’d expected. Someone older, for sure. Not this Dr Bakker, with her straight blonde hair pulled back into a neat ponytail and those caramel eyes; kind eyes. Delicious.
“Yes,” she said. “Our receptionist appears to have been held up this morning.”
Although she clearly refrained from saying the word “again,” Will noticed the shadow of annoyance. It vanished as she turned her professional face to him once more. She gestured at the couch, a twin of the one in the waiting room, and Will targeted it. He waited for her to sit before he did, in the armchair opposite. She checked the wall clock, and set a little timer on her watch. He sat up straighter, suddenly nervous in this unusual habitat.
“So, Mr Huntley. You’re actually Dr Peters’ client. She’s asked me to welcome you on her behalf. She’s on her way back from a conference in Europe. You’ll see each other twice a day for three weeks, while you’re at our retreat.” Will nodded.
“And you’ll be part of my therapy group. I’m also a diversionary therapist, so depending on how things go, we might take part in some other activities together, too, while you’re with The Peters Clinic.”
Will sat forward. He’d pictured psychologists as middle-aged men with thick glasses and paunches. He ran his eyes over Dr Bakker. Better and better. Tall, on the lean side. Healthy; not much makeup. Outdoorsy, despite the professional outfit. What did his grandfather say? “A sight for sore eyes.” Ah, Jim. He winced. He missed him. He smiled, then frowned, then studied her again. This therapist was wholesome. More than that, she was classy, though maybe a tad serious. Would she know how to have some fun? Wouldn’t he love to show her …
Several more seconds went by. Jim. What would he think of this? Was he aware he was here, at a clinic? Did Will even care? He thought of the old man; his blue eyes, that twinkle. Jim had always had a smile for him, a connection. Not that Will had ever given him much in return. Jim had the knack of catching his eye as he was dashing out the door. How was Jim, he wondered? Maybe he should give him a call. He hadn’t called him in months.
It had been Jim’s idea he go away. He’d forgotten until now. It was after that last family business meeting in their staff room, back in Australia. Will had been late as usual. At least he’d managed to show up.
Jim had called the meeting off soon after he’d arrived, and saved him from another of James’s rants and Nicole’s disgust. She’d sneered at his crumpled shirt, about to roast him again for appearing like that in the shop, about to give him another serve regarding “branding” and “image” and “reputation,”, as if he hadn’t heard it all before, as if Nicole herself were perfect. Her idea of style? Peculiar. He could swear his sister was colour blind, and there was always something weird about her makeup. Maybe he didn’t try hard enough, but there was something to be said for not trying too hard.
And James, perfect James, clenching his fist when Will had had nothing to add to proceedings. Will hadn’t exactly applied himself to the task, whatever it had been. He’d thought James was going to go off, chest heaving, staring at him as if he might finally have the answer to the mystery of life. But self-control wasn’t one of James’s problems. He had the full quotient, to Will’s zero.
“What exactly do you think you do for Huntleys?” James had asked.
“Fucked if I know, bro,” Will had managed. Why did James have to speak so loudly? Couldn’t he tell Will had a hangover?
“You’re not a teenager anymore, Will.”
There’d been a big silence then, mercifully. Will had lunged for a coffee while the rest of them had just stared at him with eyes like fury, and at each other with pity, frowns and sighs.
The coffee had been cold. Disgusting. He’d spilled it a bit as he’d banged the mug on the table.
It was Jim who’d brought the meeting to a close. Usually James ran it all.
“We’re done here, James, Nicole. You come with me, Will.”
He’d thought twice about following Jim, but what could it hurt. Let Jim do his thing then skip out. The surf might be up. He’d go get a bacon-and-egg roll and see what the day might bring.
“You,” Jim had said, and had pointed up the spiral staircase. “Give me ten minutes. Clean yourself up. You make sure you turn up. On time. I’ve something to show you.”
Ah. A special session with Jim. In his lair.
Will had been up there over the years; not very often. James loved it up there. Not Will.
It was a tiny space, too hot in summer and an icebox in the winter. There was barely room for Jim and his ancient workbench and all those tools, let alone a visitor.
He’d checked himself in the mirror. He couldn’t see what Nicole was complaining about. He didn’t look too bad for someone who’d only gone to bed at dawn. He’d pushed his hair into place, smoothed his hands over his shirt, then nicked back and nabbed one of James’s jackets from the staffroom cupboard and put it on over the top. It wasn’t his style, but it covered up the wrinkles. Not bad now. Even Jim could call him “ship shape.” He’d get this over with and go get breakfast. His stomach was rumbling.
The old man wasn’t at the bench, however. He was pacing back and forth with his subtle limp. Unusual.
Jim glanced at his watch, looked Will up and down, and nodded. “Good,” Jim told him. “You’re not stupid. You put on a good show when you want.”
Contempt? Whatever; Will just wanted this over so he could go get that roll.
Suddenly, Jim had grabbed his wrist with his gnarly old fingers, and turned over his hand. He thrust something hard into his palm. What was this? Show and tell?
Will didn’t want a lecture. He wanted breakfast. The thing was small and hard and kind of ugly, but he couldn’t study it. Jim pinned him with his eyes. The least he could do was return the old man’s attention and listen.
“You think I don’t know what it is to be lost?” Jim said. “I’ve watched you, Will, since before you were born. Watched you grow and charm everyone and run away and do exactly what you want and get away with it year after year after year because you are so loved nobody’s ever said ‘no’ to you.” Will wondered how long the old man would keep him there.
“And maybe it was cute once,” Jim said. “Will, our scallywag. Will, the rebel without a cause. Will who lost his father … Well. James and Nicole lost their father, too. I lost my only child. We all got on with our lives. Sure, we grieved. We still do.” Jim’s shoulders slumped. He stared at the floor.
“I lost my Eleanor too soon after. Died of a broken heart. More grief.” He looked up sharply, caught Will tapping his foot, and pinned him with his blue eyes till the tapping stopped.
