For someone capable of intricate subterfuge in the courtroom, he was a terrible liar in the kitchen.
A minute later, he removed the ciabatta from the grill, added the prosciutto and a few drops more oil. She took a bite, let the flavors envelop her tongue.
“Oh, that is so wonderful.”
At the same time, Victoria felt guilty. She should have been at Bruce's an hour ago. What would he say if he knew she was wolfing down a piece of meat?
“Animal flesh! You ate animal flesh?”
Okay, Bruce could be a little dogmatic, she thought. A little controlling, if you got right down to it.
“Don't fill up on the appetizers,” Steve said. “You're invited for dinner.”
“Sorry, can't.”
“Linguine with shrimp and scallops in a puttanesca sauce.”
“Ooh. With anchovies?”
“And capers and olives.”
“Sounds great, but I promised Bruce…”
“Hey, no problem.”
But she could see the disappointment in his eyes. “Bruce is so worried about the cold front. Freeze is supposed to hit tomorrow.” Embarrassed now. Like she owed Solomon a reason why she was going to her fiance's house.
“I understand. No big deal.”
She used a napkin to wipe all traces of the prosciutto from her lips. She'd pop a couple Tic Tacs before kissing Bruce. “You gonna be okay?”
“Actually, I'm having a personal crisis. I don't know what to get you for a wedding present.”
“Ri-ght.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Guacamole, the couple that has everything.”
“Are you getting passive-aggressive on me?”
“I was shooting for just aggressive.”
“I'm worried about you, sandwich man.”
“It's not about me.” He made a show out of slicing fresh figs to decorate the plate of bruschetta. “You shouldn't become a real estate lawyer.”
“I'll take it under advisement.” Such a baby, she thought. Why didn't he just say it: Don't marry Bruce. How did Steve ever score all those runs if he was so afraid of failure? Or was stealing home easier than stealing a heart?
“Glass of wine before you go?” he said. “There's a nice Chardonnay in the fridge.”
She opened the refrigerator, spotted a bottle, and read aloud. “‘Arnaud Ente Puligny Montrachet Les Referts.' Golly, Solly. That's good stuff. You surprise me.”
“I have a client who brings it in from France.”
“A wine importer. Great client.”
“More like a longshoreman at the Port of Miami.”
“So it's stolen?”
“Technically, lost in transit.”
She pulled out the bottle and saw something else behind it. An unopened container of coleslaw and a sweet potato pie, both from Cadillac's lunch wagon. She checked the date stamp on the coleslaw container.
Made today!
Steve had told her he didn't have time to see Cadillac. Why would he lie? She tried to think like Solomon, wend her way down the serpentine path he walked.
Because he's planning something illegal.
She closed the refrigerator, found a corkscrew in a drawer, and went to work on the bottle. “That rule of yours, the one about telling your lawyer the truth…”
“What about it?”
“I'm your lawyer. What are you cooking up with the cook?”
“Cadillac? Nothing.”
“Not buying it, Solomon.”
“You're just going to have to trust me on this.”
“Problem is, I don't. Look, I want to win, but I'd prefer not to be disbarred in the process.”
“Which is why you're better off not knowing everything.”
Dammit. Does he really expect me to look the other way?
“All I'm doing is leveling the playing field,” he continued.
“With a rake? Or a bulldozer?”
“C'mon, ease up, Victoria.”
“You c'mon. You can't hide things from me. I won't put up with it.”
Just then, Bobby walked into the kitchen. She'd have to grill Solomon later.
“Hey, guys,” Bobby said, heading for the counter and picking up a slice of prosciutto. He was wearing his regular uniform, baggy shorts and a Miami Heat T-shirt with a flaming basketball dropping through a hoop.
“You were supposed to be back before dark,” Steve said.
“I'm not a baby,” Bobby said.
Victoria popped the cork on the wine bottle. “Bobby, you should have a sweater on. It's cold out.”
“Only girls wear sweaters.”
“Listen to Victoria, kiddo,” Steve said, running water over a colander filled with fresh shrimp. “Where you been?”
“Riding my bike.”
“Without a helmet?”
“When you were a kid, did you wear a helmet?”
“Objection, irrelevant,” Steve said.
“Sustained.” Victoria poured two glasses of wine. “Wear your helmet, Bobby.”
“Jeez, why are you two ganging up on me?”
“Because we love you,” Victoria said.
She had just astonished herself. Blurting it out like that.
We love you?
As if they were a couple. She put down the wineglass. “I've got to go. See you tomorrow, guys.”
“See you,” Bobby said.
She slipped into a tailor-cut black leather jacket. “Steve, we'll work on the poem tomorrow, okay?”
“What poem?” Bobby asked.
“You really believe Katrina doesn't know what it means?” Steve asked her.
“Absolutely. She's not real strong on allegory and metaphor.”
“What poem!” Bobby demanded.
Steve took a knife and started deveining the shrimp. “Something Barksdale wrote. Doesn't concern you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I'm not supposed to get you involved in my cases.”
“Little late for that, Uncle Steve.”
Steve glanced at Victoria, who shrugged her okay.
Then he recited:
“Hide a few contretemps Defer a competent wish Cement a spit-fed whore.”
“Cool,” Bobby said. “Each line has nineteen letters.”
“I didn't notice.”
“Then I guess you didn't notice they're all the same letters.”
“What!” Steve was stunned. “You're saying it's an anagram?”
“Duh,” Bobby said, grabbing another piece of prosciutto.
“Bobby, what else can the letters be arranged to say?” Victoria asked urgently.
Bobby made a show out of it, wrinkling his forehead, closing his eyes: “Lots of things. ‘Ferment a cowhide
