Читать книгу The Nick Of Time - San Culberson - Страница 11

One of the senior partners at my firm was married to a woman whose niece was married to a man who had a problem taking things that didn’t belong to him. Apparently, he was dismissed from his last job, because—after several warnings—he continued to steal the lunches of his coworkers from the employee refrigerator. He had no choice but to admit that he was, in fact, stealing the lunches, because on several occasions he had been caught eating the lunches in question. Ridiculous, I know.

Because he was related, through marriage, to a partner in a major law firm, he decided that he should sue the company for unlawful termination. “Yes,” my boss suggested that I argue, “he did steal the lunches, but thievery is the main symptom of the disorder from which he suffers. Because of his disability, he should have been given the opportunity to take advantage of the company’s mental health benefit before he was unduly terminated.” I knew the argument was a stretch, but until I reached a certain status at the firm, many such cases would come my way. I was hoping to settle the case quickly, all the man wanted was enough money to pay for treatment.

Opposing counsel suggested we meet for lunch to discuss a settlement offer; he would bring his client, the owner of the small company, and I would bring my client, the sack lunch bandit. I am getting to why all of this is relevant.

We arranged to meet at a restaurant that was convenient for all parties. I saw my client, a superslim man with black hair and Howdy Doody freckles, walking toward the front entrance of the restaurant just as I was pulling into a parking space. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the man. I mean, what could he have been thinking?

I checked my makeup before stepping out of my vehicle. “Leonard!” I called out to him. He looked around confused until he saw me. I hurried across the concrete to where he waited. The pained expression on his face caused me to smile reassuringly at him.

He didn’t say hello; instead, he started a somewhat nervous ramble. “Do you think we can settle this thing today? We really need to settle this thing today. My wife is threatening to divorce me. This is the third job I’ve lost because of my problem since we married eighteen months ago.” I placed my hand on his shoulder for a minute to calm him.

“First, Leonard, I’m advising you not to mention that this is not the first time you’ve had problems in this…uumh, particular area, and whether or not we settle today depends on how much they’re offering.” My words seemed to relax him.

“Well, then, it’ll be settled today.” He sounded confident. We made it to the front of the restaurant and I stopped and faced him directly.

“Leonard,” I warned gently, “your case is weak; we’ll be lucky if they offer you a few thousand dollars to cover the cost of treatment.” His smile held steady.

“If they offer a couple of hundred dollars, that’s fine with me. I just need them to acknowledge that I have a problem and that they shouldn’t have fired me. If they don’t, my wife and family will continue to think that I’m just crazy. I need people to know that I have a legitimate disorder.” He said it with the passion of a crazy man. I considered telling him the truth for just a minute—that he was crazy—but professionalism won out.

“Leonard, two hundred dollars won’t cover this lunch. I assumed you wanted money for treatment.” His look told me that I had assumed wrong.

“It’s not about the money, I have lots of money. My family is very wealthy. Your firm will be compensated fairly. It’s the principle of the matter,” he stressed to me as if I were the crazy one. I thought my boss was doing a favor for a relative; knowing my boss as I did, it made more sense that the relative would be rich. Leonard’s eyes appeared to glaze over as he continued to talk about his “obsession with sack lunches” and how it had started in first grade.

The only way I could hold my tongue was to close my lips firmly over it. For every minute that I had to spend with him, listening to nonsense, I decided that I would figure out a way to charge him for two. You know what they say about a fool and his money…you know, they’re soon parted. In this case, the same would apply to a more-cash-than-he-knew-what-to-do-with, sandwich-stealing, crazy man and his money.

I smiled tightly at my client and motioned for him to walk through the door of the restaurant before me. Suddenly, I didn’t feel comfortable walking in front of him.

All thoughts of our conversation left me when I stepped into the restaurant. I was immediately impressed by the décor. Actually, I was blown away. Vibrant color coated the walls. The furniture was a clever mixture of modern and contemporary. I felt right at home. Six original-looking Charles Eames wood lounge chairs lined the wall of the waiting area. Molded plywood screens separated several tables toward the back of the restaurant, giving the patrons the illusion of privacy. Exotic-looking light fixtures hung from the ceiling.

