Читать книгу Unconditionally Mine - Nadine Gonzalez - Страница 10
ОглавлениеFive months later...
Jon had expected nothing until she walked in. Then, suddenly, his morning burst open with possibilities. After a glance around the auditorium, she picked a seat near him. Was it coincidence or the might of his will? He watched her drop her massive purse on one of the three empty seats between them, effectively erecting a wall. She crossed her golden-brown legs and went about the careful business of removing her sunglasses. Her profile was partially obstructed by a cloud of reddish-brownish curls flowing past her shoulders, but he made out the fringe of her lashes, the upward curve of her nose and a carefully drawn mouth.
It was going to be a lovely day.
“Please rise for Judge Antoine Roland.”
Jon rose. He couldn’t shake creeping déjà vu. Had they met before and where?
Judge Roland welcomed the drowsy assembly to the Miami-Dade County jury pool. After a reminder of the importance of jury duty in the great scheme of American democracy, he led the assembly in reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. When he was done, some applauded—but not too many. The judge exited the auditorium as solemnly as he had entered. With that over, the oddly familiar woman sat and mumbled, “Let’s get this over with.”
He took it as an opening. “That’s the spirit.”
She looked his way, as if seeing him for the first time. Another announcement stopped him from introducing himself.
“Please fill out the jury questionnaire as best you can,” a clerk said through the piercing feedback of a microphone. “Don’t lose it. You’ll have to hand it to the bailiff when you’re called. And, if you’re eligible, don’t forget to request a reimbursement form. It’s only fifteen dollars, but times are hard. In the meantime, enjoy the movie. Julia Roberts—she’s always fun. The snack bar is open. Plus, there’s the quiet room if you prefer to read. All in all, it’s going to be a long day, folks! So why not make a friend?”
She immediately shot to her feet. Jon figured he’d scared her away, but she only went as far as the front desk to request the forms. Then for five minutes or so, she sat quietly, brows drawn, filling in each document using a pen retrieved from the depths of her bottomless purse. It was a fountain pen with some weight to it. The ink was a brilliant indigo blue. When she was done, she carefully replaced the pen’s cap, and he noticed her fingers, long and slim with deep red lacquered nails.
She turned in one form, kept the other, returned to her seat and folded those beautiful hands on her lap. Without looking at him, she said, “You’re nosy.”
“Observant,” he said. “And so are you, but you’re better at it.”
She swiveled in her seat and studied him, her wide brown eyes taking him apart and stitching him back together. He waited, counting the seconds for her to draw her conclusions. Women either loved him or hated him. There was never any middle ground. If she fell into the wrong camp, he had ways to drag her across the line.
Her eyes narrowed. “Have we...?”
“Slept together?” he asked. “I don’t think so. I would’ve remembered.”
If he was hoping to rattle her, it didn’t work.
“I remember you,” she said drily.
There was little evidence that the memory was a pleasant one.
“I knew we’d met before,” he said. “Now clue me in. It’s been driving me crazy.”
She reached into her purse for earbuds and plugged them into her phone. “Sorry. Not trying to be rude, but all I want is to get through jury duty in peace.”
“You heard the clerk. Let’s be friends. My name is Jon—in case you’d forgotten.”
“I have enough friends.”
“Your friends are not like me.” He got up and buttoned his suit jacket. “I’ll get us coffee. Then you can tell me the story of us.”
She surprised him by rising to her feet. Even on impressively high heels—the sexiest pumps he’d seen in a while—she only reached his chin. “I can get my own coffee.”
“Let’s each get our own coffee together,” he proposed. “My treat.”
She grunted and took the lead. He happily followed, feeling like a winner. In a room full of dull and disgruntled people, she had brought light and something else that he needed: a challenge. Ten minutes in, he didn’t know her name or their shared history. He was going to have to work for it.
The snack bar offered Cuban coffee, Cuban toast, Cuban breakfast pastries and a Cuban breakfast special priced at $3.99. While they waited in line, he asked her what she’d like.
“Coffee with lots of milk. But don’t worry. I’ll order.”
“I’m not worried.”
The woman at the register took one look at him and made a suggestion. “American coffee?”
“No,” he said. “Un cortadito y un café con leche bien claro.”
He paid and stuffed a five-dollar bill in the tip jar. She watched him with an amused smile.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Do you really speak Spanish? Or just know how to order coffee?”
