have snorted, and every salesman on the force
would have guffawed. Even Paul Chapman might have managed a wry smile.
A real laugh had been beyond him for several months--ever since he
asked Lucilla confidently, "Will you marry me?" and she answered, "I'm
sorry, Paul--thanks, but no thanks."

Not that seeing a psychiatrist was anything to laugh at, in itself. After
all, the year was 1962, and there were almost as many serious articles
about mental health as there were cartoons about psychoanalysts, even in
the magazines that specialized in poking fun. In certain cities--including
Los Angeles--and certain industries--especially advertising--"I have an
appointment with my psychiatrist" was a perfectly acceptable excuse for
leaving work early. The idea of a secretary employed by almost the largest
advertising firm in one of the best-known suburbs in the sprawling City of
the Angels doing so should not, therefore, have seemed particularly odd.
Not would it have, if the person involved had been anyone at all except
Lucilla Brown.

The idea that she might need aid of any kind, particularly
psychiatric, was ridiculous. She had been born twenty-two years
earlier in undisputed possession of a sizable silver spoon--and she
was, in addition, bright, beautiful, and charming, with 20/20 vision,
perfect teeth, a father and mother who adored her, friends who did
likewise ... and the kind of luck you'd have to see to believe. Other
people entered contests--Lucilla won them. Other people drove five
miles over the legal speed limit and got caught doing it--Lucilla
out-distanced them, but fortuitously slowed down just before the
highway patrol appeared from nowhere. Other people waited in the wrong
line at the bank while the woman ahead of them learned how to roll
pennies--Lucilla was always in the line that moved right up to the
teller's window.

"Lucky" was not, in other words, just a happenstance abbreviation of
"Lucilla"--it was an exceedingly apt nickname. And Lucky Brown's
co-workers would have been quite justified in laughing at the very
idea of her being unhappy enough about anything to spend three
precious hours a week stretched out on a brown leather couch staring
miserably at a pale blue ceiling and fumbling for words that refused
to come. There were a good many days when Lucilla felt like laughing
at the idea herself. And there were other days when she didn't even
feel like smiling.

Wednesday, the 25th of July, was one of