What Looks Like Crazy Read online

  Praise for the novels of Charlotte Hughes

  Hot Shot

  “A tough-talking, in-your-face heroine…romantic comedy at its best.”

  —Janet Evanovich, New York Times bestselling author

  “One of the best books of the year…every wonderful character created by Charlotte Hughes is outstanding.”

  —Affaire de Coeur (five stars)

  A New Attitude

  “An appealing romance filled with charm and snappy dialogue.”

  —Booklist

  “With well-crafted characters and delightful banter, this is just plain fun!”

  —Romantic Times

  Valley of the Shadow

  “Hughes’s snappy dialogue and strong writing aptly describe the small Southern town and its attitude toward a girl corrupted by the big city…An entertaining and fast-paced murder mystery.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  And After That, the Dark

  “One of those Southern thrillers that never lets up and makes you unable to put it down. It’s exciting enough to even give terror a good name. Charlotte Hughes is the real thing.”

  —Pat Conroy, New York Times bestselling author

  “This story and its characters will remain with you long after you’ve turned the last page.”

  —Janet Evanovich, New York Times bestselling author

  What Looks Like CRAZY

  Charlotte Hughes

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for auhor or third-party websites or their content.

  WHAT LOOKS LIKE CRAZY

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2008 by Charlotte Hughes.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-1518-0

  JOVE®

  Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  JOVE is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “J” design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  With love to Al Zuckerman—

  a gentleman,

  a man of great integrity,

  and my personal hero

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  acknowledgments

  With sincere appreciation to…

  Janet Evanovich for giving me the opportunity of a lifetime.

  Jen Enderlin for making me a better writer.

  Donna Schaefer and Brenda Rollins, friends and proofreaders extraordinaire.

  Rebecca George, a fine author in her own right, for her unconditional support.

  Christine Zika for welcoming me to the Berkley family with fifty roses! Yes, fifty!

  Jackie Cantor and Leslie Gelbman for helping me make this book the best it could be. And to Rachel W. W. Granfield, for her fine copyediting, and Jessica McDonnell, production editor. You guys rock!

  Dr. David Berndt, clinical psychologist, for his professional input.

  chapter 1

  As a clinical psychologist, I’ve spent most of my time trying to convince my clients they’re not crazy. The truth is, everybody is a little bit crazy; it’s just a matter of degree. Take me, for example: I’m not exactly the poster lady for mental wellness, and I’m the one treating these people. I find that scary.

  Even scarier is the well-dressed thirtysomething guy threatening to jump from the rooftop of the ten-story North Atlanta building housing my office. He’s a new patient, referred to me by a psychiatrist I once dated.

  Dr. Thad Glazer and I met while I was working on my doctorate at Emory University. Thad was blond and good-looking, and had inherited his father’s comfy practice and love for Italian suits. Our relationship ended when I caught him and his receptionist naked in his hot tub.

  Thad limited his practice to medication management and referred patients to local psychologists for talk therapy, because he hated listening to people’s problems. He amused himself by sending me the difficult cases—payback for breaking up with him and later marrying another man. Even more amusing to Thad was the fact that my marriage had hit the skids six months ago.

  So that’s how I ended up with Kevin “Wannabe Jumper” Bosley. And I had promised myself this was going to be a good day. I’d even dressed in my new yellow, white, and blue daisy skirt, and a yellow camisole. Just seeing it in the store had lifted my spirits.

  “Listen to me very carefully, Kevin,” I said, taking a step toward him, while carefully maintaining a respectful distance in case he decided to take me with him. That, and the fact that I am terrified of being on rooftops of tall buildings. “You do not want to do this. Suicide is never the answer.”

  “Back off, Dr. Holly!” he shouted. “You come any closer, and I’m bailing.”

  Beside me, my best friend and receptionist, Mona Epps, was frantically trying to reach Thad on her cell phone. I had pled, bribed, and tried to bargain with Kevin, to no avail. Thad was my last hope. Despite being somewhat superficial and self-centered, Thad usually came through for me.

  “You must really hate your mother,” Mona said, tossing Kevin a dirty look as she punched numbers on the phone.

  Kevin blinked. “I don’t hate my mother. What makes you say that?”

  “Who do you think they’ll call to the morgue to identify your body, you idiot! It’s always the mother.”

  “You have no right to call me an idiot,” he told her. “You don’t know what I’ve been through.”

  “Oh, puh-lease,” Mona said.

