Imani eyed her like a detective fit for an Agatha Christie novel. “You’ve been talking about a fundraiser forever. Why now? Is it related to this sudden but allegedly months-long relationship with a woman you’ve never mentioned?”
“She’s inspired me to push myself further,” she replied.
Libby was inspirational. She’d taken over her family business and started to modernize it. Shape it to her own vision. Not too di erent than what Reagan wanted to do too.
The grumble Imani produced low in her throat made it obvious she was still highly suspect. “Well, I look forward to meeting her very soon.”
“You’re going to love her,” she replied, hoping it was true.
“I’m definitely curious about who has managed to nab your heart,” Imani admitted. “A great many women have tried and failed.”
Reagan finished reattaching the handle and pulled the totally broken mug toward her. As she did, Imani picked up the repaired mug. “Reagan, I know you see the beauty in things that most of us miss. You take a hunk of wet clay and breathe life into it. It’s a gift. Part of that gift is seeing the value in things others might deem useless.” She turned the mug over in her hand before setting it down and pointing at the mess of ceramic shards. “But remember, some things really are too broken. I know you’ve gotten better at learning the di erence, and I hope you’re not back to picking up a beautiful thing just because you feel compelled to put it back together.”
Placing a piece of mug back on the table, Reagan stopped busying herself and looked up at Imani. Her big dark eyes were full of concern, and Reagan understood why. She couldn’t pretend she didn’t have a history of picking up wounded souls and trying to love them into wellness. It very rarely worked.
“I promise that’s not what I’m doing here,” she replied softly. “Libby is a put-together woman who doesn’t need me to complete her. She’s a strong, vibrant, independent person.”
Imani nodded. “I hope so.”
Me too, she thought, before remembering they weren’t really in a relationship.
C H A P T E R 8
LIBBY RAN her fingers through her straightened hair as she emerged from her o ce and into the hall leading to the consultation room. Unlike the rest of the o ce decorated with a minimalist modern design to accentuate the view of the city skyline and bay, the consultation room was an interior o ce. No windows to o er distraction. Instead of the cold, clean feel of the rest of the o ce, the room had two big overstu ed chairs that made it impossible not to sink into them. The purpose was to foster intimacy and connection. A sense of relaxed comfort like two old friends chatting at the kitchen table.
As she silenced her cell and dropped it into her blazer pocket, Libby projected quiet confidence. She’d stood at her grandmother’s side a thousand times before consultations, but it was only a few years ago that she’d been allowed to go inside with her. The presence of two people made it much harder to recreate the safe space that allowed clients to open up about themselves. They didn’t want it to have the trappings of an interview, even if that was exactly what it was.
During the consultation, it was Libby’s job to see beyond the words coming out of the person’s mouth. Her grandmother’s theory had proved true over and over again.
Most people had no idea what they actually needed in a partner, but if you listened closely enough to all the things they didn’t say, you’d learn where they ached for balance.
Getting to those moments of depth required complete honesty. No easy feat when people are trying to say the right things and paint themselves in the best light. Her grandmother was a master of precise inquiry; Libby had a much more wandering style.
“Ms. Jennifer Borgmann,” she said as she entered the cozy room with her hand outstretched. “So nice to meet you.”
The woman, tall and attractive in her mid-fifties, stood and took Libby’s hand in between both of hers. “Thank you so much for taking me. My original appointment was for next month, but when your o ce called with a newly opened spot, I was so excited.”
Libby gestured for her to sit and tried not to think about all the prospective clients that canceled their initial consult appointments. She told herself it didn’t matter and focused on the woman across from her.
Taylor knocked on the door with two steaming mugs of tea exactly on time. Sharing food or drink with someone was an easy way to facilitate bonding. A few months ago, she switched from Cuban espresso to tea. Her grandmother had resisted the change, arguing that the tradition was an integral part of process. But once she’d tried the blend Libby had specially made, she understood. It was soothing and delicious while providing just enough stimulation to focus the mind. Espresso was jet fuel; what they needed was a breeze against a sail.
Once they were settled in, Libby started. “I don’t like to be distracted by taking notes,” she explained. “Our session will be recorded just for my own purposes. No one else, not even my sta , will listen to it. Is that okay with you?”
Jennifer blew on her tea as she nodded. “Yeah, definitely.
I read the disclaimer on the papers I filled out.”
Libby smiled. “Great, now—”
“Can I just say something before we really get into it?”
she interrupted, setting her mug on the small table at her side.
“Of course,” Libby replied with a gentle smile. “The more I know about everything and anything the better.” She took a sip of her own tea.
“I’m sure there’s
some kind of therapist-type line you don’t cross about your personal life.” Jennifer’s olive skin flushed as her eyes darted to the floor and back to Libby.