“Do I sulk and bludge on everyone else? No. I contribute. I do what I can. But that’s my choice. And listen to this, Will. I don’t blame you. And I’m not even angry with you. Not disappointed. Not yet.” That was new. Will pricked up his ears.
“I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone else. Not because I trust you. I don’t. Not anymore. Not because I hope it’ll make a difference to you and your life, because it might, or it might not, and it’s your life, not mine. God knows I’ve lived most of mine. Almost done. But I owe you this, before I die. Because what I see in you? That was me, Will. That was me in 1953 and for years after that.”
A war story, at midday? In a stuffy little room in the top floor of the family business? How long was this going to go on? Will was hungry, dammit. What was Jim going on about?
“You listening, Will? You’ve never been able to stand still. Always on the run. I know it. Because that was me, until Korea. Lost my best friend. We were there together. Could have been me. All I got was shrapnel in this ankle. He got it in the head.” Jim went silent. Swallowed.
“He was the better of us. Should have been me that got that bullet. You don’t need to worry about any of that … What you need to know? I came back empty. Hollow. Hollow man. Nothing inside. Two arms, two legs, a buggered ankle. No more running, but I wasn’t there anyway. Nowhere to run, but always running.” Jim was on a roll.
“Aimless, Will. Smokes. The grog. Hunger didn’t matter so much. I hurt all the time anyway. That ache. Aching was good. And then I met Eleanor, and she saw something in me. Maybe she put something in me. Put something back. Found something that had survived and made it grow. My Eleanor.”
Jim groaned. “You listening? Young man in a hurry. To who knows where. To everywhere, or nowhere. Well, I need to tell you. I’ve been there.”
Jim pointed at Will’s fist. “Go on. Have a look, then you can get on your way.”
Will opened his fist. An oily pink stone, smaller than a pea.
“Ever held one of those?”
Will shook his head and poked at it with one finger, rolling it over. When he pinched it and held it up to the light, it was a bit translucent.
“Pretty ordinary, isn’t it?” said Will.
“That’s a rough diamond,” said Jim. “Argyle. Pink. Nothing much to look at now. You’d never guess the beauty inside of that, until you cut the thing, let the light into it. That’s all I’m saying, young Will. Now you give that back to me and go.” Jim waved him away, but he still hadn’t finished.
“Go away. Get out of here and see what happens. God knows you don’t want to be here. It’s obvious. Go visit your mother. Go find some new suppliers. If you can clean yourself up, you can drop our name around the place. What is it Nicole calls it? ‘Grow our branding.’”
Will nodded.
“Go on. Go see your mother in France. Go to the US. I met some great guys back then in Korea. Probably mostly dead now, but they had some stories, alright. Beautiful country, so I hear. So, you give me that thing back. And you get out of here, hollow man.”
“Yes, sir.” Will couldn’t describe Jim’s expression. Face like that, eight decades of flesh and joy and sorrow, and it was hard to tell whether he was laughing at him, or envious, or about to cry. Maybe all of that.
Will handed back the diamond. Jim stood in front of the stairs, so he couldn’t go even if he’d been ready. Was he ready? Hell, yes. “Hollow man.” What kind of insult was that? Or had Jim been telling him he was a rough diamond who needed some edges knocked off?
Jim looked him up and down. Was he remembering when he’d been off to Korea, off to explore the world?
Will held out his hand, and Jim shook it, his grip firm from decades of wrangling gold and fire and gemstones.
Jim broke into a grin and slapped him on the back.
…
So, what was it Jim had said to him the last time they were together? Up in his lair at the top of Huntleys, up where the magic happened. With the smell of the torch, behind his rounded jewelers’ bench surrounded by the spikes of files and pliers, Jim had pushed up his magnifying spectacles, thick as bottle glass, and locked eyes with him.
“Going away, then?”
“Yeah, Jim. Find some more suppliers for you.”
“Got plenty here.”
“Better ones, maybe. New gems. Premade settings.”
“Premades,” he spat. “Over my dead body.”
They’d just stared at each other, Will desperate to get to the airport, longing to explore, to escape; and Jim, hunched and shrinking from seven decades at his work bench. Jim stood, came around and put his gnarled old hands on his grandson’s shoulders.
“You think I don’t understand. I was like you. Only fifteen. So desperate to get away, I lied about my age. They took me. They took anyone at the end. Saw more than I bargained for, that was for sure.”
“I’m not going to a war zone, Jim. I’ll go see Mother, like you said, then head to the US. Pretty civilized.”
Jim had nodded, but wouldn’t let him go.
“Will,” he’d said. “Little William. Your father, my Jimmy, and I; we had such high hopes for you.”
“Sir?”
“Will I see you come good? Before I die?”
Hell of a way to say goodbye. How was he supposed to reply? A few cold beers at the airport and he’d forgotten all about it. Until now.
…
Minutes had gone by. Sweet Dr Bakker waited. Patient. Serious.
“Mr Huntley? Would you like to tell me why you’re here?”
Will exhaled noisily through tight lips and stared at the corner of the room. No cobwebs. Clean, clean, clean. Unlike his soul. This was awkward. It reminded him of being at school, desperate to escape. He could still stand up and walk out.
He ran his fingers through his long fringe and tossed it back, pinning her with his gaze as he seriously considered “doing a runner.”
He’d left school a decade ago. So what was he doing here? Good question.
He smiled. “Dr Bakker. I’d like to know why you’re here.” He gave her his smoldering look, the one that acknowledged the whole of her, mind and body, the look that suggested the two of them should be anywhere else but here, maybe at a bar.
“We both know I’m here to listen to you, if you’re willing to talk to me.”
“Am I willing to talk to you?” He said it slowly, emphasis on “talk,” as if it meant something else.
“Talk. Share your thoughts. Explore things. Like what brought you here?”
Will remembered the phone call with his mother. She’d insisted he come to this retreat, pleaded with him, begged him in the name of his dead father.
“I made my mother a promise,” Will said, wondering why a grown man, especially one like himself, would keep such a promise. “… in the name of my dead father.”
