Never Tomorrow Read online

  Carla cocked her head and then spoke slowly as if selecting her words with care. “A fine artist. Jillian had matured greatly the last years before she stopped painting for personal reasons. I have several of her works for sale.”

  “What a tragic death. Had you known Jillian was depressed?”

  “She was a friend also. I’d rather not say more.”

  Did Whitney imagine the slight tremble in Carla’s fingers? Maybe not, but there was no mistaking the sudden ice in her voice.

  A young couple approached Carla and inquired about a painting. She turned to them with visible relief.

  “If I need more information, perhaps we can continue another time,” Whitney offered.

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  I bet. She sensed this woman was hiding something. But what?

  * * *

  Carla failed to mention that she’d sold three paintings two months ago and had yet to send Jillian her share of the money. Her other sales had been slow. Carla assumed Jillian had a big divorce settlement to live on, while Carla struggled to make a living as an agent.

  Life wasn’t fair. Every woman had to look out for herself.

  TWENTY

  Karen Trindle checked the booths at Herro’s crowded restaurant, looking for Sarah Stevens. Evidently she hadn’t yet arrived. The hostess directed her to a non-smoking booth for two. A sign on the wall read, “Best pasta and Caesar salad in Cortland City!” Her mouth began to water. She was starved.

  Where was Sarah?

  Karen ordered hot tea before opening the newspaper she’d brought. She skimmed the headlines. Her mind kept returning to the purpose of this meeting. What topics should they cover in their seminar on mental health? Presenting community forums kept their names visible and generated new clients while providing helpful public service.

  Not that either needed more work. They had busy practices in individual and family counseling. And both women offered group therapy. Occasionally, their clients attended one another’s groups. Sarah’s were primarily for parenting and marriage enrichment. Karen led an ongoing group for divorced women.

  She looked up as Sarah slid onto the bench seat across from her.

  “Sorry. My last appointment ran late.”

  “No problem. I enjoyed having a few quiet minutes to think and read.” Her tone indicated otherwise as she placed the folded newspaper on the seat next to her.

  Sarah smiled warmly. “Is the world still here? I haven’t seen a paper for two days.”

  Karen chuckled. “No, but let’s have dinner anyway. Maybe it will return by the time we’re done. By the way, you look great. New hairstyle?”

  “Yes. Thanks. I decided to go shorter.” Blonde hair with brown highlights framed Sarah’s expressive blue eyes.

  They chatted their way through Caesar salads with sides of ravioli then Karen switched to a serious note. “Ready to tackle the goals and format for our next workshop?”

  “I’ve been thinking we need to emphasize the special needs of children of divorce.” Sarah paused to use her napkin. “Including their huge issue of unresolved anger. Where do kids go with fury when there’s no one to hate but themselves? They surely can’t risk hating their parents. Do you want to tackle that or shall I?”

  “You can.” Karen opened her calendar app on her phone.

  Sarah held up her hand. “Before we submit the date for the newspaper promo, I want to double-check my schedule. I may have a personal conflict, my mother-in-law’s birthday. I’ll try to schedule her party on another night. Tomorrow I’ll give you a buzz to confirm.”

  Sarah waved the waitress over and ordered bread pudding for dessert.

  “How can you eat desserts like that and not put on an ounce?” Karen teased.

  “Good genes.” Sarah laughed and sipped her tea.

  “By the way, I’m referring a client to you, and he’s not a laughing matter. I doubt you’ll be thanking me.”

  “Why me?” Sarah paused with her spoon halfway to her mouth, looking at Karen inquisitively.

  “Don’t worry. He doesn’t have the bubonic plague. His name is Edward Langley.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “He left his wife, Jillian Langley, a gal in one of the divorce groups, some time ago for a younger woman. She’d been despondent ever since. Jillian was found dead outside Jonny Z’s Restaurant three days ago.”

  “I remember seeing the story on TV.” Sarah leaned forward. “Suicide wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “How sad.”

