Without Faith (3 page)

“Wake up, Sienna.” His beautiful voice whispered in my ear.

I reached over to turn off my alarm, but then realized that the buzzing had been my cell phone, which I had somehow managed to get to my ear.

I was not dreaming, nor was I sleeping. Leon was on the phone and I'd answered it.

“Wake up, Sienna,” he said again.

“Oh.” I sat up and turned the volume up so I could hear him more clearly. “I'm sorry, Leon. I was just waking up and thought the phone was my alarm clock.”

“No, I should be the one apologizing, Sienna. I know I'm calling early, but I wanted to catch you before you got too far into your day.”

“Well, you've caught me.” That statement had meanings on many different levels. I hated talking to people when I was half asleep. I always seemed to find a way to embarrass myself.

Leon chuckled. “Look, are you free tonight? I'm not asking for a date or anything like that. I know where you stand. I . . . I just need to talk to you and the sooner the better.”

He'd started his request with a chuckle, but there was an edge to his tone that I could not decipher.

“What time? Where?” I had finally gotten out of the bed and was headed to my closet. My first client was at seven-thirty—a long-time client who met me before going to her job every Thursday morning. I was at the point in my practice of accommodating any client's schedule.

“Uh, I was thinking we could go to the Harbor's Edge Inn. I could pick you up at six?”

“Oh, you don't have to get me. I can meet you there and spare you the extra drive to Rosedale.”

There was a long pause.

“Okay, Sienna.” He sighed. “I'll see you then.” He hung up with no other words.

“Weird.” I clicked the phone off and began going about the business of my day, getting dressed, skipping breakfast, starting with my clients. It was my usual Thursday routine, but nothing felt normal about it. And not just because my son wasn't there and Leon sounded, well, different. Something was agitating me but I could not put my finger on it.

I checked the tropical island–themed calendar that hung next to my refrigerator. No, it wasn't PMS. I had about another good week before I could start blaming my hormones for my “off ” moods.

The unease followed me through my morning appointments and only grew as the day wore on me. It took all I had to listen through my seven-thirty's sobs over not finding the right dress for her upcoming class reunion; my eight-thirty's fears of “finding herself” only to find out she was completely like her mother; and my nine-thirty's obsession with pasta that was ending his marriage. When my ten-thirty did not show up and my eleven-thirty abruptly cancelled, I knew I needed to do something to settle myself before I saw another client or we would be crying together, and I wouldn't even be able to explain why.

I got in my car and headed to the only place I knew to go.

She was out tending the colorful buds that framed her near–century old Cape Cod in East Towson when I pulled up in front of her home. Even before I got out of my car, I could already see the smile on her face as her bare hands pressed gently on the rich mulch around her Easter lilies, hyacinths, and irises.

As a revered social worker and non-profit director, Ava Diggs had kept a stern face, letting all know that beneath those warm eyes was a no-nonsense professional who would fight to the end for what was right for her charges. Now, as a retiree and a full-time gardener, the only fight on her face was whether her smile could outdo the glory of the flowers she nurtured.

“My Sienna is here before lunch. Something must be up,” she whispered to the colorful blossoms as she pulled herself up to a stand.

I swear those flowers whispered their secrets back to her the way they bobbed up and down in the almost-there breeze.

“Hi, Ava.” I grinned, knowing she would see right through the plastered smile on my face but would play along until I was ready to voice what I was unsure of myself. “I should have called to tell you I was coming over for lunch.”

“Oh, honey, you know you are always welcome, breakfast, lunch, dinner, or midnight snack.”

We were stepping into the dark hardwood foyer of her meticulous home. Although it was only mid-March and only in the mid-forties, a floor fan oscillated in the nearby sitting room, adding a soothing hum to the already calming interior as we headed to her kitchen.

“I just put a spinach and mushroom frittata in the oven. Should be ready now, if you want some. Have a seat.” She pointed to a white-washed wooden chair.

Ava had one of those kitchens that looked like it had been transplanted out of a storybook, a perfect blend of cottage and modern. I envied the charm and comfort that she'd flawlessly pulled off with no help from any designer.