Something flashed in smooth Dr Bakker’s eyes. A flinch, quickly covered up, but Will noticed it. Pity for him? Or sympathy? Could she guess he usually broke his promises?
He studied the carpet. Spotless. Then tossed back his head to narrow his eyes and study her again. Yes, he’d prefer to have this conversation in a bar. With a whisky fling and the cover of darkness, with background music pumping, bridging the silences, and the inevitable gentle lean, closer and closer, till they found the comfort of each other’s arms.
Come to think of it, maybe he’d been having this conversation for more than a decade already, with one beautiful woman after another. Not with this Lisa, though.
He sat straighter, noted the tissue box on the table between them, and Dr Bakker, pen poised at his folder on her lap, patient.
“Your father,” she prompted. She waited, with those big, gentle eyes, warm and brown as maple syrup.
“So, why are you here, Dr Bakker?” His question was genuine.
“I’m here to listen,” she said, leaning forwards. “I’m here to listen if you want to discover more about yourself, to understand more about behavior, to make some changes. Are you here to change, to grow? What might you want to be different about your life when you leave this place?”
Will shrugged.
“Are you willing to find out more about yourself? Are there things you’d like to change about your life, Mr Huntley? Are there things you’re doing now you’d prefer not to do in future? Here, you have the time and space to consider how your life can be different. That’s what this retreat offers – a chance to change.”
“Well, that’s the thing, Dr Bakker, isn’t it?”
“What’s that?”
“My mother might want my life to be different. But is it my life or is it my mother’s? And you can call me Will, by the way.”
“Thank you, Will. You’re absolutely right. That’s an important question. Only you can make these decisions.”
What would she know? Sitting across from him, all clean and wholesome and believing in change for the better. He was willing to bet this Dr Bakker had never known anything but teacher pleasing and straight-A grades all her life.
Will gave her a slow smile. “How about you? Ever been bad?”
“What do you mean by ‘bad’?”
“Like skipping school, like taking the first piece of cake, the biggest piece, like …”
“Most of us know what it’s like to disappoint our parents,” she said. “But I also understand that sometimes the people who love us most are the ones who notice things we can’t, and they love us enough to tell us that. How would your mother live your life, do you think? What changes might she like to see?”
“Oh, she’s told me. Says I’m wasting my life, drinking and gambling. Says I can’t see further ahead than the next bar or casino. Thinks I waste my time, waste my advantages, waste my family’s hard-earned money and my inheritance; says my father would be rolling in his grave to know I was stuck in Vegas, no thought beyond the next win.”
“And what do you think?”
He looked at her, at the cactus, all spikes in the air-conditioned room. Looked out at a distant mountain ridge.
An image of Dr Bakker beside him in a bar hovered between them. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, fingers linked.
“Me? I want to get out of here. Don’t you want to get out of here, Dr Bakker? I’d like to understand why you’re here. Why you’re actually here, now.”
She met his gaze, matching his posture, leaning forwards, linking her fingers, folder sideways on her lap, pen clipped into the top of it. She was sincere alright. Convincing, even.
“l love my work, Will. I love it when my clients discover what might be driving their behavior, when they become more aware, and make better choices. I love to empower them.”
Was there some passion there when she’d said “empower”? Her eyes had lit up. So, she believed in what she was doing. Now she gave him the polite smile again.
“And I’m here because I want to guide you, Will; to help you make the changes in your life you want to make. Do you agree with your mother? If you answer some of my questions, then maybe I can answer some of yours. Reasonable?”
He held her gaze. Stroked his thumb and forefinger down either side of his chin, felt his three-day stubble.
“You want to do a deal with me, Dr Bakker?”
“You could say it like that.”
“Alright, shoot. Question number one.”
“Do you agree with your mother that you’re wasting your time?”
“Not right now I don’t.” He tilted his head and gave her a slow smile.
She rewarded him with a small smile of her own, then dropped her eyes to his folder and added a note or two. “And before you came here?”
“No. If I’d done anything differently, I wouldn’t be right here, with you, Dr Bakker, would I?”
“You’re skirting my question.”
He stared at her skirt and nodded. She pressed her knees together.
“What I mean is, thinking about the past six months, or even the past six weeks, or even the past six days, are there some things you’d like less of in your life? Or are there some things you’d like more of in your life?”
Will considered. Six months ago, he was in Europe. After that Italian shemozzle, he’d dropped in on his mother in the south of France. But talk about the pot calling the kettle black. She hardly had her own life together, did she? Wandering around raving about French antiques and spending the family fortune on things she didn’t need.
Then he’d had an affair or two on the Riviera. They’d been starlets, English, identical twins. They’d picked him up and shown him a good time. A bit of fun for all of them. He’d bought the drinks; no hearts broken, easy. Though the French beaches were overrated. No surf, and full of stones; hard on the feet.
But what a playground! The night life. Casino Royale. All the lights and colors and sounds and smells came back to him now, in the blank room of the clinic. That first big win! He shook his head and laughed. All those gambling chips, then all that money when he’d cashed them in. There’d been women hanging off him all night, not just the twins.
Next day, the three of them went shopping together and he bought them everything they wanted, almost, plus a few things for himself. Some white trousers and shoes, a flashy Italian belt and a couple of pale-blue shirts with sleeves tight enough to show off his muscles. The twins chose them for him. He remembered them beside him in the mirror, all three of them as attractive as movie stars. He’d had half a mind to show up at the next audition with them and try for a role, for a laugh. Maybe he should have.
But then James had called. Talk about a downer. His big brother wanted to know how he was spending the company money and when he’d be going on to the US, because there were some suppliers he needed to see.
“Scoping the competition,” he’d told James, and it was true there’d been plenty of jewelers on the Cote d’Azur and plenty of rich people wearing lots of jewels. He’d had no shortage of excuses for hanging around, with or without the twins.
They’d been happy enough to accompany him to one casino after another, and when they were tired, they’d crash on the floor of one of their acting friend’s tiny old rented apartments.