  “Under the circumstances you can see why I’d prefer not to counsel him.”

  Sarah wrapped her other hand around her cup. “One of my worst nightmares is losing a client to suicide. How are you dealing with it?”

  Karen turned away. “I don’t allow myself to think about it too much. I’m okay.” She forced a smile. “It seems like suicides always happen in multiples. People read the paper and get ideas. I wonder if Jillian saw that article about Ellie O’Connell’s mom in the paper. You know, the woman with the cleaning company that services most of the downtown buildings. Her death was a suicide.”

  “Another tragedy. How very sad. Back to Edward. Is his primary issue grief?”

  “More complicated. Regrets. He wants somebody to help him erase his guilt. Highly unlikely, although talking may help somewhat. Edward claims he’d started having second thoughts about the divorce before she died.”

  “How awful.”

  “He’s attractive and arrogant. Probably what got him into trouble with women in the first place, along with lots of money and no self-control.”

  “Is he still married to his second wife?”

  Karen nodded. “Hopefully he’ll stay, but it’s doubtful.”

  “People without good values can certainly wreck their lives royally, as well as those around them. But even sin can be forgiven if people repent and are willing to change. I’ve seen God transform people in amazing ways. I’m sure you have too.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that happening. Anyway, Edward Langley would like your first available appointment. The man’s in bad shape, so the sooner he gets in the better. I’m saying all the caring words, but I don’t feel compassion for Edward, which is why I need to refer him. I remember my client Jillian’s unbelievable pain when she discovered his affair and her agony dealing with the divorce. I can’t work with him.”

  “I understand why empathy would be tough for you. I’ll do my best.”

  “Good. That’s settled, then. He signed a release so I could discuss his issues with you. I’ll have Peg fax his paperwork over with my initial assessment.” At this reference to Peg, Karen remembered finding Peg at her desk. She shut away the image that still made her uncomfortable.

  For the next twenty minutes, they worked out details regarding the topics for the workshop they would present.

  Karen checked her watch. “Okay, I’m off. I could use another vacation, but these little escape jaunts of mine get expensive. It must be nice to have travel benefits because your husband is a pilot. I envy you.”

  “You wouldn’t like the nights alone when your man is flying.” Sarah collected her purse.

  “I’d be willing to try. Charles and I like our separate space anyway.”

  Her laugh was hollow.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Dr. Sarah Stevens stretched out on the sofa in the den of her two-story colonial home, with a cup of tea on the table at her side, and prepared to return phone calls.

  She left a message for Edward Langley. How might he fare with her when she usually counseled women? A thought chilled Sarah’s spine. If Jillian’s death wasn’t a suicide, might Edward be connected with it?

  She noted the number and name on her next message slip—Lena Jackson’s producer. She read the notation, inquiry from The Rich and Lena TV Show regarding an appearance. Must be a mistake. Why would a TV show call me?

  She opened her new box of pecan turtles, a gift from Pete’s recent trip. Tonig
ht he was flying the American Airlines O’Hare to Shannon route, a favorite of theirs. She went with him when she could get away. Upon his return, he always surprised her with one of her favorite things. She must remind him to do a piece of Irish china, not pecan turtles—her nemesis—at least for a while. Just two and she’d put the box away.

  She bit into a turtle and licked the caramel oozing out of the chocolate center, waiting for the call to go through.

  A thick, sultry voice answered, “Dr. Stevens, thanks for getting back to me. My name is Caryl Conners. We’d like to feature you as a guest on an upcoming series.”

  “Me?” Sarah gulped.

  “We’ll be discussing female health from a psychological point of view. The first show is about the potential for depression during menopause, even suicidal tendencies. A gynecologist will discuss physical transitions. We need someone to describe the psychological changes that can occur. Word on the street is you’re very knowledgeable in this area.”

  “Thanks, but how would you know?”

  “You counseled someone on our staff two years ago and come highly recommended. I hope you’ll say yes—we compensate well.” She spelled out the specifics of their offer.

