Happily Ever After? (22 page)

“Hmmmmm,” Dale mused. He paused. “Wait! I have a better idea! Oh my God, Val, you’re going to love this!”

“What? What?” I asked.

“Buy the Center!”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, buy the Center! You have the money. I hear they’re having some financial problems and they’re shopping around for
someone to take over operations. The hospital was considering it. But I heard the deal fell through.”

I stopped breathing. Me? Buy the Center?

“Can you imagine the look on Cadence Bradley’s face when they announce the new owner … and it’s you?”

The idea was outrageous, deliciously wild. And very tempting.

’Til next time,

V

I’m too excited to sleep. The prospect of taking over the Center is too tantalizing to allow even a moment’s rest. My brain
starts buzzing every time I close my eyes so I’ve decided to abandon the notion of sleep, for now, and write instead.

Am I ready to reconnect with the Center? I’m not sure. There was a time when I believed that my sanity and dignity depended
on making a clean break, starting fresh in a new career, or in no career, but never to rekindle my relationship with the Center.
Now I’m considering the possibility that the best thing I can do for my sanity and dignity is to come full circle, to return
to the place where my career flourished and eventually failed, to work peaceably with the woman who could hobble me with a
frosty glare. Cadence Bradley, aka Amazon-dot-bitch, who could send me to the edge of despair with so little effort, an arched
eyebrow, a flaring of the nostrils, a dismissive wave of her elegantly manicured hand. Her favorite and most transparently
hostile technique was her silence. I’d walk into the room and she wouldn’t even look up from her papers, let alone greet me.
But as soon as anyone else arrived, she’d welcome him or her with uncharacteristic enthusiasm, as if to say, “Now
here’s
someone worth greeting!”

There were more overt actions, of course. I’d show up at staff meetings and discover—judging from the
half-eaten platter of bagels and empty coffee cups— that everyone else had shown up a good half hour before I did. It seems
that Cadence had a habit of holding a “meeting before the meeting,” during which all the critical decisions were discussed
and resolved. By the time I’d arrived she had worked her way to the bottom of the agenda, and there was little left to discuss.
Cadence had all kinds of excuses for excluding me, of course. Sometimes she’d say, “I knew you’d be busy with clients all
morning.” Or, “I tried to e-mail you with the time change but it bounced back.” Or, “I didn’t think the agenda would interest
you.” As our relationship deteriorated, she stopped bothering to concoct excuses. She simply froze me out.

Cadence had the territorial instincts of an unneutered dog; she wasn’t shy about marking her territory. But her power plays
were subtle, and if you didn’t know her, you might assume she was just trying to be helpful. Once she appointed a psych major
from the university to serve as my intern; I hadn’t asked for an intern and, in fact, didn’t want a college kid shadowing
me all day. I asked Cadence to transfer the girl to one of the social workers, and she eventually did, but not without a lot
of huffing and eye rolling. Another time, Cadence sent my secretary to a three-day computer-training seminar, presumably to
update her spreadsheet skills. Unfortunately, Cadence never mentioned the seminar to me, and she never hired a temp.

And I will never forget the time she suddenly canceled
the Open Mind Fair—my brainchild—without warning me. I’d invested three years of my life developing Open Mind, a public forum
designed to demystify mental illness. The fair had won two state awards and even a presidential distinction, yet none of that
mattered to Cadence Bradley. In a matter of minutes, she had shut down Open Mind forever. She said she had no choice. Open
Mind was unprofitable, and a drain on the Center’s human resources. I knew the real reason: Cadence Bradley despised me.

I wasn’t in a position to complain, though. Cadence may have had the social skills of a hyena, but there was no denying that
the Center thrived under Cadence’s fastidious leadership. She helped extend its reach to the north and south, cultivated strong
relationships with the nine major regional hospitals, developed a decent Web site, and transformed the Center from a basically
loosey-goosey operation to a serious, structured environment.

