"You need to reach the students who want to be trial lawyers. Students who feel justice at gut level, like the students in my clinic. They'd love your seminar." Angus nodded. "Tell you what, I'll spread the word, and maybe you can stop by sometime and promote yourself?'
Yuck. Nat shuddered.
"Anyway, can I ask you a favor? I need your expertise."
"My expertise is legal history. Who are you suing? Julius Caesar?"
"You're funny."
You're high. Two male students walking in stared at Nat's mustache.
"You know how the clinic works. We give the students hands-on experience outside the classroom, through externship programs. One is at a local prison in Chester County. I'd like you to lecture there, with me."
"At a prison?"
It's safe. Minimum security. Inmates who take my class have to be selected, and most of em are only in for DUIs or pot possession."
Bingo. "What would I lecture on?"
"Tell 'em exactly what you told your class today. It was a great class." Angus sounded genuinely enthusiastic. "Tell 'em that true justice is tempered with mercy. That the Duke was wrong to bring Shylock to his knees. That law and justice are not always the same thing."
"But Shakespeare? To prisoners?"
"'Hath not a Jew eyes?'" Angus knit his furry blond brows, and his tone stiffened. "Maybe prisoners can relate to Shakespeare better than Ivy Leaguers can. Nobody knows the difference between law and justice better than prison inmates." He checked the clock. "I should get started. So, you free tomorrow morning?"
"It's tomorrow you're talking about?"
"One of my students got sick, and I need to fill that spot. I'd really love it if you came along. Please?" Angus slapped his hands together in mock prayer, and heads turned, one by one.
"I don't know." Nat tried to think of a way to say no. She wasn't teaching tomorrow and she couldn't lie. Faculty schedules were online.
"Please, Professor Natalie? I'm begging you." Suddenly Angus dropped to one knee and raised his hands in supplication. His students giggled and pointed, the whole room beginning to take notice, and Nat laughed, disarmed. It was fun and embarrassing, both at once.
"Okay, yes. Stop."
"Cool! Pick you up at nine." Angus popped up with a broad grin, and the students clapped and hooted with approval, which he seemed to absorb and reflect like the sun itself, beaming down at her. He soaked in the attention, and Nat could see that there were no failure spotlights in the life of Angus Holt.
She turned and fled.
Chapter 3
Nat shook off the cold night air, set the Whole Foods bag down on the mahogany console, and slipped out of her gloves and toggle coat. The big house radiated light and warmth, its elaborate crystal chandelier in megawatt blaze and probably the gas fireplace fake-burning, too. Flowered wallpaper shed never seen before covered the entrance hall, so fresh she could almost smell the paste. The Courtney Road house was her parents' most recent McMansion, and she had stopped counting at twelve. Greco Construction had custom-built all of them, starting with their first twin in Ocean City, N.J. As family fortunes increased, they'd sold and built bigger each time, and there was always a For Sale sign planted on the front lawns, permanent as an oak tree. Nat grew up thinking that their family name was Builders Own Home!
She hung up her coat in the hall closet, the hinges of its louvered doors still stiff, and she knew that even the tiny defect would not escape her father's punch list. The aroma of roasting filet mignon and baked potatoes wafted from the kitchen, mingling with a clove-and-orange room fragrance, her mother's signature Open-House spray. Tony Bennett sang in the background but was drowned out by boisterous laughter and a raucous argument; her boyfriend, father, and three brothers armchair-quarterbacking the Eagles. In the spring, they’d armchair-quarterback the Sixers, and in summer, they'd armchair-quarterback the Phillies. You could say they had a passion. Not for sports. For armchair-quarterbacking.
"No way!" came a voice from the great room. "You can't run a team that way, with a player thinking he runs the show. Coach runs the show. Management runs the show, calls the shots. Owner runs the show. Not a dumbass wide receiver."
Dad. Big John Greco, enunciating the standard management-rights line, not at all influenced by the fact that he ran a successful construction business and a family obsessed with football.