Will had slept half on the balcony in the heat of the summer nights, French doors open to the faint whisper of a sea breeze, cushioned on a rolled-up rug, getting high on admiring the moonlight over the Mediterranean. What a life.
But he’d been burning through his winnings. He always got another win, though, often enough, just as he was almost out of cash, and he’d be so pumped up then, the twins fussing all over him again. He’d loved it.
It had all come crashing down. Most things did. He’d had a bit too much to drink one night, and got a bit cross at losing at roulette, the fifth or sixth time. No one liked to lose. And no one liked a loser, and sure enough, those two little starlets were whispering and pointing, and they’d simply left him. Picked up their little purses and swung their hips in their short skirts, off to the other side of the floor, where they’d latched onto a trio of tall young Germans. Game over.
Will thought about going after them, but in truth they’d started to bore him, so he’d just walked out, walked straight to the airport in that gentle night air, with just enough money for the plane ticket to the US.
Next time James had phoned, he’d been in LA, still broke. James wouldn’t give him any more money till his pay cheque was due, so he’d rung his mother. She’d come good the first time. And the second time. She’d transferred enough so he could get to Vegas and activate his private plan to win some more.
Except he hadn’t won; not in a while, a long while. Long enough so he was sleeping rough, outside with the drug addicts and the prostitutes, in the heat and the dust. He hadn’t exactly stooped to living in the sewers yet, nor to the drugs, but he’d been tempted.
The third time he’d rung, his mother had booked him into this retreat.
“You’re a grown man, Will, and you should know better, and so should I,” she’d said. “Too many loans, never repaid. When are you going to grow up, son? I’m your mother and I love you, but it’s time for some tough love, isn’t it?” There’d been a silence, which she’d filled.
“God knows I should have been tougher with you sooner, but you always had to do things your own way, didn’t you? Isn’t this a wake-up call for you? Don’t you see what you’re doing to yourself, what you’re becoming? Is this the way you want to live your life?”
He’d kept listening, because he’d needed the money.
“You’ve had every advantage, Will, darling. We couldn’t have loved you more. Now listen. Are you listening? I’m giving you more money, but not the actual cash. I’m booking you into a clinic. You’ll get a roof over your head and food for three weeks, and you can sort yourself out.”
“A clinic?” He was so broke and so hungry, it was her mention of food that really caught his attention. Food mattered once you hadn’t had it for a few days. Will knew he’d try anything once, especially if it included free meals.
“They have some good therapists, Will, apparently. Excellent. The place should suit you. It’s unconventional. It has a great reputation. But I refuse to bail you out again, do you understand? You’ve got to make these three weeks work for you. Make the most of it, Will, ’cause God knows I can’t help you and you’ve never helped yourself.”
She’d given him the address, and he’d hitched there with the help of a soda truck supplier, all the bottles clinking and chinking in the back of the van making him thirsty.
So here he was. His intro session with Dr Bakker, before Dr Peters arrived, the big guns. Though he couldn’t imagine anyone he’d prefer to be treating him than this cool Dr Bakker, sitting there in silence, waiting for his answer.
He clapped his hands together and laughed.
“Come on! Let’s lighten it up a little, shall we? We’ll never get through this if you’re going to be prim, and I get all gloomy. Nice place you’ve got here. Let’s have some fun.”
Lisa had looked down. Had he annoyed her? She’d taken a breath then met his eyes again.
“‘Fun,’ sure. You tell me what you enjoy, Will. What’s your definition of ‘fun,’ then?”
“Okay. A big win. Ever had a great big win with everyone watching?”
“A big win.”
“Yes! Who doesn’t like a big win? All the lights and bells. Against the odds. And there you are. On top. A winner, alright.”
“‘A winner…”
“Exactly. Everyone’s watching and you know you can buy every single one of them a drink. You ever get that winning feeling, Dr Bakker?”
“I do,” she said. “Sometimes, and it feels good.”
This would be alright. He’d got her onto a bearable subject. Get her talking about herself a while and they’d be through the hour in no time, free of this nonsense. He’d go and explore the place, then bang. Another free meal.
“So, tell me about your wins, Dr Bakker.” He gave her his own “I’m interested, I’m learning” smile, the one he’d used in school before skipping out.
Dr Bakker smiled back with those beautiful brown eyes. Caring eyes. Will had the impression she genuinely cared about him, and a little cog in his cynical heart ticked over. He was used to women caring about him when he was winning, caring about him any time, really. So what was different about Lisa’s smile? What wasn’t she telling him? What was her power?
She was a therapist, dammit. She was paid to care. And she was good. This clinic had a top reputation.
“What’s a ‘playboy,’ Will?”
“Someone who likes to play?”
“What else might that mean?”
“Playing the field. But it’s not just me leaving them. They leave me, too.”
“Any idea why they leave you?”
“Because I like to play?”
Chapter 3
He gave her that smile, the smile that suggested everything, that he appreciated her, that he could …
Lisa inhaled and turned away. Suddenly, the room was too small. Will’s personality was overpowering her. It was unusual. She was professional, dammit. Now, where was she?
“Would you like them to stay with you?”
“Not if they’re no fun anymore.”
“What makes them no fun?”
“They nag,” Will said. “They want to control me. They don’t like this and they don’t like that. They want promises. They expect too much.”
“What do they expect?”
“They want me to settle down. Why would I settle down? The world’s a big place.”
“It can also be a lonely place.”
“Can it now, Dr Bakker?”
This wasn’t about her. Why did he keep doing that? Trying to distract her, and avoid answering her questions. Why did she feel like he was suddenly the therapist and she the one with problems?
Was she lonely? That wasn’t the point. She was in charge here. She’d been entrusted to help this man, goddammit, and he wasn’t about to wriggle away from her. Cheeky.
She held her tongue, keeping her expression neutral. “I’m asking you, Will.”
“Yeah, it can be lonely out there. The sidewalk’s not great. I’m not proud of that.”
“No.”
