“No, I’m afraid I don’t, Dr. Delaware. But I’ll apprise her of your call. Is that time period suitable for you?”

I checked my appointment book. “How about Wednesday? Four o’clock.”

“Very good, Doctor.” He recited my address and said, “Is that correct?”

“Yes. But I would like to talk with Mrs. Dickinson before the appointment.”

“I’ll inform her of that, Doctor.”

“Who’ll be bringing Melissa?”

“I will, sir.”

“And you are…?”

“Dutchy. Jacob Dutchy.”

“And your relationship to-”

“I’m in Mrs. Dickinson’s employ, sir. Now, in the matter of your fee, is there a preferred mode of payment?”

“A check would be fine, Mr. Dutchy.”

“And the fee itself?”

I quoted him my hourly rate.

“Very good, Doctor. Goodbye, Doctor.”

The next morning, a legal-size manila envelope arrived at the office by messenger. Inside was a smaller, rose-colored envelope; within that, a sheet of rose-colored stationery folded over a check.

The check was for $3,000 and was annotated Medical treatment for Melissa. At my ’78 rate, over forty sessions’ worth. The money had been drawn on a savings account at First Fiduciary Trust Bank in San Labrador. Printed in the upper left corner of the check was:

R.P. DICKINSON, TRUSTEE

DICKINSON FAMILY TRUST UDT 5-11-71

10 SUSSEX KNOLL

SAN LABRADOR, CALIFORNIA 91108

The stationery was heavy stock, folded in half, with a Crane watermark. I opened it.

At the top, in embossed black script:

Regina Paddock Dickinson

Below that, in a fine, graceful hand:

Dear Doctor Delaware,

Thank you for seeing Melissa.

I’ll be in touch.

Faithfully yours,

Gina Dickinson

Scented paper. A mixture of old roses and alpine air. But it didn’t sweeten the message: