With Good Behavior [Conduct Series #1] Page 4

  Glancing down at her form-fitting white sleeveless tank, layered with a flowing white silk blouse and navy-blue walking shorts, she hoped she was dressed all right. What exactly was the protocol for parolee fashion?

  Anxiously twisting the silver ring on her right forefinger, she weighed her options and was just standing to rap on the door again when Jerry rounded the corner, flustered as he swiftly made his way down the hallway. Sliding the key into the doorknob lock without looking at Sophie, he muttered, “Sorry I’m late. C’mon in.”

  Despite keeping his head down as Sophie followed him inside the office, she detected redness around his eyes and a sad, defeated body posture. She also heard a heavy sigh as they both sat down. She did not even need her keen powers of observation to detect that something was wrong.

  “Is everything all right, Mr. Stone?”

  He glanced up at her and held her concerned gaze for a moment before peering down at her file again. She noticed a white nametag on his shirt, and immediately recognized the Northwestern Hospital logo.

  Biting her lower lip she inquired, “You were just visiting someone in the hospital, sir?”

  He looked up again, startled. Scrunching his forehead, he asked, “How did you …” He then gazed down at his shirt and ripped the nametag off, angrily crumpling it in his hands before tossing the sticky wad into the garbage can.

  “So, Ms. Taylor, how is your roommate’s dissertation coming along?”

  Sophie was disappointed that he’d evaded her questions, but touched that he remembered this tidbit from their first meeting. “I made her write five pages!” she beamed.

  “I see,” he gruffly replied. “And do you have a job yet?”

  Her smile faded. “Um, no sir.”

  “Time is running out, Taylor. How many jobs have you applied for?”

  Sophie looked up and to the right, visibly performing mental calculations. “About twenty-four jobs, I think?”

  Jerry raised his eyebrows and leaned in. “Twenty-four?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many interviews have you had?”

  Sophie began twisting her ring again. “None.”

  “That doesn’t sound right. Where have you applied?”

  “Um, about five hospitals, um, one of them being Northwestern,” she added pointedly. “Three doctors’ offices, ten or so boarding schools, a couple of counseling centers …” She sighed. “I don’t think they want to hire a felon.”

  Jerry sat back in his chair and studied the parolee across from him. She looked classy, fresh, and young—a sharp contrast to the bleak institutional setting of the hospital he’d just left.

  His tone softened. “I think you’re aiming a bit high.”

  Sophie frowned. “But I have my PhD. What do you want me to do—sell hot dogs on the street or something?”

  “There’s no shame in that, Taylor. Hell, I was just at a Cubs game the other day, and they were hiring vendors to push hot dogs and beer. Why don’t you go apply at Wrigley?”

  She shot him a hostile glance, offended by his preposterous suggestion, but then she noticed a slight smirk on his face. So, he was joking with her. Smiling a mischievous smile, she retorted indignantly, “Cubs games? The only way I’d take a job like that is for White Sox games.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re a White Sox fan,” he groaned. “They should never have allowed you out of your sentence early. In fact, I should send you right back to Downer’s Grove now that I know this about you. A Sox fan. Ugh.”

  She giggled, and he felt drawn into her engaging smile. She seemed bright, caring, and warm. Jerry was a confirmed bachelor who had devoted his life to his career, but if he ever had a daughter, he’d want her to be something like Sophie Taylor. Well, minus the criminal history.

  “Seriously, though,” he continued, “I want you to expand your job search. Get something temporary and look for a position more suited to your tastes while you’re working. You know what they say: It’s easier to get a job when you already have a job.”

  Sophie nodded. “I’ll keep looking, Mr. Stone. But if you see me walking up and down the aisles at Cubs games, you’ll know I’ve sunk to a new low.” That wasn’t true, actually. Having to crawl to her father and ask him for a job would be the lowest of lows.

  Getting back to business, Jerry asked, “Have you attended therapy yet?”

  “My first appointment is at ten this morning, sir.” Sophie said solemnly.

  “And which shrink did you choose?”

  “Dr. Hunter Hayes.”