"Aw, come on, Dad! They never shoulda let him go! He was the best receiver in the league. They let too many good players get away. Started a long time ago, with Corey Simon and Ike!"
John Greco, Jr., still known as Junior. Junior was Operations Manager at Greco Construction and had been an All-American quarterback at Villanova, like Dad. He'd just missed the NFL draft, also like Dad, and was heir to the CEO throne, to be vacated when Dad retired, which was never.
Nat was just about to join them when Jelly, their huge Maine coon cat, ambled across the Oriental like a moving ottoman. He stopped and stretched, extending his front legs with their mop feet, then leaned forward sleepily and extended his back legs. Nat would never understand how he slept with this noise level. It was survival of the fittest chez Greco, even for the pets.
"Get over it! It was years ago now! They lost who they could afford to lose."
Tom Greco. Tom was the second son and had been an offensive lineman at Villanova until an ACL tear ended his football career. He'd graduated with a degree in accounting and was now the company CFO, which they said stood for Chief Fuck-Off. The joke was that nobody worked harder. In the world.
"Hey, Jellybelly." Nat bent down and scratched the cat, which shed named for the Jellicle cats in the Eliot poem. Gray wisps sprouted from his ears, his coat was dense and striped, and only his funky teeth gave away his age, which was sixteen. He had been her Christmas kitten, the perfect gift for a bookworm who loved to curl up with a new Nancy Drew, a waxed sleeve of Ritz crackers, and a glass of cold milk. From early on, she preferred reading to sports and had ended up warming the Greco bench. Not that she minded. There were worse things than being The Smart One.
"I AGREE WITH TOM! IT'S DONE AND DONE. GET OVER IT, JUNIOR! ALWAYS, WITH THE TO. THING. LET IT GO!"
Paul Greco. The third son and the baby of the family, he couldn't speak softer than three billion decibels, in case he didn't get enough attention. He'd excelled at high school football but didn't get enough playing time at Penn State, so was forced to settle for golf and a three handicap. He'd been a rabbit on the pro tour until he quit to become property acquisition jock at Greco.
"Funny how you don't hear from Rosenhaus anymore. I gotta admit, I miss the guy. Remember TO. at the podium with him and some reporter asked that great question? How funny was that? I'll never forget it. What'd he say?"
Hank Ballisteri. Nat's boyfriend of three years, a commercial realtor who did business with Greco Construction and who had impressed Big John enough to get invited to every family function, where he and Nat had met, as part of her father's master plan. Tonight was Hank's thirty-third birthday. She'd wanted to take him out alone, but he'd closed a big deal with her father and a client today, so it made sense to celebrate his birthday en famille. It reminded Nat of a poem about birthdays. She scratched Jelly, and while he purred, she tried to remember the poem. She couldn't hear herself think for the shouting. It sounded like they'd started celebrating early.
"'WHAT HAVE YOU DONE FOR YOUR CLIENT BESIDES GET HIM FIRED?'" the men yelled in unison, then burst into loud laughter. Jelly startled at the sound, curling his tail into a question mark, then skittered off like a monkey. Hank shouted, "Hey, stop, that's my birthday present! Gimme that! Hands off my stick!" They burst into new laughter, and the fight was on. "I WOULD NEVER TOUCH YOUR STICK, YOU LOSER! YOU COULDN'T PAY ME ENOUGH TO TOUCH YOUR STICK!"
Nat picked up her shopping bag and went through the sample-house living room, sinking into the dense burgundy carpet and following the noise to the great room. She crossed the threshold into a House & Garden version of country casual, except
for the horseplay between Hank and her brothers. The boys were fighting over a wooden cue stick, bumping the coffee table. All her brothers had her father's huge, heavy-boned frame and his thick, dark hair, deep brown eyes, and largish noses and lips, as if Big John had called all the genetic plays. The family resemblance was so strong their brawl looked like a fistfight among overgrown triplets.