  I shushed Mona. She was not the most diplomatic pers
on in the world. Plus, she was annoyed as hell that she had broken a heel on her new Pradas as we’d chased Kevin six floors up the stairwell in our attempt to keep him from jumping. Fortunately Mona’d had the foresight to grab her cell phone, which was a good thing in case we needed to call 911, but by then it would be too late.

  “Listen to me, Kevin,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, so that it would appear I was in control of the situation, even though my knees felt like tapioca pudding. “You can jump and put an end to your troubles, but what about the people who love you? What about those you leave behind? They’ll be devastated. They’ll blame themselves.”

  Kevin gave me an odd look. Someone who is depressed enough to take his own life generally does not give much thought as to how it will affect others.

  “Thad’s on the line,” Mona said, offering me the phone.

  “Hold on, Kevin,” I called, taking the phone from her. “I’ve got Dr. Glazer—”

  “I’m not talking to that egotistical bastard,” he said. “Besides, this is his fault.”

  “Thad, I have a situation here with Mr. Bosley, the patient you sent me,” I said quickly. “I could really use your help.”

  On the other end, Thad made a tsking sound. “Now, Kate, you know the rules.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “The rules, the rules,” he said.

  My frayed nerves were close to snapping. When Thad and I had been an item, he’d always insisted that I tell him what I had on beneath my skirt. It was a game between lovers that Thad still liked to play, despite our split. “Stop kidding around, Thad,” I said. “This is an emergency.”

  “You either play by the rules or we don’t play at all.” I heard a smile in his voice.

  “You are so childish!” I hissed, knowing he would find my annoyance even more amusing. “I’ve got a man ready to throw himself off the roof of my office building, and you expect me to describe my underwear?” Silence on the other end of the line. If Thad had been present, I would have personally drop-kicked his ass off the top of the building.

  I turned and whispered into the phone. “Okay, dammit, they’re black bikinis, cut high on the thigh and edged with red lace. Satisfied?”

  “Give me a moment,” Thad said. “I want to envision you in them.”

  I gritted my teeth. It would never occur to Thad that I was lying. He was the last man on earth I’d tell I was wearing plain, white, and very boring panties. I mean, why waste my Victoria’s Secrets when I wasn’t presently having sex? “Are you done yet?” I said.

  “Okay, what’s the problem?” he asked smoothly.

  “Hello? Did you not hear me? Kevin Bosley is threatening to jump off the roof of my building!”

  Thad sighed. “Damn, Kate, I send you a patient, and he tries to kill himself on the very first visit?”

  “This is not my fault! He’s angry because the medication you put him on—” I paused and lowered my voice again. “It’s interfering with his sex life. Now, you need to get your butt over here and talk him out of jumping.”

  “It’s not his medication, sweetheart. He was having problems getting it up when he came to see me. I put him on a mild antidepressant with few side effects, but he needs to give it time to kick in.” Thad paused. “Look, even if I didn’t have a tennis date, it would take forever to get to your office with the traffic. You’re going to have to deal with this on your own, Kate.”

  I looked at Kevin. His arms were crossed, and one foot was tapping impatiently. “Why me?” I asked. “Why didn’t you send him to his medical doctor? How do you know it’s not a physical problem?”

  “It’s not a physical thing. His wife left him for his best friend because their sex life was zero. Then, to make matters worse, he was fired from his job. I think he might have issues that led to his poor performance in the sack.”

  “What kinds of issues?”

  “Who knows? Could be guilt. You’d be surprised how many guys let that sort of thing get in the way.”

  Oh, great, I thought. Another guilt-ridden man who couldn’t get an erection because he just knew God had seen him whacking off to dirty pictures when he was fifteen years old, or because God knew he’d had lewd thoughts about some nun who taught him eighth-grade English at parochial school. My job was to listen respectfully to each sin and say, “Nope, that’s not bad enough. What else have you got?”

  “Why didn’t you talk to him about all this?” I whispered.

  “Kate, you know how it is. Guys don’t like telling other guys they can’t get it up. I mean, if you were some guy with a limp weenie, would you want to discuss it with somebody like me?” He laughed. “I can’t relate to that sort of thing. By the way, if he jumps, your insurance will skyrocket.”

  “That’s not funny, Thad.”

  “Hey, don’t be like that. How about I make it up to you over dinner tonight? You could come to my place for steaks.”

