like the idea.”
Simon picked up a tin of cumin, opened it, and inhaled. The smell surprised him, a kind of lemony scent, or perhaps saffron, with a hint of curry. It struck him how many things there were in the world to smell, and he had sampled so few of them. He held a grape in front of her mouth, and she sucked it in. “I grounded Davey again,” he said.
She nodded her agreement. “I trust you picked a good reason.”
He had been prepared to explain the phone call from Mrs. Reed, Davey’s lie about not taking out the knife, and his worry about their son’s honesty as well as safety. But Amy was leaving it all up to him for a change. “So,” he said, “what won’t I believe about her?”
“Who?”
“Your new client.”
Amy emptied a few flakes of spice from a bottle into the sink and washed it down the drain. “It’s a he, actually, my first male client in two years. He’s going to come twice a week. When I try to take a history he shoots off on these odd digressions. I let him go because it’s the only way to learn anything. Today I asked him what he did for a living, and he said he does pretty much whatever he wants but he used to be a chamberlain.”
“What’s that?”
“The man who takes care of the chambers of his master, pays the bills, hires staff. Apparently it was a common position in England centuries ago, which is when he says he was a chamberlain. In 1822 to be exact.”
“And he knows this how?”
“He had a reading done by a mystic of some sort who revealed his past to him.”
“So he’s delusional?”
Amy picked up a handful of votive candles and pushed them to the back of the cabinet. “I don’t know. He’s dealing with a recent loss, but there’s a lot more behind it going back years. I’m not sure he’s ready to seriously deal with things. I think he’s playing with me.”
“It’s his eighty dollars, he can do what he wants for the hour, can’t he?”
“The idea is that a client gathers some insight into his problems from his hour with me.” Amy started putting back the spice tins, in alphabetic order. This was an odd new behavior for her—organization. He presumed it wouldn’t last. “It’s common for people to erect a shell around themselves to avoid talking about their problems,” she said. “But this guy is doing a particularly good job of it. I think he has tremendous pain inside that he’s masking with an outward hyperrationality.”
“What are you going to do, wait him out?”
“I’ll probably do the distracted routine, fiddle with my pen, look over his shoulder as if I’m bored with him. He’s enjoying being the fascinating, mysterious stranger who baffles the therapist, so the more I seem not intrigued the more likely he is to keep coming out with things to interest me.”
“Sounds like you have a game plan.”
“It’s not a game,” Amy said, “it’s a tactic. Some people need a few pokes to open them up.”
Later, at the mailbox, he found another postcard, this one with a Chamber of Commerce picture of Portland Harbor on the front. The unnamed correspondent was obviously not done with his game. Simon’s body tensed as he thought about what might be on the other side of the card—a new invitation? A threat? It occurred to him to just rip up the card and drop the pieces down the sewer. Nothing could compel him to pay attention except his own curiosity. He was in control.
“Hello, stranger!”
Simon looked up to see his neighbor limping toward him on the sidewalk, with large garden shears in his hands. “Hey, Bob, been a while,” Simon said as he slipped the card in with the rest of the mail. “Staying ahead of the pruning, I see.”
“Keeping up with it at least. That’s the best I can hope for at my age.” Simon backed up a step, toward his house. His neighbor took another step forward. “You found that boy of yours, I guess.”
“Turns out he was in the backyard all the time,” Simon said, “in the tree house.”
“I figured you found him or we’d be reading about it in that paper of yours.”
“Sorry, I should have called over to put your mind at ease.”
Bob waved away the thought. “It’s Helen who gets these ideas in her head. Thinks she hears people outside all the time. I tell her, this is Red