“It’s not lonely in here, though, with you listening and nodding.” He flashed her a smile. Was this a flirt?
“Good,” she said. “Tell me about your friends, your family.”
“Oh. My family’s pretty sick of me, I guess,” Will said. He shrugged. “They can’t get away, though, unlike girlfriends, eh?”
“Hey, now. Not everyone wants to get away from you. You’re the one who’s travelling. What brought you to this part of the world?”
“I’m supposed to be doing business, finding suppliers, selling my grandfather’s rings,” Will said. “He’s a jeweler.”
“‘Supposed to be?’”
“I got a little sidetracked,” Will said. “Stuck in Vegas.”
“Sidetracked gambling?”
Will nodded, then ran his fingers up the side of his chin.
“Do you want to talk about that, Will?”
He was quiet once again, nodding slowly, looking her in the eye. A lot of clients pretended they hated gambling. They knew how to lie. Years of borrowing money from friends and family had taught them to say what others wanted to hear. Was Will one of them?
She’d treated plenty of big boys who never grew up. In their thirties, their indulgences gathered at their necks and girths, where, fleshy with too much good food and alcohol and bad choices, they started to sag.
She glanced at Will’s file and back at him. Twenty-nine – he was young. Athletic. In his prime. Could she save him?
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess. Sidetracked. I never planned to be a gambler. Never planned anything, though. Much.”
“That’s okay. Not everyone has to plan everything out. I see some people who worry they plan too much. There’s a spectrum for every kind of behavior. We’re all different, and our impulse control varies. But gambling’s a big one, a major addiction, and notoriously difficult to beat. But it is possible. That’s why Dr Peters set up this clinic.”
“Do you gamble, Lisa?”
“Never.”
“Why not?”
“So many reasons. A lot of people believe gambling’s all about luck. Are you one of them?”
“Yeah. No.”
“You understand odds?”
Will sighed. “I reckon however much I win, I lose more,” he said.
Lisa nodded. “That’s all you need to know,” she said. “So, why do you keep doing it?”
“I already told you. I like to play.”
“All the time?”
“Maybe,” he said, considering her question. “I don’t know.”
“What else do you enjoy?”
“Eating. Winning, talking to beautiful women.”
He did it again; undressed her with his eyes.
She rolled hers and looked away once more. She’d had her share of clients who flirted. Some of those movie stars, it was all they knew how to do. They had one trick and they used it well. But she knew her business, and she’d been successful in helping many of her clients to get back on track. They’d thanked her for helping them find their longer-term goals, rediscover the joy of motivation and achievement, and she would help Dr Peters do the same with Will Huntley.
“I like talking to you,” he said.
“Thanks, Will, but it doesn’t really feel like you are talking to me. Your answers to my questions are short, which makes it difficult for me to understand where you’re at.” She needed to move him along.
“Yeah, right. Thanks for the compliment.”
“Did you know everyone likes to win, Will?” she asked. “Not just you and me. Do you know what happens in your brain when you win?”
“It feels good.”
“Exactly. You get this rush of dopamine in your brain. It’s the same part that lights up with certain drugs. That’s why the drugs are so addictive, and it’s one of the reasons gambling’s so addictive.”
“Dopamine, huh? You calling me ‘dopey,’ Dr Bakker?” He was interested. This was new. She’d caught his attention.
“No more than anyone else, Mr Huntley, Will. No more than I am. We’re all prone to addiction. In the right circumstances, dopamine keeps us alive. Helps us learn the behavior that finds our food, keeps us safe, helps us find a mate. Of course these things are very complex, and we’re only starting to understand them.” He was listening carefully now, considering her words, so she kept up the stream.
“Apparently, oxytocin and serotonin are also important for helping us stay safe. They settle us down. There’s research now that indicates we boost our levels of these hormones by showing compassion, even to ourselves.”
…
She’d got him there. Slightly off track, the most interesting place to be. He narrowed his eyes and considered her – her legs now carefully crossed with those beautiful long shins, parallel, as if she’d learned etiquette. That was it. His mother, who’d never cared for any of his girlfriends, would approve of Dr Bakker’s manners.
“But as humans, we’ve made our worlds so complex that dopamine is far too primitive to rely upon. We need our rational minds as well.”
“Tell me.”
“Humans aren’t always so nice. You’d be aware of that, Mr Huntley. We lay traps for each other. I make no secret of the fact I loathe and despise the gambling industry, but never its victims. It’s why I’m here.”
“You’re a crusader?” More and more interesting.
“You could say that. The people who make those gambling machines with the bells and lights you described? They’re my colleagues, I’m ashamed to say. They use their research skills to find just the right lights and just the right bells, to make you play and play and play and play. Have you heard of Skinner?”
“Skinner boxes? Yeah. Something. I had a girlfriend once who studied psychology. ‘Rats and stats,’ she called it. I remember something now about a bird that starved to death. Cruel, I reckon.”
“Yes,” she said. “Skinner was American. A radical behaviorist, philosopher and educator.”
Will stifled a yawn. A real win would be to get out of here. He pulled out his phone to check the time. Half an hour to go. Murder. A new message had popped up, a “free bet” opportunity. That was more like it. He rested it on his lean thigh, in view while he pretended to maintain eye contact with this therapist.
“Oh?” He feigned interest in Skinner. “An educator?” He knew how to repeat the last few words to keep a conversation going. Easy as pie. He didn’t even have to think.
“I’m glad you’ve got your phone out. Is that a free bet? Skinner would call that a stimulus. You’d know that already, I imagine. So, Skinner would say that if you ever click on that, and if you get a reward from it, even once, you’re more likely to click on it again. The only way you can beat that kind of stimulus is to totally ignore it.”
“‘Ignore it.’”
“Exactly. Which is a lot easier said than done. I’m willing to wager you can’t resist clicking on that, Will. Either now or later.”
He drew his eyes up from the screen to hers, saw her amusement and felt like a child caught stealing.
If he clicked on it, she would have won, and he would have lost. Clever.
