Life and Other Inconveniences(30)

I spent the rest of the morning unpacking. Last night, I told Genevieve I’d need a room to work, and when I explained online therapy, she snorted. “People just love to indulge in their misery, don’t they? Well, if it pays your bills, fine.”

It did. Sort of. Barely. I had $96,475 in student debt, the cost of my shared office space, a car payment and upkeep, rent to my grandfather (at my insistence, since we’d lived for free for years and I worried about his own bank account). Groceries, two-thirds of our utilities, Riley’s school expenses (activity fees and sports fees and the ridiculous list of school supplies each year). Health insurance. Car insurance. Gas. Saving for her college. Clothes for a teenage girl who was still growing. Cell phone and service. Internet. Credit-card-debt payments. The fees that covered my license to practice psychology, membership to the American Psychological Association, malpractice insurance. The conferences I was required to attend to keep my certification. Taxes.

Then there are the things you don’t think about. Haircuts. Veterinary care for the “free” kitten we got when Riley was seven, only to find it had a heart condition and spend $750 that we couldn’t afford on the poor little thing and have it die anyway. School pictures. Field trip costs. A new washing machine. Gifts for Riley’s friends’ birthdays, my coworkers’ baby showers and weddings.

Life was expensive, even when you got child support. Jason worked in his family’s construction business and made a fairly decent living, but he wasn’t rich. I was proud that Riley had had a pretty normal childhood because of my financial savvy . . . especially given that we lived in Downers Grove, which had been a humble working-class town when Pop bought his house but had grown into a wealthy, desirable suburb.

Which was a long way of saying I couldn’t afford to take the summer off and needed every client I could get.

Genevieve had granted me use of a room on Sheerwater’s ground floor. The giant house was built on a slight hill, so it was essentially the walk-out basement but, as was the rest of the house, beautifully done. A home theater, gym, yoga studio (seriously), the dogs’ playroom (again . . . seriously) and this room, my summer office.

While it was small by comparison to other rooms in Sheerwater, it was easily quadruple the size of my office at home. The room had a built-in desk that lined one wall, a couch and sliders out to the flagstone patio that was shaded by the main-floor deck. The patio had chaise lounges and a firepit, and the view of the lawn went all the way to the water.

I’d forgotten how very lovely Sheerwater was. In my memory, it was more formal; in person, it was simply perfect.

Hard to imagine my sixteen-year-old inheriting a mansion. I’d have to talk to a lawyer and probably hire a financial adviser, because this was out of my league.

I caught a glimpse of Genevieve and Riley walking across the lawn, my daughter’s hair glowing in the sun. They were arm in arm.

Be nice to my daughter, old woman, I thought.

At noon, we were meeting Jason and his sons for lunch. His wife, Jamilah, and I had spoken a few times on the phone. She’d always been cordial, if a little . . . tight sounding. They had two boys—Owen and Duncan, ages seven and nine. They sent us a Christmas card each year—the perfect family photo. Jamilah was African American and gorgeous . . . Owen, the older boy, had green eyes and lashes to die for. The little one looked like mischief incarnate with dimples and curly hair. I rather liked the boys, based on the occasional sliver Jason would share with me, or the times Riley Skyped with them and I could hear them laughing.

The old familiar feeling of being on the outside, almost but not quite welcome, wrapped around my heart.

And then, after lunch, I’d be seeing Hope. That, at least, was one thing I was very much looking forward to. Being near her for the summer was a silver lining in this whole endeavor.

Well. Before any of that could happen, I had to deal with the Mastersons, who were trying to fix their marriage after Dirk had cheated with a younger woman. Amy wasn’t willing to give up on the marriage just yet. Not before she ate his beating heart, I thought.

I set up my computer on the desk, checked to make sure my background wasn’t too distracting, and smoothed my hair. Smiled my therapist smile and clicked their names. The gurgling of the connection sounded, and there they were, sitting next to each other, not touching, Amy’s jaw tight, Dirk’s gaze on the ceiling, already irritated.

“Hi, guys,” I said. “How’s this week been?”

“Shitty,” Amy said. “Because he lied. Again.”

“I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you because I knew you’d be like this.” He looked at me . . . well, at the computer. “Dr. London, I didn’t tell her I was getting drinks last night with my coworkers because I knew she’d think I was going to see Bailey again.”

“Please don’t say your whore’s name in our house.”

“Jesus, Amy. Calm down.”

Great advice, Dirk. Like telling a cuckolded wife to calm down ever worked. “Before we get into details,” I said, “let’s back up a little. Dirk, we talked about how an apology means naming the thing you did wrong, taking full responsibility for it, acknowledging the pain it caused and discussing how you’ll act differently. Have you given that a try?”

“Yes. Repeatedly.”

“Yeah, well, the whole sincerity aspect isn’t coming through,” Amy ground out.