She served the frittata with a fresh fruit salad, a testament to her new eating habits and lifestyle changes. In the two years since her retirement, she'd lost over fifty pounds and counting. When I didn't show up unannounced for lunch, we'd plan times to walk around Lake Montebello, chatting and laughing the entire time.

“Are these real eggs?” I did my best not to frown as I chewed on the rubbery substance.

Ava chuckled. “It's some kind of egg substitute I found on a Web site and had delivered to me yesterday.”

“After years of avoiding all things digital, you've finally gotten online.” I did not hide the pain on my face as I swallowed. “But I think you need another lesson on Internet safety. Be careful what you click on.”

We both let out a generous laugh as even Ava pushed her plate aside. Then she put her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her knuckles.

“What's going on, Sienna?”

I closed my eyes, shrugged my shoulders, opened my eyes again. “I don't know. I can't put my finger on it. Roman's gone—which is fine; my practice is struggling; Leon . . .”

“Still trying to find your place in the world, huh?” Ava shook her head.

“What do you mean?”

“Sienna, for as long as I've known you, seems like you've always been looking for something, searching for something, waiting for something to finally validate you. When you bought your new home and started your practice, though I knew you would face challenges, I thought you'd finally begin to feel settled in your life. But the bigger the accomplishments you achieve, the more you seem to grow restless. Now, I'm not sure if your move to Rosedale was to get settled or to get away from something—or someone.” She raised an eyebrow. “You moved to the complete opposite side of town from the one man I've ever known you to have half an interest in. And I find it very interesting that that this man, Leon, made it to your shortlist of what's currently bothering you right now.”

Ava knew nothing about RiChard St. James. Indeed, she'd never, not once, quizzed me about Roman's father. It was almost as if she believed that my only child had magically appeared to me one day, brought by a stork or a bird or a bee. No man involved.

“You think I'm feeling out of sorts because of Leon?”

Now Ava was the one shrugging. “Well, the only male who's been a part of your life hasn't even been gone for twenty-four hours, and you're already feeling lost. I know that you are eager to see your son grow, so I don't think you missing Roman is what's getting to you. I think that without him here, however, you're subconsciously aware that you are missing something out of your life. And that missing piece is something that even your job can't fill.”

“So long story short, you think I need a man.” I playfully rolled my eyes at her. “I would expect this conversation from my mother. Not you. Anyway, I probably need to head back to my office. My one o'clock should actually show up.” I could not believe that I no longer felt like talking to Ava. I did not like the road she'd taken with me. Didn't like where it could lead.

“Here, honey. Take the rest of this fruit salad with you. I'd feel bad if you came all the way here for lunch and left hungry.” She chuckled again at the one bite I'd taken of the frittata.

If I had an appetite, I certainly did not feel it. And I certainly was not going to tell Ava that my stomach felt too agitated to eat. I took the plastic container of fresh pineapples, cantaloupe, apple slices, and grapes she wrapped up and passed to me and then I headed back to my car.

I needed to stop running over here every time I did not feel right. At some point I needed to act like a grown woman and not a lost cause. Ava was my mentor, my friend.

Not my therapist.

I was turning onto a ramp to get back on 695 toward Rosedale when a bright red Lexus that had been trailing behind me for a while suddenly zoomed past me, cutting me off. I had to swerve to avoid a collision.

“Goodness gracious, what was that about?” I watched as the shiny red coupe sped away and disappeared into the long trail of speeding cars ahead of me.

Jenellis Walker had left my office in a car like that yesterday, I remembered.
Was she following me?
It was a fleeting thought, but one that made me feel silly. Maybe Ava was right. Maybe I did need a man.

I seemed to be going off the deep end left to my own devices.

They were waiting for me in the parking lot when I pulled back up to my office building. I had just cut off my engine when I noticed the black Escalade parked a couple rows ahead of me. As soon as I got out of my car, there was no mistaking the handsome duo walking toward me.

Jenellis and Brayden.

There was no sign of a red Lexus anywhere. I felt silly for even thinking moments earlier that I was being followed.

“Ms. St. James,” Brayden's bass voice sounded before they had even reached me. Despite their casual walk toward me, I could not help but pick up a sense of urgency oozing from them.

But then again, my instincts and judgment seemed to be failing me lately.

