“So what?” he retorted. “I would hope we’ve advanced to a world where Cubs fans and White Sox fans can peacefully coexist.”
“Maybe. But he almost had a conniption when he found out I cheer for the Sox. This is the man who could put you back in prison in a second. Do you really want to get on his bad side?”
“Good point.” He began shrugging out of the jacket.
“Madsen, is that you?” Jerry growled from inside the office. “Get your ass in here!”
Grant’s eyes widened in alarm. “I gotta hurry!” He now held the jacket crumpled in his hands, and Sophie admired the length of lean brown arms extending from a heather-gray short-sleeved T-shirt. The shirt’s brown piping accentuated his sinewy triceps.
“I can’t leave the jacket out here or somebody might take it. Here!” He thrust it into her unsuspecting grasp. “You hold it for me.”
Sophie was about to protest when he opened the door wide and dashed inside, leaving her alone in the hallway. She glanced down at the jacket. But I can’t wait outside for you. I have an appointment.
She sighed, stuck in a moment of indecision. Why hadn’t he just taken it with him, hiding the logo? She walked toward the exit, carrying the stranger’s jacket. Would there be any way to return it to him before next week? She drew up the collar of the jacket to see if his name or phone number was written inside.
Unfortunately there were no identifying marks, but as she held the jacket so close to her face, a subtle scent of aftershave wafted toward her nose. Sophie stopped walking and inhaled deeply, mesmerized by the masculine scent of bergamot and sandalwood. She closed her eyes and breathed in the tantalizing scent.
Suddenly she glanced up, her eyes darting guiltily to discern whether anyone had caught her, lost in a horny trance. She shook her head slowly. Apparently Officer Stone was a wise man in mandating therapy for her. She needed some serious help! She scurried away to hail a cab, hoping Dr. Hayes could set her straight.
*
“What was the holdup, Madsen?” Jerry demanded.
“Uh,” Grant stalled as took his seat. “I thought I saw a guy I knew in the hall—a guy I ran into at the Cubs game on Sunday.” He was surprised how easily he spun a lie, thinking on his feet. Dishonesty must run in his genes. “But it was a false alarm. It wasn’t him.”
Jerry brightened considerably at the mention of the Cubs. “I was at that game. Where were your seats?”
Grant squirmed. “Uh, behind third base?”
“No wonder you’re so tan,” Jerry observed. “Those seats are right in the sun.”
Or the glare off the water after working on a ship the past week, Grant thought, but he went along with it. “Yeah, it gets pretty hot in the sun.”
“Who’d you go to the game with?”
Grant paused. “My uncle?”
“I thought you said you didn’t have any family in town.”
“No, sir, I have lots of family. They’re just, um, not the kind of people I want to associate with. Except for my uncle. He’s a commander in the Navy, and he’s always been there for me.”
“A commander in the Navy? He must have been pretty pissed off about you getting kicked out after your conviction, huh?”
“That’s putting it mildly, sir.” Grant had never felt more ashamed than when he had to tell his uncle he’d been arrested for aggravated robbery.
“Is your uncle on your dad’s side of the family?”
“No, he’s my mom’s brother.”
“So, where’s your mother? Is she one of the family members you don’t associate with?”
Grant felt the familiar ache in his heart, and he broke the parole officer’s gaze, looking down. “No, sir. She’s, uh, dead.”
“Oh.”
“She died when I was twelve, from pancreatic cancer.”
“Pancreatic cancer?” Jerry repeated. “How long was she sick?”
“Not long—a couple of months? The doctors said it was one of the deadliest cancers. Back then, anyway.”
Jerry frowned, feeling a kinship with the man across from him. So, his own mother probably had only weeks left. Almost twenty years after Madsen’s mother’s death, pancreatic cancer was still one of the deadliest.
During the awkward silence that ensued, Jerry glanced down at the parolee’s file, trying to move on. “Lucky for you, your drug test from last week was negative. What do you have to report to me today?”
Also eager to venture into happier territory, Grant proudly announced, “I got a job!”
“Well, la-dee-dah, Madsen!” Jerry grumbled, mocking the parolee’s exuberance. “Aren’t you happy with yourself. What kind of job?”
His enthusiasm taken down a notch, Grant reported stoically, “It’s with Eaton Tours. They run Chicago architectural cruises.”
“And what do you do for them?”
“I hope to work my way up to chief navigator, but right now it seems I am chief toilet cleaner.”
Jerry chuckled. “I need some evidence that you are gainfully employed, for your file.” He reached into his desk drawer and extracted his business card. “Give this to your boss and have him fax me a letter verifying your employment.”
“Yes, sir.” Grant pocketed the card. “His name is Roger Eaton.”
“And where are you living?”
“I’m staying at Mr. Eaton’s apartment for now, sir.”
“You’re living with your boss?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Eaton is my uncle’s old Navy buddy.”
“Ah, that makes sense.”
“But he snores like an outboard motor, so I’m hoping to get my own place when I can afford it.”
Jerry noted Eaton’s address in Madsen’s file. “All right. Good job, Madsen. See you here next week.”
Rising from his chair, Grant nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
Back in the hallway, the woman Grant had met was nowhere to be found. How would he get his jacket back? Joe had bought him that jacket as a reminder of their days of attending White Sox games together. Rubbing his hand across his shorn hair, Grant found himself desperately hoping to see the blond beauty next week. He needed to retrieve his jacket! Or not. Who was he kidding? He simply wanted to see her again.
6. In Treatment
Sophie glanced nervously around her, eyeing the homey furniture and magazines strewn across the end tables in the small room. Another woman sat in the chair across from her—another client awaiting her therapist. Sophie felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. She did everything she could to avoid eye contact with the woman.
So, this is what it’s like to sit in a psychologist’s waiting room. No wonder her clients had appeared so apprehensive when she retrieved them from her own waiting room for the first time. The ignominy of needing professional psychological help was enough to make anyone want to hide. She stared at the gray speckled carpet, anxiously rehearsing her answers to questions she might face.
“Sophie?” She looked up to see a clean-cut man with tanned skin and short blond hair looking her way.
“That’s me.” She grabbed her handbag and the black athletic jacket from the chair next to her. Clutching the jacket calmed her, and she stood, facing the man with whom she was supposed to share all her secrets.
His warm hazel eyes crinkled as he smiled, and he shook her hand firmly. “I’m Dr. Hunter Hayes.”