“Oh no?” Ethan deadpans. “Well, perhaps a variation on that theme. More subtle though. You just exerted slight pressure…and let him know that it is unacceptable to continue relations with his fiancée.”
“Well, anyway…it’s over,” I say, realizing that those two words lump me right in with a hoard of naïve women who say it’s over while praying it’s not, looking for any shred of hope, insisting that they only want closure when what they really want is that one last conversation disguised as seeking closure while they work to keep the door open for more. And the pathetic truth is I do want more. I wish I could undo the confrontation at the Talkhouse. I should not have said a word to Dex. I feel an ache of worry that he is going to stop seeing me altogether. He will probably decide that it’s not worth it, the situation is just way too complicated.
“It’s over, huh?” Ethan asks dubiously.
“Yes.”
“Bravo,” Ethan says in his finest English accent. “Way to take a stand.”
“So, anyway,” I say, as if it is easy for me to transition away from Dex.
“Yeah. So anyway. Are you coming to London the week of the Fourth?” he asks.
I had mentioned it as a possibility in a recent e-mail, before Dex and I had established our date. Now I don’t want to leave. Just in case things aren’t completely over. “Um, I doubt it. I already committed to the Hamptons,” I say.
“Won’t Dex be there?”
“Yes, but I still want to get my money’s worth out of the share.”
“Right. Uh-huh.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Okay,” he says, changing his tone. “But are you ever going to visit me? You blew me off after your bar exam too. Because of that Nate guy.”
“I will visit. I promise. Maybe in September.”
“Okay…But the Fourth would have been fun.”
“It’s not even a holiday there,” I say.
“Yeah. It’s funny the way the Brits don’t celebrate our independence from them…But it’s a holiday in my heart, Rachel.”
I laugh and tell him that I’ll look into flights for the fall.
“All right. I’ll e-mail you my free weekends—all my deets.”
He knows I hate the word “deets.” Just as I hate people who make a “rez” for dinner. Or ask you to get back to them “ASAP.” And Ethan’s favorite, designed especially to annoy me—“YOYO,” i.e., “you’re on your own.”
I smile. “Sounds fab.”
“Super then.”
My phone rings as soon as I hang up with Ethan. Les’s name shows up on my screen. I consider not picking up but have learned that avoidance techniques don’t work well at a law firm. It only makes partners more irritable when you finally do talk.
“How did you serve the IXP papers?” he barks into the phone as soon as I say hello. Les always skips the pleasantries.
“What do you mean?”
“Your mode of service. By mail? By hand?”
I nailed it to his cottage door, jackass, I think, remembering the antiquated mode of service tested by the New York bar.
“By mail,” I say, glancing down at my well-worn copy of the New York Rules of Civil Procedure.
“Great. Fucking great,” he says in his normal snide tone.
“What?”
“What? What?” he shouts into the phone. I pull the receiver away from my ear but now I hear his voice in stereo, filling the hall. “You fucked up! That’s what! The papers needed to go by hand! Didn’t you bother to read the Court’s order?”
I scan the letter from the judge. Damn, he is right.
“You’re right,” I say solemnly. He hates excuses and I have none anyway. “I screwed up.”
“What are you, a goddamn first-year associate?”
I stare at my desk. He knows full well that I’m a fifth-year.
“I mean, Christ, Rachel, this is malpractice,” he growls. “You’re gonna get this firm sued and yourself fired if you don’t get your head out of your ass.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, just as I remember that he hates you that much more when you’re sorry.
“Don’t be sorry! Fix the shit!” He hangs up on me. I don’t believe Les has ever finished a conversation with a proper good-bye, even when he’s in a decent mood.