“Don’t put it away,” she said. “You could use it to read up on Skinner. Try that now, if you like, if you’ve had enough chat. Or we can talk some more.”
“Talk some more. Isn’t that why we’re paying you?” Ouch.
“You like to win,” she said. She wouldn’t take the bait. She had a job to do here; wanted to get through to him. “Tell me about your first win.”
Will sat for a moment, remembering. Remembering. His father. Down there for him, on his haunches, arms out, with the biggest smile. Acres of green lawn. James and Nicole behind him on the swings, swinging, back and forth, back and forth, and his mother there on the picnic rug, with treats in a basket.
“Cynthia, look, look. He’s walking. Will’s walking! You can do it, Will,” he could hear his father’s voice, see him so clearly, waiting for him to toddle across.
On the soft sofa, with the harsh light of the desert sun softened by blinds, in this neutral space, with Dr Bakker, her legs crossed – quiet, waiting, listening – Will closed his eyes, inhaled and held his breath. He pressed his fingers to his eyes.
The tissue box. If she nudged it towards him he’d crush it, dammit. Throw it at the wall. Winners never cried. He looked at the clock. Tick. Tick. Good. It must only be another twenty minutes to go. Torture. Whose idea was this? What was this ache at the back of his throat?
His father, his father. Always there. Always there for him at the finishing line, at the awards ceremonies. So proud. So bloody proud of him. The Will and Jimmy show. He’d known his father had loved him best. And even towards the end, on those rare days when his father would get up out of bed, it was Will’s room he’d visit. He’d admire that line of trophies and pat him on the back, and laugh. “Once you started running, Will, you never stopped.”
So, well might Dr Bakker sit there, so wholesome and fresh and professional. And well might she have her theories about what Will should or shouldn’t do. But was she there when his father was dying? Was she there when he was gone? When he no longer turned up to his matches and races? When winning became a bit ordinary, the point of it lost. And that pain. Deeper every time. However hard he ran, and however far, his father would never, ever again be there at the finish line. Never witness him score a winning goal. Never …
Will swallowed and tipped his head to the ceiling. He avoided her eyes. What would she know? What had this Dr Bakker ever lost, in her perfect white coat? Why would she care, but for the squillions it cost his mother to send him here? They could talk or not talk for the hour. She’d still get her money.
Free bet, his phone flashed at him from his knee. Free bet. Free bet. Free bet.
Free bet he wouldn’t come back. Free bet he’d keep running. What would his mother care? He could still leave. It wasn’t a jail. He’d broken no laws. He was managing okay, wasn’t he? Evolution. Dopamine.
He’d get out of here. The door wasn’t locked, was it?
But when he met those eyes again, he was shocked. She was with him, as if she’d been inside his brain. Those honey eyes, undemanding. Not dismissing him. Not laughing at him. Just there for him.
Of course. That’s what they paid her for. That’s why she was here.
“How can you stand this?” he asked.
“I can’t always.”
“That’s honest.”
“I’m human, too, you know.” Was she human, sitting over there, legs uncrossed now, knees and ankles together?
“Do you like to win?” he asked.
“Don’t we all?”
He shrugged. “So, what else do you like to do?”
“I like to run,” Lisa said.
“Run away?”
“I have, actually done that.” She nodded, holding his eyes. The grief in his chest eased a little. This Dr Bakker. She was something. Her fingertips joined as she waited for his response. Measured. Neat fingernails. No polish. No jewelry. Maybe the shadow of where a wedding ring might once have been.
Had he ever studied a woman so closely before? Not that part of their anatomy, anyway. This Dr Bakker in her white lab coat. Cool. Calm. Quiet. Classy. Maybe he’d come back for more.
…
Will couldn’t believe he’d given Dr Bakker his phone. She’d held out that clean hand at the end of their session and offered to keep it for him, just till the afternoon, to help him keep their bet that he wouldn’t succumb to temptation.
He missed it. Kept feeling for it, needing to check the screen. The colors. The lights. The possibilities.
Reaching for it again for the tenth time, he slapped his hand hard against his thigh. Was he really so pathetic? No. It was just a habit. A meaningless one. It wasn’t something he’d ever chosen to do, to answer to a small rectangle of metal and glass and circuits.
What had Dr Bakker asked – what did he want more of? What did he want less of?
He went exploring.
There was an indoor pool with a few people doing laps and the smell of chlorine. There was also a heated spa, a sauna, and a well-equipped gym behind a glass wall. Attendants in black trousers and white shirts stacked towels or made marks on clipboards or iPads. He’d definitely try that out. All of it. Maybe now.
Then there was the dining area, with the largest salad bar he’d ever seen, and several yards of domed silver lids. Bacon, sausages, mushrooms, eggs. Baby hamburgers, chicken and rice, spring rolls. Everything. The spread made him hungry.
There was even a colorful dessert bar with more than a few fancy cakes. So, sweet things were okay, even if there was no alcohol. It was a resort, this place. Shame about the lack of a bar. His stomach rumbled. Sleeping rough had made him lean and hungry. He’d enjoy this part of the retreat, no question. Eat his fill, then work it off. That was a plan, something to tell Dr Bakker.
Surely there’d be a spare bread roll for him for now, or some nuts or a cheese plate. He could just cruise in for a closer inspection, maybe snatch a cracker or two, but he was stopped short on a small chain at thigh height. Oh. Not feeding time at the zoo just yet …
He wandered on, then pushed open a door to a stairwell, and in four multi-stepped climbs, he was up on the next floor, emerging into a reading gallery. A long picture window the full length of the room faced east.
Taking in the view, he was amazed at all that space. Low-rise Old Vegas buildings in the foreground with their art deco masonry and classic signs, but in the distance, sky and desert and mountains.
For an instant he was homesick for Sydney, with its green street trees and harbor and heavy humidity. Vegas was a long way from the coast. He was stranded. Dr Bakker was right. Had Vegas ever been part of a plan? Had there ever even been a plan?
The south of France hadn’t been too bad, but how had he ended up here?