"Hey, watch it!" Junior swung a cue stick at Paul and Tom, who grabbed the narrow end and struggled to wrest it back.
"I got dibs first game!" Tom called out, holding the cue stick until Hank wrestled it from him. The others jumped in, the four of them in silk ties and oxford shirts, making a corporate scrum and almost knocking over her mother as she walked past with an empty china platter.
"Paul, put your back into it!" Her father stuck out his tasseled loafer and almost tripped his youngest son, which was when Hank noticed Nat.
"Hi, babe!" he called from the melee. "We're gonna play pool with my new stick!"
"Happy Birthday, Hank." Nat waved. "Now you have to grow up. All of you."
"No, stop!" Tom shouted, as Junior broke free with the cue stick and ran for the door. Nat stepped aside at just the right time, from years of practice.
"That's mine!" Hank bolted after Junior, chased by Paul and Tom, an express train of flying ties.
"I'll take you all!" her father yelled, hustling to bring up the rear. At sixty, he was still quarterback-broad in a smooth blue shirt, Hermes tie, and dark pressed slacks. He had conventionally handsome features, round brown eyes with deep crow's-feet, and thinning hair a shade too dark to be completely credible. He ran past, trailing Aramis.
"Hi, Dad," Nat called out, but he had already gone. The room fell abruptly quiet, as if the life had gone out of it, leaving the women alone with Tony Bennett. Nat trailed her mother as she made her way back to the kitchen. Ivory-enameled cabinets lined the walls above a built-in plate holder and a tile backsplash in floral curlicues. "New tile, Ma?"
"It's an upgrade."
"Pretty."
"Did you get the cake?"
"Chocolate with red roses, and two kinds of cheesecake, plain and cherry." Nat picked up the Whole Foods bag, crossed to the glistening Sub-Zero, and made room for the bag, sliding it inside. "How can I help?"
"I'm fine. Table's almost set. I just need the napkins."
Nat folded the napkins, seven in all. "No girlfriends tonight?"
"The boys came straight from the settlement, so no. It's enough work with just us, believe me."
Nat felt a twinge. "I feel guilty that you're doing so much." Don't be silly. I was home all day. Your father didn't need me."
“Well, thanks." Nat came over to the granite counter, next to her mother. The former Diane Somers had been a flight attendant when she met John Greco in the first-class cabin of the now-defunct Eastern Airlines, and they were a match made in heaven, or at least, at 35,000 feet. Then, her mother had been tall, honey-blonde, and pageant-pretty. Today she was only more beautiful. She had azure eyes set off by photogenic crow's-feet, her nose was small and straight, and her mouth generous. She'd smoothed her hair back into a chic pony-tail, her makeup was perfect, and her forehead remained uncreased, though she'd never admit to Botox, even to Nat. Especially to Nat, who asked again, "You sure I can't help?"
"No, I enjoy it." Her mother layered beefsteak tomatoes on a plate, then began to cut a wet, spongy ball of mozzarella, in a routine Nat knew by heart, the way daughters always know their mother's go-to dishes.
"I gather that you guys gave Hank a new cue stick."
"Paul picked it out. It's got his initials on it."
"That was very nice of you."
"We're very nice people," her mother said defensively, and Nat let it go. As much as she loved her mother, she could never get close to her. Diane Somers Greco had transferred her awe of first-class businessmen to her family life, and when she'd called herself a "man's woman," Nat knew what she meant. That a daughter, born third, would always finish fourth.
"How've you been, Mom?"
"Not good." Her mother shook her head, her tone agitated. "I'm just sick about Paul."
"He makes me sick, too." Nat leaned against the counter, and her mother didn't laugh.
"He's got this cold and it won't go away. I'm afraid it's pneumonia, walking pneumonia." Her mother sliced the mozzarella, holding the cheese between clear-lacquered nails and expressing the slightest bit of water from it with her fingertips. "He was playing racquetball and he couldn't catch his breath."