That seriousness and structure came at a cost. Until Cadence was hired, the Center was a lively, collegial workplace in which
I felt generally respected and appreciated. When I spoke up at meetings, other therapists paid attention and my ideas (the
Open Mind Fair, for instance) were often implemented. Cadence’s arrival had a kind of dampening effect. When I raised new
ideas, people reflexively looked to Cadence for her reaction first, and her reaction was either negative or nonexistent. Staff
brainstorming stopped. Now Cadence
devised the projects; the staff existed simply to execute her ideas. Consensus was no longer a goal. It didn’t matter whether
anyone agreed with Cadence. She had the power to unilaterally establish policies or abolish them, to initiate projects or
terminate them.

And now I had the power to terminate Cadence Bradley … assuming I decide to buy the Center. And now, I’ve got to get some
sleep or I’ll be useless tomorrow.

’Til next time,

V

Diana called this morning to ask if I’d consider taking karate class with her. “It’s a fabulous workout,” she cooed, and I
bristled at the suggestion that I needed to work out, even though I do. I hate it when other people imply what I already know
for myself: I’m a blob.

“I don’t know, Diana. Karate isn’t exactly my style. I mean, I’m more the nonviolent type.”

“Sure you are,” she said with a chuckle.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I know you like to think of yourself as a Ghandi type, but you know as well as I do that you’d pop Roger’s balls with
a knitting needle if you knew you could get away with it. And God only knows what you’d do to his little girlfriend.”

She was right, of course. In fact, Roger isn’t the only target of my roiling antipathy. I’d nurtured more than a few violent
fantasies about Cadence and Alyssa.

“Besides, it’s not about hurting people, it’s about empowering yourself!” Diana urged.

“Yuck. I hate the word ‘empowering’. It’s so nineties.”

“Fine. Then think of karate as strength training for the spirit. It’s confidence building. You’ll feel like a million bucks.”

“I already feel like a million bucks. Millions and millions of bucks, in fact.”

“Let me put it this way, then. The teacher is really cute and nice … and single.”

“I’ve already got a nice guy in my life,” I countered.

“No, Valerie, you’ve got a hard dick in your life. There’s a difference.”

Diana was right again. Bill Stropp was great in bed, but he wasn’t exactly the marrying type. “Let me guess. He’s single,
and he’s gay. Or he’s single, and his ex-wife is a lunatic. Or they’re both lunatics. Right?”

“Wrong. He’s single and his wife’s dead. And he never had kids because his late wife, may she rest in peace, had fertility
problems. Okay?”

Now I felt guilty, yet oddly happy, which made me feel even more guilty.

“Oh, come on, Val. It’ll be fun. Classes are at noon. Pete will be in school. You won’t even need to hire a sitter. Come on.
Please? Pretty pleeeeeze?”

She wore me down. I agreed to try a few classes, as long as I had the option of quitting if I really hated it. Actually, it
wouldn’t hurt to learn a little self-defense. And if I could lose a few pounds in the process, even better.

’Til next time,

V

So I’m at the bagel place with Pete this morning, eating my usual (scrambled egg and Swiss cheese on a nicely browned every-seed
bagel) and I’m feeling really sorry for myself because Bill Stropp is thinking about moving to Arizona. If he does, God only
knows when I’ll have sex again. I must have looked miserable, because Pete looked up from his King Arthur picture book and
asked, “What’s wrong, Mom? Are you thinking about Daddy?”

My son clings to the illusion that he might get to live with both parents someday, that Mom and Dad really love each other
after all, that our divorce was just one big dumb mistake. I smiled and said, “I’m not really thinking about much of anything,
sweetie.”

As I picked the last of the seeds and salt off my plate and resolved to stay away from men for a while, I heard a loud “Ouch!”
and turned to find a tall and rather adorable guy standing by the coffee counter, sucking his
pinky. He saw me watching and pointed at the big pump. “That’s hot coffee. Careful you don’t burn yourself.” His accent surprised
me. He was British, or maybe South African, and his voice was warm and deep.

