Angel's Touch (31 page)

“Of course questions about what happened with Barbara Fenhurst. What else would I—”

“Hard questions.”

Kira came closer, steely-eyed, ready to prove herself. “Why did you encourage Ms. Lunatic to schedule late-night appointments with you?”

Megan stiffened. She’d been so sure Kira wouldn’t behave that the question caught her off-guard. She’d expected a not-quite-under-her-breath question about her underwear, not this. And she was annoyed with how defensive the question made her. She had to get over that if she wanted to give intelligent responses at the hearing. “I don’t consider six thirty to be late.”

“Why did you encourage her to continue seeing you when you couldn’t cure her? When her pain showed no improvement resulting from your treatment? Isn’t that unethical?”

No improvement? Did Kira honestly think… Okay, trick question. Kira was better at this than she’d realized. “Misleading, but good. I’ll have to think about that one.”

“In the meantime…” Kira stopped outside the entrance to the fitting rooms and handed her the clothes she’d been carrying for her. She looked so hopeful.

“You can wait outside.”

Kira bent close to her ear and muttered, “Was waiting
inside
the fitting room with you actually an option? Because that’s kind of what you made it sound like.”

Megan blushed. Of course it was an option. Just…not today, not when she was trying on a suit that needed to give off an aura of unassailable appropriateness. She hugged the clothes to her chest and slipped inside one of the rooms. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Take your time,” Kira said sweetly, catching the door as it swung shut. She held the door ajar and spoke through the opening in a lowered voice. “You’re really not going to ask me in so I can see how they look on you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’m a woman. I’m allowed in here. No one will notice.”

Megan hung the suits on a hook. “That’s not what’s stopping me.” She placed the palm of her hand on the center of Kira’s chest and gave a gentle yet pointed push. Kira immediately stepped back and let her lock the door. So different from the last time she’d had to push someone out. She loved her for that.

“The saleslady would be more than happy to unlock this door if I asked her to,” Kira teased.

“That I’d like to see.”

“What
I’d
like to see is—”

“I might need your advice about the length of the hemline,” Megan said, raising her voice to be sure Kira would hear her through the closed door. She didn’t need to whisper in her ear to pay her back and put her imagination to work. “I’ll measure it by hand lengths and you can tell me exactly where you want me to stop.”

Inside the nondescript office building in downtown Wilmington that housed the National Therapeutic Massage Certification Association’s regional office, the three members of the Ethics Committee sat at one end of a small, outdated conference room behind a long table on which lay a laptop computer, a voice recorder and several stacks of paper. Megan and Barbara faced the committee from behind two smaller desks. They had both been provided with an official copy of the complaint, a pencil, a glass and a sweating pitcher of ice water—massage therapists did love to encourage everyone to stay hydrated. Megan already had a headache from the buzzing of the overhead fluorescent lighting. She couldn’t decide whether pouring herself a glass of water would help, or whether it would make her even more anxious by adding a full bladder to her list of stressors.

The lead investigator—Ms. Ariana Poplin—glanced at her watch and nodded to one of the women next to her, who switched on the voice recorder. “As we all know, Ms. Fenhurst has made some serious accusations against Ms. McLaren,” she began. “If we decide that Ms. McLaren did in fact engage in sexual misconduct, we will revoke her national certification. The behavior of which Ms. Fenhurst accuses Ms. McLaren is a violation of Standard VI, Part d, which states that the practitioner shall not touch the client’s genitalia at any time. We will also consider whether Ms. McLaren was in violation of Standard I, professionalism.”

They had arrived in Wilmington early. Kira had helped her fuss with her appearance in front of the restroom mirror, smoothing the collar of her blouse and the lapels of the chocolate brown jacket they’d picked out together, teasing her about her pantsuit, tucking a flyaway hair into place. Megan had felt prepared. But now, with Kira waiting in the reception area outside the conference room where she’d left her looking calm and gorgeous in her own business clothes, Megan wondered how prepared she really was. Two minutes in and her blouse stuck to her body and she already stank.

