“Your family is in Florida having a wonderful time, Jessica,” she finally says. “Why would you think anything else?”
“Because you sent me that text!” I blurt.
Dr. Shields arches an eyebrow. “All I did was inquire about their vacation,” she says. “There is nothing untoward about that, is there?”
She sounds so sincere, but I can see through her act.
“I want to call the resort,” I say. My voice is shaking.
“Certainly,” Dr. Shields says. “Don’t you have the number?”
“You never gave it to me,” I shoot back.
She frowns. “The resort name has never been a secret, Jessica. Your family has been there for three days.”
“Please,” I beg. “Just let me talk to them.”
Without a word, Dr. Shields rises and retrieves her phone from the counter. “I have the resort confirmation information here,” she says as she scrolls through her e-mails. It seems to take an inordinately long time. Then she recites a number.
I dial it immediately.
“Happy holidays, Winstead Resort and Spa, this is Tina,” a woman answers in a singsong voice.
“I need to reach the Farris family,” I say urgently.
“Of course, I’ll be happy to connect you. May I have a room number?”
“I don’t know it,” I whisper.
“Just a moment, please.”
I stare at Dr. Shields, who meets my gaze with her ice-blue eyes as, incredibly, cheerful Christmas music plays while I’m on hold: Claus is coming to town.
Then Dr. Shields edges my glass of wine closer to me.
I can’t bring myself to take a sip. I fight back an acute feeling of deja vu. I was just here a few days ago, confessing that I know Thomas is her husband, but that’s not what is prompting the unsettling sensation roiling through me right now.
The music abruptly cuts off.
“I have no record of any guests by that name,” the resort operator says.
My body buckles.
My vision swims and I dry heave.
“They’re not there?” I cry.
Dr. Shields picks up her glass and takes another delicate sip, and her unconcerned gesture is what unleashes my anger again.
“Where is my family?” I demand again, locking eyes with her. I push back my stool, nearly knocking it over, as I stand up.
She sets her glass down on the counter.
“Oh,” Dr. Shields says. “Perhaps the reservation is under my name.”
“Shields,” I say into the phone urgently. “Try that, please.”
Silence stretches across the phone line.
I can feel my pulse throbbing between my ears.
“Ah,” says the clerk. “Here it is. I’ll connect you now.”
My mother answers on the second ring, her voice so familiar and safe that I almost burst into tears again.
“Mom! Are you okay?” I ask.
“Oh my goodness, sweetheart, we are having the best time,” she says. “We just got in from the beach. Becky got to pet dolphins—they have a whole program here. Your dad took so many pictures!”
They’re safe. She didn’t do anything to them. At least not yet.
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Of course! Why wouldn’t we be? We do miss you, though. But what a wonderful boss you have to do this for us! You must be very special to her.”
I’m so disoriented by now that I can barely manage to end the call and hang up, promising to phone again tomorrow. I can’t reconcile my mother’s happy chatter with the terrible worry my mind had created.
I put my phone down.
Dr. Shields smiles.
“See?” she says calmly. “They’re perfectly fine. Better than fine.”
I splay my hands on the hard, cold granite countertop and lean forward, trying to concentrate.
Dr. Shields wants me to think it’s all me, that I’m unstable. But I didn’t conjure losing my job or losing Noah. Those are absolute facts; I still have the voice mails from BeautyBuzz on my phone. And Noah hasn’t responded to me. I’m positive it isn’t a coincidence that both things happened while I was in Thomas’s office. I can’t prove it, but Dr. Shields knows I was with him. Maybe she could have even found out I slept with him; Thomas could have told her to save himself.
She’s punishing me.
I feel her hand gently pat my back and I whip around.
“Don’t!” I say. “You got me fired. You told BeautyBuzz I was freelancing when I went to Reyna and Tiffani!”
“Slow down, Jessica,” Dr. Shields instructs.
She returns to her stool and crosses one long, slender leg over the other. I know what I’m supposed to do, the part she wants me to play, so I sit down on the stool next to her.
“You didn’t tell me you lost your job,” she says. To an observer, it would look like she’s truly concerned: Her brow is furrowed, and her tone is gentle.
“Yeah, someone turned me in for violating my noncompete clause,” I say accusingly.
“Hmmm . . .” Dr. Shields taps an index finger against her lips, and then I see the lower one looks slightly swollen, as if it was recently injured. “Didn’t you tell me that the boyfriend who was on drugs was so suspicious of you? Is it possible he might have reported you?”
She gives me a slight, Cheshire-cat smile. She has an answer for everything.
But I know she did it. Maybe she didn’t give them Reyna and Tiffani’s names, but she could have made an anonymous call pretending she was a client I’d solicited. I can see her saying something in that fake-concerned voice, like, Oh, Jessica seemed like such a nice young woman, I hope I don’t get her into trouble.
But then I remember Ricky’s insistent questions before I pushed those free cosmetics into Tiffani’s hand and fled. I’m certain the tubes had the BeautyBuzz logo on them; all my lip glosses and balms do. It would be easy to track down my employer.
“Jessica, I’m very sorry you lost your job,” Dr. Shields says. However, I certainly did not cause it.
I rub my temples; everything was so clear just a few minutes ago. But now I don’t know what to believe.
“I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you look unwell,” Dr. Shields remarks. She nudges the platter closer to me. “Have you been eating?”
I haven’t, I realize. When I saw Noah on Friday night at Peachtree Grill, he kept trying to tempt me with fried chicken and biscuits, but I only managed a few bites. I don’t think I’ve had anything but coffee and a LUNA bar or two since then.
“But what about Noah?” I say, almost to myself. My voice breaks on his name.
He was happy to hear from me this morning, though he might have thought my request was strange. I keep picturing his hand held up like a barrier, stopping me from getting close.
“Who?”
“The guy I was seeing,” I say. “How did you find him?”
Dr. Shields cuts a piece of cheese and puts it on a thin round cracker before handing it to me. I stare down at it and shake my head.
“You never even told me you were dating anyone,” Dr. Shields says. “How could I engage in a conversation with somebody I didn’t know existed?”
She lets silence hang there for a moment, like she’s punctuating her point.