obviously pregnant woman standing on the stoop, her hair blown backward off her high forehead, was really she—that Diana Marcus was the center of this media circus. No one could possibly believe this nonsense. Not her friends. Not her colleagues. Not those who knew her. But what of all the others? They would believe it; it was in the newspaper, ergo, it must be true. What else could they think? As she stared at the picture, her horror grew. They could think she was pregnant with James’s baby.
TICKNOR PSYCHOLOGIST CHARGED WITH WRONGFUL DEATH IN PATIENT SUICIDE , read the front-page headline. The subtitle of the article noted the malpractice and sexual abuse charges in thick black letters. Ned Holt’s eleven o’clock news story had been tame compared to the Globe .
The paper had focused almost entirely on Jill’s allegations: James’s tales that Diana had shared her erotic fantasies with him; a postcard Diana had sent him from vacation on the Cape; Jill’s contention that, prior to his contact with Diana, James had been completely normal. Craig called to tell her that the Inquirer was even worse. SEX DOC SAYS SHE’S NO MURDERER, the tabloid headline screamed.
She had stood staring out the front window, careful to stay behind the curtains so that curious eyes could not see her from the street, watching for reporters, watching those blessed with anonymity go about their wonderfully normal lives. She had been just like them only last week: worried about whether Craig’s firm would win the Central Artery project; worried about firing one of her teaching assistants; worried about whether hobbits were too scary to include in the baby’s fantasy mural. She would give anything to have those worries again, to go back to when it was safe.
Today she had to go out.
Yesterday she had canceled all her appointments and talked only to Craig and her mother and Valerie Goldman, the lawyer her insurance company had retained. “Best malpractice lawyer in the Commonwealth,” the woman at Joint Underwriters of America had assured her. Diana had met Valerie Goldman once when she spoke at a New England American Psychological Association breakfast last winter. Her topic was “Protecting Yourself From Malpractice Suits,” and the room had been completely full.
Valerie was tall and carried an extra twenty pounds, but her perfectly tailored suit turned what would have been heft in another woman into a look of substance and competence. Her speech had been coherent and informative, and she had answered questions from the audience—half of whom had been involved in malpractice suits—with an ease that showed the depth of her knowledge. But she had also struck Diana as humorless; she never smiled, and she looked puzzled at Marc Silverman’s joke about the lawyer, the psychologist, and the rabbi that had cracked everyone else up.
In Valerie’s defense, Diana did remember that halfway through her speech, she had ripped off her Italian leather heels. “Men designed these shoes to make sure that woman couldn’t run as fast as they,” Valerie had said without a smile as she placed them on the chair next to the podium. And Gail swore by her: Joint Underwriters had hired Valerie to handle Gail’s malpractice case also. This morning, after a quick phone conversation with the woman, Diana was even more convinced of both Valerie’s competence and her humorlessness.
Yesterday Diana had prowled her office, listening to the endless stream of messages on the answering machine. Channel 7. The Globe . The Inquirer . Gail. She hadn’t even talked to her brother, Scott; Craig had called him back in the evening. The Worcester Telegram . Channel 4. The Providence Journal . She hadn’t bothered to pick up the phone when Valerie called to say that, after trying Diana’s house, the sheriff had served the complaint at her office. Valerie had agreed to accept service. They had twenty days to file an answer in court.
Today she had a class to
TICKNOR PSYCHOLOGIST CHARGED WITH WRONGFUL DEATH IN PATIENT SUICIDE , read the front-page headline. The subtitle of the article noted the malpractice and sexual abuse charges in thick black letters. Ned Holt’s eleven o’clock news story had been tame compared to the Globe .
The paper had focused almost entirely on Jill’s allegations: James’s tales that Diana had shared her erotic fantasies with him; a postcard Diana had sent him from vacation on the Cape; Jill’s contention that, prior to his contact with Diana, James had been completely normal. Craig called to tell her that the Inquirer was even worse. SEX DOC SAYS SHE’S NO MURDERER, the tabloid headline screamed.
She had stood staring out the front window, careful to stay behind the curtains so that curious eyes could not see her from the street, watching for reporters, watching those blessed with anonymity go about their wonderfully normal lives. She had been just like them only last week: worried about whether Craig’s firm would win the Central Artery project; worried about firing one of her teaching assistants; worried about whether hobbits were too scary to include in the baby’s fantasy mural. She would give anything to have those worries again, to go back to when it was safe.
Today she had to go out.
Yesterday she had canceled all her appointments and talked only to Craig and her mother and Valerie Goldman, the lawyer her insurance company had retained. “Best malpractice lawyer in the Commonwealth,” the woman at Joint Underwriters of America had assured her. Diana had met Valerie Goldman once when she spoke at a New England American Psychological Association breakfast last winter. Her topic was “Protecting Yourself From Malpractice Suits,” and the room had been completely full.
Valerie was tall and carried an extra twenty pounds, but her perfectly tailored suit turned what would have been heft in another woman into a look of substance and competence. Her speech had been coherent and informative, and she had answered questions from the audience—half of whom had been involved in malpractice suits—with an ease that showed the depth of her knowledge. But she had also struck Diana as humorless; she never smiled, and she looked puzzled at Marc Silverman’s joke about the lawyer, the psychologist, and the rabbi that had cracked everyone else up.
In Valerie’s defense, Diana did remember that halfway through her speech, she had ripped off her Italian leather heels. “Men designed these shoes to make sure that woman couldn’t run as fast as they,” Valerie had said without a smile as she placed them on the chair next to the podium. And Gail swore by her: Joint Underwriters had hired Valerie to handle Gail’s malpractice case also. This morning, after a quick phone conversation with the woman, Diana was even more convinced of both Valerie’s competence and her humorlessness.
Yesterday Diana had prowled her office, listening to the endless stream of messages on the answering machine. Channel 7. The Globe . The Inquirer . Gail. She hadn’t even talked to her brother, Scott; Craig had called him back in the evening. The Worcester Telegram . Channel 4. The Providence Journal . She hadn’t bothered to pick up the phone when Valerie called to say that, after trying Diana’s house, the sheriff had served the complaint at her office. Valerie had agreed to accept service. They had twenty days to file an answer in court.
Today she had a class to
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