Speaking in Tongues

Dad for that little trick.”
    He laughed. “Say, could I trouble you for a glass of water?”
    “Of course.”
    She noticed that he examined her briefly—the tight black jeans and black blouse. Wild earrings dangled; crescent moons and shooting stars. She started toward the kitchen. “Come on in here. Would you rather have a soda? Or wine?”
    “No, thanks . . . Oh, look.” He picked up a bottle of Mietz merlot, which Brad had bought for them last week and they hadn’t gotten around to drinking yet. He glanced at the eighteen-dollar price tag. “Funny, I just bought a case of this. It’s a wonderful wine. Eighteen’s a great price. I paid twenty-one a bottle—and that was supposed to be a discount.”
    “You know the vineyard? Brad said it’s real hard to find.”
    “It is.”
    She said, “Let’s open it.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Yep.” Bett was happy to impress him. She opened and poured the wine. They touched glasses.
    “Do you live in the area?” she asked.
    “In Fairfax. Near the courthouse. It’s a nice place. Only . . . there’re a lot of law offices around there and I get these lawyers coming and going at all hours. Drives me crazy sometimes.”
    She gave a brief laugh. He lifted an eyebrow. She’d been thinking of all the nights Tate had spent in that very neighborhood, interviewing prisoners and police and getting home at ten or eleven. “Tate—”
    “Your ex.”
    “Right. I’m afraid he’s one of them. Working late, I mean.”
    “Oh, that’s right. Megan told me he was an attorney. But he doesn’t live in Fairfax, does he? Didn’t she tell me he’s got a farm somewhere?”
    “Prince William. But his office is here.”
    Dr. Peters smiled and examined the collection of refrigerator magnets that she and Megan had collected. It pinched her heart to see them. And she had to look away before the tears started.
    He asked her some questions about the interior design business in Virginia. It turned out his mother had been a decorator.
    “Where?” she asked.
    “Boston.”
    “No kidding! That’s where the McCalls are from.” She pointed to some pictures of her family in front of Old Ironsides and in their front yard, the Prudential building towering over the skyline in the background.
    “Sure,” he said. “I thought I detected a bit of accent. I’m driving the cah to the pahty . . .”
    She laughed.
    “You miss it?” he asked.
    “No. We moved here when I was ten. The South definitely appeals to me more than New England.”
    “To the extent this is the South,” he offered.
    “That’s true.”
    He took her glass and refilled it. He handed it back and leaned against the island, glanced at the expensive stainless-steel utensils. “I love to cook,” he said. “It’s a hobby of mine.”
    “Me too. It’s relaxing to open some wine, come out to the kitchen and start slicing and dicing.”
    He lifted the heavy Sabatier butcher knife and tested the edge carefully with his thumb. Nodded. “Sharp knives are—”
    “—safer than dull ones,” she said. “My mother taught me that.”
    “Mine too,” he said, weighing the knife in his hand for a moment, studying the blade carefully. Then he set it on the table. “Should we go back in the other room?”
    “Sure.”
    He nodded toward the door. She preceded him into the living room. Bett sat on the couch and he walked over to the bookshelves, looked at her collection of crystals and several boxes of tarot cards.
    He chided, “Didn’t you know you’re supposed to keep your tarot cards wrapped in silk?”
    “You know about that?” She laughed.
    “Sure do.”
    “I was really into the occult a long time ago.” She smiled and realized that she was relaxing for the first time all day. “I was kind of crazy when I was young.”
    “You look embarrassed. You shouldn’t be. I think our spiritual side’s as important as our physical and our psychic sides. I use a holistic approach in my treatment. A lot of times I’ll prescribe herbs—they have both organic and psychosomatic effects.”
    “I try to use them whenever I can,” Bett said.
    “If my patients need something I’d rather it was Saint-John’s-wort instead of Prozac.”
    He was a doctor who felt this way? How often had she explained these things to doctors, or to friends, or to Tate, only to be met with a politely wary gaze—at best.
    Dr. Peters continued. “It makes a lot of sense to me. Take tarot cards . . . do they predict the