“You seem to have received a lot of massages from Ms. McLaren,” Ms. Poplin told Barbara. Her voice sounded far away. Megan strained to hear above the roaring in her head. “That would suggest you liked her work. Would you say she was a good massage therapist?”

“Yes, at first,” Barbara conceded, patting her hair and touching up her lipstick. “Until she touched me inappropriately.”

This couldn’t be happening. And since when did Barbara know the meaning of the word “inappropriate”?

“Could you tell us what happened during that last appointment?” Ms. Poplin asked.

Taking her time, Barbara nonchalantly snapped her lipstick shut. “We were about halfway through the massage when she started working on my legs, massaging my inner thighs. She kept going higher and higher up my leg and then, you know, before I hardly even realized what was happening, she was touching my privates, massaging my crotch. I wasn’t wearing any underwear, of course—you’re supposed to be naked. I never expected her to take advantage of me, her being a woman and all. But that’s what she did. Made the moves on me. I couldn’t believe it. I jumped off the table and yelled at her to take her hands off me.”

“That never happened,” Megan protested.

“We’ll ask the questions,” Ms. Poplin reprimanded her.

Megan shrank back in her seat. Yes, she’d walked in here knowing what Barbara Fenhurst was going to accuse her of, but nevertheless it was a shock to hear her say it out loud. How could she make up such a big, disgusting lie? How could she make up those details? After all the love Megan had poured into her during so many massages? How could anyone—especially Barbara, who always raved about her healing hands—hate her so much?

“Then you got dressed and left?” Ms. Poplin said.

“She begged me to make another appointment,” Barbara said smugly.

Megan put her head in her hands.

“And you never returned,” Ms. Poplin prompted.

“To tell you the truth I think she kind of fell in love with me, seeing me every week.” Barbara looked proud of herself, impressed with her own version of reality. “Monday nights at six thirty, that was our day. Never missed a week. Well, there was that one time—”

“My question was, did you return?” Ms. Poplin said.

“Why would I?”

Sure, lie about that too. She should have saved those damn brownies and brought them as proof. And she should never, ever have torched the stack of handwritten greeting cards begging her to take her back.

“Ms. Fenhurst, back in mid-July, you had a massage with Ms. McLaren every day for five days in a row. Do you remember why you did that?”

“My back was acting up,” Barbara said.

“Did Ms. McLaren pressure you to come in every day? Coerce you in some way?”

“It was her idea to schedule five massages that week,” Megan interjected. “I think it was her birthday.”

Ms. Poplin ignored her. “Ms.
Fenhurst,
did Ms. McLaren encourage you to get several massages a week?”

“I’m sure she wanted my business.”

“You must have felt close to her after so many visits. Did you ever suspect she was inebriated during a session?”

“Uh…” Barbara looked like she couldn’t decide which answer would be more incriminating, but finally just shrugged. “Uh…not really.”

Before that small victory could sink in, it was Megan’s turn to talk.

“Ms. McLaren, did you encourage Ms. Fenhurst to schedule frequent appointments with you? Did you suggest that she see you every day?”

“I usually recommend that my clients see me once a week or once a month, depending on their needs. It’s up to them what they want to schedule.”

Ms. Poplin shuffled some papers on her desk. “Both of you agree on the date the alleged incident occurred, but Ms. McLaren, in your treatment notes we see no mention of this session. Are we missing some of your treatment notes?”

“I think you have everything,” Megan said. “I didn’t make any notes for that session.”

“It certainly would have been incriminating for you to write down what occurred if Ms. Fenhurst’s allegations are correct.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Then why did you not make any notes for this massage, when you were so consistent about making notes for all her other sessions?”

“I was too upset. I should have written something down, I guess—and I wish I had so you could see it—but I was too upset and I forgot.”

“So something did happen during that massage,” Ms. Poplin suggested.

Megan paled. Barbara had fooled the committee. As the investigator looked at her expectantly, she felt her blood pressure drop and wondered if she was going to faint. The room turned to fog. She saw herself at the stake, flames licking at her feet. In that lifetime, people had killed her to stop her from healing the sick. They knew she was good at it and they killed her anyway. They killed her
because
she was good at it. The same thing was happening again. Barbara Fenhurst, with her stupid play for revenge, could take away her license and stop her from doing the job she loved.

