Chapter 26
“Stan,” Dr. Gilliard breathed, greeting him with a smile of undisguised pleasure as she opened the door to her office. “It’s wonderful to see you again. Please come in.”
“Thanks for agreeing to see me on such short notice,” Stan said, entering the room. “I hope I’m not throwing off your schedule.”
“Not at all. I had a cancellation, so I’m all yours for however long you need me.”
“Uh, well, actually—” He broke off as Dr. Gilliard peeled his jacket off his shoulders and hung it on the coat rack. When he looked at her, she smiled warmly and gestured to the sofa.
“Please have a seat,” she invited.
Stan hesitated, then walked over to the sofa and sat down. He’d come there to tell her that he didn’t need her services anymore. On the way to her office, he’d rehearsed what he would say. But now that he was here, he felt awkward. Out of his element.
How exactly does one break up with one’s therapist?
Dr. Gilliard sat in her armchair and slowly crossed her legs. Today she had on a cream cashmere sweater dress and wore her long hair down. Her glasses, which had been missing at the ball, were back in place.
“So,” she began conversationally, “do you have any special plans for Thanksgiving?”
“Yeah. We’ve got family coming from out of town, and on Wednesday evening we’re driving up to the mountains to spend Thanksgiving weekend at a ski lodge.”
“Oh, wow, that sounds wonderful.” Dr. Gilliard smiled brightly. “That should be really fun for everyone.”
“Definitely. We’re all looking forward to it, especially the kids.” Stan paused, then asked politely, “What about you? Got any special plans?”
“Oh, nothing as exciting or romantic as a ski trip,” the doctor said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’m just having dinner at my parents’ house.”
Stan nodded.
“I’d love for you to meet them.”
Stan’s brows shot up. “Your parents?”
Dr. Gilliard had the mortified look of someone who just realized she’d unintentionally spoken aloud. “Well, um, my father is retired military, and he and my mother are, um, really active in the community. So I just thought they’d both be, uh, honored to meet Coronado’s Firefighter of the Year.”
As she muddled her way through the convoluted explanation, Stan stared at her, eyes narrowed speculatively.
Dropping her gaze, Dr. Gilliard became absorbed in removing a speck of lint from her dress.
Stan regarded her in silence for another moment, then frowned. “Listen, I would have preferred to do this over the phone, but I thought I owed you the courtesy of telling you in person—”
Her eyes snapped to his face. “Telling me what?”
He met her gaze. “I won’t be continuing our therapy sessions.”
She looked stricken. “What do you mean?”
Stan frowned. He thought he’d spoken plainly enough. “I don’t think—”
“Is this because of what happened at the ball? Because I’m really sorry about that. Van Dorn insisted on dancing with your wife, and I didn’t know how to talk him out of it.”
Stan grimaced. “This isn’t about that, although dancing with you did put me in an awkward position. But that’s not why I’m ending our sessions.”
“Then why?”
Stan hesitated for a moment, then opted for complete honesty. “I’ve been coming to you for over three months now, and while I appreciate the time you’ve taken to help me, I’m no closer to understanding or overcoming my nightmares than I was when I first began seeing you.”
Dr. Gilliard looked stung. “Three months isn’t nearly enough time to determine that therapy isn’t working for you, Stan. It takes some of my clients years to make any sort of breakthrough. You just have to be patient.”
He shook his head grimly. “I think we’ve made all the progress we’re going to make.”
“I disagree.”
Stan frowned. “Listen—”
“We haven’t even tried hypnotherapy,” Dr. Gilliard blurted, an edge of desperation to her voice.
“Hypnotherapy?” Stan repeated skeptically. “You want to hypnotize me?”
“I know it may sound farfetched, but hypnotherapy has been clinically proven to provide medical and therapeutic benefits. I’ve used hypnotic regression to successfully treat several patients who suffered from depression. By regressing them to their childhood, we were able to uncover traumatic memories of sexual and physical abuse.”
Stan scowled blackly. “I wasn’t abused. My parents loved me and my brother, and they took damn good care of us till the day they died.”
“I’m not suggesting that you were abused, Stan,” Dr. Gilliard hastened to assure him. “I’m merely offering an alternative method of treatment that we haven’t explored yet.”
Stan eyed her dubiously. “I don’t think I can be hypnotized.”
