Читать книгу Dear Rita - Simona Taylor - Страница 12

D orian looked down into the face of the woman he had been shanghaied into having dinner with. Her eyes were even clearer and more honeyed than they had appeared in the little photograph that accompanied her column. With her hair let down (and a little messier than he would have expected for such an occasion) she looked younger, too. She appeared flustered, almost as though she hadn’t expected him to actually turn up. He was, after all, forty-five minutes late. For someone who didn’t understand how trying his prison visit day could be, and how insane things got behind those high stone walls, such lateness would seem unforgivably rude.

He repeated his apologies, this time, directly to her. “Sincerely sorry for keeping you waiting, Miss Steadman. Please forgive me.”

She looked even more flustered. “It’s, uh, Rita.”

He cocked his head to one side. “Rita, then. It’s a lovely name,” he added, more for want of something pleasant to say than out of any particular affinity for the name, which was a perfectly run-of-the-mill one, as far as he was concerned.

“Thank you.” She accepted the compliment as though she knew he hadn’t really meant it.

There was an awkward moment, the kind that usually falls between two people who have been thrown together against their wills. She motioned for him to sit. As he sank onto padded satin, he wasn’t even aware he was sighing. He was drained, not just from the pressure of having to discuss so many different cases with so many different prisoners in one day, but from the emotional toll that delving into the lives of these men took on him. He needed to remind himself that it was worth it. Sometimes his work brought disenfranchised fathers joy. Often, though, in spite of everything he could do, all they suffered was more heartache and rejection. Most nights after leaving Elcroft Green, all he wanted to do was go home, sip a solitary drink, shower and pull the covers over his head.

But the occasion demanded good cheer, so he listened attentively as Rita led him through the array of dishes, describing each one as though she had memorized the menu. Tofu rolls, fish in cucumber sauce, steamed seafood salad, roasted duck smothered in cashews, chicken in green curry, wild boar simmered in coconut milk, assorted vegetable dishes, two kinds of rice, two kinds of noodles and cups generously filled with rice wine. He wondered how poor Clark was managing. His joking advice about chugging antacid seemed inadequate. After a meal like this, Clark would need a medic.

“Are you sure there aren’t four more people coming to help us finish this?” He piled his plate with food kept warm by small heating trays under each platter.

Rita smiled, and he noticed how perfect her teeth were and how white they appeared, even though she wore no lipstick to throw them into contrast. Alluring, he mused, but as he glanced at the perfectly made-up face of her friend, he wondered how it was that she had not used so much as a little lip color or blush. He wasn’t the sort to expect that women be exquisitely painted at all times, but he was an observant man, one who made his living trying to get to the bottom of a person’s personality, discerning their motives and characteristics. Was the lack of makeup a matter of artlessness, disinterest or a political statement? His mind went back to her columns, and the men-are-dogs, women-are-goddesses spirit of them, and decided that the reason was probably behind door number three.

Again, he glanced across at Cassie, trying to get a handle on her without being too obvious about it. He’d known Clark for ten years. First, Clark had been his professor at law school. Then, when Clark grew bored with teaching and returned to private practice, Dorian had moved from summer intern, to wet-behind-the-ears employee, and finally, to full partner and trusted friend. In all that time, he didn’t remember Clark ever acting so impulsively.

She didn’t seem to be his type. The racial difference between the two was not surprising, even though he had never known Clark to date black women, because Clark was one of the most unbiased and unbigoted people he knew. It was more a matter of the age difference, which was twenty years if it was a day, and the vivacity that rolled off her in waves. Even though it was obvious that she was trying to dress older than she really was, he could sense by the way she moved and talked, the arresting color of her hair and the aura she had about her that she was much more unconventional than she was trying to look.

But the two were entranced by each other, chatting away and laughing as though they were alone. He couldn’t remember when last he’d seen Clark so animated. Even though from time to time he remembered his role as host and tried to encourage Dorian and Rita to take part in the conversation, it was obvious that he had eyes and ears only for the lovely, curvaceous young woman across from him.

Dorian wished him well.