She wasn’t going to let her. She was not going to let this happen again. Not this time. She wasn’t bound to a stake this time. She could fight. She could win this thing.

Megan rubbed her eyes and the room swam back into focus. “Something did happen,” she said. “Barbara asked me out on a date. I immediately terminated the session and told her I couldn’t work with her anymore. She didn’t take it well. She made up this whole lie about sexual contact to get back at me.”

Ms. Poplin’s expressionless face never changed. “Did you touch her genitals at any time?”

“Never.”

“How about in a therapeutic manner?”

“That’s against our code of ethics.”

“Glad to know you’re familiar with that.” Ms. Poplin turned to Barbara. “How did Ms. McLaren drape you? Did you feel securely covered by the sheet at all times?”

“She told me it was better not to lie under the sheet if I didn’t want to. I think she wanted to see me naked.” Barbara glanced over at Megan and smirked.

Megan gave her an angry, tight-lipped smile in return. The liar thought she could get away with this. She thought she was winning. But she hadn’t won yet.

“How did you feel about this optional draping, Ms. Fenhurst?”

“I thought it was inappropriate.”

Megan thought back to her notes. She’d looked over them dozens of times in the past week, but she hadn’t known what she was looking for—it was all muscles and techniques, reminders to herself about what she had worked on. The committee had requested her notes, but what could the notes tell the committee? Nothing. They couldn’t honestly be hoping she wrote down in her treatment notes that she had sex with a client.

But draping—that was another story. Megan’s heart flooded with relief. Barbara had just handed her the proof she needed.

“Ms. McLaren,” Ms. Poplin said. “Do you deny this allegation that you encouraged Ms. Fenhurst to be undraped?”

They knew. Ms. Poplin and the others knew Barbara was lying. At least about the draping. And since the draping had not been part of Barbara’s original complaint, Megan would have had no reason to lie about it in her notes. They had to know.

Megan tried not to show her elation. “Absolutely,” she said. “I always drape my clients securely. It’s very important to me to be conscientious about that so my clients feel safe.”

“There is some leeway—some difference of opinion—as to what constitutes appropriate draping. Ms. Fenhurst, did Ms. McLaren at a minimum cover your pubic region with a small towel?”

Megan waited for Barbara to dig herself in deeper.

“Nope. I was buck naked,” Barbara said.

Megan sat up straighter. “Ma’am, I’d like you to look at my notes from her first two visits. I know I made a note to myself to remind Barbara about proper draping procedures during future visits. I had to insist that she stay under the sheet.”

Ms. Poplin pointed to something in her files and showed it to the woman seated next to her, who nodded. She looked up from her files and looked sternly at Barbara from over her reading glasses. “We do see that in the notes.”

“She could’ve written those notes last week for all we know,” Barbara complained. “She could’ve lied in there about all kinds of stuff.”

“Yes, that is always a possibility,” Ms. Poplin said.

Megan tensed. No. They were not going to believe Barbara. They couldn’t.

“She did say a few minutes ago that she liked my work up until our last visit,” Megan said, thinking fast. “She came back every week, week after week. That’s a lot of money to pay someone who’s making you uncomfortable. Why would she keep coming back if she didn’t like the way I draped her?”

“Ms. Fenhurst?”

“I didn’t say being naked made me
uncomfortable,
” Barbara groused. “I said I thought it was
inappropriate.
”

“So you do know the meaning of the word,” Megan snapped.

“Thank you,” Ms. Poplin said. “We’re going to deliberate on the information you’ve provided. When we’ve come to a decision—”

A siren interrupted her—the building’s fire alarm. One of the committee members flinched and pressed her hands to her ears.

Ms. Poplin glanced at her colleagues. “What should we do?”

“We should get the hell out of here,” Megan said. She grabbed her purse off the floor and hastened out the door without looking back. Fire alarms made her twitchy.

Kira was sitting in the reception area, watching the door to the conference room. Her face lit up when she saw her.