Читать книгу Dear Rita - Simona Taylor - Страница 11

D orian Black set his mouse down on the polished surface of his desk. The desk was the most imposing thing in his office. He only kept it because it had been a gift from his father who had spent way too much money on it the day his son began to practice. It was massive, made out of dark oak, with brass handles on the drawers. His dad had half-seriously called it “a power desk for a soon-to-be very powerful man.” It was hardly the kind of furniture he would have bought himself, but it was a gesture born of paternal love and pride, and that made it precious.

The rest of the office was less daunting. It was painted a warm honey, with a few line drawings Dorian had brought home from a trip to the Sudan a few years before, comfortable visitors’ chairs set around the low coffee table where he held most of his conversations with his clients, a small bar that contained, instead of alcohol, a variety of coffees, plain and flavored teas, cookies and Fig Newtons (his favorite snack), all to be served to his guests on simple stoneware. He understood that a visit to a lawyer’s office was probably one of the most traumatic experiences most people had to face. Anything he could do to make that experience a little more bearable was worth it.

He swiveled in his chair to face his partner, Clark, who was staring out of the widepane glass window of his office, down onto Temple Street. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cuss. “ This is my blind date?” He pointed at the Niobe Web site up on the computer screen.

Clark tore his attention away from the view. He had covertly been watching Dorian, reflected in the glass, waiting in silence as he read. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Apart from the fact that I don’t do blind dates, and I especially don’t do double dates, I’ve read through the last few months of her archives and I’ve arrived at the only possible conclusion.”

“What’s that?”

“This Rita woman hates men.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he drawled. “Maybe because every single bit of advice she’s given is anti-man.”

Clark came over to perch on the edge of Dorian’s desk, gently moving aside a sheaf of documents. “Maybe it’s not so much anti-man as pro-woman,” he suggested.

“Nice try.” Dorian shook his head. “Have you read this stuff? For every woman that takes her advice, there’s one more man out in the cold. She’s just one more love guru who isn’t about love at all. She’s about a woman’s need to always be right.”

Clark peered at the screen and read the correspondence open in Dorian’s Web browser. “Seems to me, a couple of these guys had it coming. Look at this one—stealing from his poor girlfriend….”

“Maybe this one,” he conceded, “but—”

“Dorian,” Clark interrupted, “it’s just for one night. Just one meal. I’m not suggesting a marriage of convenience. If you don’t like Rita, just stick out the evening and you two can go your separate ways. I’m asking this as a favor.”

To Dorian, it sounded like madness. This was the twenty-first century. What woman over eighteen insisted on dragging her best friend along on a first date? And Clark hardly looked as though he were trying out for the lead role in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre III. He was one of the most buttoned-down men Dorian knew. He had his hair cut once every three weeks, did his nails every fortnight, bought new suits twice a year, owned three or four identical shirts in each color and had his underwear dry cleaned. Clark was as harmless as it was possible to be and still be breathing. “Why’s she so insistent on this gruesome foursome?”

Clark shrugged. “She didn’t say much, other than that she was naturally cautious. I don’t blame her. It’s a scary world out there.”

Dorian snorted. “I’d have thought that chasing down a purse snatcher half your age on her behalf would have been enough of a character reference for any woman.”

Clark looked bashful. “It was just one of those things. She was standing next to me when this guy knocked her over. Next thing I knew, she was yelling about her purse. I just reacted. If I’d thought about it, I probably wouldn’t have run him down. He could have been armed.”

“But he wasn’t, and good won out over evil.”

Clark peered at Dorian for traces of sarcasm. “I guess.” He took on a more optimistic tone. “So you’re doing it, right?”

Dorian smiled. Clark was his friend, partner and mentor. What was one evening? He’d have done much more, if Clark had asked, and they both knew it. “Of course I will.”

He took another look at the screen, examining the small photo that accompanied each article. “Dear Rita” was a good-looking woman with skin that made him think of warm cinnamon. She looked less than thirty, with a mass of fine, dark brown corkscrew twists pulled back into a bun at the top of her head. He wondered if that, together with the stylish glasses she wore, were merely affectations in an effort to look more mature and agony-auntish. The glasses did nothing to obscure the clarity of her honey-colored eyes. Even in the tiny photograph, those eyes were disarming. They at once drew him in and made him squirm. Her cheekbones were wonderful, and her shapely lips tinted by a conservative but attractive shade of lipstick. It was little more than a head and shoulders shot; just enough to enable him to see a hint of cleavage under the beige blouse.

