A Thin Line-

by DL White

  "I'm so sorry, Evangeline.”

  “Don’t call me that, Preston. Don’t ever call me that again.”

  I wanted my heart to go out to him, to see him and think that being mad at him was stupid. But when I saw him, I saw red. I swallowed back tears but said nothing.

  “You have every right to be pissed at me, but I was with you because I wanted to be with you. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about—I didn't think you would go out with me if you knew."

  “You’re right about that,” I said, cutting my eyes at him. “You let me think I was special to you, Preston.”

  "You are!” He shouted. “You always have been. She means nothing to me and I love you, you know that, Ev—Angie. Please…”

  I shook my head, the waterfall of tears coming again. I got up from the table and said, through the sorrow that I didn’t want him to see, but couldn’t hold back, “You let me waste all of my firsts on you."

  9

  Preston is relaxed in his usual dark ensemble, leaning back in a leather chair, feet propped on a corner of the desk, and crossed at the ankles. His socks are a bright raspberry that matches the print in his tie.

  His office is an eclectic mix of his style and the firm’s professional interior design. The building is a loft-style space of exposed brick, large arching windows, and real oak floors. His undergrad degree in Legal Studies, followed by his degree from Barry School of Law grace the walls. His desk is covered in neat stacks of folders, notepads and the requisite collage of photos in mismatched frames in the corner—his family, a few pictures of Morgan, Nate, he and I over the years.

  I'm unprepared to see that he has recently added a photo to the collection. Homecoming. Before the ugly confrontation and the nasty breakup.

  I pretend I don't notice. He doesn't point it out.

  I've arrived for a conference between his client and mine. This will be the first time that all of us have been in the same room. My prayer is that one of our clients doesn't leap across the table and try to choke the other.

  For that matter, I pray that neither of the attorneys will either.

  Before that meeting, we have a call with the Events Manager at Rendezvous St. Lucia.

  "Let me do all the talking," Preston says, while we listen to the line ring. "I know how to handle these people."

  I snicker. “I don’t talk for a living or anything."

  Preston smirks. “Fine. If you have questions, pipe up."

  I smile and whip out my notebook, opening to the first of several pages of notes. Preston rolls his eyes.

  "Rendezvous, this is Andrew. Can I help you?"

  Andrew has a sexy British accent, well paired with his deep voice. He must sound great with the ocean waves crashing onto the shore as a background. I'm instantly interested in speaking with him.

  “Hi, Andrew. This is Preston Reid. My associate gave me your contact information. We spoke briefly by email about a wedding party in October–"

  "Ah, yes. Yes, sir. I remember."

  "I've got my planning partner here, Angie Blake. Say hi to the man, baby.” I grimace at the term of endearment.

  "Hello, Andrew. We're so excited to work with you."

  "Hello, Miss Angie," he answers, and I swoon inside. "This will be an exciting event. Your friends are fortunate. Will you and Mr. Reid be joining the party?"

  "I wouldn't dream of missing it. Why don't you tell us about your resort? What can we expect from a destination wedding?"

  By the time Andrew finishes his virtual tour of the resort, I feel sand between my toes, a salty breeze blowing, and a frosty drink in my hand.

  "I think October will work for your group if you want to take advantage of current year pricing." I hear the soft sounds of a page-turning. “We start to pick up at the beginning of November with the US holiday season, and we're booked through the New Year until..."

  More pages flipping. "Well, a large part of the next year is booked in some way or another. Our next best option for your group would be spring, but pricing….” He pauses.

  "So, we need to make October work," muses Preston.

  "Correct," Andrew says. "I don't want to rush you at all, it's just that rooms fill so quickly and with your headcount—”

  "Right, right. I get it," says Preston. "Can you hold for a minute?"

  "Certainly."

  Preston presses a button on his desk phone. The mute button flashes. "Nate gave me his credit card number to hold the deposit. But only if we both agree."

  I nod. "It sounds fine. It’s now or spring, and I don’t like the price hike for next year.”

  "And we have Nate and Morgan primed for October."