  Jerry arched one eyebrow. “You chose one of the only men on the list?”

  “Well, I thought I’d relate better to a psychologist, and there weren’t that many listed. I hear he’s very good.”

  The PO continued to shoot her a dubious stare, and suddenly she understood his consternation. “Oh! You’re worried about me seeing a male psychologist. You’re thinking that, um, maybe, um, something will happen again?”

  “Exactly, Taylor,” he curtly replied.

  “Uh, that is not going to happen, sir.”

  “And how do you know that for sure?”

  How could she answer without outing a colleague? Kirsten’s supervisor had let it slip that Dr. Hayes was gay, but Sophie wasn’t sure this was common knowledge, and she was determined not to cross professional boundaries again. “Well, uh, he, um, is, well, let’s just say I’m not his type. I seriously doubt Dr. Hayes is going to fall in love with me.”

  Jerry stared blankly at her for a moment, then seemed to come to an understanding. “Dr. Hayes is gay?”

  Sophie cleared her throat. “That’s what I hear, yes.”

  He moved on. “You say your appointment is at ten today?”

  She nodded.

  Opening a file drawer, Jerry extracted a paper and scanned it quickly before dialing the phone. Sophie observed curiously and had no idea who Jerry was referring to when he said, “I got his voice mail.”

  She felt sick when she heard Officer Stone begin leaving a message.

  “Hello, Dr. Hayes. This is Parole Officer Jerry Stone with the Illinois Department of Corrections. I am calling to confirm your appointment with a parolee in my charge, Sophie Taylor. I will also need weekly updates regarding her attendance and progress in therapy. Please contact me at this number …”

  Sophie dropped her head in shame. They’d had such a nice conversation, but this reminder that she was an untrustworthy con smacked her in the face. At times in the past week she’d felt almost normal, very nearly worthy, but something always took her back down to her status as a lowly, lying criminal.

  Jerry hung up and was surprised to see Sophie looking so crestfallen. “What’s wrong, Taylor?”

  Her tone was wounded. “You don’t believe me? About the therapy appointment?”

  He sighed. “Trust has to be earned. I learned that the hard way too many times to count. You simply haven’t earned my trust yet.”

  Nodding slowly, Sophie still felt hurt, although she knew his words were wise. She had given her trust too easily once, and now she was paying the price. She vowed to be more careful in the future.

  “Taylor, we’re out of time,” Jerry informed her.

  Sophie rose to leave, but after a moment’s hesitation, he added, “It’s my mother.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I was visiting my mother in the hospital,” he said, shocked he was telling a parolee. “She’s dying of cancer.” What was this psychologist doing to him?

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. You, um, had to come straight from the hospital to deal with a bunch of us convicts?”

  Jerry did not respond. He looked as if he was about to cry.

  “I’d better go. I don’t want to make you late,” she murmured, hastily exiting the office to help him save face.

  Once Sophie opened the door, she found herself almost colliding again with the gorgeous man from last week. He had his right hand suspended in midair, his fist curled to knock, when she came busting
through the door. He seemed as unsure about knocking as she had.

  “Um, h-h-hi,” she stammered, closing the door behind her. Meeting her gaze were crystal eyes like blue shards of glass.

  Grant appreciatively took in her bright, beautiful appearance and tilted his head in the direction of the office. “So, what kind of mood is he in today?”

  Feeling her heart pound, Sophie managed, “Not so good today. His mother is dying. He just visited her in the hospital.” She cringed, realizing she was inappropriately sharing personal information.

  The man showed a look of such utter sorrow that Sophie fought the urge to wrap him in a hug. She wondered what the hell she was thinking. He was a total stranger! And a criminal too.

  “That’s awful,” he said, shaking his head. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Well, I better get in there.”

  As he opened the door, Sophie caught sight of the logo on his shiny black athletic jacket. “Wait!” she whispered.

  Grant turned to her, bewildered. “What?” he whispered back.

  “Your White Sox jacket!” she hissed. “He’s a die-hard Cubs fan!”