  “Interesting.” Sarah fought conflicting emotions. TV might be a welcome challenge and could be a professionally smart move. But would she find it too intimidating? She decided to be transparent. “I’d need all the help you could give. This would be a first-time TV experience. What kinds of questions would I be asked?”

  “If you like, I can send some preview interview options by fax. We’d like input from you on any related material that you suggest we cover as well.”

  “This is a reach for my comfort zone. I’m used to one-on-one or small group work, not thousands of viewers.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll talk prior to the show and walk you through everything.”

  “Okay, I’ll try it.” Was that her voice speaking?

  “Excellent! Please send us a short bio and resume for our marketing department to design our promo.”

  Sarah ended the call wondering whether to sigh or sing.

  She gazed outside. Twilight had evaporated, leaving a vapory trail of purple against the heavy blackness coating the night. Nice match for my unsettled mood. This might be great fun, but at the moment it only seems scary.

  Sarah called her mother-in-law, set up the birthday celebration, and chatted a bit. Then she buzzed Dr. Karen Trindle to confirm the date for their next workshop.

  Waiting for the answering machine message to finish, Sarah noticed a spider hiking up the woodwork around her picture window on powerful threadlike legs.

  As Sarah started to leave her message, the phone blipped and Karen came on the phone.

  “Hi, Sarah.”

  “I’m glad I caught you in.” She finalized the workshop date and time and exchanged brief pleasantries. “You’ll never guess—I got a call tonight to be on the Lena and Rich Show. Ever see it?”

  “Yes, I often videotape it if there’s someone on I want to see and watch it when I come home at night.”

  “Tape me, please. No, don’t. I’m not sure yet if I’d prefer to see it or not.”

  “What’s the topic?”

  “I’ll be discussing female depression and suicide.”

  “Interesting. Rich is a sensitive man, an avowed bachelor, as I understand. Lena’s older probably by ten years, a bit raucous—very direct, almost callous in her questioning. Watch out for her.”

  “The audience is mostly female, according to the producer. I imagine they love Rich.” Sarah pulled her knees up beneath her.

  “No doubt. I saw the show when he had his mom on, a youthful-looking woman. His three sisters have also been on the show. I recall he once said, ‘Four females are enough in any man’s life. What am I doing here with you, Lena?’ Nice sense of humor, you’ll like him.”

  “Sounds like fun. I hope I can enjoy this.”

  “You will.”

  “You don’t sound convincing. You know I’m used to being in control of the questioning, not on the other end. We counselors are ruined for normal conversation.”

  “Tell me about it.” Karen quipped. “Are you nervous?”

  A note of coldness accompanied her words. Did Sarah detect professional jealousy? “Not yet. Ask me the day of the appearance and I may be quivering.”

  “You’ll be great.” Karen’s voice sounded flat.

  “Adequate will do. I never expected to be on a TV show.” Sarah reached for another pecan turtle. “I wish I’d watched the show more. Maybe I can get in an episode or two before my appearance.”

  “Good idea.”

  Sarah felt even more uneasy when she hung up.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Whitney awoke at five and tossed about, unable to fall back asleep. She turned in her warm bed, nestled deeper under the comforter, and prayed aloud, “God, thank you—another new day. I really didn’t want to wake up this early, but here I am. May my words and actions bring you glory today.”

  Her recent session with Dr. Karen Trindle niggled at her. To improve her self-care, she set a new exercise plan which included running three mornings a week. The idea seemed smarter last night. Whitney groaned and dragged herself into the bathroom.

  She pulled on sweats and jogged down the drive at 6:30.

  The Cortland Park running trail encircled Lake Wionna. A sprinkling of leftover colored leaves dotted the cedar chip path, despite the best efforts of park district personnel to keep them off.

  At the two-mile marker, Whitney was gasping, sweating, and ready to call it quits.

  A voice behind her yelled, “Passing on the right!”