“We won’t know unless we try. Look, I know you’ve told me that the nightmares haven’t affected your job performance, but how much longer will that hold true? As a consultant to the police and fire departments, it’s my professional duty to ensure that my clients—be they cops or firefighters—don’t pose a threat to themselves or others. You’re up for a promotion to captain. At this point, I’m not sure how comfortable I’d be signing off on a psych evaluation for you.”
Stan’s eyes narrowed on hers. “Are you suggesting that I’m not fit to serve as captain?” he said through gritted teeth.
“Of course not! God, I would never suggest anything like that! Everyone knows you’re more than qualified to be promoted.” Dr. Gilliard sat forward in her chair, eyeing him intently. “I know what’s at stake for you, Stan, so I want to do everything in my power to help you. Let me try the hypnotherapy. Let’s see if we can get to the root cause of your nightmares.”
Stan wavered, a muscle throbbing in his jaw.
“Just give it a chance,” Dr. Gilliard gently implored. “If you still believe we’re wasting each other’s time, then I’ll respect your wishes to discontinue therapy. Deal?”
Stan regarded her silently for several moments, then relented with a brusque nod.
“Wonderful.” Dr. Gilliard beamed with pleasure, then smoothly uncrossed her legs and glided to her feet. “I’m going to close the blinds to make it a little less bright in here. I want you to lay back on the sofa and try to relax.”
Stan reluctantly complied as she strode to the window. After a few seconds, the room was plunged into soft shadows. Closing his eyes, Stan listened to the doctor’s quiet footfalls moving across the oriental rug as she returned to her chair and sat down.
“You’re not relaxing, Stan,” she murmured chidingly.
“How do you know?”
“I can feel your tension from all the way over here. You’re thinking too hard. I want you to empty your mind of everything but this moment. What normally relaxes you?”
A soft smile touched his lips. “Prissy’s hands.”
Dr. Gilliard paused. “Oh?”
“Yeah. She gives the most amazing massages. Whenever I come home really stressed, she lays my head on her lap and massages my scalp, then turns me over and rubs my shoulders and back and—”
“I get the picture.”
Stan grinned sheepishly. “Sorry.”
Dr. Gilliard muttered something under her breath.
Stan opened his eyes and glanced over at her. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” The doctor forced a bright smile. “Since your wife isn’t here to, ah, relax you, let’s try a different approach, shall we?”
Stan nodded, turning away.
“I want you to look up at that small water stain on the ceiling. Can you see it?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I want you to stare at that stain and let your breathing become slow and deep. Let your body begin to unwind, starting with the muscles in your feet and toes. Let your thighs relax, Stan. Let all that negative tension flow out of your— What is it? What’s wrong?”
Stan was frowning. “The building manager should really get that water stain taken care of.”
Dr. Gilliard made a strangled sound of exasperation.
“Sorry,” Stan said abashedly. “I used to be in construction, so—”
“Never mind,” the doctor snapped. “Don’t focus on the ceiling. Close your eyes instead, okay?”
His lips twitched. “Okay.”
As he obligingly lowered his eyelids, he heard Dr. Gilliard inhale a deep breath, clearly striving for patience.
After several moments, she began speaking again. But the soothing cadence of her voice didn’t lull Stan into a trancelike state. Instead he found himself tuning her out, her words fading into the background as his mind began wandering.
He thought of his family members who would be arriving in town tomorrow. He and Prissy would pick up Mama Wolf from the airport since her flight from Savannah arrived first. Later that afternoon, Prissy’s brother would bring home the Atlanta crew in the van he’d already rented from the airport. Stan couldn’t wait to see everyone, especially his grandmother and Sterling. And he still needed to pack for the ski trip—
“…that’s it, Stan,” Dr. Gilliard encouraged, her tranquil voice penetrating his thoughts. She sounded closer than before. “You’re doing really great.”
He frowned. “Actually, I don’t think this is— What the fuck?” he burst out suddenly, his eyes snapping open to find Dr. Gilliard straddling him. He bolted upright so violently that she lost her balance and tumbled backward, landing in an ignominious heap on the floor.
Catching a glimpse of red panties, Stan exclaimed, “Shit!” and quickly covered his eyes. Keeping them tightly closed, he swung his feet to the floor and demanded furiously, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I-I’m sorry,” Dr. Gilliard stammered. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“You must have lost your damn mind!”
