“I’ll say no. I don’t trust anyone to do this but us now. I won’t give it to him. If I have to, I’ll threaten to give the story about the estate’s new owner to the newspapers. I’m confident that he doesn’t want that to happen.”
“Then he’ll really call your father.”
“We’ll see,” I said, but I was a great deal more frightened than I was showing.
We followed the car GPS and easily found Dr. West’s office, which was in an office building on Bremo Road. After we parked, Kane looked at me, hesitating.
“I just want you to be sure about this,” he began. “Once you go in there and reveal yourself to him, Kristin, your father will surely find out, and I know how special your relationship with your father is.”
“Yes,” I said in a very weak, tiny voice. I was clutching the diary the way some religious person might clutch the Bible. “I think when my father expressed how much he wished I wouldn’t read this, he was telling me that once I had, it would bring on a major responsibility, an obligation. He was right. We owe it to Christopher now, Kane. He has to know that someone else knows their story, and if William Anderson is really him, he should get it back and do with it what he wishes. You don’t have to come in with me.”
“Like I would ever let you do this alone. Let’s go, then,” he said, and opened his door. I opened mine and stepped out, overcoming any hesitation. We walked toward the main entrance of the building and checked the directory to be sure Dr. West’s office was here. Then we entered the lobby. There was a festive atmosphere, with Christmas decorations and a small Christmas tree in the lobby. People going to and fro were infected with the joviality, laughing and wishing each other a happy holiday. Kane and I went to the elevator, pushed the button for Dr. West’s floor, and then held hands in the elevator, neither of us speaking.
Dr. West’s outer office also had Christmas decorations. There was a small Christmas tree on a table to the right. It was a light oak paneled outer office with simple but comfortable imitation leather chairs and a sofa and a dark brown tiled floor. The table in front of the sofa was covered with entertainment and fashion magazines. In fact, there was nothing to suggest that this was a psychiatrist’s office and that the people who came here had serious mental and emotional problems.
The receptionist was a woman who looked to be in her early sixties at least. She had short, curly, grayish light brown hair and what I would call a grandmother’s pleasant smile, with soft hazel eyes. She wore almost no makeup, but her cheeks were as rosy as the cheeks of someone who had just come in from the cold. She wore a light blue cardigan sweater and a white blouse with a pretty cameo above her right breast. In my mind, she was the perfect receptionist for a psychiatrist, because she gave off a relaxed, friendly demeanor that would help the most nervous person take a breath and feel some desperately sought tranquility. That was how she made me feel. There was a box of holiday candy in front of her for anyone to sample.
“Hello there,” she said. “How can I help you?”
“We’re here to see Dr. West. It’s very important,” I said, widening my eyes to impress her with just how important it was.
“You haven’t made an appointment.”
“No. We just drove in from Charlottesville.”
“Well, what’s this about?” she asked. “Are you related to one of the doctor’s patients?”
Kane and I look
ed at each other.
“In a very distant way, I am,” I said. “But that’s not why we have to see him. It’s very important. He’ll want to see us when he learns why we’re here.”
She raised her eyebrows. “The doctor’s not here,” she said. “He’s on his way back from the hospital.”
“May we wait?”
She looked at her appointment book. “He has a patient in about an hour,” she said.
“We won’t take up much of his time,” I promised.
“You may wait here,” she said, with the tone of a monitor approving a bathroom pass or something. She suddenly looked less friendly to me, perhaps because we were so secretive.
“Thank you,” I said, and we sat on the sofa. I saw the way she was looking at me because of how tightly I had the diary clutched against my body. Maybe I looked like someone who needed a psychiatrist.
Kane started to flip through magazines. The receptionist went back to her paperwork, looking up periodically and then looking down again.
Finally, close to twenty minutes later, Dr. West entered his outer office. He was at least six foot three or four and very slim, with a dark brown, well-trimmed mustache, thick, wavy dark brown hair that showed some ripples of gray, and very thoughtful-looking grayish-brown eyes. I thought he looked to be in his mid-sixties or so. He wore a dark blue suit and a gray tie. His somewhat thin lips curled immediately into a curious smile when he set eyes on us. He looked quickly at the receptionist.
“These two insisted on seeing you, Dr. West,” she said with a somewhat apologetic tone. “They wouldn’t tell me why,” she added. “Nor have they told me their names.”
His bushy eyebrows rose like two caterpillars nudged.
“Oh? How can I help you?” he asked, not moving toward his inner office.
I glanced at Kane and at the receptionist before turning back to Dr. West.
“My father is Burt Masterwood,” I said, hoping that would be enough to capture his interest. It did.