The Delilah Complex

Twelve

“Working with the Scarlet Society could dovetail perfectly with the paper you’re working on,” Nina Butterfield said the next afternoon as she pulled books off shelves. Three of the walls in her office were lined with bookshelves that had been built in the 1930s. The art deco theme continued with the large walnut desk, two Ruhlmann elephant chairs and a deep, overstuffed couch. A Chinese carpet from the same era covered the floor-brilliant blues and greens depicting a sailing ship. I always thought it was a great metaphor for what went on in her office.

That afternoon, the rug was covered with piles of books; by the time Nina was done, there would be more than a hundred ready for adoption by the staff of the Institute. This book cleansing was a twice-yearly ritual. No one devoured more literature about therapy, psychopharmacology and medicine than Nina did.

“You’ll blow everyone out of the water when you make your presentation if you have a clinical case study like this backing it up. Women acting out in a sexual group situation! You’ll be learning about sexual aggression. Role reversal. Female sexual power. Subjects that almost no one in the therapeutic community knows very much about. And you’re not sure you should accept these clients? Morgan, what you will learn from this group will get you the attention you deserve. Finally.”

“I’m not so sure I want attention, much less deserve it,” I said, and then added what I hadn’t said since she’d started on her crusade, but had wanted to. “Ever since the Magdalene Murders, you’ve been pushing me like crazy. Like suggesting me to that producer from the Today show. What’s up?”

She turned, arched her reddish-brown eyebrows, and stared at me as if she were seeing me for the first time. But Nina had known me my whole life. She’d been my mother’s best friend. They’d met when they were students at NYU and lived next door to each other in their Greenwich Village dorm. My mom only stayed in school for a year-she couldn’t balance college and her acting-but she and Nina had formed a bond that lasted.

After my mother died, Nina had stepped in to help my father take care of me. Even after my father remarried, Nina remained the most important woman in my life.

“Don’t deserve the attention? Why would you say that? You’ve done an incredible job with client after client. You saved a patient’s life using nothing but your skill and your chutzpah. If you really don’t understand how good you are, this might be an issue we need to work out. Is it?”

Nina believed that therapists and psychiatrists should periodically return to therapy for what she called tune-ups. Especially when they went through life crises. My four-month-old divorce and involvement with a serial killer definitely put me in the running, but I hadn’t felt the need for counseling.

“Do you think I need therapy?”

“That’s the question I asked you.”

“No.” I said, annoyed that she was playing therapist by answering my question with her own. Oh, I knew she was just trying to look out for me, like she always did, but this time it bothered me. I had a fleeting feeling that there was something I did need to talk about, deal with, but I didn’t dwell on it. I was better at denial than any patient I’d ever had. I knew how to insulate myself from my feelings. “I’m fine, Nina. Sleeping. Eating. Not experiencing any overwhelming anxiety.”

“Do you feel lonely?”

“Aren’t most recently divorced women lonely?”

She nodded. “What about feeling apprehensive about Dulcie?”

“Nina, she’s thirteen. What mother of a thirteen-year-old girl isn’t somewhat apprehensive? This is about what it’s about. No undercurrents. No hidden agendas. I’m just not sure that I want the kind of attention you think I should have.”

“I’d prefer you did have a hidden agenda rather than be so self-effacing. Not every therapist should have a public persona, but damn, Morgan, you should. I want you to get attention because you are that good at what you do and deserve more credit than you get.”

From the way she pursed her lips, I knew there was something she wasn’t saying. The one thing I especially wanted to hear. “And?”

She gave me a knowing smile. “And I want it because you would be a good face for the institute.”

“If I’d wanted to have a public face, I would have gone on the stage. I would have-”

“Morgan, I’m not talking about you being an actress-God forbid,” she said with mock theatrics and a laugh. Whenever Nina’s face lit up like that, it was easy to forget that she was sixty-two years old. Everything she’d lived through-two divorces, a scandal with the institute in the late nineties, being widowed by her third husband, Sam Butterfield-fell away, and she was just a sexy, incredibly smart and energetic woman with a great sense of humor who was enjoying herself and the people around her.

“Can we get back to the question at hand?”

“Yes, sweetheart. Sit down and tell me more about the Scarlet Society.”

She put down the last three books she’d pulled off the shelf, stretched, ran her hands through her shoulder-length, copper-colored hair, and sat down on the couch. I sat on the chair opposite her, and described the part of the tape I’d seen.

Nina was all warm tones. She had tawny skin and bright amber eyes. Dressed in a pair of chestnut pants and a toffee-colored sweater, with a rope of amber beads doubled around her neck, she looked professional but easygoing and kind. And she was. Despite being so maternal, so caring, Nina had never had children. Because of my daughter and me, she claimed she never regretted it. We were her family, she always said, but she was also my boss, and it was important for us to keep our roles separate in and out of the office. We didn’t always succeed.

Once I finished describing the tape, I handed her the confidentiality agreement. She read it. Leaning forward, she focused on me. “I believe, even more than I did before, that the Scarlet Society sounds like a perfect group for you to work with. I know you, so I know that nothing will be as satisfying to you as helping these women. And if in the process you wind up identifying a new trend, a syndrome, or a complex that no other therapist has noticed yet, it will give you even more gratification. This is what gets your blood moving.”

I nodded. She did know me best. “But what about the confidentiality agreement? Isn’t it insulting?”

“No, it’s just naive.”

“But they’re going into this not trusting me.”

“Do you blame them? If this organization is as you’ve described, what you learn could be explosive. Of course they are worried about confidentiality. Besides, Rush is a lawyer.” She looked back at the piles of books. “Do you want to go through these? See if there is anything you want?”

I shook my head. “No, I have my own stack of books waiting to be read. Too many books, not enough time.”

Nina scooted forward so she could put her hands on my knees. I could smell the spicy, Oriental scent she always wore. To me it was familiar and comforting, even if to everyone else it was sexy.

“Are you scared of working with these women, Morgan?”

I nodded. “But I don’t know why.” I was surprised that it came out as a whisper.

“You don’t need to know why. Not yet. You do your best work when you are scared. Sign the paper,” Nina advised.