His thoughts were scattered, attention span shot. Mountains. Could he escape and go up there? Get some perspective? Dr Bakker had asked him what he’d like to do more of. Maybe go explore some mountains.
He scanned the room, with its tasteful clusters of armchairs, arranged so people could sit close to others without really engaging. Magazines on the side tables. Something on fly fishing, a boating one with the prow of something sleek and sexy, a luxury international real estate magazine, and a couple of glossies on cooking and handcrafts.
He wandered past a chess set, the armies peaceful, the battle yet to come. There were jigsaw puzzles on tables against the wall, and he placed a piece or two in one with boats in a harbor. The masts made it easy, but there was far too much blue sky.
Would being “healed” involve a partial return to childhood, to a time of fewer computers, with good, clean hobbies? He almost snickered.
Without his phone, he might have to return to this space and find a book. Would the librarian have censored everything? Maybe he could read about vice if he could no longer engage in it.
The constant air conditioning was making him thirsty, and he closed his eyes, imagining a decent head on a glass of beer, condensation beading the glass. Fat chance of that. If there was anyone around, he’d ask about contraband. Where was everyone? Meditating somewhere?
He remembered the minibar in his room and bound away up the corridor, buzzing the door with the card and flinging it open. In one movement he’d yanked open the fridge, but was disappointed. Sparkling mineral water, tomato juice and orange juice. Not even an energy drink.
He found a “natural” lemonade and downed it in three gulps, the cold citric acid burning his gullet. Not ideal, but a sensation at least. Maybe he’d go mad here. What would Dr Bakker think of that?
For the first time, he noticed a pencil and pad on the sideboard. He could make a paper plane, maybe write “rescue me” on it, but the windows didn’t open.
Three weeks? How could he bear it? He’d have to hatch a plan. Maybe write some goals. That would be impressive. He lay back on the bed, pencil in one hand and pad in the other. Wrote “1.” Underlined it. Wrote “eat.”
Chimes and a well-modulated voice announced lunch. He was down there in a flash, first in line, first to open all those gleaming lids and pile his plate high. He’d put a check next to that first goal in no time flat.
…
“Finding your way around okay?” Dr Bakker asked. Will had surprised himself, turning up seriously early for the four o’clock group session. He’d hoped to see more of Lisa; had a hunch she’d already be there, and he’d been right.
“You should know. There’s not actually that much to see.” He winced at the tone of his own voice, petulant, sulky, childish.
“Sorry,” he said. “Actually, the food’s really good. I haven’t had a feed like that in a while. I’m just … Actually, Dr Bakker, it’s four o’clock. What I’d really like is a beer.”
“That’s perfectly normal, Will. Well, maybe not at four pm, but there are consolations.”
“Oh?”
“This is only Day One, remember,” she said, smiling. “You’ve got to expect some challenges.”
“No pain, no gain?”
“In a way. And definitely no drinking, though I can assure you there are plenty of other things to do here, not all of them painful. Did you find the music bar?”
“No,” he said. “But I found the library. Nice room. Great view of some mountains. What mountains are they?”
She sat up, more interested. “Beautiful, aren’t they! It was probably Virgin Peak. They’re even better up close. There are actually mountains all around Vegas. Vegas is in a valley.”
He nodded. “Okay, Dr Bakker. You got me. What’s a music bar?”
“It’s a bit like an old-fashioned juke box, but you wear earphones, and the choices are phenomenal. I recommend it. You create your own playlist and then listen while you’re working out, if you like, while you’re on the exercise bike or the running machine. It’s fantastic.”
“You sound like you’ve tried it?”
“Yes. And some of our clients have discovered passions for whole new music genres, like opera or heavy metal. In their evaluations, a majority of our clients say the music bar helped them get out of old habits and find new interests. When you’re not gambling anymore, you’ll find you have a lot more time for other passions.”
“Passions,” he repeated. He could still do it. Set something to smolder between them.
Dr Bakker smoothed her hair then tapped her pen on her folder. If it had been awkward for a moment, a tad more interesting, it was all back to business now.
“So, apart from looking around, have you had a think about my questions from this morning.”
He smiled at her. She was trying so hard over there in her upright armchair. Apart from her rush of enthusiasm about the mountains and the music bar, how could she stand it? Wasn’t she tired of people like him in here, day in and day out? The department of lost causes. He pitied her.
“Want to share your thoughts?”
“You said this morning you’d answer some questions if I did, Dr Bakker.”
“Yes.”
“You got some answers. You probably know a ton about me you wish you didn’t, over there in that folder. So, can you at least tell me your first name?”
“This is a space for honesty, so I’ll tell you. It’s Lisa.”
“Lisa.” Now he gave her his attention alright. He uncrossed his arms, gave her half a smile and ran her name across his tongue again and smiled. “Lisa.”
…
His Australian accent. Her eyelashes dipped as she studied her notes. Would they make any progress? Maybe this was a mistake. The man knew he was attractive. She’d done her homework on him. She’d thought she’d be fine. Forewarned was forearmed. She was experienced, dammit. He was a client, that was all. And the other clients would turn up shortly.
She sat up straight again, knees together, pulled the lapels of her white coat close around her chest and repositioned her folder across her lap. Gave him the professional smile.
“And there’s the tea bar.” Back to the facilities. A perfectly safe topic. Okay.
This time he laughed, and it was pure joy, the shadow of loss lifting, hovering, gone.
“You’re kidding.”
“No,” she said.
“Well, I found the salad bar. Does that count for something? You going to note that?”
“I am, actually. Did you enjoy it?”
“Hell, yeah. Not much salad out there on the streets of Vegas. A baby spinach leaf lasts about six minutes before it shrinks to nothing. I timed it once. But the salad here is brilliant. I’m still digesting it. Not too sure about your tea bar, though. Where I come from, it’s a device on the ski fields for getting you up the mountain. I worked them hard when I was a kid. You got ’em here?”
“Sure do,” she said. “And pomas.”
