A Perfect Life (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

Massachusetts is a wilderness. Tiny, million-dollar homes huddle along graveled beaches and saltwater marshes. Thoreau's woods rub up against the diesel stench of pockmarked interstates. Dangerous, hard-edged fishermen work and drink, fish and fight a short drive from Harvard professors and Back Bay bluebloods.

Scott Thomas loved it.

With his advisor's help, Scott had landed a one-bedroom garage apartment in Cambridge when he'd first arrived to begin doctoral studies at Harvard. It was the best neighborhood he'd ever lived in, unless you consider boarding school dormitories to be better. Scott did not. He'd spent too many Christmas vacations with the families of his teachers; he'd watched too many times as other students left for long weekends after he had refused mercy invitations to join them.

Scott had no family, not since he was ten years old. He had only himself, and he believed deeply that he had built himself—his beliefs, his character, his view of the world—from scratch. A trust fund scraped together from his father's investments had bought his education. Everything else, he had fought for all on his own.

Now his life was beginning. His life away from school, away from paid nurturing, had started with his move to Cambridge.

The old man stopped in front of the big house on Welder Avenue and turned to Scott. “I guess you're rich.”

Scott smiled. “I live over the garage.”

“Student?”

Scott nodded, and so did the old man. It occurred to Scott that maybe his driver wanted money. “I appreciate the ride. I don't have much on me, but I could give you ten for gas money.”

Creases formed around the driver's lips, and he may have been smiling. “You're a student. You need your money.”

Scott nodded and popped open the door. When he did, the overhead light came on and Scott noticed the old man's fingernails again. “Are you a musician?”

“I'm down to the Blue Note on Bleeker next two weeks. Come by and you can buy me a whisky. Name's Walker.” He nodded at the house. “Go on in. Call the po-lice 'bout your car.”

Scott said, “I will. Thanks.” The door shut with a satisfying sheet-metal thud, and the ancient black Caddy rolled into the night.

For the second time that evening, Scott stood alone on a cold strip of blacktop. He turned toward the house, and the crisp slush of his footsteps floated on wet winter air. Traces of snow hugged the curb, circled the trunk of a sugar maple, and lay in dirt-blackened chunks across the yard.

The main house was dark. The Ashtons had gone West to ski. But, as Scott walked across herringbone brick to the garage, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched.

When Kate Billings stepped through the door of her apartment after midnight, she flicked on the television. Letterman had on some howling folk singer with kinky hair and an acoustic guitar. A musician or a band you've never heard of always means the end of the show. She kept walking into the bedroom, where she stripped off her clothes and stood in front of a full-length mirror.

Kate pinched imaginary pockets of fat on her hips and turned sideways to check out the side view of her butt. “Eight more pounds.” She shook her head. “God.” She turned back to face the mirror and examined the reflection of her breasts. Quietly she said, “Nice boobs, though.” And they were. She thought so, and the men who'd had an up-close look seemed to think so, too. Of course, she thought, most men are just so happy to see a pair.

She smiled as she walked into her little bathroom and came out with an oversized towel, which she spread out in the center of the floor. Placing her toes on one end, Kate bent forward to position her hands on the far corners. She lowered her butt and began doing push-ups. Her elbows popped; they always did at first. Then the joints and muscles warmed, and her breathing grew deep. When she had counted thirty-five, she fought the impulse to stop on a multiple of five and trembled out three more. Now she collapsed and rolled onto her back. Two deep breaths, and she began her crunches.

Over the next thirty minutes, Kate Billings did isolation curls and triceps extensions with dumbbells, she pumped out military presses and shoulder shrugs, and she did leg work holding thirty-pound weights in each hand. Now she was ready for the barbell.

After she had returned the dumbbells to their spot beside the dresser, she carried the barbell to the center of the room and faced the mirror. She always worked out in the nude, and she always waited until the last two exercises—the ones with heavy weights—to watch herself in the mirror. By that point, she was pumped up. The muscles in her arms and legs were gorged with blood and tight beneath skin that glistened with sweat.

Kate began to watch herself at this point in the workout because, she believed, it gave her a view of what she would look like in just a few weeks. Perfection was, in her mind,
always
just a few weeks away. And that encouraged her to go on, to push harder every day to get there. But she also waited for the mirror until the last two exercises for another reason.

Watching her engorged muscles work and seeing the veins grow beneath wet skin, it was—well, she wondered if other women found it arousing to pump weights alone in their bedrooms. As she moved the heavy weights up and down, she wondered if her arousal was in anticipation of the way men would react when she
was
perfect, or was it some sort of self-worship, maybe even latent tendencies?

