Her voice, when she found it, was honed and tight. “I had a difficult week at the office. I’m getting impatient with my clients. I can’t seem to feel for them the way I used to.”
Harriet was too professional to show her disappointment with something as obvious as a sigh or a frown. Her only reaction was to unsteeple her fingers. That oozing, uncomfortable compassion was back in her eyes, though. That poor-Meghann-so-afraid-of-intimacy look. “Your emotions feel distant and inaccessible? Why do you think that would be?”
“As an attorney, I’m trained to see things dispassionately.”
“Yet we both know that the best lawyers are compassionate. And you, Meghann, are an extremely good attorney.”
They were on safe ground again, although it could get slippery again in a second. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I’m not as good as I used to be. I used to help people. Even care about them.”
“And now?”
“I’m some balance-sheet automaton who moves through the day crunching finances and spitting out settlements. I find myself hashing and rehashing canned speeches to women whose lives are falling apart. I used to be pissed off at the husbands. Now I’m just tired. It’s not a game—I take it too seriously still for that—but it’s … not real life, either. Not to me.”
“You might consider a vacation.”
“A what?” Meghann smiled. They both knew that relaxation didn’t come easily.
“A vacation. Ordinary people take weeks in Hawaii or Aspen.”
“Dissatisfaction isn’t something you can run away from. Isn’t that Psychology 101?”
“I’m not suggesting you run away. I’m suggesting you give yourself a break. Maybe get a tan. You could spend a few days at your sister’s place in the mountains.”
“Claire and I aren’t likely to vacation together.”
“You’re afraid to talk to her.”
“I’m not afraid of anything. Claire’s a campground manager in Podunk. We have nothing in common.”
“You have history.”
“None of it good. Believe me, the tour bus driver of Claire’s life would hit the gas and keep driving when he came to our childhood years.”
“But you love Claire. That must count for something.”
“Yeah,” Meg said slowly. “I love her. That’s why I stay away.” She glanced down at her watch. “Oh, damn. Hour’s up. See you next week.”
CHAPTER
FIVE
Joe stood at the corner of First and Main, looking down the street at a town whose name he couldn’t remember. He shifted his backpack around, resettled it on his other shoulder. Beneath the strap, his shirt was soaked with sweat and his skin was clammy. In the windless, baking air, he could smell himself. It wasn’t good. This morning he’d walked at least seven miles. No one had offered him a ride. No surprise there. The longer—and grayer—his hair got, the fewer rides he was offered. Only the long-haul truckers could be counted on anymore, and they’d been few and far between on this hot Sunday morning.
Up ahead, he saw a hand-painted sign for the Wake Up Café.
He dug into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, a soft, smooth, lambskin artifact from his previous life. Flipping it open, he barely looked at the single photograph in the plastic square as he opened the side slit.
Twelve dollars and seventy-two cents. He’d need to find work today. The money he’d earned in Yakima was almost gone.
He turned into the café. At his entrance, a bell tinkled overhead.
Every head turned to look at him.
The clattering din of conversation died abruptly. The only sounds came from the kitchen, clanging, scraping.
He knew how he looked to them: an unkempt vagrant with shoulder-length silver hair and clothes that needed a heavy wash cycle. His Levi’s had faded to a pale, pale blue, and his T-shirt was stained with perspiration. Though his forty-third birthday was next week, he looked sixty. And there was the smell.…
He snagged a laminated menu from the slot beside the cash register and walked through the diner, head down, to the last bar stool on the left. He’d learned not to sit too close to the “good people” in any of the towns in which he stopped. Sometimes the presence of a man who’d fallen on hard times was offensive. In those towns it was too damn easy to find your ass on a jail-cell cot. He’d spent enough time in jail already.
The waitress stood back by the grill, dressed in a splotchy, stained pink polyester uniform. Like everyone else in the place, she was staring at him.
He sat quietly, his body tensed.
Then, as if a switch had been flipped, the noise returned.
The waitress pulled a pen out from above her ear and came toward him. When she got closer, he noticed that she was younger than he’d thought. Maybe still in high school, even. Her long brown hair, drawn back in a haphazard ponytail, was streaked with purple, and a small gold hoop clung precariously to her overly plucked eyebrow. She wore more makeup than Boy George.
“What can I getcha?” She wrinkled her nose and stepped backward.