  I knew steaks at Thad’s house meant getting naked in his hot tub as well. I pressed the ball of my hand to my forehead, where I could feel a headache coming on. “I’m married,” I said.

  “Not for long,” he reminded me. “It could be a pre-divorce celebration.”

  Thad didn’t get it. My upcoming divorce did not inspire thoughts of cocktails and party favors. It hurt like hell to think about, so I kept shoving it aside in my head, sort of like moving an old chair into a corner because it didn’t fit in the room. I didn’t want to think about the divorce, and I especially did not want to discuss it with the man on the other end of the line.

  “Good-bye, Thad.” I hung up and regarded Kevin.

  “Well? What did he say?” Kevin asked.

  I stood there for a moment. “Dr. Glazer wanted me to tell you that you have every reason to be optimistic, because he used to have your problem and I was able to cure him.”

  An hour later I was lying on the sofa in my office, doing deep-breathing exercises. I’d convinced Kevin Bosley not to jump to his death, and I’d somehow managed to hold myself together for our session. Now I was a wreck. Multiplication tables fired through my brain, taught to me by my late grandfather, who’d been a math teacher and my only normal relative.

  There is a certain order to math that doesn’t exist in life. The world can blow up, but two times two is always going to equal four. For some weird reason, I find that comforting. I like even numbers. I prefer to start my day with an even number of ink pens in the oversized “I Love Atlanta” coffee mug on my desk. Mona knows this. Which is why, if I have eight pens in my mug, she’ll drop in an extra just to throw me off.

  “How’d it go with Limpy?” Mona said, coming inside my office.

  Mona and her mouth, I thought. No wonder she’d flunked out of Miss Millie’s Charm School. “We’ll be seeing a lot of him.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Mona plopped into the chair next to me and propped her feet on the coffee table.

  Her housekeeper had obviously delivered another pair of pumps, because the wounded Pradas had been replaced. Mona wore only expensive designer fashions, and always looked great. She accessorized the reception room with her clothes.

  “He’ll pitch a tent in the hallway,” Mona said. “People will think we’re selling Rolling Stones concert tickets.” She blew out a sigh. “What is it about men and their penises? It’s all they care about. I mean, what about world peace, the rising crime rate, and unemployment? What about global warming?”

  “Face it, Mona. A man who can’t get an erection does not care if some polar bear doesn’t have a place to hang his hat.” I couldn’t believe those words had come out of my mouth. I knew Kevin was in a lot of pain, and I’m normally sympathetic, but I was having a crap day.

  “Could we change the subject?” I said. I did not want to think about men’s bodies, because then I’d have to think about my soon-to-be-ex-husband’s body. They didn’t get any sexier than Jay Rush: tall, dark, and broad-shouldered, with bone-melting blue eyes and a charm-your-panties-off smile. An
d I’d walked out on him. You could have knocked me over with a feather when he didn’t come after me. Now all I was waiting for was a judge to make the split legal.

  “Sorry,” Mona said. “I know you aren’t supposed to discuss your patients with me, but they tell me everything, anyway.”

  I had tried to discourage my patients from sharing their problems with Mona, who would then feel compelled to offer advice. Mona’s answer to everything usually involved a trip to the mall.

  Mona could afford to shop all she liked. She was rich. After flunking out of charm school and beauty college, she had met and married Mr. Moneybags, aka Henry Epps, a much older man who’d made a fortune inventing a fish lure that bass found irresistible. Mona liked to say she’d made her money the old-fashioned way: she’d married it.

  However, unlike most gold diggers, Mona had fallen in love with Mr. Moneybags and was devastated when he had a heart attack, fell off his bass boat, and drowned. She and I had met shortly afterward, when she attended a grief group I had set up. We became friends, and I became a frequent visitor to her house in Buckhead, which is where a lot of Atlanta’s wealthy lived. Mona’s house had more square footage than most strip malls.

  “You seem depressed,” Mona said. “You look like you could use a Prozac drip.” She turned and reached behind the chair for the teddy bear we’d named Bubba. Some of my young patients preferred talking to me through Bubba. The wear and tear on his fur was proof that he made the little ones feel safe and secure in my office.

  “Bubba, Dr. Holly isn’t feeling well today,” Mona said. “Could you please help her?” She put the bear right up to my face.

  I sighed and closed my eyes, but it did not deter Mona. She changed her voice and pretended to be Bubba.

  “Oh no, we have to help Dr. Kate,” the squeaky Bubba voice said. “Tell her she should get a manicure.”