  Whitney slowed and turned slightly but kept running. A woman in her early thirties in a pale blue nylon running suit bounded up. Her long brown ponytail streamed behind her like a kite tail. A terry cloth band kept her bangs from flopping on her face. As the woman got closer Whitney recognized Tara, an acquaintance who’d lived in her sorority house senior year of college.

  “Tara, I didn’t know you lived around here.”

  “Hey, you were clipping along at a pretty good pace.” Tara kept running in place as she talked.

  Whitney laughed. “Struggling is more like it. I’m just starting back into running, and my body feels like jelly. I need to do more.”

  “Maybe we can hook up now and then.” Tara exhaled deeply. “I run almost every day since I quit working.”

  “Not working! What happened to that CPA degree you spent six years getting and the prestigious business career you went after?”

  “It got me this.” Tara grinned and flashed a knuckle-sized diamond for Whitney’s inspection while still jogging in place.

  “Nice! Who’s Prince Charming?”

  Tara smiled smugly. “The President of Financial Invest Co. Inc., Edward Langley. I did an internship there during grad school, and we married last year.”

  “Langley...” Whitney had seen his picture on TV with his wife. Suddenly she remembered the connection. Jillian Langley was his ex-wife, the woman whose alleged suicide had been in the news. Edward had to be at least sixty years old in the picture. Whitney bit her lip, straining to be polite and not leap to judgment.

  Tara chattered on. “What are you doing now, girl?”

  Whitney explained her studies abroad and her subsequent position at the paper.

  “I had no idea you studied English at Oxford. And your love life?” Tara had always been prone to direct questions.

  “Non-existent. But you, you’re enjoying married life?” Whitney shot out the dumb question and winced.

  “Great, although I must admit having two demanding teenagers visit on weekends isn’t fun.” Tara rolled her eyes. “I could do without their presence. Edward’s ex, Jillian, tried moving everybody into an apartment, but the kids went ballistic, so she manipulated Edward into giving her the house. Then she had the nerve to complain about being broke all the time trying to maintain it. I’d hoped to occ
upy it when we married. I was plenty put out.”

  “I suppose it could be worrisome for an ex-wife financially.” Whitney stretched her right leg then her left, wondering if Tara told everyone she met these personal details about her life.

  “I don’t know why. She had child support and was perfectly capable of working.” All the while she talked, Tara kept her feet moving. “The TV made it sound like she was depressed.”

  “Probably natural if she lost her husband’s full salary, retirement plan, future earning power, and lifestyle.” Whitney couldn’t resist stating the obvious. “Did Jillian work outside the home before?”

  “No, but hey, that’s life.” Tara scrunched her shoulders. “I’ve had my share of problems, too. Then, to top it off,” Tara continued, “now Jillian goes and kills herself.”

  “The children must be terribly distressed.”

  “Yeah, tough luck. The kids will be living with us full time now. I need to get a nanny or I’ll go crazy.”

  Whitney stared at her. These words reeked of self-pity. Tara was a bright, attractive woman. In the picture Whitney had seen of Jillian on TV, she was bright and pretty too, but intelligence and beauty alone weren’t powerful enough to hold a marriage together if someone wanted out.

  “She must have been a real mental case leaving me to raise those kids.”

  Whitney’s brain reeled. How could a loving mother ever choose to leave her children to a woman like this? Was this another staged suicide event that wasn’t?

  “Edward used his influence to try to keep the details quiet, but it was suicide—a bullet to the head. And Edward’s not handling it well.” Tara got a perplexed look. “You’d think he’d be relieved after twenty-five years with her. Especially when she was totally immature about letting him go.”

  “I can understand adjustment could be hard after all those years.” Would nothing stir compassion in this woman? No way would Whitney be kindling this friendship.

  Tara shrugged. “Nothing lasts forever.”

  Love does. Whitney thought of her mom, married fifty-five years, as she stared at Tara, whose lips had settled into a pout.