From over his shoulder, Clark observed, “She’s cute.”

“She is,” he agreed. He added slyly, “As cute as your Cassie?”

“Nope,” Clark said immediately. “But you could do worse.”

Dorian laughed. “I suppose I could. You can drop the sales pitch now. I said I’d go. You picked a restaurant?”

“Vimanmek Palace, that new Thai place. It got rave reviews in the Food and Beverage section of The Register last month. We have reservations for seven-thirty.”

Dorian let out a bark of surprised laughter. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. Dead serious.”

“But spicy foods make you sick. You can’t even take Tabasco in your Bloody Mary.”

He looked abashed. “I don’t know what got into me. One minute I was asking her out, the next minute I was suggesting a Thai restaurant. I guess I wanted to sound more adventurous. I’m a boring man, Dorian. My idea of a culinary adventure is dinner at TGI Friday’s.”

Dorian was quick to leap to his friend’s defense, even from a self-inflicted attack. “You’re not boring. You are one of the most intelligent and educated human beings on the face of the Earth.”

“If that isn’t boring, I don’t know what is.” Clark smiled wryly. “But at least she sounded keen. Said she’d been dying to try it, too.”

“That’s all that matters. Chug a bottle of antacid before you get there, and you’ll be all right.”

“Want us to leave together, from here?”

“I doubt I’ll make it back into the office today. You go ahead, I’ll meet you there.”

“Seven-thirty, right?” Clark still looked anxious, despite Dorian’s promise.

He must really like this girl. Dorian did his best to reassure him. “My word is my bond.” He glanced at the heavy platinum watch on his left wrist, rose, took up his jacket from over the back of his chair and shrugged it on. “Got to go now.”

“Elcroft Green?” Clark guessed.

“Yep. Gonna be a long one.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.” He’d need it. Although the name Elcroft Green sounded like a day spa, it was, in fact, a large medium-security men’s prison in the worst part of town. There was nothing green in it or around it, just a forbidding expanse of concrete walls, watchtowers, twisted barbed wire, gun turrets and metal bars, all designed to keep the dregs of society inside while they paid their debts. Dorian did eight hours there every two weeks, taking on some of the toughest cases pro bono.

The law he practiced was not criminal law, though, but family law. In the case of these men, he mostly handled custody battles, visitation rights and other unjust situations regarding their children. It was a sad fact that many of these men, the vast majority of whom were black, lost not only their freedom but access to their children as a result of their sentencing. Disgruntled and often vengeful mothers sought to deprive them of their parental rights not just for the duration of their sentence, but even after their release.

This was wrong. Just because a man made some mistakes, it did not mean that he should lose the right to be a dad. There were too many children in the world growing up fatherless. That, in itself, was a tragedy. As long as a prisoner had never been convicted of a violent crime or a crime against children, he was willing to take on any custody or visitation rights case for free.

In fact, he had single-handedly lobbied the warden, and later the governor, to ensure facilities for non-violent prisoners to meet and play with their children in a simulated home environment, just as women prisoners were allowed to do. The visiting house on prison grounds, with a playground that featured swings, slides, jungle gyms, and even a basketball hoop, was the result of his badgering. Dorian considered it the finest victory of his career. His work at Elcroft Green was not a job, it was a calling.

As he put his hand on the doorknob, he sought to reassure Clark one final time. “I’ll see you there tonight.” He couldn’t resist adding, “I can’t wait to meet this Cassie you’re so entranced with. And I certainly can’t wait to meet Dear Rita!”

Rita woke up with a start, sitting bolt upright in bed. The apartment was in darkness, which was a good thing, because even a sliver of light right now would be a dagger between her eyes. The nagging headache that had begun that morning had exploded into a full-on migraine sometime during the day, with all the pain, nausea and light sensitivity the devil could visit upon her. After popping more than the recommended dose of pain pills, she’d given up the battle and taken to bed around three in the afternoon, and lay there moaning, with a cold compress on her forehead and her face pressed against the wall.

Now something had woken her up, an inner alarm clock that would not be silenced. Still under the bewildering effects of sleep, she searched her mind for that thing, that very important thing she needed to do right this minute, but came up empty.

Why was she up? Was it a sudden noise, a vicious jolt of pain or the subconscious knowledge that she was supposed to be doing something? She put her hand to her head, and the touch sent waves of pain through her.

Then she remembered.

Cassie.

Oh, God.