“I know you weren't expecting to see us again until tomorrow morning, but we really need to talk to you. Right now.”

“It's important,” Jenellis piped in.

I remembered the spectacle I had seen on television last night and wondered if Jenellis had seen—or heard about it—too.

Maybe that's why they were here.

I wondered if I really wanted to get involved in their foolishness. I checked my watch. It was a little after twelve-thirty and I knew my one o'clock was a faithful attendee. “I really don't have much time right now. Another client is coming, so—”

Brayden reached into an interior pocket in his coat and pulled out a wad of crisp twenties, tens, and what seemed to be all other dollar denominations put out by the U.S. Mint. “We will pay you double your rate, in cash, three sessions up front.” Jenellis eyed the money with the same intensity that I did.

I could actually smell the freshness of the bills. Lord, money never smelled so good. Intoxicating. Even still, I had to pull it together. I was a professional. A broke professional, but a professional nonetheless.

“I don't need double the amount. That would be unethical for me to accept.” I smiled, hoping they would not be offended by my gentle resolve.

“Then accept this as full payment for six sessions.”

I contemplated the offer, their urgency, the craziness I knew was coming. I considered my desperation to keep the lights on, the lease up to date, and my mortgage paid.

“I only have twenty minutes. This will count as a half session. We'll work the other half in another time.” I took the money out of his hand and restrained myself from counting it right then and there.

Jenellis smiled wickedly. “She plays by the rules,” she whispered to Brayden as if I could not hear her as we entered the building and headed to my office suite. “That's why I like her. That's why she has to be the one.”

“We'll see,” was his reply.

I wanted to shake the feeling that I had walked into some type of set-up, that I had emphatically lost whatever upper hand I'd held as the professional and was now at the whims and mercy of this couple I did not pretend to understand. I wanted to tell myself that the dread that had started growing in my stomach when I first met them yesterday—the dread that had only intensified the moment I saw the money—was merely my imagination. I wanted to believe that my instincts were in a failed state, thrown off by the confusing emotions I felt, emotions I could not name.

But I knew I was kidding myself if I accepted any other fact than that this couple was trouble someway, somehow.

And yet, here I was, inviting them back into my office, offering them my customary bottles of water, grabbing my handy notepad. We resumed the same seats we'd had yesterday.

“Again, thanks for taking us,” Brayden started as Jenellis blinked up at him. “Our story is complicated, not really something that lends itself to a twenty-minute time frame, so we'll simply get to the point of why we are here and fill in the extra details later.”

“Okay. What's going on?” How many times had I already asked this couple the same question? They looked at each other, and I knew immediately that whatever was coming next would be a lie.

“As we told you”—Brayden leaned forward as he spoke—“we're getting married in a matter of weeks. After years of both of us searching for true love with the wrong people, we both know that we've finally found it. In each other.” Jenellis had been stroking her slender fingers on his forearm. She paused momentarily, but if Brayden noticed, it did not stop him from continuing. “When we marry, we are determined to become ‘one' in the full sense of the word as it's used in the Bible.”

“You have a church background?” Maybe I should not have asked that question out loud, but I could not hide my surprise at the biblical reference. Something about Brayden and Jenellis did not scream “holy union” to me.

“Something like that.” Jenellis chuckled. Brayden did not look humored.

“Anyway,” he continued, “in our quest to become one, we've hit some, let's say, bumps in the road from both of our pasts that's threatening to destroy our oneness before we even get to the altar.”

“Old flames have a way of reappearing at the most inopportune times.” I nodded.

“No, Ms. St. James.” Brayden shook his head. “I'm not talking about old relationships. I'm talking business. Dollars and cents. We're having a hard time merging our money and because we know that disagreements over finances are a major marriage killer, we want to address this now.”

“It's not so much money that's the issue,” I interjected, “it's usually
communication
that's the underlying problem. If you don't know how to really communicate with each other, that deficiency comes out when it's time to deal with hot-button issues like money, and sex, and the other usual culprits named as marriage enders. Not knowing how to effectively communicate expectations and desires is usually at the core of all these matters.”

“Well, that's just it. Jenellis won't tell me where she got all her millions from.”

“And he”—Jenellis's words were pointed—“won't tell me where he got his.”