He returned his attention to Rita, who was staring intently down at her plate, and kicked himself for having the bad manners to let his mind wander and leave her out of the loop. He tried to initiate some idle chatter. The only thing he knew about her was her work, so he decided that that was as good a place as any to begin.

“Do you just write your column, or do you do other things as well?”

She seemed relieved to have something to talk about. “Mainly the column, but I write commentaries and investigative pieces for Niobe as well, when I come up with an idea they’re willing to buy.”

“Pieces about what?”

She shrugged. “Women’s issues. Relationship articles, stories about families, and the difficulties they have staying together. Or how hard it is when things go wrong.”

“So, your background is in counseling or psychology?”

She looked at him in surprise, as though she had never considered that. “No. Actually, my college degree is in classical literature.”

He thought again about some of the cutting remarks he read from her that morning, and his brows lifted. Shelling out advice to the lovelorn without a solid backing was like dispensing medicine without a permit. What made her think she had the right to tell other people how to conduct their love lives? Unable to stop himself, he probed. “I always thought of agony aunts as being matriarchs in their sixties, who have a whole lifetime of experience—good marriages, bad marriages, kids and grandkids, fights and breakups—to rely on when they give advice. What do you base your advice on? You hardly look old enough to be a shoulder for the lovelorn to cry on.”

She bristled visibly, and he couldn’t help but notice how cute she looked doing it. The color in her cheeks made the absent blusher unnecessary. “I’m not that young!”

Maybe not, but she was hardly the Oracle of Delphi. Her indignation was endearing. Like a cat with an irritated mouse, he tweaked her some more. “Besides, it seems to me that your advice hardly ever gives the man in question a fighting chance. Women’s magazine or not, I’d have expected a column like that to be less biased.”

“Most of the women who write me know that their men are bastards. They don’t need me to tell them that. They just want someone to agree with them.”

“So you think your role is to confirm their poor opinion of men, rather than to provide them with a more balanced view?”

She twirled her noodles around her fork, but didn’t bring it to her mouth. “They want confirmation, not balance. And anyway, if their men were nicer to them, they wouldn’t need to write me.”

“Don’t you get letters from women who, despite the problems they’re having, beg you to help them find a way to keep their men?”

“Sure.”

“And what do you do?”

“Help them see the light. Try to show them that, if they’re being disrespected, they need to assert themselves. And their men need to shape up or ship out. No sense clinging to something if it’s only going to do you harm.”

“And do you ever get letters from men who are the injured parties? Men whose women have done them wrong?”

She thought about it. “I guess.”

“And what do you do?”

“I try to be fair.”

He doubted it.

She added hurriedly, “Look, I don’t hate men.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“You’re thinking it,” she insisted.

“I’m thinking nothing of the sort,” he assured her smoothly, although that was pretty much the idea he was forming. “I was just trying to get an idea of what your work was like. It’s not often I get to meet a real writer. I’m fascinated.”

The flattery worked. She seemed mollified. “Okay, I just didn’t want you to…” She didn’t finish her thought.

He pressed again, curious to penetrate her mind even further now that her defenses were down. “And what about the men, these husbands and boyfriends who were put in their place on your say-so?”

She looked perplexed. “What about them?”

“Do you ever get letters from these rejects? Doesn’t anyone ever complain or react to your role in their downfall? Hasn’t anyone ever threatened to get even?”

She flinched as though she’d been hit, and immediately he regretted his flippant question. “I…I guess so. Sometimes they’re…angry…” She rubbed her temple as though it were sore.

Dorian immediately sensed that he’d gone too far. “I’m sorry. Did I step into something I shouldn’t have?”

“No,” she said shortly, but he knew she was lying. “Nobody’s ever reacted in a way I can’t handle. I get a few ugly letters, no big deal. You can’t be a writer if your skin’s not thick enough to handle a few bad reviews.” She swirled her rice wine around in its little cup, took a sip and switched from defense to attack. “What about you? Is your name really Dorian Black, or did you make it up because it sounds interesting?”

