Page 25 of Must Love Flowers
Joan remembered hearing about that. “I believe Charlene mentioned you helped young readers.”
“It doesn’t pay much. The school district only offers a small stipend, but I enjoy helping the second-graders. It makes me feel good when I see them making progress.”
“How many students do you tutor?”
“Just two. Caleb has a minor case of dyslexia. All Victoria needs is someone patient and loving. She comes from a low-income family and didn’t attend preschool, so she came into the classroom already behind, according to her teacher.”
“Caleb and Victoria are fortunate to have you.”
“I feel like the fortunate one. On the last day of school, I’m going to surprise them with a special treat.”
When she finished the dishes, Maggie headed up the stairs,explaining that she needed to study for finals, which were scheduled for the following week.
“Night, Joan, and thank you again for everything.”
“You’re most welcome. I hope you sleep well.”
“I know I will.”
Joan watched Maggie disappear up the stairs before returning to the kitchen. She found the slip of paper Gennie Davis had given her and looked at the name and the phone number. If she’d learned anything from the confrontation with Maggie’s father, it was that she couldn’t delay making this appointment.
“Well, Dr. O’Brien, I hope you’re everything Gennie claims.”
Joan stared at the paper for so long she had the phone number memorized. First thing tomorrow morning, she would make an appointment.
Chapter 11
Joan sat in the large reception area, waiting for her name to be called. She’d buried her face in a magazine, afraid, foolish as it was, that someone might recognize her. Dr. O’Brien’s office housed three other counselors who shared a common receptionist. Joan had made the appointment first thing Thursday morning, thinking—hoping, actually—that the first available time slot wouldn’t be for a week or longer. That would give her time to mentally prepare for this meeting. Oh no, that would have been too easy. Instead, she got a late-morning appointment on Monday.
Thursday to Monday had given Joan four full days to fret and worry. Far too many times to count, she’d toyed with the notion of canceling. When she spoke with the receptionist, she was informed she would be charged for the session if less thantwenty-four-hours notice was given. By Friday afternoon it was too late. The weekend spread before her like a yawning beast.
Something was drastically wrong with her. Joan had never been an impulsive woman, and twice within the same week, she’d gone against her very nature. She used to feel that she knew herself. Not any longer.
When she woke that morning, dread filled her that she would need to face this unknown person and expose the deepest, most excruciating pains of her life. She’d never been a crier until the last four years. Already she could feel the tears welling in her eyes. Her hands trembled, and she felt both hot and cold at the same time. She needed to escape. It didn’t matter that she would be required to pay for the session; it was worth it to break free while she had the chance.
She rose to her feet, intent on making a beeline for the door, when the receptionist called her name.
“Joan Sample. Dr. O’Brien will see you now.” The woman stood and opened the door leading down a long hallway. “Dr. O’Brien’s office is the third door on the left,” she instructed, and gestured in that direction.
“Ah.” Joan froze mid-step. Looking longingly toward the door that would lead to her escape and then the door that might possibly alter her life, she had a decision to make.
Fearing if she left, she’d never be able to heal, Joan hesitated. Indecision gripped her like a boa constrictor, defining her own efforts to negate and ignore the difficult changes in her own life.
She turned toward the door leading to Dr. O’Brien’s office.
The woman stood as Joan entered the room. Dr. LannieO’Brien was a young woman. Much younger than expected, for all the letters listed after her name.
“Welcome, Joan.” Dr. O’Brien signaled for her to take a seat on the sofa. The counselor sat in a chair directly in front of her but not so close as to make her uncomfortable. The room, small and inviting, was painted a pale blue. Several colorful pillows decorated the sofa. The paintings on the wall were soothing and familiar, with landscapes of the Pacific Northwest.
Joan sat and clenched her hands together. She didn’t lean back and sat up straight as a fir tree.
Dr. O’Brien smiled encouragingly. “Tell me what brings you here.”
The lump in Joan’s throat felt as though it were the size of a goose egg. She swallowed several times before she could speak. “Gennie Davis recommended I talk to you.”
For a moment Dr. O’Brien’s face remained stoic, as if trying to remember who Gennie Davis was.
“She lost her husband…That was several years ago now, so you might not recall seeing her. I imagine you talk to a lot of people.”