“I, well, um—” She broke off with a heavy sigh. “You can open your eyes now.”
Cautiously cracking one eye open, then the other, Stan saw that the doctor had composed herself and now sat on the floor with her legs neatly folded beneath her.
He glared at her in outraged disbelief. “Care to tell me what the hell just happened here?”
“I think you know.”
“The hell I do!”
She gazed up at him. “I’m in love with you, Stan.”
“WHAT!”
“Believe me, I didn’t want this to happen,” she said earnestly. “I’ve never crossed the line with a patient, never even been tempted to. But then you came along and changed all that. I can’t stop thinking about you, Stan. You’re the most amazing man I’ve ever met, and I’d give anything—”
He held up a hand to halt her impassioned declaration. “Stop right there. Are you crazy? Have you completely forgotten that I’m married?”
“Of course not,” she mumbled, her resentful gaze flicking to the gold wedding band on his left hand.
Stan clenched his jaw. “You need to understand something. I love my wife—”
She flinched. “I know you do. I can tell by the way you talk about her, and I saw it with my own two eyes at the ball. But loving your wife doesn’t mean you can’t have feelings for me. You must feel something, Stan, or you wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of coming here today when you could have just spoken to me over the phone.”
“Like I said,” Stan bit out, “I thought I owed you the courtesy of a face to face conversation. Believe me, I’m regretting that now!”
“Don’t,” she urged, her sultry eyes locked onto his. “I’m glad you came today, Stan. After that night at the ball, I was afraid I might never see you again. And that would have been unthinkable. Because I love you, Stan, and I want to make you happy.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “I am happy—with my wife!”
“But I can make you happier.”
And with that, she threw herself into his arms.
Prissy stared out the window at the nondescript office building she’d been parked outside for the past five minutes.
She’d been on her way home from running errands that afternoon when she’d passed Stan’s truck on the road. Some instinct had compelled her to turn around and follow him at what she hoped was a safe distance. When he’d turned into the parking lot of a small medical center, she was puzzled. He hadn’t mentioned having a doctor’s appointment today, and his physician’s office was on the other side of town.
So what is he doing here? Prissy wondered for the umpteenth time since her arrival.
She felt like a fool—a paranoid wife who’d stooped to stalking her husband around town to catch him in the act of cheating. Which made no sense. She’d genuinely believed Stan when he swore to her that he wasn’t having an affair. She trusted him, so she had no reason to be spying on him like this.
She should start the car and leave right now.
But something kept her rooted to the spot.
And then, suddenly, she saw movement in an upper window that faced the parking lot. A woman had appeared.
But not just any woman.
Dr. Gilliard, Prissy realized with a jolt.
As she watched, the doctor peered outside for a moment, then suddenly drew the blinds closed.
Prissy’s stomach lurched, and a cold sweat broke out on her skin.
Not wasting another second, she flung her door open and lunged from her minivan.
Her tan trench coat flapped in the wind as she hurried toward the building and entered the lobby. Crossing to the building directory, she scanned the board until she found the entry she was looking for.
DR. ERIN GILLIARD, PSY.D., LPCC, SUITE 529
Pivoting on her heel, Prissy strode to the elevator and impatiently pressed the call button. As she waited for the cab to arrive, she paced back and forth, her boot heels clicking sharply against the linoleum floor, her mind racing at warp speed. She couldn’t fathom any reason that Stan would be secretly seeing a psychologist. But if he wasn’t being treated by Dr. Gilliard…the alternative explanation was unbearable.
When the elevator finally arrived minutes later, Prissy boarded quickly, then had to grit her teeth and wait with forced patience as an elderly couple followed her into the cab, moving slower than molasses. On the second floor, they disembarked at the same maddening snail’s pace.
When the cab stopped on the third level to admit a passenger who’d mistakenly thought the elevator had been going down, Prissy wanted to scream with frustration.
It seemed an agonizing eternity before she finally reached the fifth floor. The moment the elevator doors opened she leaped out, then followed the numbered sign to Dr. Gilliard’s office.
Stepping into the suite, she saw that the tastefully furnished reception area was empty.
Relieved that she didn’t have to deal with a gatekeeper receptionist, Prissy started down the narrow corridor, her heart thundering against her ribs.
Reaching a closed door near the end of the hallway, she paused, momentarily paralyzed by fear and dread as she wondered what she would encounter on the other side.
