On first glance the place looked less like an office and more like a spread found in Architecture Digest. Furnishings were sparse against a black and white color scheme. There was, in fact, so much white in the room that the carpet seemed to mesh seamlessly with the walls themselves. A futuristic white leather couch occupied the far corner of the room. Beside it sat a single black chair. It was as though the room's designer set out to create a space that discouraged any thoughts of trivial personal interaction.
Just inside the door was a spartan black desk. Its surface, normally bare save for a simple black phone and small external speaker, was currently covered with several piles of neatly written notes. This was the office of Psychiatrist Caris St. John. Thirty-five years old, she possessed a thriving practice consisting of mostly male patients.
A superficial examination of that fact might lead to the misconception that her male patronage was a direct result of Caris' physical attractiveness. Her beauty undoubtedly played a part. Lithe and toned, her keen features, warm brown skin and thick, dark tresses presented a most attractive picture. Still, the simple fact was that Caris was comfortable in the company of men...and they knew it.
Quite a number of these were older men. Caris was at her most comfortable around them, an affinity her family assumed she'd developed as a result of her absolute adoration of her late father, Ellis St. John.
Ellis St. John was a kind of throwback to the days of the gentleman. He had been a postman most of his adult life, walking the same route and never failing to offer a quiet greeting to a lady or tip his cap to his fellow man. His neighbors came to appreciate his soft-spoken ways, and admire that he was a man of his word.
To Caris, he hung the moon. It was understandable, therefore, that men of a certain age found an understanding ear in her sessions.
Today's sessions had not included a single person under 57. It wasn't surprising, Caris thought. The holidays were nearing; many of the men who came to see her were living life alone...divorced after paying too much attention to their businesses or their secretaries. With Caris they were able to voice their regrets and misgivings without restraint.
An acoustic guitar version of Michael Jackson's Man in the Mirror began to trill softly into the silence of the office. Caris paused and muted the headset in her right ear then tapped the Bluetooth headset in her left. "You've got sixty seconds," she answered as soon as she heard the call connect. "Make them count."
"Way to make use of that Ivy League education, baby sis."
"Fifty seconds and counting."
"Alright, if that's how it is." There was a pause. "Will you think about making an appearance at Than-"
Caris tore a sheet of paper from her notepad and began to crumple it near her ear. "What? I can't hear you!"she said. "I'm going through a tunnel!" With a grimace of her expertly painted lips, Caris ended the call. She had no desire to address the inevitable subject about to be broached.
Almost immediately Michael Jackson began to sing again. Caris had chosen that song as her identical twin sister's ringtone as a kind of inside joke. Man in the Mirror...The wittiness of the choice amused her at the time.
Not so much lately.
Caris sighed as the tune began again. Ellyn was nothing if not persistent. She had been that way all her life. Even as kids, if they disagreed on something, Ellyn dug her heels in and would not be budged. So Caris knew that the only way to deal with her twin's determination to discuss what she termed Caris' 'brattiness' was to simply not engage in conversation at all.
Caris switched her phone to privacy mode and went back to dictating the last of her notes on her one p.m. patient. She watched, fascinated, as the translation software efficiently transcribed her words into written notes. Caris used to assign such tasks to her receptionist-slash-secretary Landon, but thankfully the recent advent of voice technology spared them both that particular headache.
Landon was a 'gift' from Caris' father, Ellis. That's what he'd called the lanky, awkward-looking former soldier. If Caris was determined to allow patients with questionable and/or violent histories to seek her professional counsel, then she would have to agree to Landon's presence in her outer office. His salary would be paid by Caris' father. Landon would not be expected to betray the young psychiatrist's confidence, but neither could Caris fire him.
The issue was non-negotiable. For in spite of Landon's seeming lack of coordination, he was, in fact, a trained Army Ranger capable of killing a man with his bare hands. What Landon wasn't capable of was transcribing notes. The first time Caris had tried to review notes he had included in a patient file, she'd spent nearly an hour trying to make sense of it all. After that she'd simply transcribed all her notes herself.
"Doctor St. John..." Landon's crisp voice traveled into her office from the outer room. When there were no patients in the waiting room, Caris rarely bothered to close the door between them. Landon's time in the Army had established in the man a clear concept of professional behavior. He made it clear to anyone interested; he was there to do a job, not socialize. "Excuse me, Doctor, but Attorney St. John would like to speak with you."
Caris grimaced. "Landon, please tell my sister that I'm not in. Tell her I'm somewhere out in my car and can't be reached. Tell her I'm going into a meeting and can't be disturbed. Hell, tell her I've been kidnapped. But I don't want to talk right now."
"Really, Car?" Ellyn St. John walked into her twin sister's office. "Kidnapped? You'd rather have your assistant lie to me than sit down and have a conversation?"