He wanted to stay on topic. “You were about to tell me how we met.”
“No, I wasn’t,” she said. “If you can’t remember, it’s best to leave it in the past.”
“Who said that? Aristotle?”
The cashier tapped on the glass partition to get his attention. Their order was ready. Jon grabbed both cups and held hers up and out of reach. “Here you go...” He gave her a chance to fill in the blank.
She folded her arms across her chest, her generous chest. “My name is Sofia.”
The name didn’t ring any bells.
“Nice to meet you again, Sofia.” He handed over her coffee. “Should we check out the quiet room?”
“Too much quiet and I’ll start crying,” she said wearily. “Let’s just find a place to sit.”
Slot machines in Vegas weren’t as loud as those going off in his mind.
She led him to the far end of the auditorium to an empty row of chairs under a window. Sunlight exposed the dust in the air, like so many microscopic angels. They sat closer this time, shoulders touching, and he wondered what she’d have to cry about. Instead, he asked why she’d filled out a wage reimbursement form.
She shot him a look. Her brown eyes sparkled in the sunlight. She was very lovely.
“You are observant,” she said.
“We’ve established that.” It was no mystery. She’d filled out two forms and he’d filled only one.
“My time is worth money. That’s why. Not that it’s your business.”
“We’re talking fifteen dollars for an eight-hour day, right? You’ve got to be worth more than that.”
He was aware that he sounded like an elitist ass. Fifteen dollars was plenty for anyone who needed it. As the clerk had said, times were hard. But her sunglasses were Tom Ford, and that enormous purse was Louis Vuitton.
“I’m self-employed,” she said. “And to be honest, I’ve got a couple of toll violations. The state of Florida might as well pay for them.”
He laughed. She was a hustler. He could fall in love with this girl.
“You know what?” she snapped. “I hope you get stuck in jury duty all week.”
“Not going to happen. They won’t pick me.”
“Why not?” She took a sip of coffee. “Are you a felon? If you tell them, they’ll let you go home. It’s unfortunate, but it’s the law.”
Jon carefully lifted the lid of his mini Styrofoam cup and blew on the frothy surface. “Do I look like a felon?”
“Honestly?”
Jon had no illusions. His bulk intimidated some. His weathered face didn’t hide that he’d been punched more than a few times. An ex once told him that his expensive clothes only sharpened his rough edges. He gestured to the form lying flat on her lap. “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”
A typical jury questionnaire had more information than any online dating profile, and Jon liked to have all the facts up front.
She brought her cup to her lips to hide a smile. “I haven’t fallen for that since ever.”
“You can trust me,” he said.
“Before coffee I don’t trust my own mother,” she said.
He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his form, folded in squares. She hesitated, then snatched it from his hands. He took note of the things she chose to read.
“Jonathan Gunther. Thirty-two. Single. No kids. Attorney, criminal defense...”
She stopped reading and glanced up at him.
“They never pick lawyers,” he said with a wink. “We can turn a shoplifting case into a constitutional crisis.”
“Criminal defense?”
“Is that going to be a problem?” he asked. “I won’t bring my clients home.”
“You’re the problem,” she said with a smile.
That smile could light up the world, Jon thought. “Your turn.”
She handed over her form, but he didn’t take it. “Why don’t you tell me what’s there?”
She pressed her lips together. “Let’s see... Sofia Silva. Twenty-nine. Event planner.”
“A party girl?” he asked.
“I’m an entrepreneur, an award-winning small business owner.” She frowned. “You have a strange way of making friends.”
“I thought you had enough friends. I put us on another track.”
“Don’t. You’re wasting your time.”
“Why?” he asked. “Married? Kids?”
She read from the questionnaire as if she’d forgotten what she’d written. He knew it was all to avoid making eye contact. “No kids—yet. One significant other.”
Jon took another sip of coffee. Normally, this would be his cue to back off. But she’d stirred things up, and there was no quick way to calm those things down.
The clerk assembled a panel, calling out numbers like lottery picks. One by one, those selected gathered their things and stumbled out of the room. The room fell silent again with Julia Roberts’s laughter for pleasant background noise.
“Why defend criminals?” she asked.
“Criminals are just people who’ve made bad choices.”
“Or they’re selfish and stupid people with complete disregard for others.”
“Callous disregard,” Jon said. “Sounds better.”
