“Never mind. Just take me back,” she said, straining to keep her tone even. He didn’t deserve to see how upset he was making her. She was dizzy with confusion. The only thing she knew for sure was that this had been a mistake. “Please. Now,” she grated out before she turned and around and took the steps to the lower deck two at a time.
3
make me
SAY IT
eleven
Jacob glanced up when Elizabeth tapped on his office door and entered carrying some files. He made eye contact with her and could tell by her arched brows she had something to tell him.
“I don’t want to argue with you anymore about it,” he said quietly to the woman on the screen. “We agreed before you moved into the coach house that you would have to meet my requirements.”
“Your requirements are even more strict than my shrink’s,” Regina Morrow said. “But at least I can count on seeing Dr. Fielding regularly. When will I see you next?”
“Hard to say. I’m working on a few deals that are taking up a lot of my time. I can’t get away at the moment. My presence shouldn’t be a requirement for you to do what we agreed upon.”
Regina made a predictable sound of dissatisfaction, a pout marring her otherwise stunning features.
“You just need to focus on one thing: taking care of yourself,” he said. “I’ll call tomorrow and you can tell me what the new therapy group is like.”
“You’ll call to check up on me, you mean? You’re a pain in the ass, Jacob. I don’t know why I love you so much.” His mouth went hard at the grudging quality to her tone of voice. Regina had a habit of imagining herself victimized . . . and acting out accordingly. He hoped her fit of pique wouldn’t be an excuse for sabotaging her current treatment.
“Your feelings for me—or for anyone—shouldn’t affect how you take care of yourself. Regina?”
“I know, I know. Don’t lecture me.”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow . . . and I’ll try not to lecture,” he added dryly.
“Promises, promises,” she teased, bringing a smile to his mouth before he said good-bye and disconnected their conversation.
Without looking up from his computer, he spoke to Elizabeth. “Please call Dr. Fielding and tell him that he should administer a drug test at her visit this afternoon. If she doesn’t show for her outpatient group therapy appointment, have him call me.”
“Of course,” Elizabeth replied. She’d been given the same or similar instructions too many prior times to question him. His history with Regina had been a roller-coaster ride.
“Cyril is here. He wants to know if you’d like lunch at his place,” Elizabeth said.
Jacob closed his eyes as regret and annoyance flickered through him. He knew Cyril would want to talk about the film. About Harper. He’d rather avoid the subject at all costs. But as much of a pain in the ass as Cyril could be, and as different as he and Cyril were, he was also one of the few people on the earth Jacob considered a friend.
He might as well just get this over with.
“We’ll give him lunch here, if he’ll have it,” he said as his fingers flew across the keyboard. He looked up after a moment. “Out on the balcony?”
“I’ll let Lisa know,” Elizabeth said briskly, setting the files on his desk and turning to go.
Ten minutes later he sat across from Cyril Atwater at a table set for two. His office balcony overlooked the lake, and made a good location for working meals as well as a refreshing escape where he could clear his head.
He’d shared a workday lunch with Cyril too many times in the past to count. They’d known each other for about seven years, ever since they’d become neighbors in Tahoe Shores. One of Cyril’s hallmark characteristics was his single-minded, bullheaded determination to see a project through, a quality that was both admirable and annoying, depending on which side of Cyril you were on. Cyril tended to wheedle, flatter, or bulldoze his way to get what he wanted, and Jacob had definitely erected a barrier to one of Cyril’s targets the other night.
He knew that Cyril had been a small, sensitive, and sickly child growing up, which had led to a long history of bullying—both by other kids and an overbearing, coarse, heavy-handed father. Cyril’s artistic brilliance had been a foreign language to his father, and Jarvis Atwater was not a man to tolerate anything foreign. What had infuriated Jarvis was not only his son’s open homosexuality, but a stubborn streak that ran a mile wide. Cyril refused to bend or alter, no matter the amount of threats and physical abuse.
Predictably, Cyril brought up the topic of the film before Lisa, his cook, had even served the soup.
“I might have complicated things for you in regard to that,” Jacob told his friend.
“What do you mean?” Cyril demanded, peering at him through a pair of antique Edwardian pince-nez glasses that Cyril was particularly proud of.
“I might have . . . insulted Ms. McFadden.”