Going to Extremes. Dawn Atkins
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emotional pulse from time to time.”
“So I’ll get some self-control practice at least.”
“Sounds like it.” He resisted the urge to say more. She’d clearly decided what to do.
“Thanks, Dr. McAlister,” she said, emotion shining in her eyes. “I know, call you Dan, but this has been therapy, so I owe you a doctor or two, don’t you think?” She dunked the last cookie into the tea and inhaled it, then looked at her watch. “Sheesh. It’s dinnertime and I’m full.” She shook her head, then looked at him, sheepish now. “Do you mind if we do the media prep session in the morning? I kind of told Dylan we’d get together after dinner. If it’s all right with you and Kathleen.”
“Not a problem. I don’t think I’ll need help.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” Though right now, he’d prefer Rhonda’s chit-chat to another cranky encounter with Kathleen. Too bad she didn’t have an old boyfriend in Chicago to visit. Besides him.
THIS WAS RIDICULOUS, Kathleen thought, rushing around her suite after dinner refreshing the flowers and lighting new candles for Dan’s arrival. She was acting as though this was a date, not a disagreement.
But bustling kept her from stewing, which she did every time she thought about the section she’d practically memorized in Dan’s book.
She regretted being testy with Dan today. She needed to behave rationally if she expected to convince him that he was as much responsible for how crazy things got as she was. No matter what, she would not yell or make snide remarks…
Or threaten him with nail scissors.
Her heart thudded against her ribs as though it was doing the bunny hop on speed. What was going on here? Her desire for Dan and her anger at him were mixing dangerously, like the two parts of nitroglycerin—separately serene, but explosive together.
To enhance the moment and reduce her distress, she’d ordered a selection of desserts from room service, chilled drinks—champagne for her and flavored mineral water for him—put a soothing instrumental on her CD player and misted the room with lavender-rosemary for its calming effect.
For comfort, she wore her stretchiest T-shirt and a pair of jersey shorts so soft they felt like a second skin. How things felt—and smelled and tasted and sounded—meant everything to her. She’d been that way since childhood. Mostly since the accident. A memory she usually avoided. Being around Dan brought up lots of disturbing memories.
She’d been ten and her father had allowed her to ride her bike on the big street—usually against the rules, but he had a client coming and wanted a quiet house. She’d had a blast and felt so grown-up and adventurous riding over to her friend’s. On the way back, she’d misjudged a corner and been hit by a car.
Spinal damage caused much of her body to go numb. Her limbs felt the way an arm does when you sleep on it. Except without the tingles that promised life would return to the bloodless limb.
She would tell herself to lift her arm and watch it rise, but it didn’t feel like part of her. It was strange and surreal and terrifying. Especially because, at first, the doctors weren’t sure she would get the sensations back.
After three weeks, though, tingling started here and there—wisping along her nerves like an ice cube down the back. Her first real awareness was of the weight of a book her mother had braced on her stomach with a pillow. Kathleen had grabbed its edges, squeezed its corners, rubbed its smooth surface and burst into tears of relief.
She’d appreciated every moment of her recovery. It was as if someone had opened her up and poured new life into her.
After that, all sensations took on an unexpected vividness—the nothingness had made her appreciate every bodily reaction. Not just touch, but also taste and smell and sight and sound. In a way, the accident had set her on her life course.
It had done other things that weren’t so good—like led to her parents’ divorce—but she preferred to focus on the positives.
She hadn’t written about the accident in her column or any of her books. Unlike Dan, she didn’t feel compelled to confess painful seminal moments—not even disguised as a “young woman of my acquaintance.” Her philosophy stood strong and fine without explanation. Besides, the story was far too intimate.
She pushed away the memories and focused on displaying the desserts to their best advantage…much more satisfying than a walk down a mucky memory lane.
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