Millions.
The word was not lost on me.
Focus, Sienna, focus.

“Okay.” I nodded. “Before we get to the communication piece, let's look at the foundation on which effective communication is built. Trust. What's keeping both of you from openly disclosing parts of your lives to each other? Is it fear of being judged or rejected, betrayed or used? Can you trust each other with your secrets?” I held my breath, knowing that my final question was a loaded one on many levels and for different reasons for both of them.

“Ms. St. James”—Brayden leaned forward even more—“can I ask you a question?”

Before I could think of a reasonable response to his query, he continued. “What does money mean to you?”

“What I feel and think about money is not the issue.” I was not going to be shot down that easily. “I'm here to help the two of you figure it out between yourselves.”

“But what you think does matter to me. Jenellis is certain that you are the person we should be talking to, but I'll be honest. I'm not convinced.
I
need to know how
you
feel about money. The fact that you were practically panting when I showed you a handful of twenties a few moments ago tells me something, but not everything. Tell me.” His voice was barely above a whisper as he leaned even closer to me. “What does money mean to you? Fear? Trust? Those were your words.”

“Okay.” I took the wad of bills from out of my work bag. Their brand of trouble was not worth it. “I apologize, but I'm not going to be able to work with the two of you. I am not sure what it is that you want, either one of you”—I eyed Jenellis—“but I can give you a list of other therapists in the area who you can contact and interview to find the best fit for your needs. I'm sorry, I'm not the one.” I held the money back out to them, but neither one of them reached for it.

“You passed.” Brayden smiled and sat back.

“What is going on here?” The money was still extended in my hand. “You told me that you had an urgent matter. That is why I agreed to see you. We're out of time now, but I still do not see what the emergency is.”

“Twenty-four hours.”

Both Jenellis and I looked at Brayden with confusion.

“Twenty-four hours,” he repeated. “By this time tomorrow, both of you will understand why we are so pressed for time.”

“I wish you would just tell me,” Jenellis hissed at him before turning her attention to me. “For the past two weeks, all Brayden has been saying to me is that by this Friday, I'll know all there is to know about him. I can't stand the secrets. He wants me to trust him. I'm trying to, but in so doing, I need him to trust me too.”

“Twenty-four hours. It will all make sense.” Brayden never looked at her, his eyes only bore into mine. “I'm going to leave the money with you for now, Ms. St. James. If by tomorrow evening, you are still intent on not helping me and my fiancée, I will come and get every last bill back from you. Thanks for your time. Let's go, Jenellis.” He stood and headed toward the door.

I saw Jenellis's hesitation, but she walked out right beside him.

“Wait.” I followed them, the money still in my hands. “I'm not keeping this. You're going to have to take it back.”

But they were already about to pass through the waiting area, and did not even turn around to speak to or acknowledge me.

“Mr. Moore and Ms. Walker,” I demanded, marching right behind them. “Wait a minute.” My one o'clock client, a twenty-something Asian woman with a severe anxiety problem, was sitting on a couch fumbling through a magazine as I practically ran after them.

“Ms. St. James,” she gasped, her hands starting to shake. “Is everything okay?”

Jenellis and Brayden were gone. The money was still in my hand. My client was on the verge of a panic attack.

“Yes, Li, everything is okay.” I followed her eyes to the stack of bills in my hand. Smiling, I slipped them into the back of my notepad. “You can come in my office now.”

I kept a smile on my face to help ease her nerves and she managed a small smile as well. I was doing well keeping up the façade as we settled into our seats—until I noticed that there was a small sheet of paper peeking from behind the sofa pillow where Jenellis had been sitting.

Somehow, Li and I made it through the session, me going through the motions of listening and encouraging; her appearing to be getting her weekly dose of help. The moment Li left, I reached for the torn scrap and read exactly what I had expected to see.

“See you next week, Li.” I followed my client out, the paper a mashed ball in my hand. My two o'clock, a middle-aged woman with an anger management problem and my final appointment for the day, was waiting.

“It's about time you got out here.” She looked up at the wall clock to emphasize my three-minute lateness. “I'm getting real tired of having to wait for you every week.”

“Okay, Ms. Sherry, let's get started.” I smiled. I had to put up a front for at least one more hour.