No, I’m not a first-year, asshole. Thus your tirade has no effect. Go ahead, fire me. Who cares? I think back to when I first started working at the firm. A partner would raise his eyebrows, and it would send me back to my office with tears welling, panic mounting over my job security or at the very least my yearly evaluation. Over the years my skin has thickened somewhat, and at this moment, I don’t care at all. I have bigger issues than this firm and my career as a lawyer. No, scratch the word “career.” Careers are for people who wish to advance. I only want to survive, draw a paycheck. This is merely a job. I can take or leave this place. I start to imagine quitting and following my yet-to-be-determined passion. I could tell myself that although I lacked a meaningful, intense relationship, I had my work.
I call opposing counsel, a reasonable midfortyish associate with a minor speech impediment who must have been passed over for partner at his firm. I tell him that our papers were served incorrectly, that I would re-serve them by hand but they would arrive a day late. He interrupts me with a pleasant chuckle and says with a lisp that it is not a problem, that of course he wouldn’t challenge service. I bet he hates his job as much as I do. If he liked it, he’d be all over this lapse like white on rice. Les would have a field day if the other side served a day late.
I send Les an e-mail message, one brief sentence: “Opposing counsel says they’re fine with receiving papers by hand today.” That will show him. I can be as curt and surly as the next guy.
Around one-thirty, after I have printed a new set of papers and turned them over to our courier for delivery, Hillary comes to my office and asks if I have lunch plans.
“No plans. You want to go?”
“Yeah. Can we go somewhere nice? Get a good meal? Steak or Italian?”
I smile and nod, retrieving my purse from under my desk. Hillary could eat a big lunch every day, but I get too sleepy in the afternoon. Once, after ordering a hot open-face turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes and green beans, I actually took the subway home for an afternoon nap. I returned to six voice-mail messages, including a ranting one from Les. That had been my last nap, unless you count the times I turn my chair to the window and balance a paper in my lap. The technique is foolproof—if someone barges in, it just looks as if you’re reading. I sling my purse over my shoulder as Kenny, our internal messenger from the mailroom, peeks around my half-open door.
“Hey, Kenny, come on in.”
“Ra-chelle.” He says my name in a French accent. “These are for you.” He smirks as he produces a glass vase filled with red roses. A lot of roses. More than a dozen. More like two dozen, although I don’t count. Yet.
“Holy shit!” Hillary’s eyes are wide. I can tell that it takes tremendous effort for her not to grab the card.
“Where should I put ’em?” Kenny asks.
I clear a spot on my desk and point. “Here’s fine.”
Kenny shakes his wrists, exaggerating the weight of the vase, whistles, and says, “Woo-hoo, Rachel. Someone’s diggin’ you.”
I wave my hand at him, but there is no way to deny that these are from anyone other than a guy with romantic interest. If they weren’t red roses, I could pawn them off on some familial occasion, tell them it was some special day for me or that my parents are aware of my service error and are trying to comfort me. But these are not only roses, they are red roses. And bountiful. Most certainly not from a relative.
Kenny leaves after making one final remark about the roses costing someone some serious jack. I try to head out the door after him, but there is no chance that we are going anywhere until Hillary gets full information.
“Who are they from?”
I shrug. “I have no clue.?
??
“Aren’t you going to read the card?”
I am afraid to read it. They have to be from Dex—and what if he signed his name? It is too risky.
“I know who they’re from,” I say.
“Who?”
“Marcus.” He is the only other possibility.
“Marcus? You guys barely hung out at all this weekend. What’s the deal? Are you holding back on me? You better not be holding back on me!”
I shush her, tell her that I don’t want everybody at the firm knowing my business.
“Okay, well then, tell me. What does the card say?” She is in interrogation mode. For as much as she hates the firm, she is one tough litigator.