  We thought they were going to take the early date badly, but they seemed excited about getting the whole deal over with early. Frankly, so am I. If I have to bite back every word I want to say to Preston from now until spring, I won’t have a tongue left.

  Preston turns off the mute. "You're a skilled salesman, Andrew. My planning partner just told me that if we don't book right now, she's not coming."

  I cringe inside. Preston is flirting with Andrew for me. Once we've booked the resort and our dates, a glorious week in early October on the island of St. Lucia, I can breathe.

  With all of this turmoil with Preston, I forgot to be excited about Nate and Morgan handing over the reins to their extraordinary event and letting us plan it. I didn't forget that I know what they're doing. And that when this wedding is over, our best friends are going to be shocked as hell to find that their ploy didn't work.

  Preston's phone rings soon after we're off the line with Andrew. He picks up the call via speakerphone. "Yeah."

  "You have guests in the lobby," his secretary mumbles in monotone.

  "Show them up."

  "I don't have time," she says, and then the line goes dead.

  Preston grabs a few files, a notebook, and a pen from a cup on the desk. "We'll move to the conference room."

  The only doors at Perry are in conference rooms. The offices are arched openings along the long brick hallway. Preston's fellow associates are dressed to the nines–dark suits, white shirts, classy ties, shiny black shoes. A lawyer uniform.

  Each office is a testament to the personality of its inhabitant. Some are neat and tidy, files stacked in one corner of the desk, laptop front and center, phone to the side. Some are a mishmash of everything in the center of the desk, the phone buried somewhere beneath that, laptop on a side table open to an internet browser with the Gmail tab open.

  He escorts me to a windowless conference room and immediately leaves again. I pick one side of the table and begin to unload my bag. File folders, notepad, a tape recorder. A few minutes later, Preston walks in, followed by my client and his client, Phillip Bailey.

  Bailey is taller than I imagined. He is smarmy and underhanded, so I pictured him more Danny DeVito than Paul Bunyan. He towers over everyone in the room, and his black suit makes him appear even more menacing. We shake hands. His are enormous.

  Carlos scoots around to my side of the table and avoids looking at Bailey. After introductions, we're all seated, Carlos and I on one side, Preston at the head of the table and Phillip Bailey across from me. I slide my recorder to the center of the space between us all and press the small red button.

  "Today is June 28th. We are at the offices of the Perry Law Group. Present are attorneys Preston Reid for Perry Law Group and Evangeline Blake for Flanning & Rourke, LLP, Phillip Bailey, and Carlos Sanchez."

  I continue, "Phillip Bailey, owner of Bay Ridge View apartment homes, located at 8664 Bay Ridge Blvd, Orlando, Florida, has begun eviction proceedings against my client, Carlos Sanchez, and has requested the tenant vacate the premises well before the expiration of the lease."

  I open a folder and produce a copy of the discrimination filing and slide it toward Preston. He picks it up, glances at it and pushes it back. It is nothing more than two pages of typewritten legalese, indicating an order has been filed.

  "In response
, my client filed a discrimination complaint. Mr. Sanchez contends that he has not violated any term of the lease and that Mr. Bailey has and is engaging in active discrimination."

  Preston pulls a few pages from a folder in his stack and slides them to me. I've seen them all, and decline to review them again. Carlos reaches for them and flips through the stack, then tosses them back. Bailey is quiet, stone-faced, staring at the table.

  "My client, Phillip Bailey, contends that Mr. Sanchez had multiple family members living in his two-bedroom apartment for periods longer than 48 hours, which is the length of time permissible by the lease–"

  "But that's not true!" Carlos exclaims. "Christina was never there for more than two days!"

  Bailey, who finally appears awake and alert, lashes out at Carlos with his index finger pointing across the table. "I track everything. Almost every time your sister ran to you, she stayed over the 48-hour mark. I have notes."

  Preston places a hand on Bailey's shoulder and squeezes. Instantly, he clams up and sits back in his seat. "As Mr. Bailey mentioned, he has detailed notes of arrival and departure of guests to the Sanchez home. We can go over those times if you want."

