bestselling books would display a copy in a prominent place in their homes. Monica had chosen to slip hers in among the rest of her collection. Modesty, it seemed, was among her virtues.
Easing the book off the shelf, he returned to the kitchen. As he sat at the table, he flipped the volume over to read the endorsement on the back from a well-known relationship expert, himself an author of a dozen books and host of a weekly radio program.
“Monica Callahan has taken a popular axiom and turned it on its ear. We’ve all heard about the importance of walking the talk—practicing what we preach. Ms. Callahan presents a compelling case that the opposite is also true. That buying your wife flowers, or giving an employee a raise, or attending your child’s ballet recital isn’t enough. While those things do communicate that you care, Ms. Callahan contends that people need to hear the words too—because words are the window to the heart. I concur, and I highly recommend this book. It will improve every relationship in your life.”
Intrigued, Coop opened the book and began to read. Less than twenty pages into it he’d already recognized his own behavior in two of the examples she’d used to illustrate her points.
But then, why should that surprise him? Words had never come easy for him. After all, he’d had no example to follow. He didn’t remember his mother, and his father’s expressions of affection had been few and far between.
The book covered that too, in a chapter devoted to reasons why people struggle with words. There was a whole list on page 102, and it included lack of role models.
But a different reason jumped out at him.
Fear.
Coop frowned. He could see how fear might cause a verbal communication problem for some people, but he didn’t think it applied in his case. He attributed his reticence to prudence, and considered it an asset, not a liability. A reflection of strength. Independence, self-reliance, and autonomy were good things.
But they can also be lonely.
That unbidden—and unwanted—thought took him by surprise. In general, he shied away from introspection. It reeked of self-indulgence and narcissism, and he considered it a waste of time.
Besides, it’s scary.
Where in the world was that annoying little voice coming from?
Irritated, Coop closed the book. Enough of this. He had too much on his mind to waste energy indulging in psychoanalysis, let alone try to deal with the double whammy of the “whys” behind Monica’s faith and his own reticence. He must be over-tired. That had to be the explanation for his uncharacteristic reflective mood.
“Hey . . . it’s way past midnight. Why didn’t you wake me?”
Startled, Coop glanced up. Mark was leaning against the door frame, stifling a huge yawn. His brown hair was sticking up at odd angles, and his shirt couldn’t be more wrinkled if it had spent the past two weeks crumpled into a ball in the corner of a suitcase.
“You look like you could use some coffee.” Coop rose and poured him a cup.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I wasn’t that tired.”
“Yeah?” Mark gave him a suspicious look as Coop handed him a mug of black coffee. “Why not? You were half comatose in Les’s office yesterday morning, and you haven’t had any sleep since then.”
“Second wind, I guess.”
Clearly unconvinced, Mark surveyed the table. His eyebrows rose when he spotted Monica’s book. “I see you’ve been doing some reading. Any good?”
“Interesting.”
“Must be, if it kept you going for”—Mark checked his watch—“forty-three hours, with only two hours of sleep.”
“Why don’t you read it?” Coop rinsed his cup and set it on the counter, deciding that offense was the best defense. “You might learn a few things.”
“Hey, I talk the walk. I know how to use words.”
“Too many, sometimes.”
“Very funny. Go get some rest. Maybe sleep will improve your mood.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my
Easing the book off the shelf, he returned to the kitchen. As he sat at the table, he flipped the volume over to read the endorsement on the back from a well-known relationship expert, himself an author of a dozen books and host of a weekly radio program.
“Monica Callahan has taken a popular axiom and turned it on its ear. We’ve all heard about the importance of walking the talk—practicing what we preach. Ms. Callahan presents a compelling case that the opposite is also true. That buying your wife flowers, or giving an employee a raise, or attending your child’s ballet recital isn’t enough. While those things do communicate that you care, Ms. Callahan contends that people need to hear the words too—because words are the window to the heart. I concur, and I highly recommend this book. It will improve every relationship in your life.”
Intrigued, Coop opened the book and began to read. Less than twenty pages into it he’d already recognized his own behavior in two of the examples she’d used to illustrate her points.
But then, why should that surprise him? Words had never come easy for him. After all, he’d had no example to follow. He didn’t remember his mother, and his father’s expressions of affection had been few and far between.
The book covered that too, in a chapter devoted to reasons why people struggle with words. There was a whole list on page 102, and it included lack of role models.
But a different reason jumped out at him.
Fear.
Coop frowned. He could see how fear might cause a verbal communication problem for some people, but he didn’t think it applied in his case. He attributed his reticence to prudence, and considered it an asset, not a liability. A reflection of strength. Independence, self-reliance, and autonomy were good things.
But they can also be lonely.
That unbidden—and unwanted—thought took him by surprise. In general, he shied away from introspection. It reeked of self-indulgence and narcissism, and he considered it a waste of time.
Besides, it’s scary.
Where in the world was that annoying little voice coming from?
Irritated, Coop closed the book. Enough of this. He had too much on his mind to waste energy indulging in psychoanalysis, let alone try to deal with the double whammy of the “whys” behind Monica’s faith and his own reticence. He must be over-tired. That had to be the explanation for his uncharacteristic reflective mood.
“Hey . . . it’s way past midnight. Why didn’t you wake me?”
Startled, Coop glanced up. Mark was leaning against the door frame, stifling a huge yawn. His brown hair was sticking up at odd angles, and his shirt couldn’t be more wrinkled if it had spent the past two weeks crumpled into a ball in the corner of a suitcase.
“You look like you could use some coffee.” Coop rose and poured him a cup.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I wasn’t that tired.”
“Yeah?” Mark gave him a suspicious look as Coop handed him a mug of black coffee. “Why not? You were half comatose in Les’s office yesterday morning, and you haven’t had any sleep since then.”
“Second wind, I guess.”
Clearly unconvinced, Mark surveyed the table. His eyebrows rose when he spotted Monica’s book. “I see you’ve been doing some reading. Any good?”
“Interesting.”
“Must be, if it kept you going for”—Mark checked his watch—“forty-three hours, with only two hours of sleep.”
“Why don’t you read it?” Coop rinsed his cup and set it on the counter, deciding that offense was the best defense. “You might learn a few things.”
“Hey, I talk the walk. I know how to use words.”
“Too many, sometimes.”
“Very funny. Go get some rest. Maybe sleep will improve your mood.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my
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