He’d endured enough teasing about his name not to mind a little more. “It’s all mine. My mother had an unusual sense of humor. But I promise you there’s no cursed picture hidden away in my house, getting old and gray while I stay young and beautiful—” at that, she cracked a smile “—and I certainly haven’t sold my soul to the devil for a shot at immortality.”

“That’s good to know. That devil is one tricky fellow.”

Dorian nodded. “You said it. I’m sure even I couldn’t find a loophole in one of his contracts.”

His work was as good a conversational gambit as any when two people had run out of other things to say. “So, property law must be as rife with drama as the agony aunt business, huh? Buying and selling buildings. I bet you’ve made a whole slew of enemies.”

He took no offense at her sarcasm, but set her straight on one point. “Actually, property law is Clark’s specialty, not mine. My area is family law. More specifically, divorce and child custody cases.”

She squinted a little. “You’re a divorce lawyer?”

She said the word divorce as though it tasted bad. He was used to the reaction, so it rolled off his back. “I guess you could call me that. And before you even think about it, I think I’ve heard just about every lawyer joke in the book.”

“I wasn’t planning on joking,” she informed him. “I don’t think breaking up marriages is funny.”

He shook his head. “We don’t break marriages up. We try to find ways to dissolve marriages that have already broken down, as equitably and as painlessly as possible.”

Rita snorted. “Equitably? Painlessly? If I had a buck for every woman who’s written to me to complain about her husband using a fancy, high-priced lawyer to shaft her out of what’s rightfully hers…”

His calm before the courts was legendary, but this unwarranted attack in the most innocuous of places, the dinner table, by a woman he’d known fifteen minutes, got under his skin. He answered sharply. “I can’t speak for every lawyer out there, but I can tell you that I have never shafted anyone—”

“Nah. I’ll bet you fall all over yourself to make sure that every woman who walks into your office walks away with a nice, cushy settlement…so long as you get a big cut, right?”

Her distrust for his profession was one thing, but her personal indictment rankled. “Actually, our fees are quite moderate by industry standards, and we offer the best service we can to every client. We work very hard, and we’re entitled to be paid for our labor, just like anyone else.”

“I’m sure you must charge a whole lot of very moderate fees to be able to afford a suit like that.”

He looked down at himself in surprise. He’d almost forgotten he was wearing a suit. He’d been toying with the idea of stopping home after he left the jail to change into something less stuffy and more appropriate for the evening, but was running so late that he’d decided not to. He could have explained that, but perversely said, “I don’t need to apologize because our practice is performing well, and I certainly don’t need to feel bad about what my clothes cost. I dress appropriately for my job. My clients expect me to be well groomed. It’s no different from a surgeon wearing scrubs or a fireman wearing his gear.”

She was as intent on needling him as he was on needling her. “Sure, your practice must be performing well. You people look out for yourselves. Just yesterday I got a letter from a woman whose husband, and his lawyer, practically ruined her. They’re probably divvying up the loot right now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But there are as many men out there who have been ruined by wives set to break them, more out of malice than financial necessity. A last shot fired at the end of a bad marriage.”

“So, you’re saying your male clients suffer as much during a divorce as your female clients?”

He thought about that for a second, wondering how to respond, and then said, “Divorce is painful for everyone, but to be honest, I don’t have a whole lot of female clients.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re saying you don’t represent women?”

“I represent anyone who walks through my door. But I’ve developed a reputation for being receptive to men and their special legal needs.”

She put her knife and fork down and scowled at him. “What exactly does that mean?”

“It means,” he explained slowly, even though it was obvious to him, “that I have many more male clients than female clients.” He couldn’t resist reminding her, “Men are entitled to legal representation under our constitution, you know.”

“So you spend your days huddled with other members of the Boys’ Club coming up with ways to make sure that, after years of devotion to their husbands, women are left without a penny after their husbands dump them?”

Dorian’s head hurt. He resisted the urge to rub it, wishing he had an ibuprofen tablet or two in his pocket. It hadn’t been a good day. He’d been battling one cause or the other since he’d set foot in Elcroft Green, and now he was sinking deeper and deeper into a new battle with a stranger.