  I shake my head. "Not if there's nothing to corroborate those notes. No video with a timestamp? No deal. He could have made them up."

  Preston pulls more pages from his folder, one of which is an 8x10 glossy photo of a wall that looks like the Incredible Hulk went at it, and an apartment door with a foot sized dent. I hadn't seen the images before, so I grabbed them up to view the damage up close.

  "Mr. Bailey has documented extensive damage to the hallway outside of the apartment, the door, and the interior of the living space. I should also note that this damage remains, and Mr. Sanchez has neither accepted responsibility nor agreed to pay for repairs."

  "I'm not paying to fix a wall and a door in a building where I can't live. Bailey has insurance, let him file a claim."

  "Why should my vandalism premiums go up because my tenants have animals for relatives?"

  "Phillip!" Preston snaps. “You’re on tape. Shut your mouth and leave it that way." Once again, Bailey shrinks back. He folds his massive arms across his chest and scowls. "Mr. Bailey wants control of his building. There's nothing to stop the man that did this damage from coming back to destroy more property–"

  "Mr. Santos is in jail, and his wife doesn't live in this apartment. He has no reason to go back there."

  "And if he should be released from jail, there's nothing to stop him from coming back and knocking in a door or a wall, trying to find her. Eight months remain on the lease. Mr. Bailey will forego any penalty for early cancellation and the remaining term of the lease. The Sanchez family could walk away today and owe nothing. Step right into something else."

  One look at Carlos tells me that isn't the answer he's seeking. I shake my head at Preston. "My client has done nothing wrong. Mr. Bailey is evicting them simply because he doesn't like them. He made up reasons to kick them out and hopes they'll legally stick."

  "Do you have a counteroffer?"

  Incredulous, I chuckle. "Sure. Your client lets mine live in peace. They'll pay the insurance deductible so that Mr. Bailey can get his property repaired. Past that, we don't have any other obligation or concession."

  Bailey has been shaking his head for a few minutes. "No way," he mumbles. "I want them out. I won’t have a family of Mexicans all piled up in that apartment. They think I don't notice them coming and going."

  Carlos grits his teeth, the vein in his forehead throbbing with his heartbeat. "There isn't a pile of Mexicans living in my apartment. My family is Cuban, and I was born in Miami, you fucking inbred!"

  "Carlos," I whisper, trying to shush him. "You are on tape."

  He starts to rise but sits back down when I hook my nails into his arm and catch his eye. He stares me down for a few seconds, but then his calm returns.

  "My wife, my children," he says quietly, “we are citizens. We speak English. I want him to know that."

  “Whatever,” Bailey says, grumbling. "No dice."

  "So, we're going to court.” I glance at Preston, who isn't sufficiently embarrassed by his client.

  Preston pushes back from the table and stands. "Should have a court date by early next week." He nods at Bailey, who stands and lumbers out of the conference room, Preston in tow.

  I hear them going down the stairs and I’m finally free to exhale. "I can't believe you want to stay there, Carlos. He's willing to let you out, free and clear."

  "I know," he answers. “But if he does it to us, he'll do it to the next family. We'll move when our lease is up and not a minute sooner. We won't be forced to leave by his bigoted views."

  I gather my piles together and load them back into my bag. “You’re a better man than me. This could take some time. Until then, avoid Bailey. He can't kick you out, but you don’t want any trouble. Follow the lease to the letter. Don't speak to him. Don't let him get under your skin. Don't give him any ammunition that he can present in court that would sway the judge in his favor."

  "Got it. And thank you."

  "Thank me when I've won this case." Because I might not.

  I lead him out of the conference room, meeting Preston at the steps. "I'm going to my office if we're finished."

  “We’re finished. See you Sunday.”

  I stop on the third step down and turn around. "What's Sunday?"

  "Check your email. Wedding party brunch at the bride and groom’s home.”

  I groan. "See you Sunday."

  "Want me to pick you up? It's on my way."