  “So what?” he retorted. “I would hope we’ve advanced to a world where Cubs fans and White Sox fans can peacefully coexist.”

  “Maybe. But he almost had a conniption when he found out I cheer for the Sox. This is the man who could put you back in prison in a second. Do you really want to get on his bad side?”

  “Good point.” He began shrugging out of the jacket.

  “Madsen, is that you?” Jerry growled from inside the office. “Get your ass in here!”

  Grant’s eyes widened in alarm. “I gotta hurry!” He now held the jacket crumpled in his hands, and Sophie admired the length of lean brown arms extending from a heather-gray short-sleeved T-shirt. The shirt’s brown piping accentuated his sinewy triceps.

  “I can’t leave the jacket out here or somebody might take it. Here!” He thrust it into her unsuspecting grasp. “You hold it for me.”

  Sophie was about to protest when he opened the door wide and dashed inside, leaving her alone in the hallway. She glanced down at the jacket. But I can’t wait outside for you. I have an appointment.

  She sighed, stuck in a moment of indecision. Why hadn’t he just taken it with him, hiding the logo? She walked toward the exit, carrying the stranger’s jacket. Would there be any way to return it to him before next week? She drew up the collar of the jacket to see if his name or phone number was written inside.

  Unfortunately there were no identifying marks, but as she held the jacket so close to her face, a subtle scent of aftershave wafted toward her nose. Sophie stopped walking and inhaled deeply, mesmerized by the masculine scent of bergamot and sandalwood. She closed her eyes and breathed in the tantalizing scent.

  Suddenly she glanced up, her eyes darting guiltily to discern whether anyone had caught her, lost in a horny trance. She shook her head slowly. Apparently Officer Stone was a wise man in mandating therapy for her. She needed some serious help! She scurried away to hail a cab, hoping Dr. Hayes could set her straight.

  * * *

  “What was the holdup, Madsen?” Jerry demanded.

  “Uh,” Grant stalled as took his seat. “I thought I saw a guy I knew in the hall—a guy I ran into at the Cubs game on Sunday.” He was surprised how easily he spun a lie, thinking on his feet. Dishonesty must run in his genes. “But it was a false alarm. It wasn’t him.”

  Jerry brightened considerably at the mention of the Cubs. “I was at that game. Where were your seats?”

  Grant squirmed. “Uh, behind third base?”

  “No wonder you’re so tan,” Jerry observed. “Those seats are right in the sun.”

  Or the glare off the water after working on a ship the past week, Grant thought, but he went along with it. “Yeah, it gets pretty hot in the sun.”

  “Who’d you go to the game with?”

  Grant paused. “My uncle?”

  “I thought you said you didn’t have any family in town.”

  “No, sir, I have lots of family. They’re just, um, not the kind of people I want to associate with. Except for my uncle. He’s a commander in the Navy, and he’s always been there for me.”

  “A commander in the Navy? He must have been pretty pissed off about you getting kicked out after your conviction, huh?”

  “That’s putting it mildly, sir.” Grant had never felt more ashamed than when he had to tell his uncle he’d been arrested for aggravated robbery.

  “Is your uncle on your dad’s side of the family?”

  “No, he’s my mom’s brother.”

  “So, where’s your mother? Is she one of the family members you don’t associate with?”

  Grant felt the familiar ache in his heart, and he broke the parole officer’s gaze, looking down. “No, sir. She’s, uh, dead.”

  “Oh.”

  “She died when I was twelve, from pancreatic cancer.”

  “Pancreatic cancer?” Jerry repeated. “How long was she sick?”

  “Not long—a couple of months? The doctors said it was one of the deadliest cancers. Back then, anyway.”

  Jerry frowned, feeling a kinship with the man across from him. So, his own mother probably had only weeks left. Almost twenty years after Madsen’s mother’s death, pancreatic cancer was still one of the deadliest.

  During the awkward silence that ensued, Jerry glanced down at the parolee’s file, trying to move on. “Lucky for you, your drug test from last week was negative. What do you have to report to me today?”

