Nearly Departed, Max Schlienger [the gingerbread man read aloud txt] 📗

continued, either oblivious to Dennis’ shift in mood, or choosing to ignore it. “The next time you make an appointment, get to know the person. Spend some time with them. Don’t treat it as an appointment, but rather as a social call from a concerned friend. Though I realize you are not a psychiatrist,” he spread his hands, “you might try behaving like one.”

“That will help, will it?”

“Perhaps,” Harding said, nodding. “If you stay in close contact with me throughout the process, I’ll be able to help you determine the best time to recommend my involvement.”

“Sorry, I must have dozed off there, but it sounded like you were doubting my abilities.”

This time, Harding’s smile was much more genuine, and made the corners of his eyes wrinkle. “Alright, Dennis, I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget that you’re not here for advice. Just give it a try, though?”

Dennis rolled his eyes. “Fine. The next appointment I set up, I’ll do it your way, but only once. After that, I’m going back to my old ‘tactics,’ as you call them.”

“Excellent.” Harding gave a satisfied nod. “You know, Dennis, I got so caught up with business that I forgot to ask how you’re doing. How is the book coming along?”

“Slowly.”

Harding smiled sympathetically. “Well, keep at it.”

“Sure,” replied Dennis noncommittally. “How about you, Sam? Thinking of retirement yet?”

The question brought a warm laugh from Harding’s lips. “It’s on the table, yes. The time isn’t quite right for it, though.” He brushed at something on his glasses. “How’s Alena, by the way? Anything you need to talk about?”

Dennis held back an annoyed retort, only barely realizing in time that his friend was joking. He forced himself to calm down, and gave Harding a stern look. “Watch it, Sam. Like you said, I’m not one of your clients. Sorry, I meant patients.” Harding laughed at that, and checked the small clock on his desk.

“Well, we still have some time until my next one arrives. Would you care to join me for lunch? My treat, of course.”

Dennis shook his head apologetically. “Thanks, but not today. I promised Alena that I’d stop by her studio with some food. She’s been working pretty hard lately.” He stood to leave as Harding leaned forward with an exaggerated motion.

“And how does that make her feel?” he asked. Dennis undid the lock on the door.

“Hungry, I’d imagine.” He could hear Harding chuckle as he left the office.

Dennis was attempting to balance a sandwich and a container of soup in one hand and sign his credit card receipt with the other when he heard his phone vibrating in his jacket pocket. He hurried over to one of the restaurant’s many tables and carefully deposited his items before digging for the source of the noise. Since the phone served as both his personal line and the means of contact for the people who wanted his services, he carefully considered the number it displayed before answering in his mysterious accent.

“This is Doctor September,” he said quietly. He glanced around the restaurant, grateful for the current sparseness of inhabitants. Not only would his sudden change of voice likely draw unwanted attention, but the sounds of ambient conversation would have been anything but mysterious.

A female voice, very confident and matter-of-fact, responded to him in a light British accent. “Hello, Doctor. I understand that you provide supernatural counseling.” Dennis bit his lip and wondered if he should ask the woman to call back later. The advertisement that he and Harding had posted was intentionally vague, although it did include the words “supernatural counseling.” When they had written it, the intent had been to attract those individuals who might actually benefit from the services of a psychiatrist, but who were, save for fantasies about imaginary specters, mostly sane. Unfortunately, both the discreet wording and the nature of the business had attracted more than one person who was legitimately off their rocker, and Dennis had learned to choose his meetings with great care.

“Counseling and consultations are my specialty,” he replied as September, “although my services are not for everyone.” He checked his watch, wondering if he could conclude the conversation before Alena took her break, and idly brushed his sleeve where a droplet of spilled soup had darkened it. “What is the nature of your problem?” He intentionally neglected to ask the woman’s name, since past experience had taught him to build an air of trust before requesting any personal details. His caution turned out to be unnecessary, however, as the woman introduced herself immediately.

“My name is Elspeth Palin,” she said. “I’ve had a ghost, I suppose, for several years now. Is this something you can help me with?” Her direct wording left Dennis feeling unsure of how to proceed, as did the conciseness of her question. Usually, those who called him with the claim of being haunted were only too eager to divulge as many details as possible, which made it considerably easier to get a bearing on the situation. Of course, they were far from the only parties interested. Many of the calls he received were from people hoping to contact a deceased friend or relative, or less often, who were trying to locate some missing object. On those occasions, Dennis would patiently explain that he dealt only with existing haunts, and could not help them find either dead loved ones or lost car keys.

“Ms. Palin,” Dennis hesitantly started, “I would be quite happy to discuss this matter with you at length, if you believe that I could be of some help. Please, when would be a good time for us to converse?” He wouldn’t normally have been so rushed, but the diminishing temperature of Alena’s soup had given him something of a time limit.

“You can call me this evening,” the woman replied. Dennis suppressed a sigh of irritation. He disliked calling his clients, since there was no way to be sure that the timing would be right. If he caught them at the wrong moment,