I recognized the furniture because I had always been interested in design and architecture. I had a few pieces at home—some Heywood-Wakefield, a Barcelona chair, and a Knoll table. Eventually, my plan was to furnish my home almost completely with the beautifully clean pieces of the 1950s and 1960s.

The hostess allowed me to gawk for a minute longer before she had someone show us to our table. If the food was half as good as the décor, I decided that I would only charge the lunatic at my side for services rendered.

Chester Ford stood up to greet us as we approached the table; Marshall Dodge (not his real name), his client and my client’s former employer, continued to sit, and, in fact, refused to make eye contact with us when we sat down.

“Mr. Dodge,” I said, except I used his real name, forcing him to look up at me. “Sorry that we meet under such unfortunate circumstances, but hopefully we can settle this matter quickly.” I gave him my warmest smile and picked up one of the menus on the table.

I really didn’t give a damn whether we settled the matter. It was, after all, a very frivolous lawsuit. All I was interested in at that point was whether the menu was as exciting as the décor. And as my grandfather used to say, I was “red to eat.”

But before I could even peruse the appetizer menu, my lunatic client burst out, “I want five hundred dollars and a letter addressed to my wife telling her that I have a legitimate disorder.”

Mr. Dodge shot back without deferring to counsel. “I’ll give you two hundred fifty,” he stated flatly. “And what significance would a letter from me have for your wife? I’m not a doctor.” I looked over my menu pointedly at Chester as the two men hashed out the terms of the settlement on their own.

Leonard’s voice took on a pleading quality. “I know you’re not a doctor, but my wife really likes you. Tell you what…Give me one hundred fifty dollars and the letter and we’ll be done.”

Mr. Dodge looked at his lawyer, who nodded his head almost imperceptibly.

“You’ve got yourself a deal.”

My client smiled as if he had won the lottery and reached over to shake the hands of both men. “Great! Lunch is on me.”

I couldn’t help but smile at him; there went his $150 plus, but so long as he was satisfied my job was done.

A very attractive woman approached the table and informed us that she would be our waitress; actually, she said, “I’ll be your server this afternoon.” It was that type of restaurant.

I ordered apricot tea and told her that I thought the restaurant was very beautiful. The men ordered drinks also. When our “server” brought our drinks back to the table, I mentioned the décor again.

“Do you have any idea who did the interior design?” She smiled politely and told me that she had only worked at the restaurant for a short while but offered to ask the owner after she took our orders. I ordered a grilled turkey and cranberry sandwich and sweet potato fries and handed her my menu.

The men at the table talked man talk after they ordered while I continued to look around the restaurant. I crossed my fingers mentally; if the food was any good, I was going to be a regular.

“Hello…” The voice coming from behind my chair startled me for two reasons: first, because I was deep into my own thoughts, and therefore was not aware that someone had approached the table, and second, because the voice was embarrassingly familiar. “Marla, your server, told me that someone at this table asked about the designer.” He was standing behind my chair, and I couldn’t see his face. I could see his face if I turned around, but I didn’t want to turn around. I wanted him to go away.

My crazy client spoke up when I didn’t. He looked at me pointedly. “Didn’t I hear you ask something about a designer?” I gave Leonard a tight smile and turned slightly in my seat so that I could see the person standing behind me.

“That would be me.” I was very proud of the way I kept my composure when I actually saw his face. It was him! The man that I’d slept with—excuse me, had sex with—the night of my divorce party. Leave it to me to run into a one-night stand at a business lunch. I could tell that he remembered me by the slight smirk on his face. The other men sitting at the table probably thought that he was smiling politely, but I knew he was smirking.

He had on a denim chef’s coat with CHEF NICK stitched across the left side. He didn’t look like a chef. Most of the chefs that I had seen on TV had quite a bit more around the midsection. And though his midsection was covered by the coat, I vaguely recalled that he looked aww-ight with his shirt off.

“I asked the waitress if she knew the name of the designer.” He smirked a little more.