She threw herself to the other side of the bed and her fingers frantically sought the clock. Turning it around, she could see the green glow of large digits. It was ten to seven. Cassie was coming to get her in about ten minutes, and Cassie was never late.

She toyed with the idea of calling to say she was sick, but the thought itself was a betrayal. Cassie meant everything to her. If Rita had been lying in the woods with her leg caught in a bear trap, she’d have gnawed it off in order to make it tonight.

She clicked on the bedside lamp and winced. She stripped, dashed into the shower and was out again after barely getting her skin wet. Her legs needed shaving and her hair could have done with a quick shampoo, but neither project was plausible. She toweled herself down, dragged on mismatched underwear, and threw open her closet door, cursing herself for not having decided in advance what she would be wearing. She chose a faithful old standby: a slim-fitting, warm burgundy skirt that reached mid-calf (thus solving the problem of the unshaven legs) and a sheer champagne top with a neckline that showed cleavage without plunging all the way to her belly button.

She didn’t have time to pile her twists up onto her head as she liked to do when dining out, so she satisfied herself by smoothing them so that, at the very least, they didn’t look like a fright wig. Now, for makeup—

Her phone rang. Rita snatched up the receiver. “Cass?”

“I’m outside, babe,” Cassie chirped.

Rita glanced at her dresser, strewn with pots of color, lipsticks and brushes, and hesitated. “Uh….”

“Ready, right?” Cassie asked, but her question was not a question. It was a statement that demanded an affirmative response.

Rita hesitated. Her reflection in the dresser mirror wore no makeup. Her brows needed neatening and her forehead was just a tad too shiny. She was going out on a blind date looking, if not like something the cat dragged in, at least like something the cat would have given serious consideration to.

But Cassie was a bundle of nerves and a tangle of excitement, and Rita didn’t have the heart to keep her waiting a moment longer. After all, it wasn’t as if this was a real date, with prospects for dates in the future. This was a favor for a friend, an evening to be endured, to be ended with relief. Her “date,” this Dorian Black, was probably as reluctant as she was to be dragged along as third and fourth wheels. If he wasn’t, if he thought this was anything more than it seemed, he was a bigger nerd than she expected him to be.

“Rita?” Cassie’s anxious voice was tinny in her ear. “You there?”

“Uh, yeah.” She regained control of her scrambled thoughts. “I’m here. I’m on my way down.”

“Good.” Cassie sounded relieved. “I was afraid….” She didn’t finish.

“On my way,” Rita repeated, and hung up. Pausing only to slip on a pair of pumps that were almost the same shade as her skirt, and to snatch up her purse and a light coat for the cool evening, she darted through the front door and raced downstairs. Her head pounded with every footfall.

Someone had tried very hard to create an ambience of soothing, almost trance-like calm at Vimanmek Palace. As soon as Rita and Cassie walked in, they were greeted by the tinkling of brass and the trickling of water through bamboo pipes. The interior was decorated throughout with shades of avocado, gold and a warm red, with rich wall tapestries and rows of bronze statuettes, the largest of which, a benevolent Buddha, dominated the lobby.

They were escorted into a reception area by a Thai girl clad in silk wraps of hummingbird colors: gold, emerald, turquoise and rose pink. Despite her headache, Rita was entranced by the grace with which the girl moved, and the butterfly flutters she made with her slender hands as she gestured to a corner of the room before she bowed and disappeared.

Standing there, looking nervous, was a slightly-built man in a silver-gray suit, with sandy, thinning hair, pale gray eyes and a hopeful half smile. He had been staring intently at the doorway, and when he saw them, his face brightened.

“That’s him,” Cassie hissed.

Rita’s brows shot up. “You didn’t tell me—”

“That he’s white?” Cassie interrupted defensively.

“That he’s old, ” she responded, just as quickly.

“He’s fifty-one,” Cassie retorted. “That’s not old.”

Your dad’s fifty-four, Rita would have reminded her, but they were within earshot now and Clark stepped forward, both hands outstretched. “Cassie! I’m so glad you came. You look lovely!” He blushed madly as he said it and grasped Cassie’s hands in his.

Rita looked at Cassie properly for the first time this evening. She did look lovely. Her short natural hair gleamed as though washed in sunshine. Her makeup was flawless, as was her manicure. She wore a deep green wrap dress with long sleeves and a high collar, a surprising choice for the normally unconventional Cassie. She even had a large silver brooch pinned over her left breast. Although it did little to disguise her outrageous figure, it made her look several years older. She tried not to feel too weirded out by the fact that Cassie was disguised as her own mother, and allowed herself to be introduced.