It made no sense, but instead of calling a halt to the madness, he fired back irritably. “Not all divorces are the fault of the man, and if you think so, you’re sadly deluded, sweetheart. And furthermore, despite what your readers might tell you—and Lord knows why they’d want to spill their guts to an inexperienced slip of a girl like you, except perhaps because they’re sure that they’re only going to hear what they want to hear, and not necessarily something that makes a lick of sense—not all wives are devoted. No divorce I’ve ever worked on was the sole fault of one party. It takes two to tango.”

Indignation at being called “an inexperienced slip of a girl” was written all over her face, and the result was comical. He pressed on. “Furthermore, if there is a Boys’ Club, I’m not a member, and I don’t sit around scheming with other men to rob women, either of their money, or their children—”

She gasped. “Children?”

Maybe she hadn’t been listening. “As I said, I specialize in divorce and custody cases.”

“You take children away from their mothers?” The look she threw him could have bent steel.

“Most of the time, I negotiate for fair sharing of custody and visitation rights, depending on what’s best for everyone involved, especially the children. I’ve won custody battles for my male clients, but I’ve won them for my female clients, as well. I don’t win them all—nobody does. But I’d like to think that I help families adjust to a rocky period in their lives.”

“Help? How, exactly, does it help, tearing children out of their mothers’ arms?”

“No child is ever ‘torn out of their mother’s arms,’ as you put it, and I’m sure that even someone as biased as you would admit that not every woman is Clair Huxtable. There are mothers out there who aren’t at the stage of their lives where they can raise children as they deserve to be raised. Some can’t because they’re unemployed, or holding down too many jobs, or drink too much, or have issues to deal with. Some are simply bad mothers. And there are fathers out there who are aching to raise their kids right. Don’t tell me that you think it would be wrong to award custody to the man under those circumstances?”

When she hesitated, he knew he had her cold. It was a minor victory, but as sweet as any he’d won under judge and jury. He waited for her to say something, anything, to demonstrate that she was giving up her unwarranted attack in the face of his inescapable logic.

She did say something, but it certainly was no concession of defeat. “Lawyers!” she grunted, and attacked her cashew-covered duck.

“Feminists!” he threw back, and stabbed his pork.

It was several moments before he noticed two pairs of eyes on him. Clark and Cassie were watching with open curiosity. “Is everything okay?” Cassie asked.

Their spat had been louder than he’d thought. Tom-toms banged in his head, but he fibbed politely. “Everything’s fine.”

“Peachy,” Rita agreed, but didn’t look up from her plate.

“Good,” Clark said, but sounded doubtful, making Dorian feel ashamed of himself. Rita was getting on his nerves, but it wasn’t his night out, it was Clark’s. And in spite of her prickles, she was a cute little thing. Maybe he should lighten up and not spoil the evening for everyone. He smiled warmly at Cassie to put her at ease and tried to smile at Rita, as well, but she was studiously avoiding looking at him.

“What about dessert, then?” Clark suggested with forced heartiness.

Dorian tried not to groan. Although Cassie and Clark had finished their meal, neither he nor Rita had eaten much. He looked down at his plate. On one hand it would be a relief not to have to finish it off, on the other hand, he was reluctant to move on to the next course. Thai dessert would certainly not consist of something light and frothy and easy to slide down into the corners. It would be along the lines of sweet dumplings in sticky sauce or something equally filling. He was wondering if he could get away with suggesting just coffee when Rita spoke up.

“Actually, Clark, Cassie, I feel really awful about this, but I have a terrible headache, and I don’t think I’m being good company.” She threw an apologetic glance at Dorian. “I hate to duck out on you like this, but it really would be best if I just went on home.”

Good one, Dorian telegraphed. A graceful way to make a speedy exit. Who challenged anyone on an imaginary headache? It would work out best for everyone. Cassie and Clark were obviously having a great time in each other’s company; whatever Cassie’s little hang-up had been about being alone with Clark was overcome. They’d probably relish the idea of finishing their date as a twosome instead of a reluctant foursome. And he and Rita could sneak out, end this disaster, and go their separate ways.