“Pomas …”
“How about you tell me about your first T-bar and then I’ll tell you about mine.” She could do this. Build rapport. They wouldn’t get anywhere if they couldn’t communicate. She wanted to make progress with Will Huntley. Get him better and get him out of here. Out of her life. Out of that couch where he sat like God’s gift to lonely therapists.
“Deal. I must have been about four years old. One of those kids in an all-red suit on tiny skis. James and Nicole would have been five and seven. The instructor paired up Nicole and me because we were such similar heights. Told us to wait at the top for the rest of the class.” Will settled into telling the story.
“We’d been doing it all morning. Up this little slope on the T-bar and back down again, snow ploughing. Up, down. Up down.” His hands pointed up, then down, as if they were tiny skis.
“This time, Dad was at the bottom watching, waiting, that big, proud smile on his face. Was I going to wait at the top like I was told? Nup.” He shook his head. “James was with me at the top, telling me, ‘Wait, Will! Wait.’ Why would I wait? I skied straight down that time, first time parallel, zooooom, straight down and in between Dad’s skis. And he laughed! Picked me up right there and held me up, skis and all.” Will’s face was alight with joy.
“I can still feel him holding me up like his bright-red trophy, his skis below him, the white of the valley, the blue of the sky, still giving his great, big laugh. He was so proud of me. James was furious. He got down eventually with the rest of the pack, ploughing those S-bends.” He nodded, remembering.
“I was having hot chocolate with Dad by then, with extra marshmallows. Sweet and steamy. Dad took me up with him next time, T-bar at the back of his knees.”
She could imagine it all. Will, the speedster. Will, the rebel. Will, the favorite.
“You miss your father.”
“’Course I miss my father.” His tone was abrupt. He was still hurting, still angry. Betrayed, even.
“Do you want to tell me about that?” She used her gentlest voice.
“Oh, it must be almost a decade. But he started leaving us much earlier than that. You know, you’re a kid, but you can sense something’s wrong. Something changed in the house. Mum and dad talked about different things, went quiet when they noticed us nearby. ‘Test results’ and ‘try this,’ ‘try that,’ ‘second opinion.’ They held hands more often. Sad faces. Earnest conversations.” Will stared at his feet.
“It wasn’t overnight,” he said. “It got worse over two or three years. Even the teachers looked at me differently, let me get away with more. Towards the end, I hardly bothered with school. If I got up and walked out, they just let me. I was still winning on the sports field, still getting all those medals for the school.” He cleared his throat.
“Dad didn’t turn up at the comps anymore, but the kids all cheered. Teachers cheered. Home got a bit grim. We boarded for a while, James and me, and Nicole. Dad would make an effort on Sundays. We’d have a meal together once a week, cringe at how much he’d shrunk. The house smelled like medicine.” He gazed at the cactus on the coffee table.
“By then there were drips and oxygen machines. Mum was devoted, now I think about it. Didn’t have a lot of time or thought for the rest of us, and we were getting older, becoming independent. James was at uni by the time Dad died, and I was old enough to leave school.”
Silence. Acceptance.
“This is the first time I’ve talked about this. I still miss him. Never really said goodbye.”
Will breathed, stared at the edges of the room and back at Lisa. She gave him a gentle nod.
…
Will rested his elbows on his knees and held his forehead in his hands. The ache in his chest kept building. The dam could burst in there and it would be okay.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat that way when just as suddenly, the ache began to lift, to dissipate, like mist in the valleys of the snowfields. It left his body more relaxed and his mind clear. Good.
He sighed and sat back. Sweet Lisa across the room was still there, ready to listen.
“You know we sold the house? I guess I understand it. Too many hard memories for mum, and we were hardly ever there together anymore; all going our separate ways.”
Lisa nodded.
“Mother built a new house in Moss Vale, in the country, south of Sydney, but in the end she moved to France. Created a whole new world for herself. I guess we were lucky. We joined the family business, James, Nicole and me, and worked with Jim, our grandfather, who set it up. Huntleys House of Diamonds.”
“You enjoy your work?” Lisa asked.
Lisa listened so well, those big brown eyes, full of understanding.
“Yeah. No? That’s why I’m over here with a gambling addiction getting counselled by you, Dr Lisa Bakker.” Sarcasm, but with a smile. Honesty. Was this progress?
Lisa gave a big nod.
“So, what would you rather be doing, Will?”
“Well. This, right here, right now? This is okay. You’re okay. You’re good. I’ve never talked about that stuff, Dad dying, how it feels when your hero’s not there for you anymore.”
He sat straighter and looked Lisa in the eye. “Those British twins, and all the others, they didn’t care. It was all about what we were doing, you know? Where was the next party? Who was buying the drinks. That kind of thing.”
“Sounds familiar,” Lisa said. “Living in the moment. That’s not all bad. Have you heard of Existentialism?”
“Exist … what? I’d look that up, but you’ve got my phone.”
“Want it back?”
“I get it back?”
“Only if you really want it,” she said. “It’s up to you what you do with all of this. You can lie to me about your phone and what you do with it. But you can’t really lie to yourself. Well, you can. Plenty of people do. All their lives, in fact. But it’s you who ends up stuck with the consequences.”
“Consequences.” Like shrivelling up on the pavements of Vegas like a piece of lettuce. Not ideal.
“Are you ready to get your phone back, do you think?”
“Ready for ‘free bet,’ ‘free bet?’”
“Exactly,” she said. “You know yourself better than I do.”
“Yeah. But what’s exist …?”
“Existentialism.” Lisa stood, opened a drawer in the sideboard, and handed Will’s phone to him.
He punched in the letters and read it out. “‘A philosophical theory or approach which emphasizes the existence of the individual person as a free and responsible agent determining their own development through acts of the will.’ So, you’re saying I can choose to choose.”
“You could say that.”
“Free bet” coaxed him across the screen. Incredible. He’d had the thing back for less than a minute. He tossed it back to her. Dr Lisa Bakker was far more interesting. She was even a good catch.
Just then the others trailed in.
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