What if Stan’s not even here? her conscience challenged. What if Dr. Gilliard is with another patient, and you make a fool of yourself by barging into her office?
Hearing voices from within the room—one of which definitely belonged to her husband—Prissy burst through the door.
She gasped, stunned at the sight of Dr. Gilliard kneeling between Stan’s legs with her arms wrapped tightly around his neck.
Prissy didn’t think, just reacted.
Marching furiously across the shadowy room, she snatched a handful of Dr. Gilliard’s long hair, making her screech in pain. Viciously tightening her grip, Prissy dragged the woman away from Stan and flung her to the floor like a cheap ragdoll.
As Stan jumped up from the sofa and reached for Prissy, her mother’s voice ran through her mind. Short of catching him in the act…
“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?” she screamed, her chest heaving as she divided an outraged glance between her husband and the doctor, who had scrambled to her feet and was tugging down her dress.
Stan gently grasped Prissy’s arms. “Let me explain—”
“You’d better talk fast because somebody’s about to get hurt up in here!”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dr. Gilliard take a discreet step away from her. Turning her head, Prissy snarled at the red-faced woman.
“Baby,” Stan tried again, “it’s not what you think—”
“No? Then what the hell was she doing all over you, Stanton? And why the hell is it so dark in here?”
Scowling ferociously, Stan barked at Dr. Gilliard, “Open those damn blinds!”
She obeyed without hesitation.
As daylight flooded the small room, Stan took Prissy’s face between his hands, his dark eyes boring intently into hers. “Baby, listen to me,” he said urgently. “Despite what you just saw here, I swear to you that there’s nothing going on between me and Dr. Gilliard.”
“But you lied to me!” Prissy cried accusingly. “You told me you didn’t know her personally!”
“I know.” Stan looked pained. “I shouldn’t have lied to you, honey, but it was the wrong time and place to share the truth with you. As I told you that night, Dr. Gilliard is a psychologist. What I didn’t tell you is that she’s been counseling me for the past three months because I’ve been having nightmares.”
It was the last thing Prissy had expected him to say. Stunned, she stared at him. “Nightmares?”
“Yes,” he croaked.
Choking back an instinctive surge of fear, she whispered, “What kind of nightmares?”
Stan closed his eyes in an expression of raw anguish that heightened Prissy’s alarm. “I’ve been having nightmares about the fire that killed my parents.”
Prissy’s heart instantly melted with compassion. “Oh, sweetheart,” she gently consoled, reaching up and tenderly stroking his cheek. “I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t want you to know, didn’t want you to worry.” When he opened his eyes, they were haunted. “You see, the dreams aren’t just about my mom and dad.”
Prissy searched his face. “What do you mean?”
Stan swallowed tightly, holding her gaze. “At the end of the dreams…I die in the same fire that killed my parents.”
The blood drained from Prissy’s head. Her mind flashed back to the years she’d spent being tormented by fears of him dying on the job, leaving her a young widow like her mother had been.
Watching the play of emotions across her face, Stan shook his head grimly. “That’s why I didn’t tell you about the nightmares. I knew they’d only upset you. And to be totally honest with you, they’ve scared the hell out of me, too. Which is why I’ve been seeing a shrink.”
A combination of guilt, shame and regret swept through Prissy at the realization that her husband had been suffering in silence because he’d been afraid to awaken her inner demons. At a time when he’d needed her the most, she’d utterly failed him.
Tears welled in her eyes. “That’s why you started sleeping on the sofa,” she whispered. “You didn’t want me to be there when you woke up from the nightmares.”
He nodded, nostrils flaring. “I know I shouldn’t have kept this from you for so long,” he said, his voice husky with raw emotion. “I honestly thought it was for the best, but I now realize that I caused you more pain and confusion than I ever intended. Can you forgive me?”
Could she forgive him?
“Listen to me.” Prissy tenderly cradled his face between her hands, nearly undone by the tears shining in his eyes. “You mean everything to me, Stanton Wolf,” she fervently declared. “The next time you have a nightmare, I’ll be right there to kiss you, hold you in my arms and rock you gently back to sleep. I swear to you that you will never have to suffer through another nightmare alone.”
“Oh, God.” Overcome with emotion, Stan hauled her into his arms, clasping her tightly to him as he rubbed his jaw against her hair. “I love you more than life itself, sweetheart.”