"He was probably just running hard."
"I don't think that's all it is."
"So tell him to go to the doctor, get some antibiotics."
"He won't. He says he's fine." Her mother kept slicing, and whitish water leached from the mozzarella.
"I'm sure he'll be okay. Don't worry, Mom."
"How can I not worry? He was a preemie."
Twenty-six years ago. Nat let it go. She had long ago accepted that Paul was her mother's favorite, though she herself was the runt of the litter.
"I looked on WebMD, and it only made me more nervous. It's not good for people to know everything. I say, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing."
"A little knowledge is better than no knowledge, Mom. You just have to keep it in perspective."
Her mother layered the mozzarella ovals on the tomato plate, and Nat knew she'd said the wrong thing. A moment passed in which Tony Bennett had the world on a string, but she didn't. She tried to get back in the game.
"What does Dad say?"
"He says not to worry."
"Then he's right." Her father never worried; it wasn't the Greco way. He regarded every football injury as proof of the boys' toughness. He and her mother had run the Booster Club at the kids' high school, organized the awards dinners for the coaches, and used whatever house they lived in as the unofficial locker room. Everybody knew the Grecos. They weren't a family, they were a cult.
"Well, this should be a very nice dinner." Her mother chopped fresh basil and sprinkled the bright green strips on the platter, and Nat handed her the wooden grinder, knowing her mother would want fresh-ground peppercorn on top.
"Great job, Mom."
"Thanks, dear." Her mother lifted the platter and took it to the dining room table, an elongated cherry oval set with Villeroy & Boch china. Once back in the kitchen, she picked up where she had left off. "We're happy to do it. You know we love Hank."
Nat smelled what was coming, and it involved grandchildren. Time to change the subject. "Mom, guess where I'm going tomorrow?"
Suddenly a loud crash came from the living room, then the inevitable tinkle of glass, followed by cursing and laughing. The women's heads snapped around to the sound.
"On no," her mother said, already in motion toward the door. "What'd they break now?"
Just so it wasn't the cat. Nat followed on her heels.
At midnight, Nat and Hank got back to her apartment in Center City, where she undressed as she walked to the bathroom, finished there, and padded nude into her bedroom. The only illumination was a sliver of gray moonlight that slipped through the curtain and the halogen lamp on Hank's night table. They lent a soft glow to the room, with its pale blue walls, gray-blue rug, neat pine dresser, and an armoire that hid the TV. Over the brass bed hung a muted watercolor of a cat who looked like Jelly, sitting on a lemony table with his tail curled neatly over his front paws. It was signed and numbered. Nat had bought it in a downtown gallery, prima facie evidence of her having grown up. Books sat in stacks on both night tables, and Nat loved every inch of this room, especially when Hank slept over, which happened more often, of late. She crawled into bed next to him and pulled the blue flannel comforter up to her chin. It was too cold to be comfortably naked, but she owed him birthday sex.
She turned over on her side, propped herself up on her elbow, and eyed him as he dozed. His nose was strong and perfect, ending in flat lips, which she found very kissable. The bedside lamp picked up the shiny,
dark filaments of russet running through his brown hair. She stroked his hair gently, finding it silky to the touch. Hank had the best hair, which was completely wasted on him, since he mistakenly thought there were more important things in life. Like golf.
Nat smiled to herself. She saw Hank Ballisteri as the chocolate Lab of men; overgrown, active, and affable. A Penn State econ major and born salesman, Hank connected instantly with people, complementing her perfectly. She knew enough not to go for you-complete-me love, but she did enjoy knowing that she could delegate her social life to him, at least for the foreseeable future.
Her cold toes found his under the covers, and he wiggled back, their customary toe-hello. She leaned over and kissed him on his slightly oily cheek, since he never washed his face at night, and he shifted onto his back, smiled lazily, and opened his eyes, a rich, large brown.