“That would be me. Nick Nathaniel, owner and executive chef of Nathaniel’s.”

So! I hoped he didn’t think I was impressed I was, but I hoped he didn’t think so.

“Oh…” I said disinterestedly. “Well, thanks.” I turned back to the others and prayed that he knew a brush-off when he got one. Apparently, he didn’t. I could hear the smirk in his voice when he spoke again.

“But I do have the name of an excellent designer if you need one. She’s helped me with several other projects. If you’d like to leave your number with me, I’ll pass it on.” The men at the table gave each other knowing glances. I spoke to him without looking, rather rudely I hoped.

“No, thank you.” He had the audacity to put his hand on the back of my chair, never mind that his hands had touched things way more personal than my chair.

“You look very familiar.” He kept his hand on my chair but moved slightly to the right so that he was in my peripheral vision. I had no choice but to smile at him, but I kept it tight.

“I get that a lot,” I said, then turned pointedly back to the men at the table, who at that point appeared to be very interested in the limited exchange between myself and the owner of the establishment. But he (the owner of the establishment) wouldn’t let it go.

“No, really…There’s something very familiar about you.” I turned around to give him a death stare, but he looked really puzzled. Either he was a chef, a restaurateur, and a very accomplished actor, or, it suddenly occurred to me, he just might not remember me. I was torn between being relieved and being insulted. Insulted ground relief into a fine powder. I mean, I know I hadn’t put my best moves on him that night, but damn!

“Excuse me.” I made my voice as sweet as my mama’s candied yams. “We’re right in the middle of a business lunch. We’re actually very pressed for time.” He smiled at all of us and apologized for interrupting. When he was out of hearing range, Chester, the other lawyer at the table, was the first to speak.

“Looks like you have an admirer, Fiona.” I was going to ignore the comment, but the sandwich swiper chimed in.

“I’m sure Fiona has plenty of admirers. She’s a very beautiful woman.” He had the audacity to raise a suggestive eyebrow at me. The look that I gave him caused him to lower his eyebrows immediately and the other men to chuckle.

As we were continuing to work out the details of the “settlement,” the server approached our table with a very expensive-looking platter and placed it and small serving plates in the center of the table. I looked with admiration at the four enormous crab cakes that were placed artfully in a creamy seafood sauce. “We didn’t order these,” I told her. She smiled.

“Compliments of the chef.” As soon as she said that, my companions gave each other knowing looks and grabbed their plates. The server handed me a slip of orange paper that had been folded in half and stapled. “Also from the chef,” she said before leaving again. I should have put the paper in my purse, but I’m very curious by nature.

As the men made sex noises over the shellfish, I unfolded the paper as discreetly as possible.

I know women like to play hard to get, but I’ve already had you, remember?

The words were printed in a very neat masculine handwriting on the center of the paper. I was not amused. When I looked up, my companions were staring at me expectantly.

“Care to share?” asked the sandwich swiper.

“Just the name of the designer he mentioned.” I shrugged my shoulders casually, folded the paper, and placed it in the pocket on the side of my purse. The men had demolished three of the crab cakes and my client was going for the fourth. “Would you like some bread with that?” I asked sarcastically. He stopped just as he was about to scoop the last one up with his fork. His expression was sheepish.

“I’m sorry, Fiona. Would you like one?”

“No, thank you.” My appetite was gone and all I really wanted was to get out of the place. I decided that I would stay until our entrées arrived; then I would plead a headache and leave. As the plan was forming in my head, our server approached our table again, not with our food, but with another beautiful tray. This time she placed a frosty glass in front of each one of us.

“The chef again,” she said. And again, she handed me an orange slip of paper. I took a sip of the concoction, a frothy peach lemonade, before unfolding the note.

Meet me in the open area next to the kitchen. I need to talk to you.

It’s very important. If you’re not there in less than five minutes I’m coming to get you.

When I read the word “important,” I started to feel a little panicky. The only important thing one-night standers could have to say to one another, in my opinion, had to do with disease. And I was absolutely sure that our sex had been as safe as sex can be, or at least as safe as it can be when two people are actually having sexual intercourse. Nothing too freaky-deaky, no exchange of bodily fluids, but still, I was nervous as I made my excuses and my way toward the kitchen area.