She smiled at herself in the mirror as she arched her back to curl the barbell up where cool steel pressed against the tops of her breasts. After setting the weights on the rug at her feet, she stretched out her lower back and straightened up. Her heart raced; her chest expanded, her breasts rising with each breath. She smiled and wondered if the young shrink at the hospital, if Dr. Scott Thomas, could explain why she enjoyed watching herself. Now that he was in her head, Kate imagined him lying on the bed watching her pump weights, imagined his eyes transfixed as her perfect breasts rose and fell with every breath. He was cute. Some of the other nurses had told her that Dr. Thomas had been some kind of almost Olympic-class wrestler in college.

Kate grabbed the beach towel off the floor and spread it carefully over her bedspread before lying down. She lightly touched the fingertips of her left hand to her collarbone, then traced a wandering path to her nipple. Now, as she concentrated on the last few seconds of her image in the mirror, she used her full hand to massage perspiration into her right breast. She closed her eyes and touched herself with her other hand. Seconds passed, then minutes. Kate hovered at the edge of release, but had begun to believe it wasn't going to come when the phone rang.

Kate glanced at her bedside clock. It was seventeen minutes past one in the morning, and suddenly each ring of the phone seemed to pour her full of everything she needed. Kate was usually quiet when she was alone, but now she began to whisper words and utter sounds as if encouraging a lover. On the eighth ring, Kate Billings filled to overflowing and gave herself over to the mixture of explosion and release that her imagination and her fingers had been seeking.

When her breathing had slowed, Kate leaned over and picked up the receiver. She punched in *69 and listened. She stood and walked over to stand in front of her mirror as she dialed the number recited by the operator's mechanical voice.

Her friend answered on the first ring. Classical music floated through the earpiece, and Kate smiled at her reflection.

Sirens squealed. The dark lawn tilted, and a mountain of bright flames morphed into a vinyl hospital sofa that melted into the rough shape of a Flexible Flyer. White tile flooring suddenly swept downward and curved out of sight like an enclosed roller coaster. The sled began to slip and swirl. Sirens wailed again from somewhere far away.

Scott needed it to stop.

The phone's ringing penetrated his sleep and pushed it aside. Scott reached over and fumbled among jumbled stacks of books and papers for the receiver. He knocked it off the cradle, and a tinny voice called his name from the carpet.

He called back, “Just a minute.” The bedside lamp was easier to find. White light flooded the room and then faded into a single bulb. Sitting up now, he swung his feet onto the floor and found the receiver between his toes. He picked it up and breathed deeply to calm nerves worn jagged by the same half-remembered nightmare he'd been having for fifteen years.

When his breathing was normal, he said, “Hello?”

“Mr. Thomas?”

“Yes.”

“You need to answer your door.”

He massaged his eyes with thumb and forefinger, then reached up to run the fingers of his free hand through thick wavy hair that, no matter the effort, never looked quite tamed. Wire-rimmed glasses lay on the bedside table. He picked them up and looped a gold wire over each ear. “What's this about?” He glanced at red numbers on his clock radio. “It's two-thirty in the morning.”

“Yes, two thirty-eight. This is the Cambridge police. You reported your car stolen earlier tonight. One of our officers has been outside your door for twenty minutes pressing the doorbell.”

“I'm in back.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” The dispatcher's pronunciation grew sharper, sliding her tone from condescending to confrontational.

“I live in an apartment over the garage. I don't even have a doorbell.”

“Then you should have told us that when you called in your report.”

Scott pushed again at his hair. It was a nervous habit. “I did.”

“As a matter of fact, I have your report right here in front of me, and I can assure you that—”

“Please tell the officer to come around back. I'll meet him at the top of the steps.”

“Right.” The line went dead.

Scott shoved bare feet into untied leather sneakers and tugged at his zipper on the way to the door. Outside, the cop was already walking up painted wood steps that ran along the left side of the Ashtons' garage. Scott opened the door.

“Mr. Thomas?”

“Yes. Come in. I need to grab a shirt.”

The cop chuckled as he followed Scott inside and pulled the door shut. “Don't wanna look like one of the perps on
Cops
?”

Scott went into the bedroom, got a sweatshirt from the dresser, and pulled it over his head. Back in his little living room, the patrolman waited by the front door. “That your Toyota?”

Scott stopped short. “What?”

The patrolman pulled a square of paper from his shirt pocket and unfolded it. “You reported the theft of a . . . a-ah, 1976 FJ40 Toyota Land Cruiser. Hard convertible top. Tan inside and out.”

“Right.” He blinked away sleep and tried to focus. “A guy and a girl—”

The cop pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “It's parked in your driveway.”

CHAPTER 3

“What's the big deal?”

It was Friday morning, and Kate Billings leaned against the curved Formica top of the nurses' station, speaking to a plump redhead seated in front of a computer keyboard.

The plump nurse shrugged. “Her husband's rich. Something Hunter.” She spun the wheel on her mouse to scroll down the computer screen. “
Charles
Hunter. He's the architect who designed the new children's wing. Supposed to be some kind of genius.” She looked up at Kate. “Have you seen it? Guess I'm not
artistic
enough to appreciate it. Whole thing looks like a spaceship to me.”