He sat inches away at the table beside mine. I tried not to stare. He had curly honey-colored hair, as thick as a boy’s, though
I’d peg him at about forty-three, maybe a bit older. His skin was deeply bronzed and the hair on his arms was bleached to
the palest blond, nearly white, like a lifeguard’s. He wore a softly faded indigo T-shirt and loose black cotton pants; he
was built like someone whose living depended on a well-muscled body—a construction worker, maybe, or a farmer. There were
laugh lines around eyes as blue as the Pacific, giving him a perpetual expression of delight, even when his face was in repose.
There was intelligence in his eyes, and kindness, but also behind that, ferocity. His nose was prominent but not ungainly,
his lips were generous. His teeth were bright and straight and there was a sexy little gap between the top front two. He had
large, capable-looking hands and no wedding band, but I detected the slightest indentation around his ring finger where a
wedding band might have been, a long time ago.

He caught me staring and smiled. He stood up to refill his cup and asked if I’d like more coffee. By that point I’d had enough
caffeine to propel me through the ceiling. I said, “I’d love some.” When he bent to take my cup I could smell his skin and
it was fresh and
clean, like rainwater. When he returned to his seat, the most bizarre feeling came over me. I felt I’d always known him, as
if we were married in another life, as if there were a thread already linking us, fine as silk and resilient as a spider’s
web. The only thing we had between us was a smile, and yet I felt serene and happy and completely connected to this stranger.

I must be losing my mind.

He gestured toward Pete’s book. “Ahhh, the great King Arthur,” he said. He leaned closer and squinted at the page. “And, yes,
there is his lovely Guinevere.” He looked at me and I thought my head would combust.

Pete, who is normally reserved around strangers, looked up and smiled. “Do you like King Arthur?”

The man returned the smile. “Doesn’t everyone?” He wiped a dab of cream cheese off his beautiful bottom lip. “After all, he
did pull the sword from the stone when he was just a pip like you. Not even the strongest knight in the kingdom could accomplish
such a feat.”

Pete beamed at him, and though I’d just resolved to take a sabbatical from men, I felt I had to know his name and maybe, God
willing, he would ask for my phone number. I wondered if he was thinking the same thing, because his eyes met mine and he
started to open his mouth … and then Pete tugged my hand AND SAID HE HAD TO PEE! I rushed him to the bathroom, where pee turned
into a more complicated ordeal (apparently his bagel and chocolate milk didn’t exactly agree with him), and by the time I
got out of the
bathroom the adorable man with the British or South African accent was gone!

It figures.

’Til next time,

V

Well, I’ve taken the first step. I called Nancy Cooperman at Barlowe Associates and asked her to investigate the possibility
of buying the Center. She wasn’t especially encouraging. “There are better ways to spend your money,” she said. “I can think
of a dozen ways to maximize your return on investment, but buying the Center isn’t one of them.” I wanted to tell Nancy that
this was about revenge, not return on investment. She wouldn’t understand, so I kept it to myself.

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “But there are a lot of good people doing fine work there, and it would be a shame if they
had to shut down just because they’re strapped for cash.”

Nancy didn’t say anything at first, and I imagine she was weighing her options. If she acquiesced, she wouldn’t be doing her
job. But if she argued the point, she might lose me and all my money. It was a tricky situation and she’d have to handle me
delicately, which she did.

“You have a point,” she said. “Let me nose around and see what I can find out. Give me a few days, okay?”

“Fine, but I don’t want to drag this out. I want to move quickly, before another buyer gets there before me,” I said. While
most of my crazy impulses become less attractive as time passes (buying a miniature horse, learning to speak Japanese, buying
a fondue set, starting a day care center, dying my hair black), I’m more eager than ever to buy the Center. True, I don’t
know anything about operating a practice of that size (of any size, actually), but surely I can find the right people to help
me.

“Nancy?”

“Yes, Valerie?”

“Please don’t let anyone know you’re working for me. Keep my name out of it. You’ve got my power of attorney, and as far as
anyone’s concerned, you’re the only one they need to know right now.”

“I understand,” Nancy said. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I know something.”

Roger wants to see Pete this Saturday. I was hoping he’d be one of those absentee fathers you hear about on radio shows, the
jerks who forget their kids’ birthdays and call a couple of times a year if at all.

What a horrible thing to write! My son should have a
father who remembers his birthdays and calls every day, not once a year. But in order for Roger to remain involved in Pete’s
life, he must remain involved in my life too, which makes me feel claustrophobic.