I know I can’t get out of reading the card. Besides, I, too, am dying to know what it says. I pluck the white envelope out of the plastic fork in the vase, open it very slowly as my mind races to make up a story about Marcus. I slide the card out and read the two sentences silently: I AM SO SORRY. PLEASE SEE ME TONIGHT. It is written in Dexter’s all-capitals handwriting, which means he had to go to the flower store in person. Even better. He did not sign his name, probably imagining a scenario like this one. My heart is racing, but I try to avoid a full-on grin in front of Hillary. The roses thrill me. The note thrills me even more. I know I will not refuse his invitation. I will be seeing him tonight, even though I am more afraid than ever of getting hurt. I lick my lips and try to appear composed. “Yeah, from Marcus,” I say.
Hillary stares at me. “Let me see,” she says, grabbing for the card.
I pull it out of her reach and slip it into my purse. “It just says he’s thinking of me.”
She pushes her hair behind her ears and asks suspiciously, “Have you been on more than that one date? What’s the full story?”
I sigh and head into the hallway, fully prepared to sell out poor Marcus. “Okay, we had a date last week that I didn’t tell you about,” I start, as we walk toward the elevator. “And, um, he told me his feelings were growing…”
“He said that?”
“Something like that. Yeah.”
She digests this. “And what did you say?”
“I told him I wasn’t sure how I felt and, um, I thought we should keep things low-key over the weekend.”
Frieda from accounting darts into the elevator after us. I hope that Hillary will save further interrogation for after our elevator ride, but no, she continues as the doors close. “Did you guys hook up?”
I nod so that Frieda, standing with her back to us, won’t know my business. I would have said no, but red roses would make less sense had there been no hook-up.
“But you didn’t sleep together, did you?” At least she whispers this.
“No,” I say, and then give her a look to be quiet.
The elevator doors open, and Frieda scurries on her way.
“So? Tell me more,” Hillary says.
“It was pretty minor stuff. C’mon, Hill. You’re relentless!”
“Well, if you’d told me the entire story up front, I wouldn’t need to be relentless.” Her face looks trusting again. I am out of the woods.
We talk about other things on our short walk to Second Avenue. But then, over steak at Palm Too, she says, “Remember when you dropped that beer on Saturday night, while you and Dex were talking?”
“When?” I ask, feeling panicked.
“You know, when you were talking, and I came up—right at the end of the evening?”
“Oh yeah. I guess. What about it?” I make my face as blank as possible.
“What was going on? Why was Dex so upset?”
“He was upset? I don’t remember.” I look at the ceiling, wrinkle my forehead. “I don’t think he was upset. Why do you ask?”
When trapped, answering a question with a question is always a sound tactic.
“No reason. It just seemed odd, is all.”
“Odd?”
“I don’t know. It’s crazy…”
“What?”
“It’s crazy, but…you guys looked like a couple.”
I laugh nervously. “That is crazy!”
“I know. But as I was watching you two talk, I thought to myself that you would be way better with Dex. You know, better than he is with Darcy.”
“Oh, come on,” I say. More nervous laughter. “They look great together.”
“Sure. Yes. They have all of that surface stuff. But something about them doesn’t fit.” She brings her water glass to her lips and inspects me over it.
Keep your day job, Hillary.
I tell her she is nuts, even though I love what she has just told me. I want to ask her why she thinks this. Because we both went to law school? Because we have some shared trait—more depth or dignity than Darcy? But I say nothing more, because it’s always wise to say as little as possible when you’re guilty.
Les barges into my office after lunch to ask me about another matter for the same client. I have figured out over the years that this is his awkward way of apologizing. He only comes by my office after an explosion, like the one this morning.
I swivel in my chair and give him the update. “I’ve checked all of the cases in New York. And federal cases too.”
“Okay. But keep in mind that our fact pattern is unique,” Les says. “I’m not sure the Court will care much about precedent.”
“I know that. But as far as I can tell, the general holding we rely upon in Section One of our brief is still good law. So that’s a good first step.”
So there.
“Well, make sure you check case law in other jurisdictions too,” he says. “We need to anticipate all of their arguments.”
“Yup,” I say.
As he turns to leave, he says over his shoulder, “Nice roses.”
