The waitress, a lovely girl named Annette who came from St. Louis and was majoring in hospitality, came to take their orders. Drinks were an iced coffee for Beck, an Anchorage for Ari. Ordering gave her a chance to wonder why she felt so attracted to Beck. True, he was six two, had floppy blond hair and those amazing robin’s-egg blue eyes, and he was broad shouldered and as handsome as—who was that poet? George Gordon Byron—Lord Byron. Ari resisted the urge to google him on her phone and compare the two. Okay, so Beck was gorgeous, and he was kind and funny, but how could she feel so much desire for him when she was pregnant with another man’s child?
“What’s Michelle up to?” Ari asked Beck.
“She’s sailing today with some friends. Her fiancé, Brendon, and I think you know Dan and Filly.”
Ari sipped her drink.
“Where’s Eleanor?” Beck asked.
They talked about Eleanor, who was going to a party with Silas. Beck talked about his parents, who went to church religiously, a little laugh here. “We’re all—I mean my parents, Michelle, Hen, and I are going to a croquet party this evening.”
“Croquet!” Ari was amused. “I haven’t played since I was a child. It still conjures up images for me of ladies with enormous hats and long skirts.”
“And men wearing white flannels and straw boaters trimmed with a grosgrain ribbon.” Beck leaned forward. “I’d rather spend this evening with you, but these are my godparents, so it’s kind of an obligation.”
“Oh, sure,” Ari said lightly. He’d rather spend the evening with her? She couldn’t stop smiling.
Beck read the meaning in her smile. “Maybe next time I’ll be able to take you.”
They gazed at each other, allowing the moment to last, caught in a glow of realization. They were becoming a couple. They were falling in love.
The waitress came by. “Is there something wrong with your meals?”
The moment was broken. “No, they’re delicious,” Beck told her.
He and Ari dutifully returned to their lunches, but Ari felt Beck nudge her foot with his own, under the table.
“Beck,” she said, leaning back in her chair, “tell me about being a therapist.”
“Ah.” Beck’s face grew serious. “I don’t want to bore you.”
“You won’t bore me. Really, I’d like to know.”
Beck sat very still for a moment. “You understand I can’t talk about my patients.”
“Of course.”
“Okay. Well, on my part, what I do, what I’ve been trained to do, sounds really simple, but it’s not. I’m a cognitive behavioral therapist. That sounds complicated, but one of the things I do is listen. Just listen. Don’t smile—it’s not that easy. Let’s say I told you my grandmother just died. How would you react? Most people would say, ‘I’m so sorry. I loved my grandmother, too,’ and they’d talk about their grandmother. I ask them questions about their grandmother. I let them grieve.”
“I see what you mean,” Ari said.
“People need to be listened to. They need to be taken seriously. The process of venting is important. But it’s not only that. I’m trained to catch the trouble spots, the signs that someone might need medication—”
“Can you prescribe medication?”
“No. But I can recommend that a patient see a psychiatrist for meds, while I continue the talk therapy. I can sort of listen between the lines. I can spot something significant bubbling up that the patient is trying to avoid. A lot of my patients see me short-term, when something like a divorce is taking place. Or a loved one died on an ordinary day in an accident. Others might be dealing with an old trauma that they’ve never discussed because they’re ashamed, and getting it out into the light of day is a kind of healing.”
“Wow,” Ari said softly, impressed. “How do you deal with all the sadness and anger that you meet every day?”
“Do you mean how do I take care of myself emotionally?” Beck’s voice lightened. “I go to the gym. I work out, and if the weather’s good, I run. I hike. Hiking somewhere new is my best therapy for myself.” With a crooked grin, he added, “Also, playing tennis. I need to play a lot of tennis with you.”
“I’m up for that,” Ari told him. “And I won’t bill you for therapy.”
After lunch, Beck walked Ari to her car in the parking lot. Cars were all around them, people slamming doors, yelling greetings, carrying tennis rackets and life jackets.