A Dark Love by Margaret Carroll

Author:Margaret Carroll
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2009-06-07T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 17

Porter Moross woke up shivering. His office was eerie, unfamiliar viewed from this angle, where he lay on the therapy couch. Too quiet at this hour, late on a Sunday afternoon. His gaze drifted and he saw this as his patients did. Except the wing chair was empty. There was no mommy figure to provide comfort.

His heart ached with the old, childhood ache and he rose stiffly, feeling hung over, and walked to the window. The street outside was bleak, deserted at this hour. His breath left a small circle of fog on the pane.

A change had come. Autumn, harbinger of the season of death.

Porter checked his watch. Barely four. He had many things to attend to.

He took one last look around the office, his heart heavy with sadness. This place had been his and his alone. This was where he had spent his days, confident in the one aspect of his life where he excelled. Dr. Porter Moross, nationally renowned psychoanalyst. People sought him out for his expertise. They had read his quotes in the New York Times or the Washington Post, or simply heard him mentioned by word of mouth. It astounded Porter how little his patients actually knew about him, about what he did and what sort of results they could expect, when they came to him. His patients were accustomed to seeking out and demanding the best. They led lives of privilege and power. Here, they were reduced to children, clamoring for Porter’s attention.

And now it was over. This space, like the home above, had been profaned.

He went upstairs to shower and change, donning clothes that were identical to the ones he’d slept in. Black mock turtleneck, black sport jacket over black jeans, and black loafers. He brewed coffee, not bothering to wipe up the loose grounds that spilled on the granite countertop. Cleanliness didn’t matter any longer. The place already had an abandoned feel, like a college dorm the day after final exams.

He returned to his office and settled in his desk chair, not allowing himself to mourn the fact that it would be for the last time. He set about his tasks with the precision that had placed him at the top of his graduating class.

He scanned his BlackBerry until he found the contact information for a fellow psychoanalyst he’d met last year at an annual Freud conference in Miami, a man who practiced in the elite suburb of Bethesda, Maryland. Porter dialed the after-hours emergency number that was printed on the card.

The man answered on the first ring, his tone cordial and measured. He remembered Porter and said the usual pleasantries, asking about Porter’s family and whether he was headed to Miami for their annual conference next week. All the while trying not to show he was taken aback when Porter revealed the nature of his call.

“Aaahh, yes,” he said, “I can take on new patients. Shall we set up a meeting to review?”

What he meant was he wanted to know why Porter was clearing his roster.

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