Read The Night, The Day for Free Online Page B

asking about the Xanax, the fact that Benoît had complained to his doctor about not sleeping, but hadn’t taken any of the pills until the overdose, almost a month later. But he decided to hold back. Benoît seemed discomfited enough for one session.
    The visit passed quickly and another appointment was set for the following week. Since Benoît was a busy man, past his immediate crisis, and seemingly no longer a danger to himself, Martin felt that weekly sessions would be sufficient. Benoît affirmed his availability, at least for a while; he had delegated many of his business responsibilities to some of those “hungry” vice presidents. If he had learned anything from all this, he told Martin, it was that he needed to slow down.
    As Benoît was leaving, he turned to Martin. “By the way, would it be all right for my wife to speak with you?” he asked.
    Martin was curious. An interesting proposition , he mused. Sometimes such an arrangement could get tricky, but Martin still wondered if it might help. “That depends on how you feel about it,” he responded.
    “Oh, it’s perfectly fine with me. I have no secrets from Martha. Anything you can do to help her through this will be greatly appreciated.”
    Speculating as to what sort of trap he was getting into – it was Martin’s belief that patients frequently set traps for their therapists – he said, “Fine then, have her give me a call.”

chapter 5
    M artin Rosen had finished with his last patient of the day, but his mind was still on Jacques Benoît. He had to admit, the man was a mystery. As a therapist, Martin naturally assumed that his patients kept things from him. This was often unintentional, though generated by a sense of embarrassment or guilt over whatever wasn’t being disclosed. With Jacques Benoît, however, things felt different, somehow more deliberate and calculated. Martin couldn’t put his finger on it, but something wasn’t right.
    He gathered his things, closed his briefcase and decided to stop for a bite on the way home. Every Wednesday evening, like clockwork, he took himself out for dinner and a nightcap, yet he still regarded it as a decision rather than a ritual. Perhaps it was because he didn’t like rituals, or perhaps he didn’t like to feel that he “needed” the night out. Either way, after long days like this, he certainly could use it.
    He dialed home to remind Jamilla that he would be late. He usually informed the nanny of his whereabouts when he wasn’t in the office, even though he carried a beeper. He liked to cover all bases.
    He came out of the building and turned south on Middle Neck Road. His car was in a lot around the block, but his usual nightspot, Millie’s Place, was only a mile or so down the street and he felt he could use the walk. Most of the stores were closing and the walkway was fairly quiet. He appreciated the town this time of night.
    He came into Millie’s Place and took a seat at the bar. The regular Wednesday night crowd was there, as well as a few newcomers. Millie’s Place always attracted newcomers. It was that type of restaurant, a Long Island hotspot with an upscale crowd, top-shelf booze, gourmet eats and nostalgic tunes. It wasn’t the scene that drew Martin, it was that Millie’s had been Katherine’s favorite restaurant. They had frequented it together and he felt comfortable there.
    The bartender, Steve, gave him a welcome smile, placed a double Glenlivet rocks on the bar without being asked, and said, “How goes it, Marty?”
    “It goes,” Martin responded as he took his first sip.
    Steve brought up a bowl of peanuts.
    “You shouldn’t have,” Martin said.
    “A guy’s gotta eat.”
    Martin toasted and downed another sip.
    “So, what’s it gonna be tonight?” Steve asked.
    “Don’t know. What’s good?”
    “The chateaubriand’s always good.”
    “Too pricey.”
    “Okay, how about the veal Marsala? Gary’s got a brand-new recipe he’s trying out. Been a real hit