Cassie was immediately solicitous. “Oh, poor baby! Is it really, really horrible?”

Rita grimaced and nodded. “It really, really is.”

Cassie threw a wistful look at Clark. “Maybe I should drive her home, Clark…”

That, he wouldn’t stand for. Just because he and Rita hadn’t hit it off didn’t mean his friend should cut his date short. He stepped in smoothly.

“Rita, if you haven’t any transport, I’d be happy to drive you home.”

Rita looked so aghast he wondered if the idea of a few more moments in his company would really be as bad as she thought. She blathered, “No, no! I won’t think of it. I can get the doorman to stop a cab—”

“But you’re sick,” Cassie interrupted, looking as concerned as if Rita had announced she’d contracted the Hanta virus. “You can’t go by cab if you’re sick!”

“I can, and I will,” Rita began, but Dorian decided to put an end to this silliness once and for all.

He got to his feet. “Nonsense. If you’re not feeling well, it would be stupid to try to get yourself home. Not to mention unforgivably rude of me. Come on, let me make sure you get to your door okay. It’s not often I get to play the knight in shining armor.”

Before she could protest, he reached out and took Cassie’s hand in his. “Cassie, it was a pleasure to meet you. Now I see why my partner was so taken by you. You have my word that you’re in good hands for the rest of the evening.” She beamed at his compliment.

He turned to Clark and the two men briefly shook hands. “Enjoy the rest of your meal, Clark. See you in the morning.”

Clark nodded. “Take care, Rita. I hope you feel better. Sorry you had a bad time.”

“I had a lovely time,” Rita said wanly, but was unable to keep herself from shooting a dark look at Dorian. It was so baleful, he tried not to laugh. “I hope we meet again.”

Clark glanced at Cassie. “I hope we will,” he said fervently.

Dorian took control of the situation by slipping his hand under Rita’s elbow and guiding her away from the table and out to the main doors. She kept pace with him silently, not even looking his way, until they had retrieved their coats and were standing on the sidewalk, under a crisp, bright autumn sky. Then she wrenched her elbow out of his grasp and spun on her heels.

“My car’s this way,” he told her, somewhat perplexed. “Where’re you going?”

“As I said, I’m going to have the doorman stop a taxi.” She signaled to the doorman, who was elaborately costumed in a silk tunic, pants and small hat. The man nodded, understanding her request, and stepped off the curb, peering down the street in search of a flash of yellow.

She couldn’t be that anxious to get away from him. “Don’t be silly,” he said firmly. “I said I would get you home, and I will.”

“Thanks,” she answered primly, “but I can take care of myself.” She ignored him for several moments, until a cab drew near. The doorman, a broad smile on his face, held the door open for her.

He could have let her get in without another word, but for some indefinable reason he hated the idea of it. They’d snarled at each other for the brief portion of the meal they’d shared. She’d gotten on his nerves virtually from the moment he’d taken his seat. But something, something, made him want the evening to end differently. Not this way, growling their goodbyes and parting company on a street corner. Maybe it was vanity. Maybe he was loath for her to leave with a lousy opinion of him, just because he’d had a bad day and had been all too happy to take it out on her. He put one hand on the door of the cab just as she was about to climb in. “Rita, don’t.”

Her eyes were wide. “What?”

“Let me take you home. There’s no reason for you to take a cab when I’m parked right here.”

She looked doubtful. “My apartment’s a long way off,” she said falteringly.

“All the more reason why you shouldn’t be making the trip alone. Come on. I promised Cassie I’d see you home safely. Don’t make a liar out of me.” He couldn’t resist adding with a smile, “I know you probably think that, as a lawyer, lying would be second nature to me, but it’s harder than you think.”