She moaned. “You really are a lawyer.”
“One of the best.” He handed her a business card. “Next time a client tries to sue you, you’ll be glad you know me.”
She laughed at the joke and took the card. Another panel was assembled and time passed. It was easy talking with her. She was sharp; nothing he said went untested. But a pattern was emerging. She’d fire questions at him but carefully avoided revealing anything about herself.
“You’ve tried cases at this courthouse?” she asked.
“No. Federal court.”
“Are your clients killers?”
“Alleged killers, you mean,” he said. “And no, they’re not. They’re alleged Ponzi schemers, tax evaders and embezzlers.”
“Can you name some of your clients?”
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”
“What’s that?”
“The one-sided conversation. I invented that trick.”
“All I’ve done is ask a few questions,” she said defensively. “If you weren’t so careful, you wouldn’t mind.”
“Careful? No one’s ever accused me of that.”
“Not an accusation,” she said. “An observation. You’re careful with words.”
“I’m good with words.”
“You’re not at all modest,” she observed.
“Not even a little,” he said. “I’ll note that we have a past that you’re trying to bury. So who’s being careful here?”
She held him in her soft brown gaze. “But if you can’t remember our past, does it exist?”
“And if a tree fell in the forest...?”
The clerk returned to the microphone, this time to announce an extended lunch break. He invited her out to eat.
“I’m going to pick up a salad at the medical campus across the street,” she said. “You’re welcome to come with.”
They rode the elevator to the courthouse ground floor. Outside, the aroma rising from the hot-dog carts made him nostalgic for New York City. With a hand on her elbow, he steered her across the street toward the parking lot. His Porsche was parked in an open lot reserved for jurors. Its steel-blue glaze matched the hazy Florida sky.
She yanked her arm free. “We can walk to the salad place. It’s not far.”
“We’re not going to the salad place. I heard there are seafood restaurants along the river not far from here.”
She came to a full stop in the middle of the street. “I’m not getting in your car.”
She really didn’t trust him. He wondered what he’d done to her? And why couldn’t he remember? He was sharper than this.
“I’ll bring you back in one piece,” he promised from the sidewalk. “How else will you collect your fifteen bucks?”
She stood rooted in place, stubborn. A patrol car turned a corner and signaled a warning for her to move out of the way. This was her chance to escape; all she’d have to do was turn and run. They locked eyes, engaging in a mental arm-wrestling match. Another whirl of the police siren propelled her into motion. Picking up the pace, she made her way toward him. He watched in quiet fascination as the wind tossed her hair and her body moved under a fitted blue dress.
“Let’s go to Garcia’s,” she said. “It’s the best.”
* * *
He let her take charge at the restaurant. She chose the table on the terrace overlooking the bloated river. She ordered on his behalf with the assumption that he, the guy with the questionable Spanish skills, would not know how to order Latin food. He watched her come alive in the fresh air, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head, eyes glistening, gesticulating madly as she talked. Over ceviche and cerveza, she kept the conversation light and he played along. At some point, she lifted the weight of her hair off the nape of her neck to better feel the breeze. When she leaned forward to reach for a napkin, the deep V-neck of her dress revealed more than she might have wanted—and he remembered everything.
The party.
Champagne.
The woman in the kitchen.
That evening, she’d worn her hair in a knot and was dressed plainly in a black shirt and pants. She’d managed to calm his ex down. And Viviana wasn’t a woman who was easily calmed. More importantly, she’d compared him to a shot of rum. He would’ve gone for whiskey.
No wonder he’d forgotten! That whole week had been emotionally charged. He’d made the decision to move to Miami only minutes after receiving the offer for a lateral move as a partner. He’d acted on his instincts. And when Viv tried to turn a summer thing into a more permanent one, those same instincts told him to nip that in the bud. Still, even during that windstorm, he’d noticed this woman bent over a table, tense over having to pour from a respectable bottle of champagne. The opening of her loose blouse had offered the same gorgeous view as now. How could he have walked away?
Sofia pointed to a pelican perched on a dock, its damp feathers coated in mud. “Poor little guy.”
“I have a question for you,” he said.
“Yes?”
“How do you like your rum? With Coke, ice or like I like it, neat?”
She went still. “You remember.”
“Every little thing.” He leaned back in his seat. “You never thanked me for helping out with the champagne.”
“I never asked for your help,” she said evenly.