He was leaning casually against the wall as I approached. Members of his staff were bustling in and out of the kitchen. He looked good, better than I remembered. I hadn’t allowed myself to get a good look at him when he stood at our table.

I gave him a hard look before speaking. “Do you make it a habit to harass your patrons when they’re trying to conduct business in your establishment?” He ignored my question. “What’s so important?” He smiled at me.

“I just wanted to let you know that’s it’s not too late to call. Sure, my feelings are a little hurt, but it’s nothing that dinner and good conversation won’t mend.”

I decided to be direct. “I didn’t call because I had no intention of calling. I didn’t even look at your number before I threw it in the trash.” Direct…brutally honest…What’s the difference? He laughed and moved aside to avoid being run over by a young man carrying a silver pitcher.

“Too much for you, huh?”

I looked him up and down. He was wearing jeans under his denim coat. The material touched his muscular thighs. A wide white smile revealed a long dimple in his left cheek, and his skin was tan over brown. He looked fresh.

“Absolutely not,” I said disdainfully. I snorted just a little bit to further illustrate how way off the mark he was. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting to get back to.” As I turned to leave he stopped me by grabbing my wrist. His warm hand on my skin caused my heart to beat a little faster.

“Take your hands off me!”

“Off was not where you wanted my hands the last time I saw you,” he whispered. Did I mention that his teeth were not just white, they were gleaming? When I didn’t smile at his comment, he tried another approach. “Look, I’m just saying I was disappointed when you didn’t call, and when I saw you walk into the restaurant I knew that I had to speak to you before you left. I was thinking of a reason to approach your table when Marla said that some people were asking about a designer.” I raised a perfectly arched eyebrow at him.

“Is that your way of saying that you do normally harass patrons in your restaurant?” He laughed again. Obviously he wasn’t affected by my “directness,” so I tried another tactic. I showed him my pearly whites, and then lowered my head slightly and shook it as if I was embarrassed.

“I’m sorry if I’ve been rude. It’s just that I was a little bit tipsy that night.” I held my thumb and index finger up to make the “itty-bitty” sign and caught my bottom lip between my teeth, still revealing the top row of my pearly whites. “I decided to just put that night behind me. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my meeting so that I can put it behind me also.” The expression on his face became friendlier.

“You can tell me all about it over dinner.”

“Tell you about what?”

“Your meeting, why you want to put the night we had together behind you. You can tell me your shoe size, your favorite color…anything. Just have dinner with me.”

He was very charming I had to admit, but I continued to hold firm.

“I can’t have dinner with you.”

“Why not? I know you’re not married, and judging from your behavior when last we met, I don’t think you have a boyfriend…or at least I hope you don’t.”

I sighed big. I didn’t have a real reason that I couldn’t have dinner with him, and my inner voice wouldn’t stop chanting, dinner with the possibility of a screw…Go ahead what’s wrong with you? I let out another exaggerated sigh.

“If I say that I’ll have dinner with you, will you let me take care of my business without any more interruptions?” I nodded my head back toward the general direction of my table. The light of victory was in his eyes.

“If you promise to have dinner with me and mean it, there will be no more interruptions from me, I promise. Scout’s honor.” He held up a suspicious-looking scout sign. I suspected that he had never been a Boy Scout.

“Okay,” I said and turned to walk away, but again, he grabbed my arm.

“I’m going to need your name and a working phone number.” I held up one empty hand as I shook free of him.

“I’m going to need a pen.”

He stepped into the kitchen and after a few seconds reappeared with pen and paper. He handed it to me. I jotted down the requested information and gave it back.

“Fiona is a beautiful name. I guess at some point you’ll feel comfortable enough to tell me the rest of it.” I had been away from my client for at least eight minutes; I had to get back. The expression on my face told him so. “I know you have to go. I’ll call you later this evening to make arrangements. I nodded my head in agreement and turned to walk away. This time he didn’t stop me.