“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Zack puts in punishing hours. These days the only way we can manage time together is if I meet him at the fitness centre in his apartment building.”
“That sounds wholesome.”
“And necessary,” I said. “Zack’s in that wheelchair eighteen hours a day. There are times when he’s in a lot of pain. Exercise helps, so we work out and afterwards we wipe the sweat off one another and go for ice cream.”
“Very domestic.”
“We have a lot of fun together. I just wish everyone who draws breath didn’t feel compelled to warn me against him.”
“They’re trying to protect you, Jo. Zachary Shreve is the lawyer of choice for the rich and dodgy, and he’s got a sensational track record. Guilty or not, he gets them off. I guess your friends just thought you’d end up with someone a little more like …” Ed threw his hands up in frustration.
“A little more like the gent in the Werther’s ad,” I said. “Sitting in his sweater coat, chatting with his grandson about the tradition of candy?”
Ed chuckled. “Hard to imagine Zack doing that.”
“You know him?”
“We’ve met. He came to my senior journalism seminar once. He was riveting. He talked about criminal law as a prize fight.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. In his office, he has an autographed photo of Muhammad Ali in his moment of triumph over Sonny Liston.”
“May 25, 1965,” Ed said.
“Good Lord. How did you know that?”
Ed sniffed theatrically. “Being gay doesn’t cut me off from the manly arts. And the parallel Zack drew between the ring and the courtroom made sense. He said that in boxing, for every bout that ends with a knockout punch, there are ninety-nine decided on feints and small, well-placed blows. According to him, it’s the same in a courtroom.”
“ ‘Float like a butterfly. Sting like a bee.’ ”
“Zack’s quote from Ali was less poetic. ‘It’s just a job. Grass grows, birds fly, waves pound the sand. I beat people up.’ ”
“That’s succinct.”
“And menacing. Of course, the kids loved your boyfriend.”
“But you didn’t.”
“To be frank, I found him chilling. I had a sense that if he was in the middle of a trial and someone told him he had to swap cases with the Crown, he’d keep arguing without missing a beat.”
“That could be seen as the mark of the professional,” I said.
“It could,” Ed agreed. “It could also be seen as the mark of a hired gun. Jo, your new friend moves in dangerous circles.”
It was a rumour I’d heard before, and I didn’t attempt to hide the asperity in my voice. “Zack doesn’t ‘move in dangerous circles,’ Ed. He defends people who find themselves in dangerous circumstances. There’s a distinction.”
Ed sighed heavily. “Now I’ve hurt your feelings.” He placed a plump, perfectly tended hand on mine. “I know I’m like a mother hen with you. It’s just that, in my opinion, you deserve the best.”
I covered Ed’s hand with my own. “I’ve found it,” I said. “Now let’s talk about Thanksgiving.”
“Still adept at steering the conversation back into safe harbours, I see. So, are you having a houseful?”
“Actually, a couple of houses full,” I said. “The granddaughters will be there as will all the kids, except Angus and his girlfriend, Leah. Leah’s aunt, the famous Slava, is taking them to New York to see a performance of
Ed’s eyes widened. “The only thing more unlikely than Nixon in China is Angus at the opera. Anyway, good for Slava. Angus needs to learn that not all of life’s pleasures involve an athletic supporter.”
I laughed. “Couldn’t agree with you more. But he and Leah will be missed. We’re going out to the lake.”
“With the new beau?”
“He owns the cottage – or at least one of them. How about you?”
“Barry and I have been invited to dine with friends. For the first time in my adult life, I’m not cooking a turkey.”
“Freedom,” I said.
“But no leftovers.” Ed’s moon face registered genuine regret. “Kris Kristofferson was right. Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose.”
When I went into the Faculty Club kitchen to pick up my order, I asked Terry, the cook, to add two slices of pumpkin cheesecake. Then, bag lunches in hand, I headed off to meet my Prince of Darkness.
The offices of Falconer, Shreve, Altieri, and Wainberg occupied restored twin heritage houses in the city centre. Surrounded by numbingly generic apartment buildings and shops catering to those who yearned to learn the secrets of stained-glass making or Wicca or iridology, the Falconer Shreve offices had the starchy charm of genteel sisters growing old together in a world that had passed them by. Both buildings had well-tended lawns and round iron
