Lowenstein had asked. By facing the phobia. You’ve got chronic shyness with whiffs of paranoia? Get out there and interact with the public. She wondered when a patient came to Lowenstein with a fear of heights if his solution was a fast leap off the Brooklyn Bridge.
Had he listened when she’d assured him she was positive she had social anxiety disorder? Perhaps agoraphobia combined with claustrophobia?
No, he had not. He’d insisted she was merely shy, and had suggested she leave the psychiatric evaluations and diagnoses to him.
As her stomach churned when the first members of the audience walked up for a word and a signature, she wished she could face Dr. Lowenstein right this minute. So she could punch him.
Still, it was better, she was forced to admit. She was better. She’d gotten through the lecture, and this time without a Xanax or a quick, guilty shot of whiskey.
The trouble was the lecturing wasn’t nearly as hard as this one-on-one business. With lecturing there was a nice cushion of distance and dispassion. She had notes when she lectured, a clear-cut plan that moved from Ananke to Zeus.
But when people came up to a signing table, they expected spontaneity and chat and, God, charm.
Her hand didn’t shake as she signed her name. Her voice didn’t quaver as she spoke. That was progress. At her first stop in London she’d been nearly catatonic by the end of the program. By the time she’d gotten back to her hotel, she’d been a quivering, quaking mess and had solved that little problem by taking a couple of pills and sliding into the safe cocoon of drug-induced sleep.
God, she’d wanted to go home. She’d wanted to run like a rabbit back to her bolt-hole in New York, lock herself in her lovely apartment. But she’d made commitments, given her word.
A Marsh never broke her word.
Now she could be glad, even proud, she’d held on, had white-knuckled her way through the first week, quivered through the second and gritted her way through the third. At this point she was nearly too exhausted from the rigors of travel to be nervous at the prospect of speaking to strangers.
Her face was numb from smiling by the time the end of the line tailed around. She lifted her gaze, met the grass-green eyes of the Irishman who’d asked her about the Fates.
“A fascinating lecture, Dr. Marsh,” he said in that lovely lilt.
“Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.” She was already reaching for his book when she realized he’d held out a hand. She fumbled a bit, then switched her pen to her left and shook his.
Why was it people always wanted to shake hands? she wondered. Didn’t they know how many germs were transferred that way?
His hand was warm, firm, and lingered on hers just long enough to have embarrassed heat creeping up her neck.
“Speaking of fate,” he said and gave her an easy, dazzling smile. “I was pleased with mine when I saw you’d be here while I was in Helsinki on business. I’ve admired your work for some time.” He lied without a flicker.
“Thank you.” Oh God, conversation. First rule, have them do the talking. “You’re from Ireland?”
“I am, yes. County Cork. But traveling just now, as you are.”
“Yes, as I am.”
“Traveling’s an exciting part of life, isn’t it?”
Exciting? she thought. “Yes, very.” It was her turn to lie.
“I seem to be holding you up.” He handed her the book. “I’m Malachi, Malachi Sullivan.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” She signed his book in a careful and lovely hand, struggling to calculate how best to end the conversation and, at last, the event. “Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Sullivan.” She got to her feet. “I hope your business in Finland is successful.”
“So do I, Dr. Marsh.”
NO, SHE WASN’T what he’d expected, and that had Malachi reevaluating his approach. He might have taken her for aloof, cool and a bit of a snob. But he’d seen the flush warm her cheeks and the occasional glint
Had he listened when she’d assured him she was positive she had social anxiety disorder? Perhaps agoraphobia combined with claustrophobia?
No, he had not. He’d insisted she was merely shy, and had suggested she leave the psychiatric evaluations and diagnoses to him.
As her stomach churned when the first members of the audience walked up for a word and a signature, she wished she could face Dr. Lowenstein right this minute. So she could punch him.
Still, it was better, she was forced to admit. She was better. She’d gotten through the lecture, and this time without a Xanax or a quick, guilty shot of whiskey.
The trouble was the lecturing wasn’t nearly as hard as this one-on-one business. With lecturing there was a nice cushion of distance and dispassion. She had notes when she lectured, a clear-cut plan that moved from Ananke to Zeus.
But when people came up to a signing table, they expected spontaneity and chat and, God, charm.
Her hand didn’t shake as she signed her name. Her voice didn’t quaver as she spoke. That was progress. At her first stop in London she’d been nearly catatonic by the end of the program. By the time she’d gotten back to her hotel, she’d been a quivering, quaking mess and had solved that little problem by taking a couple of pills and sliding into the safe cocoon of drug-induced sleep.
God, she’d wanted to go home. She’d wanted to run like a rabbit back to her bolt-hole in New York, lock herself in her lovely apartment. But she’d made commitments, given her word.
A Marsh never broke her word.
Now she could be glad, even proud, she’d held on, had white-knuckled her way through the first week, quivered through the second and gritted her way through the third. At this point she was nearly too exhausted from the rigors of travel to be nervous at the prospect of speaking to strangers.
Her face was numb from smiling by the time the end of the line tailed around. She lifted her gaze, met the grass-green eyes of the Irishman who’d asked her about the Fates.
“A fascinating lecture, Dr. Marsh,” he said in that lovely lilt.
“Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.” She was already reaching for his book when she realized he’d held out a hand. She fumbled a bit, then switched her pen to her left and shook his.
Why was it people always wanted to shake hands? she wondered. Didn’t they know how many germs were transferred that way?
His hand was warm, firm, and lingered on hers just long enough to have embarrassed heat creeping up her neck.
“Speaking of fate,” he said and gave her an easy, dazzling smile. “I was pleased with mine when I saw you’d be here while I was in Helsinki on business. I’ve admired your work for some time.” He lied without a flicker.
“Thank you.” Oh God, conversation. First rule, have them do the talking. “You’re from Ireland?”
“I am, yes. County Cork. But traveling just now, as you are.”
“Yes, as I am.”
“Traveling’s an exciting part of life, isn’t it?”
Exciting? she thought. “Yes, very.” It was her turn to lie.
“I seem to be holding you up.” He handed her the book. “I’m Malachi, Malachi Sullivan.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” She signed his book in a careful and lovely hand, struggling to calculate how best to end the conversation and, at last, the event. “Thank you so much for coming, Mr. Sullivan.” She got to her feet. “I hope your business in Finland is successful.”
“So do I, Dr. Marsh.”
NO, SHE WASN’T what he’d expected, and that had Malachi reevaluating his approach. He might have taken her for aloof, cool and a bit of a snob. But he’d seen the flush warm her cheeks and the occasional glint
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