were cool, the ice cream stand we hung out at was cool, and the country club was said to be very definitely uncool.
For an uncool place, it had some of the coolest things in it I had ever seen, and one of the coolest was Nicole. She was gorgeous, five foot eight, with curly black hair, bare shoulders sloping down from a perfect neck, and a smile that brightened up the entire room. But most importantly, most significantly, most amazingly, she had cleavage! Yes, actual cleavage! And she wore a dress that revealed it! In retrospect, there wasn't that much of it, but at that age, on that night, it felt like I was staring into the Lincoln Tunnel.
I almost choked on my tongue when we were introduced, but as the night wore on things became more comfortable. I regaled her with stories of my baseball prowess, and she told me about her trip through the Orient with her family. She had a slightly rebellious air about her, and a smile that said she realized how absurdly ostentatious these surroundings were, but that was tough, because she was damn well going to enjoy them. She was funny, smart-and she touched my arm when she talked.
I think we both knew from that night on that we were going to wind up together. School and family obligations conspired to keep us mostly apart over the next eight years, but we never lost touch. We'd even talk about our respective relationships, as if they were just passing, unthreatening fancies until we got back to the real thing. Each other.
When I was in my third year of law school it somehow simultaneously dawned on us that the time was right, and we started dating seriously. Less than ten months later we were married, followed by a wedding reception, the cost of which could have fed Guatemala for three months.
It seems too simplistic to say that we grew apart, that our respective lifestyles finally lost their capacity to blend together. But as near as I can tell, that's basically what happened, and when Nicole finally left me, the dominant feeling I was experiencing changed from sadness to relief.
But now she's telling me that it's good to be together, and I'm buying into it. I made a lifelong commitment to this woman, and that is what I'm trying to fulfill. What this world needs are more honorable, responsible people like me.
Now she has said that this feels right, and I raise my bottle of beer. “I'll drink to that. How's your father?”
“Very busy. They're still hassling over that crime bill … trying to pass it before the summer recess. But he's really happy we're working things out.”
A few days ago she said we were “trying” to work things out. I guess we must have succeeded while I wasn't paying attention.
“My father would have been just as happy. It must be a father thing.”
She nods as if that is sound wisdom. “Any luck with Nelson's mysterious money?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. You know, all those years I thought I married you for your money, and now it turns out you married me for mine.”
She laughs. “Twenty-two million dollars? To us Gants, that's tipping money.”
She's joking, but not that far off. Nicole comes from real money, money so old it was originally called wampum.
She leans forward seductively. It's a lean she has mastered. “But you rich men do excite me.”
I give her a sexy lean of my own, but I'm not quite as good at it. “When I stand on my wallet I'm six foot four.”
“What about when you're lying down?” she purrs.
We haven't had sex since she came back, so there's more excitement here than I remember. We're like two kids teasing each other, but both knowing where it will wind up.
“How about coming back to our place?” is my clever response. It seems to work pretty well, because the next thing I know we're back home, standing next to our bed, slowly undressing each other.
Tara's outside the room, pawing at the door. Nicole has always felt uncomfortable having Tara in the room when we have sex. Right now I don't even hear Tara's whimpering; Nicole has my undivided attention. This is not feeling like a husband-wife thing, and I can sense she's a little nervous. Join the club.
“Andy, I haven't been with anyone else since we separated.”
“I know,” I respond. “I've had you followed.”
I have this problem; I joke at inappropriate times. Also at appropriate times, though there don't seem to be that many of them anymore.
“What about you?” she asks. “Have you been with anyone?”
I nod, though she can't see me in the dark. “The Olympic girls’ volleyball team, Michelle Pfeiffer, the women's division of the Teamsters, the White sisters, Vanna, Betty, and Reggie-”
She interrupts, which is just as well, since there's no telling how long I would have babbled on. “I had forgotten that about you,” she says.
“What?”
“You never shut up.”
With that she prepares to shut me up, except for an occasional moan. She does a really good job of it, but hell, somebody had to.
I have a great night's sleep, which carries right through the usually effective wake-up call planted in my brain. I gulp down a cup of coffee and some M amp;M's and head for the office. I'm feeling good for the first time in a while; the idea of diving headlong into the Miller case is actually appealing.
I stop off at Cal Morris's newsstand, not for superstition purposes, but rather to read what the media is saying about Willie's prospects. For the time being they're buying the prosecution line about this being merely a technicality, and that the result will be the same the second time around. I know in my gut they're probably right, so I bypass my gut and make a mental note to meet with the press and push our point of view. That is, as soon as we come up with a point of view.
On the way into the office I'm stopped by Sofy, standing and waiting for me in front of her fruit stand. She hands me two cantaloupes, the second installment on her son's legal bills.
“Thank you,” I say. “You know, the best thing about being paid in cantaloupes is that they don't bounce.”
She doesn't come close to getting the joke. If a joke is told in a fruit stand and nobody gets it, did it make a sound?
As I enter the office, I see Laurie sitting there, waiting for me. The smell of annoyance is in the air.
“Good morning,” I cheerily volunteer. It doesn't get the response I hope for. Actually, it doesn't get any response.
I look at my watch. Uh, oh. “You're pissed off because I'm late.”
“Forty-five minutes late. Which wouldn't mean much if the meeting were called for three P.M. But since it was called for eight A.M., forty-five minutes is a very long time.”
“Sorry. I had a late night.” I can see Laurie react, but it's too late, the words have already left my mouth. Maybe I've said stupider things in my life, but I can't remember when. This isn't pouring gasoline on a fire, it's more like pouring freon on a frozen tundra.
Laurie, to her credit, doesn't say anything. Which means the ball is still in my court. “Okay … you're right … I'm a shit-head.”
“Let's not let that obvious fact interfere with our work, okay? And let's keep each of our personal lives personal.”
She's right, at least for now. The strain between us is not likely to go away, and eventually it will have to be dealt with. We both know that. But this is not the time, not with the Miller case staring us in the face. Edna is of course not in yet, so I make some coffee and we get right to work.
Laurie has spent the previous night reading the transcript of the first trial, which makes me even guiltier about how I spent the night. Her reaction is rather predictable.
“It's a disaster. Openand-shut,” she says.
This is Laurie's style. She's an optimist in life, a total pessimist in work. Not only does she assume that all clients are guilty, she assumes they are going to be found guilty as well. One would think it would then fall to me to be encouraging, to be a motivator, but it's really not necessary. Laurie is a total pro; she'll do the best that can be done for the client, despite her personal views.