To his surprise, she smiled back, and the smile actually reached those beautiful eyes of hers, setting them afire. “But I’ve already hailed him…”

“I’ll handle it.” Moving quickly to deflect the cab driver’s impatience, he withdrew his money clip from his pocket and slipped him a bill, apologizing as he did so. Bored, the driver shrugged, accepted the money without a word and pulled away. He tipped the doorman, who was observing the entire exchange with a slightly perplexed look, and then gestured. “This way.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly, and was silent while he led her to his vehicle. To have called it a car was a bit of a stretch. It was, in fact, a hunter green four-wheel-drive twin-cab piece of space age engineering that came with just about every doohickey an outdoorsman would crave, from the tow-bar at the back to haul around his fishing boat, to the rack on top that could hold everything from a white-water raft to a tent. Her look of surprise pleased him.

“Teach you not to judge a book by its suit-and-tie cover.”

“Consider me schooled.”

Her humorous response made him relax. Maybe the drive back to her place wouldn’t be as tense as dinner. He helped her inside, as the running board was a little high, and her slim skirt, though it showed off her attractive curves, wasn’t much good when it came to climbing. He made sure she was comfortable, then came around to the driver’s side and hauled himself in with ease. The engine started with a soft murmur, and as soon as she gave him her address, he pulled away from the curb.

Rita still wasn’t saying much. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that she had closed her eyes and was massaging her temples with the tips of her fingers.

“You can drop it, you know,” he told her gently.

Her face was the picture of puzzlement. “Drop what?”

“The I’ve-got-a-headache act. I know neither of us was having a great time back there, and you did manage to get us out of it without hurting anyone’s feelings, but really, you don’t need to go on for my sake. I understand. We didn’t hit it off. No hard feelings.”

Then he noticed something he hadn’t before: a glimmer of moisture in her eyes. “Are you crying?”

“Not exactly,” she answered sharply.

“What the—why?”

“Nothing. It’s not an act.”

“What?”

“My headache. It’s not an act. I get these migraines sometimes, and this one’s…pretty bad. I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the head. And the nausea…it’s awful…”

He felt like a genuine heel. He’d all but accused her of lying, when, if he’d taken the time to really look at her, he’d have seen that she was in real pain. “If you feel like you need to throw up, let me know. I’ll pull over.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t throw up all over your precious Weekend Warrior Mobile.”

“That’s not what I meant at all!”

She covered her face with her hands and slumped forward in her seat. “Fine, whatever you say.”

Still ashamed of himself, he fiddled with the stereo. “Anything you’d like to listen to?”

“Silence would be great,” she told him from between cupped hands.

He snapped the stereo back off again. “You got it.”

Silence was just what he gave her, all the way to her apartment. He liked this part of town. It was old-fashioned and nostalgic without being run-down. It reminded him of the neighborhood he’d grown up in. He pulled up before her building, squinted at the brass plate fixed to the wall to ensure he had the right place, and alighted before she could bestir herself and try to get out without his help.

They stood on the sidewalk, solemnly regarding each other. “Got your keys?” he asked her.

She looked perplexed for a moment, as though seeing him through a blur of pain, and then rummaged in her purse. “Yes, got them.” She held them up, jangling them as proof. Then she turned toward the stairs. “Thank you for bringing me home.”

She wasn’t getting away that easy. He fell into step with her, locking his car and shoving the keys into his pocket. “I’m walking you inside.”

“You don’t have to,” she began hastily.

“Oh, yes I do. You’re not feeling well. I’m not driving off and leaving you until I know you’re safely inside.”

“I don’t need—” she began, a spark of indignation rising out of the mist of her pain, but just then she stumbled, and he caught her deftly and righted her.

“See? You can’t even make it to your own door.” He took her hand, which was limp, clammy and unresisting, in his. “Come.”

“But, Dorian…!”

Her protest was half-hearted, and he ran over it effortlessly. “But, nothing. A promise is a promise. I’m seeing you inside.” She gave no further resistance, so he unlocked the door to the main entrance and led her to the elevator. “Floor?”

“Third.”

He punched in the number. Once on the third floor, he looked around. There were just four apartments on each floor, and she wearily pointed out her own. By now, pity was consuming him, and he wanted urgently to get her inside so that she could rest. He selected the key that looked like it would fit the lock to her front door and began to insert it into the keyhole…

But the door yawned open before them without any further bidding.