I am stunned. Les and I do not make small talk, and he has never commented on anything other than my work, not even a “How was your weekend?” on a Monday morning, or a “Cold enough out there for you?” when we ride the elevator together on a snowy day.
Maybe two dozen red roses make me seem more interesting. I am more interesting, I think. This affair has given me a new dimension.
I am shutting down my computer, about to leave work, with plans to see Dexter. We have not yet spoken, only traded a series of conciliatory messages, including one from me thanking him for the beautiful flowers.
Hillary appears in my doorway, on her way out. “You’re leaving now too?”
“Yeah,” I say, wishing I had slipped out ahead of her. She often asks me if I want to get a drink after work, even on Mondays, which virtually everybody else considers the only stay-in night of the week. She isn’t so much a party girl, like Darcy, she just isn’t one to sit home and do nothing.
Sure enough, she asks if I want to grab a margarita at Tequilaville, our favorite place near work despite—or maybe because of—the stale chips and touristy crowd. It is always a welcome escape from the predictable New York scene.
I say no, I can’t.
Of course she wants a reason. Every reason I think of she can and will refute: I’m tired (c’mon, one drink?), I have to go the gym (blow it off!), I’m cutting back on alcohol (a blank, incredulous stare). So I tell her that I have a date. Her face lights up. “So ole Marky Mark’s flowers worked their magic, huh?”
“You got me,” I say, glancing at my watch for good measure.
“Where are you going? Or are you staying in?”
I tell her we’re going out.
“Where?”
“Nobu,” I say, because I ate there recently.
“Nobu on a Monday night, huh? He does dig you.”
I regret my choice; I should have gone for the no-name neighborhood Italian restaurant.
“If the date ends before two, call me and give me the scoop,” she says.
“Sure thing,” I say.
I go home forgetting all about Marcus and Hillary.
“Thank you so much for seeing me,” Dex says, as I open the door. He is wearing a dark suit an
d white shirt. His tie is removed, likely stuffed into his briefcase, which he puts on the floor right inside my door. His eyes are tired. “I didn’t think you would.”
I never considered not seeing him. I tell him this, realizing that it might erode my power. I don’t care. It is the truth.
Both of us begin to apologize, moving toward each other awkwardly, self-consciously. He takes one of my hands in his, squeezes it. His touch is both soothing and electrifying. “I’m so sorry for everything,” he says slowly.
I wonder if he knows to be sorry about the beach too, if that is included in “everything.” I have replayed that scene over and over, mostly in sepia, like Don Henley’s “Boys of Summer” video. I blink, squeezing the images out of my mind. I want to make up. I want to move on.
“I’m sorry too,” I say. I take his other hand, but there is still much space between us. Enough to fit another person or two.
“You have no reason to be sorry.”
“Yes I do. I had no right to be angry at you. I was so out of line…We weren’t going to discuss anything until after July Fourth. That was the deal…”
“It’s not fair to you,” he says. “It’s a fucked-up deal.”
“I am fine with the way things are,” I say. It’s not exactly true, but I am afraid of losing him if I ask for more. Of course, I am terrified of truly being with him too.
“I need to tell you about that afternoon with Darcy,” he says.
I know he is talking about the shower episode, and I can’t bear to hear it. The sepia beach frolic is one thing, the up-close and color porn scene is another. I don’t want a single detail from his perspective. “Please don’t,” I say. “You really don’t have to explain.”
“It’s just that…I want you to know that she initiated it…Truly…I’ve been avoiding it for so long, and I just couldn’t get out of it.” His face twitches, a mask of guilty discomfort.
“You do not have to explain,” I say again, more firmly. “She’s your fiancée.”
He nods, looking relieved.
“You know when the two of you were on the beach?” I ask quietly, surprising myself by bringing it up.
“Yeah,” he says knowingly, and then looks down. “When I came back up to the towels, I knew. I knew you were upset.”