“And women wonder why chivalry is dead.”
“You weren’t being chivalrous. You were showing off.”
“Okay,” he said. “You got me.”
“Just curious. How’s your friend?”
“She’s fine,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about her.”
She shook her head as if she’d lost all faith in mankind. “You never thanked me for defusing that bomb.”
He thanked her with a tip of an imaginary hat. “You have my undying gratitude.”
She shrugged a slender shoulder. “Just doing my job.”
Now he better understood her reticence. “You think I’m a jerk,” he said. “A woman cried and you bought the whole act.”
“Was it an act?” she asked.
“I think so,” he said. “Does that make me a jerk?”
“I don’t know what it makes you. I don’t know you that well.”
He leaned forward. “Let’s get to know each other, Sofia. Really well.”
She mimicked his move, resting her arms on the table and leaning in. “That’s not going to happen, Jon.”
“How significant is this ‘other’ of yours?” he asked.
If he’d taken a second to think, he might not have asked the question, not so bluntly anyway. But now that it was out there, he had to know.
“Well...” She scooped ceviche with a cracker.
“I’m listening.” He wiped his hands on his cloth napkin and gave her his full attention.
“We’re engaged.”
The blow left him winded—and inexplicably angry. “That’s pretty significant. Why didn’t you say that earlier?”
“That option wasn’t on the jury questionnaire. It was a choice between Married, Single or Significant Other.”
“You could’ve penned it in,” he said.
She gave him a quizzical look. “For the benefit of the court?”
“You’re not wearing a ring,” he observed.
She dropped the cracker and drew her hands onto her lap. “I don’t wear it every day. It wouldn’t be practical. It’s really big.”
“Oh, is it?” he asked.
He’d hammered every syllable. Then he watched with some satisfaction—no, he watched with life-sustaining satisfaction as color drained from her cheeks. She raised her glass to her lips, took a couple of gulps of beer and once she’d regained her composure, she suggested they leave.
“I don’t think there’s time for seafood pasta. Maybe we should head back.”
“There’s always time for seafood pasta.”
Their waiter arrived with a fragrant bowl of linguine loaded with shrimp, clams, mussels and calamari. He had to be the luckiest man alive.
There was time for pasta followed by better coffee than they could hope to get at the courthouse snack bar. There was also time for a slow stroll back to his car and for more questions.
“Why don’t you tell me more about what you do?” he asked.
“If I thought you’d believe it, I’d say it’s all very glam and fun.”
“Then tell me how it really is.”
“Long hours. Demanding clients. Some days it’s a three-ring circus.”
“Why do you do it?”
He held open the car door for her. She stopped and gave him a thoughtful answer. “When everything comes together, it’s like magic. Then you blink and it’s over. You’ve got to pack up the circus.”
“But you know you’ve made magic.”
She smiled and ducked into the car.
Jon drove slowly, which was against his very nature, in an effort to stretch their time alone together. They made it back to the courthouse just in time. His plum spot in the parking lot was taken. He squeezed into a space between a boxy Scion and a sporty BMW.
“Look at that,” she said. “We’re parked next to each other.”
He turned to the Scion.
She poked his arm. “That’s what you think of me?”
The BMW then... It was a white convertible with a black cloth top. It suited her. And then it hit him how badly he’d wanted to impress her with his credentials, career and yes, his car. He had to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“I really am a show-off.”
It didn’t take long for her to connect the dots. She opened the passenger door. “Yeah, you are.”
* * *
He blinked and it was over. The minute they returned to the jury room, she was selected for a panel. He’d swear her eyes clouded with regret. “It was nice meeting you again, Jonathan-Gunther-defense-attorney-single-no-kids.”
It was great that she’d memorized his stats, but that goodbye sounded too final. “How can I get in touch with you?”
She shook her head, lifted that huge purse and left the room.
* * *
Jon exited the courthouse at three-thirty without having ever been selected for a panel. He’d spent the afternoon in the quiet room replying to emails, but mostly counting the minutes until he could camp out in the parking lot and ambush her. Now he skipped down the courthouse steps and stopped short when seeing from across the street that her car was gone, and his car looked lonely for a friend.
The note tucked under his windshield wiper didn’t catch his eye until he’d started the engine. He got out and grabbed it. Two words beautifully penned on the back of his business card in that unmistakable indigo ink: Thank you.
