express thanks for something special in their lives. Well, along with being thankful for being here with you and your lovely friends, I’m especially grateful for having been accepted to the Worrell Institute. It’s been a lifesaver for me. I’m experiencing a major breakthrough. It’s incredible. I mean, it’s really a special place.” She looked at Michael O’Neill with adoring eyes. “I just wish it would stop getting such bad press, so that Dr. O’Neill can get on with the superb work he and his staff are doing.”
Amanda’s eyes went to her husband—annihilative beams of death and destruction drilling into his brain.
I assumed Barbara was finished, and I was about to ask Susan Dalton if she had anything to add. But then Barbara said, “Maureen Beaumont did not kill herself because of Worrell, even if the institute’s critics would like us to think she did. Maureen Beaumont killed herself because she couldn’t live with the guilt!”
We all looked at her quizzically. She was aware of the intense interest in her, laughed, and said, “How did I ever get on to that subject? Thanks again for inviting me to your table, Jessica.”
Amanda O’Neill pushed her chair back so hard it almost fell over, stood, dropped her napkin on it, and left the room. All eyes went to Michael. Certainly, her husband would go after her.
“Time to carve the bird, isn’t it?” he said. “May I do the honors?”
“Sorry, Doc, but bird carving is my territory,” Mort Metzger said. “Tradition. Every year I get to carve the turkey. Right, Jess?”
Seth said, “Maybe we ought to let a physician do the surgery. Might do a cleaner, better job. Unless, of course, he has other things to tend to.” He looked in the direction to which Amanda had made her escape.
“Are you sayin’ I don’t know how to carve a turkey?” Mort asked.
“No,” Seth said. “But we got Dr. O’Neill here. Might be in the holiday spirit to give him a chance.”
O’Neill laughed, waved his hands. “I’m a psychiatrist, not a surgeon,” he said. “I vote for tradition. The sheriff does the deed.”
“Could I—?”
“Yes, Jason?”
“Could I carve the turkey?”
“Well, usually Mort does, and—”
Mort’s eyes met mine. He nodded.
“Of course you can, Jason,” I said.
“I know how. Miss Sassi taught me.”
“Splendid. I’ll get you started.”
As I led Jason to the kitchen, I glanced at Michael O’Neill, who’d fallen into a spirited conversation with Worrell’s resident artists. He seemed jolly enough. But how long would he allow his wife to be absent without checking on her? Maybe she had a set of car keys and had gone home. I silently hoped that was the case. She’d put on a pall on everyone.
I left Jason with the turkey and the necessary tools for carving, and returned to the dining room with a steaming bowl of creamed onions, which I placed in front of O’Neill.
“My favorite,” he said.
I decided while in the kitchen that even if Michael wasn’t about to check on his wife’s whereabouts and well-being, I had an obligation to do so as hostess. I went to the living room where she was huddled in front of the fireplace, her arms wrapped about herself. “Are you all right?” I asked.
“Yes. I mean, I’m not feeling very well.”
“I’m sorry. You look cold. Would you like a sweater, a shawl? I have a cashmere one that—”
“I just need some time alone,” she said, her eyes fixed on the flickering flames.
“Of course. Come join us when—when you’re ready.”
Jason had done a masterful job of carving, and was obviously pleased at our acknowledgment of his skill. As we dug in to the bountiful bowls and platters of food, I forgot about Amanda. I think everyone else did, too, including her husband, who ate with gusto. His conversation was as enthusiastic as his appetite.
“More wine?” I asked Norman Huffaker, whose glass was empty. O’Neill’s glass had also been drained.
“Sure,”
Amanda’s eyes went to her husband—annihilative beams of death and destruction drilling into his brain.
I assumed Barbara was finished, and I was about to ask Susan Dalton if she had anything to add. But then Barbara said, “Maureen Beaumont did not kill herself because of Worrell, even if the institute’s critics would like us to think she did. Maureen Beaumont killed herself because she couldn’t live with the guilt!”
We all looked at her quizzically. She was aware of the intense interest in her, laughed, and said, “How did I ever get on to that subject? Thanks again for inviting me to your table, Jessica.”
Amanda O’Neill pushed her chair back so hard it almost fell over, stood, dropped her napkin on it, and left the room. All eyes went to Michael. Certainly, her husband would go after her.
“Time to carve the bird, isn’t it?” he said. “May I do the honors?”
“Sorry, Doc, but bird carving is my territory,” Mort Metzger said. “Tradition. Every year I get to carve the turkey. Right, Jess?”
Seth said, “Maybe we ought to let a physician do the surgery. Might do a cleaner, better job. Unless, of course, he has other things to tend to.” He looked in the direction to which Amanda had made her escape.
“Are you sayin’ I don’t know how to carve a turkey?” Mort asked.
“No,” Seth said. “But we got Dr. O’Neill here. Might be in the holiday spirit to give him a chance.”
O’Neill laughed, waved his hands. “I’m a psychiatrist, not a surgeon,” he said. “I vote for tradition. The sheriff does the deed.”
“Could I—?”
“Yes, Jason?”
“Could I carve the turkey?”
“Well, usually Mort does, and—”
Mort’s eyes met mine. He nodded.
“Of course you can, Jason,” I said.
“I know how. Miss Sassi taught me.”
“Splendid. I’ll get you started.”
As I led Jason to the kitchen, I glanced at Michael O’Neill, who’d fallen into a spirited conversation with Worrell’s resident artists. He seemed jolly enough. But how long would he allow his wife to be absent without checking on her? Maybe she had a set of car keys and had gone home. I silently hoped that was the case. She’d put on a pall on everyone.
I left Jason with the turkey and the necessary tools for carving, and returned to the dining room with a steaming bowl of creamed onions, which I placed in front of O’Neill.
“My favorite,” he said.
I decided while in the kitchen that even if Michael wasn’t about to check on his wife’s whereabouts and well-being, I had an obligation to do so as hostess. I went to the living room where she was huddled in front of the fireplace, her arms wrapped about herself. “Are you all right?” I asked.
“Yes. I mean, I’m not feeling very well.”
“I’m sorry. You look cold. Would you like a sweater, a shawl? I have a cashmere one that—”
“I just need some time alone,” she said, her eyes fixed on the flickering flames.
“Of course. Come join us when—when you’re ready.”
Jason had done a masterful job of carving, and was obviously pleased at our acknowledgment of his skill. As we dug in to the bountiful bowls and platters of food, I forgot about Amanda. I think everyone else did, too, including her husband, who ate with gusto. His conversation was as enthusiastic as his appetite.
“More wine?” I asked Norman Huffaker, whose glass was empty. O’Neill’s glass had also been drained.
“Sure,”
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