  I start to snap at him that I could drive myself, thank you very much. Then I remember our agreement and try to craft a way to decline. Before I can do so, he says, "I'll be at your place at eleven. Be ready, so I don’t have to wait."

  At what point, I wonder as I turn and stomp down the steps, does Preston have to bite his tongue?

  10

  Sunday morning is beautiful, warm, and sunny but not yet hot. I would love to skip down to the pool in a skimpy bathing suit with anything but work and lay around deepening my golden-brown hue. I haven't done enough of that lately.

  Instead, I have to put on a dress and heels, flat iron my hair and channel Nia Long’s sassy short style, and ride to Nate and Morgan’s with Preston. I have to sit next to him at a table overflowing with delicacies and pretend that we're getting along.

  Preston's Benz turns into my apartment complex promptly at ten fifty-five. Instead of waiting in the driver’s seat while the engine quietly idles, he parks, walks around to the passenger side, and opens the door with a flourish and a shit-eating grin.

  “Morning,” I greet him and get in. He closes my door and jogs back around to the driver's side. As he slides back into the smooth leather seat, I take note of his attire–dark jeans, a button-down plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a gray tweed four-button vest. The diamonds around the face of his watch catch the sunlight as he turns the wheel and guides the car to the street.

  "You always dress this nice for brunch?"

  His eyes leave the road for a brief moment. “I like to look good. I could ask you the same question.” His gaze roves the chest and thighs that my dress leaves bare.

  It used to be Preston's favorite thing, while he drove, to reach over and tuck a hand between my thighs. He preferred when I wore dresses, and sometimes I had to hold his hand to keep it from wandering.

  The memory makes me blush. I tug at the hem of my dress.

  "Touché. I thought you might have been on your way from somewhere else. Or someone else.”

  “Someone else?” I watch one side of his mouth tip up with a grin. “I can guess who you think you’re talking about.”

  “Just drive,” I snap, regretting letting those words fall from my lips.

  "I slept alone, since you care."

  "I don't."

  "Could have fooled me." Preston inhales deeply, then exhales so long and loud, it sounds as if
he's emptying his lungs. "This truce isn't going very well.”

  He's right. I can’t let my guard down with him. That’s when he goes in for the kill. If I stay woke, he doesn't have reason to think I'm ripe for an attack. I know how crazy this sounds, but I also know Preston Reid like the back of my hand.

  For a few minutes, I hear nothing but the sound of the tires gripping the road and the luxury machine working as designed. Preston is dangerous when he's quiet, and he's very, very quiet. I wouldn't put it past him to quit this wedding again because I won't be nice to him.

  "Okay, I apologize." And inside, I die a little. "It's hard to go from snapping at you to being nice to you."

  "I know. For me too."

  "But we agreed. So. I'm trying."

  "You are?" He takes a peek at me out of the corner of his eye. "Since when?"

  "Since now, jackass."

  "Your idea of nice needs more work. Say something pleasant."

  "You first."

  "Fine. That dress?” He steals a glance at the simple, fluttery pink sundress. “It looks amazing on you. Very sexy." He grins. "Happy?"

  I can’t fight the flush that washes over me. Preston means what he says, even when he’s forced to be nice. Though he bugs the shit out of me, I’m flattered.

  "Thank you,” I say quietly. "You… look nice, too.”

  “Thank you, Angie.”

  I exhale dramatically as if that was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Preston breaks into laughter and doesn't stop until we pull up to the gates at Vizcaya.

  Nate and Morgan's three-story Spanish Mediterranean style home overlooks Lake Victoria, a miles long water way surrounded by luxurious mansions. Five bedrooms, six bathrooms, formal and casual living and dining areas, a heated pool, three-car garage, and ample space to be anywhere in the house and feel deserted. When Nate travels, Morgan hates to be home alone, so I pack up a few days’ worth of clothing and move in.

  Preston buzzes us in with his code, and once we're inside the gates, it's a 30-second drive to the circular driveway. He parks behind Keith and Brandess, who drive a black Lexus SUV. As I get out of the car, I see that someone has parked behind us. I don’t recognize the vehicle.