Kate smiled. “I think that was the idea. You know. Children's wing? Children? Spaceships? That kind of thing.”

“Oh. Well, I guess that makes some kind of sense. Still looks stupid. Anyway, your new patient is Hunter's wife, Patricia.”

“I've been taking care of her for two weeks. I know her name.”

“I thought—”

“Mrs. Hunter has requested full-time nursing. That's what's new. Like I said, I've been taking her her meds and looking in for a couple of weeks, you know, whenever my rotation hit. I just meant what's the big deal about her that requires a full-time nurse. I didn't know her husband was the famous architect Hunter. I'd've been nicer to her.”

The redhead smiled and stood and pushed her chair under the keyboard. “Oh. Okay. I just thought that because Dr. Reynolds asked for you specially. Course, I always wonder when a doctor does that.” She paused to smooth white cotton fabric that had gathered around her ample waist. “Just watch yourself. You never know. I've seen Dr. Reynolds looking down my blouse a couple of times.”

Kate grinned. “But you've got more to look at than I have.”

The redhead stood a little straighter. “That's true, honey. A few extra pounds may pump up the back bumper, but what they do for the headlights makes up for it in spades.” She winked. “Believe you me, honey. Believe you me.”

Kate laughed as the redhead turned and walked away.

A deep voice came from behind her. “Nothing wrong with a healthy self-image.”

Kate turned and came face to face with Dr. Phil Reynolds. She blushed. “We were just kidding around.”

Reynolds was a tall, gaunt man with a white mane and twin cotton balls for eyebrows. And, as every student in psych rotation for twenty years had noticed, the snowy puffs above his eyes moved when he spoke. Even Dr. Reynolds's thoughts were often accompanied by much waggling of those famous eyebrows. Now they had moved apart to form quotes at the outside edges of his eyes. This was, Kate knew, a look of bemusement.

“We started out discussing my new patient, Patricia Hunter. I heard you asked for me to be assigned to her full time.”

He nodded. “That's right.”

Kate waited, but Reynolds had the therapist's habit of assessing when he should be speaking. Finally, she said, “May I ask why?”

“Why full time or why you?”

“Both, I guess.”

“Full time because she can afford it and because her husband is important to this hospital. Not very pretty, but there it is.” His pale eyes searched Kate's face. “Why you is a little harder to explain. Let's just call it a hunch.”

“That clears that up.”

The older man laughed. “Okay. Let's just say that Patricia Hunter is a strong woman. Wealthy. A little condescending. Unusually pretty.” Reynolds pushed both hands into his hip pockets and looked at the floor. “I suppose I thought that she would be less likely to try to intimidate you and that you would be less likely than most of the nurses to be intimidated. You are . . .” The old shrink's cotton-ball eyebrows bunched beneath the weight of his discomfort.

Kate Billings was not analytical by nature, but she understood men. She always had. Now she interrupted to save him. “Can you tell me why Mrs. Hunter is here? I mean, I know depression. But I was wondering . . .”

Reynolds smiled with relief at not having to tell a beautiful young nurse that she was beautiful. It was a comment that hit too close to home for casual conversation in a busy hospital corridor. “Oh, ah. Her seventeen-year-old son, well, really, her stepson, Charles Hunter III, I think, died a few days before she checked herself in. The boy drowned somewhere down off the North Carolina coast. Mrs. Hunter is, as you said, experiencing depression.” He lowered his voice. “Also, self-destructive thoughts. That kind of thing. She asked me for help.”

“Do I need to do anything special?”

“No, no. Just be available to her at all times when you're on duty. I'd like you to switch to a noon-till-eight shift, though. Mrs. Hunter seems to be a late sleeper, and it'll make it easier for you to work with Dr. Thomas on this.” The old man used the hospital courtesy of referring to doctoral students as “doctor,” even though that title had yet to be earned. “You do know Scott, don't you? He's monitoring a number of patients for me.”

Kate Billings flashed on her fantasy of Scott Thomas lying on her bed, his eyes transfixed on her breasts as she pumped weights, and her face colored. Dr. Reynolds said nothing, but his eyebrows floated higher on his forehead and a smile formed at the corners of his mouth.

“Yes, I know him. Not well. Just around the hospital.”

“Yes, well, I'd like you to work with Scott. I'm not asking you to report to a graduate student. I'm just asking you to talk with him, to tell him any observations you may have about Mrs. Hunter. Dr. Thomas is in charge of coordinating her treatment.” He paused. “That's about it. You'll start tomorrow at noon. Dr. Thomas will be in this afternoon after classes. Please touch base with him.”

Kate knew that Patricia had asked for her by name. She smiled. “I will, Doctor.”

As the old man walked away, Kate wondered how much Patricia had told him about their relationship. But, she thought, so far, so good.