“I love you, too,” she whispered achingly as she clung to him, her wet cheek pressed against his broad chest, absorbing the heat and strength that radiated through the soft fabric of his sweater. He was alive, vibrantly alive, and he wasn’t going anywhere if she had anything to say about it!
As he lifted her into his arms, she wrapped her arms around his neck and locked her legs around his waist. With a ragged groan of satisfied relief, he crushed his mouth to hers in a breathtakingly fierce kiss that shook her down to her soul.
“Come on, baby,” he murmured against her mouth. “Let’s go home.”
She gave a teary smile. “Thought you’d never ask.”
As Stan began carrying her from the room, she caught a glimpse of Dr. Gilliard, whose presence had been heretofore forgotten. The woman looked so devastated that Prissy almost felt sorry for her. But then she remembered the shocking scene she’d interrupted minutes ago, and she realized that the good doctor wouldn’t have felt an ounce of pity for her if she were the one being carried out of the room by Stan.
As Prissy and Stan reached the door, she murmured, “Hold on a moment, baby.”
He stopped, albeit with obvious reluctance.
Meeting the other woman’s wounded gaze over Stan’s shoulder, Prissy said with quiet composure, “I don’t doubt that you’re good at what you do, Dr. Gilliard. And I’m sure you’ve helped many of your patients overcome their personal issues.”
Dr. Gilliard’s chin lifted a proud notch. “I have.”
“And that’s why I’m not going to report your inappropriate behavior.” Prissy’s tone turned steely to match her stare. “But know this. If you ever come anywhere near my husband again, I will personally see to it that you never practice medicine again. Do we understand each other, Dr. Gilliard?”
The woman’s face reddened with humiliation, even as a trace of grudging respect flickered in her eyes. Coolly inclining her head, she murmured, “I understand you perfectly, Dr. Wolf.”
“Good.” Prissy held her gaze a moment longer, then gently nipped Stan’s earlobe and whispered, “Take me home, husband.”
His eyes glinted at her. “With pleasure, wife.”
As soon as they pulled into their driveway twenty minutes later, Stan hopped out of his truck and came around to help Prissy from the minivan. Without a word passing between them, he swept her into his arms and strode purposefully up the walk toward the house. She clung to his neck as he unlocked the front door and carried her across the threshold, where the sounds of boisterous laughter and banter drifted from the kitchen.
“Michael,” Stan called out.
Instantly the noise evaporated.
Moments later Michael emerged from the kitchen trailed by the others. “Hey, Aunt Prissy and Uncle Stan. You called me?”
“Yeah.” Stan tossed his car keys to his nephew, who caught them nimbly. “Take everyone to the pizzeria around the corner, then you boys go bowling or something.”
Michael looked stunned. “You’re letting me drive your truck?”
“You have your license, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Had it since my sixteenth birthday in June.”
“I know. I was one of the first people you called, remember?” Stan smiled. “Anyway, your dad tells me you’re a very good driver, and he lets you use his car on the weekends.”
“Yup.” Michael grinned broadly.
Without setting Prissy down—the strength and dexterity of firefighters never ceased to amaze her—Stan fished out four large bills from his wallet and handed the money to his nephew. “You fellas get whatever you want.”
“Cool!” the others exclaimed, celebrating their bounty with cheers and high fives.
“I can’t wait till I get my license,” Manning said enviously.
As the rowdy pack began charging toward the front door, Stan said sternly, “Michael.”
He turned back. “Yes, sir?”
Stan jabbed a warning finger at him. “No speeding and no joy rides, or your behind is mine.”
Michael gulped visibly. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t forget your coats, fellas,” Prissy reminded them.
“Yes, ma’am,” they parroted.
As the boys retrieved their coats from the mud room and headed out the door, Maddox could be heard speculating curiously, “What do you think Mom and Dad are gonna do while we’re gone?”
“Believe me,” Manning warned, “you don’t wanna know.”
As Michael and Montana erupted into knowing laughter, the younger ones exchanged bewildered glances and shrugged.
The door had barely closed behind them before Stan carried Prissy into their bedroom and kicked the door resoundingly shut. They hurriedly undressed each other and tumbled across the bed, where they spent the rest of the night making love with the tender ferocity of reborn lovers.