  Also eager to venture into happier territory, Grant proudly announced, “I got a job!”

  “Well, la-dee-dah, Madsen!” Jerry grumbled, mocking the parolee’s exuberance. “Aren’t you happy with yourself. What kind of job?”

  His enthusiasm taken down a notch, Grant reported stoically, “It’s with Eaton Tours. They run Chicago architectural cruises.”

  “And what do you do for them?”

  “I hope to work my way up to chief navigator, but right now it seems I am chief toilet cleaner.”

  Jerry chuckled. “I need some evidence that you are gainfully employed, for your file.” He reached into his desk drawer and extracted his business card. “Give this to your boss and have him fax me a letter verifying your employment.”

  “Yes, sir.” Grant pocketed the card. “His name is Roger Eaton.”

  “And where are you living?”

  “I’m staying at Mr. Eaton’s apartment for now, sir.”

  “You’re living with your boss?”

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Eaton is my uncle’s old Navy buddy.”

  “Ah, that makes sense.”

  “But he snores like an outboard motor, so I’m hoping to get my own place when I can afford it.”

  Jerry noted Eaton’s address in Madsen’s file. “All right. Good job, Madsen. See you here next week.”

  Rising from his chair, Grant nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

  Back in the hallway, the woman Grant had met was nowhere to be found. How would he get his jacket back? Joe had bought him that jacket as a reminder of their days of attending White Sox games together. Rubbing his hand across his shorn hair, Grant found himself desperately hoping to see the blond beauty next week. He needed to retrieve his jacket! Or not. Who was he kidding? He simply wanted to see her again.

  6. In Treatment

  Sophie glanced nervously around her, eyeing the homey furniture and magazines strewn across the end tables in the small room. Another woman sat in the chair across from her—another client awaiting her therapist. Sophie felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. She did everything she could to avoid eye contact with the woman.

  So, this is what it’s like to sit in a psychologist’s waiting room. No wonder her clients had appeared so apprehensive when she retrieved them from her own waiting room for the first time. The ignominy of needing professional psychological help was enough to make anyone want to hide. She stared at the gray speckled car
pet, anxiously rehearsing her answers to questions she might face.

  “Sophie?” She looked up to see a clean-cut man with tanned skin and short blond hair looking her way.

  “That’s me.” She grabbed her handbag and the black athletic jacket from the chair next to her. Clutching the jacket calmed her, and she stood, facing the man with whom she was supposed to share all her secrets.

  His warm hazel eyes crinkled as he smiled, and he shook her hand firmly. “I’m Dr. Hunter Hayes.”

  “Hi, Hunter.”

  He paused. “Feel free to call me Hunter, by the way.”

  Sophie winced.

  Grinning, he said, “Please follow me to my office.”

  As he turned to walk down the hall, Sophie noticed they were roughly the same height. She wondered how old he was. He looked about thirty-five, but he also appeared to take good care of himself. His broad shoulders tapered into a lean waist, indicating he was likely a frequent flyer at the gym. His casual black shirt and jeans helped Sophie feel slightly more at ease.

  Hunter led her into his office, and Sophie was immediately drawn to the huge aquarium set into one of the walls. She placed a slender hand on the glass, mesmerized by the colorful fish peacefully swimming in lazy patterns. “This aquarium is beautiful.”

  “Do you like it?” He stood by a chair, waiting for his client to step over to the sofa. “My partners in the group practice were a little dubious, but I’d like to think it works.”

  Sophie nodded, and noticing him still standing, politely waiting for her, she gracefully took a seat on the sofa.

  “The fish seem to provide a soothing presence for my clients,” Hunter noted as he took his seat.

  “What a great idea. Oh, look, a Nemo fish!”

  He chuckled. “Ah yes, my percula clownfish. Let me go over a few things with you before we get into it, Sophie. Looking over your paperwork …” She feigned interest while he launched into a description of confidentiality, as if she didn’t know the laws governing privacy and duty to warn for psychologists. But her focus sharpened when he added, “Apparently I’m supposed to report your attendance and progress to your parole officer?”