Ben tipped the bottom of his glass toward the ceiling and waited for the last, stubborn chunk of ice to drop into his waiting mouth. His pallet was roasted from the molten chicken pie, but two frosty glasses of tea had eased the burn. The echo of footsteps against the wood floor caused him to turn his face toward the hallway that connected the grand entry to the spacious kitchen.
“Mr. Lamar?” The doctor called out and stepped into his field of vision.
Clunk! A frozen, pointy projectile thumped Ben’s right eye followed by a cold dribble and then the smack of a mushy wet blob.
He squinted hard against the blow of the ice and then the sting of the fat lemon wedge. Though his eyes were tightly closed, his ears clearly detected snickering.
He groped for the napkin he’d tossed beside his empty plate.
“I’m sorry if I startled you.” More snickering. “Do you need help, a bib maybe?”
He pressed one corner of the linen square to his eyeball and used another corner to soak up the moisture trickling down the side of his face. Ugh. Cold.
“Thank you for your generous offer,” his voice was muffled by the thin layer of fabric. “I think I can manage this.”
Toenails tap-danced on the kitchen tile nearby.
That dog!
Ben dropped the napkin, swiveled his head to the left and unconsciously pulled his knees upward in one smooth motion.
Thankfully, the animal had come to an obedient halt, not appearing aggressive at all. Still, its mere presence in Ben’s personal space made his flesh shrivel. Alison Stone’s smile said she was really enjoying his discomfort, as well she should. He knew his reaction was just one step below a woman jumping on a chair while she screamed bloody murder over a cockroach in her kitchen.
“You’re a psychotherapist. Surely I’m not the first person you’ve run across with cynophobia.” Ben’s tongue began to feel fat and dry in his mouth and his pulse thumped in his ears thanks to the nearness of the animal.
“Actually, the fear of dogs is not uncommon in kids. But by your age most guys have worked through it.”
“Well, until now I’ve been able to stay away from it so I’ve never felt the need to ‘work through it’ as you say.”
With sympathy for his anxiety, she reached for the dog’s collar and slid her index finger into one end of the choker chain.
“Why don’t you count to ten and then follow us outside? I’ll put Simba in the Rover with the windows down for a few minutes while we talk.”
Without waiting for his response the pair quietly left the room and moments later the front door closed behind them. Ben did as instructed—waited for a ten count, threw in an extra five for good measure and then moved into the front hall. His natural inclination was to throw the deadbolt and lock the infernal woman and her evil-looking hound outside. But then Ben would be no better off than Ethan, who was holed up in his bedroom, paralyzed by his fears.
Lord, Lord, Lord. Ben wondered, as he often did, if he’d passed a defective gene to his son. Theresa had been a fearless dynamo, and she’d never expressed any feelings of personal responsibility for Ethan’s mental illness. Maybe that’s why she’d had so much more patience with his problems.
Ben exhaled, hoping to blow away the worry, twisted the knob and pulled the door halfway open. Good to her word, Doctor Stone had secured her lion-hunting dog in the vehicle. Yes, Ben had looked Rhodesian Ridgeback up on Wikipedia. Forewarned was always forearmed, whether the opponent was a six-foot-three guard or another candidate running against you. Or, worse, a dog running at you. The little ones could turn from yap boxes to ankle-biting machines with no provocation. Ben didn’t even want to consider what that hundred pounds of sleek muscle called Simba could do to an un-suspecting target.
“Maybe while we work on Ethan’s problems we can address this little issue of yours as well.” The doctor moved toward him, her jingling silver jewelry as complimentary and distracting as the womanly sway of her body.
“If you’d just come here alone, that’d be one less phobia on the to-do list.”
She shook her head, earrings dancing. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, especially at this time of year. Unfortunately, Ethan won’t be the last person to need a rescue crew. Simba’s not just my partner—she’s part of the team.”
Ben learned early in life about spittin’ in the wind. Ethan needed this lady and if the truth be told, Ben did, too. If he wanted to get on with his life and into the Congressional race before it was too late, then he and his son both required a miracle worker.
He prayed the beauty before him had more than a buff arm up her sleeve.
Chapter Five
From what Ben could tell things hadn’t gone well upstairs today. His wood-paneled study was on the main floor, directly below Ethan’s rooms. On this third daily encounter with a new therapist there seemed to be a lot of cajoling, threatening, alarm clock jangling and disagreement between the muffled voices overhead. It was impossible to discern whether the subject matter was anything of importance or if it was just the two establishing ground rules.
Ben was a big believer in rules. They defined a fair game for the players, kept a race equal between opponents and prevented society from running amuck. Through the gift of the Bible, mankind had been given the ultimate rule book and Ben reasoned that if people would simply keep a positive attitude and follow God’s guidelines, their lives would be so much easier.
It was a perfect plan in theory that humans messed up in practice.
Ben folded the national politics section of the paper he’d been reading and considered his own situation. He tried faithfully to let The Word be the light unto his path. Even so, his road had been far from easy with its share of hidden trip wires. Landmines exploded when he seemed least prepared to deal with a crisis.
But he’d always survived.
“I hear Ya, Lord.” Ben tossed the newspaper into the recycle bin beside his favorite leather recliner. “You never said it would be easy, but You told us we wouldn’t be alone. I’m counting on You to keep that promise.”
Ben wasn’t prone to self-pity because overall his life had been amazing. But the past few years had tested his mettle well beyond anything the world of professional sports had thrown his way through injuries, contract negotiations and unexpected trades. Personal tragedy had shown him how quickly life and priorities can shift, turning from a skyrocket ride toward success to a struggle for emotional survival. Entering politics would not only be the fulfillment of personal dreams and family expectations, it also would be a welcome relief to focus on the needs of others for a change.
Yesterday’s call from his old college roommate had brought undeniable attention to the fact that a fuse was burning, and with or without Ben’s cooperation, matters would soon be decided.
“Buddy, the deadline to put your name on the ballot is three weeks away,” Randy had reminded Ben. “You will never get an opportunity like this again. With Matthews stepping down at the end of his term, it’s a perfect segue for the party from one strong conservative to another. Not to mention, having your last name on the ticket will guarantee a record voter turnout.”
The Lamar family had been active in Texas politics since Mirabeau Lamar served as President of the Republic in 1838. With Ben retired from football, his uncles were adamant—carrying on the tradition wasn’t just an option, it was a calling. While family money and support was a given, over the years Ben had forged his own personal relationships that he’d learned could be counted on through good times and bad.
Randy Mason topped the list as more than a best friend who shared Ben’s values. Randy was willing to put his successful law practice on hold to coordinate the campaign ahead.
They’d