“This is my best friend, Rita Steadman.” Cassie indicated her with a sweep of her arm. “Rita, this is Clark Burrows.” She added unnecessarily, “He’s the guy I told you about.”

Clark engulfed her hands in both his warm ones. “Rita. Delighted, delighted! Cassie has told me so much about you.”

“Really?” Rita murmured the standard response. “I hope it was all good.”

“Oh, it certainly was.” He beamed. “We talked on the phone for hours yesterday, and trust me, half the conversation was about what a great friend you are, and how much you’ve been through together.”

Rita cast a glance at Cassie, who was doing nothing but standing there, smiling. She’d known that Clark had called yesterday, but she had no idea that the conversation had gone on for hours.

There was an awkward silence, where everyone seemed to be waiting for someone else to say or do something. Clark rushed in to fill it. “I think we’d better have a seat, ladies. Dorian called—that’s Rita’s date.” He smiled reassuringly at Rita. “He said he’d be a little late. He suggested we go ahead and order, and he’ll be here as soon as he can.”

She couldn’t help but feel a bit irritated. She’d made the effort to come along on this little caper, even though she was halfway through death’s doorway. So why couldn’t this Dorian guy?

Their table was large and ornate, laid with gold-rimmed china and bright silk napkins, and brushed by feathery fronds that hung down from potted plants on the wall. A water feature tinkled nearby, and small brass chimes swayed idly overhead, even though there was no discernible breeze. Rita accepted the chair that Clark held out for her, and, glad for the distraction, began to peruse the menu. She listened with mild amusement as Cassie and Clark discussed the choices, knowing full well that Cassie was doing rapid calculations in her head about fat grams, sodium content and such. She pitched in with suggestions of some of the more innocuous items on the menu for their communal dishes. Eventually, they agreed upon several simple dishes, although Clark did persuade her to order a spicy green curry to share with Dorian, promising that Dorian was a more adventurous eater.

Over hot lemongrass soup, the conversation became more relaxed. Rita found herself liking Clark. Though hardly a sparkling wit, he was charming in a Midwest farm boy sort of way. Even his nervousness was endearing.

But by the time the main courses arrived and there was no sign of Dorian, Rita’s irritation rose again. It was an awkward, left-at-the-altar kind of situation, made more uncomfortable by the fact that Cassie and Clark kept trying to draw her into their conversation, as though they felt sorry for her sitting alone like the cheese. She was thankful, but inwardly she seethed. If this Dorian person thought she’d be all sugar and spice when he did turn up—if he turned up at all—he had another think coming.

As sweetly as she could, she asked Clark, “Are you sure nothing’s happened to Dorian?”

He frowned slightly, as if the idea hadn’t occurred to him. “He’s usually not this late, but you can’t always put a time frame on legal matters. If you forgive me for using the phone at the table, I’ll give him a call.” He withdrew a small cell phone from his breast pocket and was just dialing it, again murmuring apologies, when he looked up, past Rita’s shoulder, and smiled. “There he is now.”

In spite of herself, Rita turned in her seat, toward the entrance, wondering if she would be able to guess which of the patrons entering through the doorway would be him. Would her date for the evening turn out to be another soft-spoken, homegrown Idaho farm boy old enough to be her father? But there was just one man standing there, and this was no Idaho farm boy.

The man in the doorway was so tall, he had to dip his head slightly in order to clear the low-hanging silken ropes curving down from the lintel. His skin was darker than dark, and as he drew closer she could see that so, too, were his hair and eyes. One image ran through her caffeine-addicted brain: coffee…black. The man’s skin made her thirsty.

Rita sat up straighter in her seat.

The breadth of his shoulders gave balance to his height, and the sedate navy of his suit was offset by a shirt the exact color of a cloudless winter morning sky. He walked quickly without seeming rushed, and made his way directly to their table, where Clark was already on his feet with his hand extended. The two men shook hands warmly, with Dorian uttering apologies as fast as Clark could brush them aside. Introductions were quickly made, and Rita found her hand engulfed in Dorian’s huge one. Closer now, she could examine his features in greater detail.

His brows were dense and arched, and unbelievably black eyes were framed by lashes as thick as moth’s wings. A shapely nose drew her eyes downward to a wide mouth that was saying something she could not hear, as the tinkling of the fountain nearby had become in her ears as loud as a pounding surf.

Unfashionably late or not, Dorian Black was easily one of the best looking men she had ever met.

This was not a good thing.