Sugar and Spice and All Those Lies

by Evy Journey

  It’s Sunday but I have to work. I drag myself out of bed, hobble a few steps to the window, part the curtains for the bright southern light, and raise my face to the sun, my eyes closed. It’s a ritual I do every morning.

  Heat and light from the sun warms my body, sharpens my senses. I open the window wide and the faraway drone of the morning commute turns into a racket of cars revving up, whizzing by or screeching to a stop, punctuated by an occasional blast of a horn or someone cursing. But the racket helps. It assures me I am where I want to be.

  These mornings, I’ve been more relaxed. I don’t get twitchy anticipating the doorbell minutes before I leave for work. Yes, I miss Leon’s roses, I even miss the chauffeur who used to deliver them. But losing those roses is the price I’ve gladly paid for a tranquil existence. Now, I can focus on working—without distraction—to make my dreams come true. And after I remind myself it’s not just my dream, but my grandfather’s as well, I’ve harnessed all the energy I need to begin my day.

  I am, at core, a pessimist. Sometimes when I’m being kinder to myself, I say I’m practical. I don’t believe in planning for a future that includes another person, unless I know for sure that person wants to be a part of my life. But I also realize we can never tell what’s going to happen tomorrow. Or next week, or the week after that.

  Since I’ve returned to my absorbing, exhausting routine, I haven’t been back to visit my family, which is how it has always been. Lately, though, Mom has been calling more often. I think that, ironically, the stabbing incident has brought her and me closer. It took a little tragic incident for us to start talking more openly to each other.

  In the past, weeks can pass by when we never hear each other’s voice. These days, she calls Tuesday nights. Sometimes, she calls twice a week. Often they’re “how-are-things-going” calls that last five minutes, but occasionally they stretch to a half hour when one of us brings up the subject of food and cooking. She’s genuinely interested in the dishes I prepare at the restaurant and I find she has a deep knowledge of food, earned through experience.

  It’s those long conversations that have drawn us closer. Without having to say “I love you,” she’s shown me how much she really cares for me, for all her children. Now I realize that she prepares her special meals not so much because she loves cooking, but because it’s her way of showing us how much she cares.

  12

  “Can I get you something to drink? A cup of coffee, soda, water?” the receptionist says as I sit on one of four chairs around a round table in a small room.

  “No, thank you,” I say.

  “Attorney Thorpe should be here shortly.” She smiles—a practiced, mechanical smile—and closes the door.

  Lawyers intimidate me, though I can’t say why. It doesn’t help that this room is so small and I feel trapped in it. It’s quiet, with touches to make visitors feel not so cooped up and isolated within the small space. A pot of healthy violets in the center of the table. A wall of glass windows shared with the office hallway. But I still find it oppressive. Maybe it’s because I don’t know what to expect.

  I’ve formed a murky impression of defense lawyers from television: People in dark suits who try to confuse and break down witnesses whose testimonies might be working against their client. But Cristi’s lawyer is a woman; maybe she’ll be sympathetic, especially if I tell her I’m not here to make Cristi pay for what she did. Maybe she won’t attempt to confuse me.

  In the middle of that last thought, the door opens and a very pretty blonde woman in red suit enters, carrying an olive green folder. I like red. I don’t have any dark associations to it like I do with all shades of gray. She smiles at me, reaches over to shake my hand. She can’t be more than five years older than me. She says, “Ms. Lambert, how do you do? I’m Elise Thorpe. I’ll be defending your friend Cristina Silva.”

  “I’m fine. How do you do Miss Thorpe?” I take her offered hand and notice the diamond ring on her third finger. She grips my hand firmly, ignoring my mistake in addressing her “Miss.” I begin to relax a little, although I can’t help wondering how one so young can have the experience to prevent Cristi from going to prison. Do I also feel some envy? I wouldn’t have studied law if I had gone to college, though I wished what I did was as noble as defending another person’s rights, like this lawyer is doing.

  She sits across from me, opens the folder, and leans forward. “Thank you for coming. I’ll be recording this interview. Will that bother you?”

  “No, not at all.”

  She doesn’t attempt small talk. She says, “Ms. Lambert, you’ve been friends with Cristina since childhood. How close were you?”

  “Very close. We shared our secrets. We were also neighbors so we came and went into each other’s house every day.”

  “Did you have any fights, misunderstandings, times when you felt so angry that you hated the other?”

  “We had misunderstandings, but not fights, and I surely don’t hate Cristi, never hated her.”

  “Do you think she’d say the same about you?”

  “Say what about me?”

  “That she, Cristi, doesn’t hate you, has never hated you.”

  The question catches me off guard and I stare at her with my mouth open. I never thought about it before, but at the moment, I can’t say for sure that Cristi doesn’t hate me. “I honestly don’t know. Cristi is so sweet, so mild-mannered, I can’t see her hating anyone.”

  “Is there any reason you can think of for her to be so angry with you to the point of hating you?”

  I stare at the table. No one in our parents’ neighborhood knows much about Cristi’s two former boyfriends and her accusations that I lured them away from her. Was she so angry at me those two times that she actually hated me? “Well, maybe,” I say.

  “So, what might that reason be?”

  “She had a couple of guys who turned their attention to me, who broke up with her. But we were just teenagers then.”

  “Can you remember how old you were at the time of those boyfriends?”

  “The first one was when I was fifteen, at the end of my first year in senior high. She was two years ahead of me. The second one was three years later, the year I graduated.”

  “How did Cristi take the breakups?”

  “For the first one, she came to my house, accused me of stealing her boyfriend. Then she ran out of the house and refused to talk to me for a few months. She did pretty much the same thing for her second guy, although she actually burst into tears before running out. Both times, though, she never raised her voice, just had this hurt look in her eyes.”

  “Did you and Cristi make up, become friends again? Who made the first move to reconcile?”

  “She did. Both times. I wasn’t mad at her. I stayed away because she ignored me when I tried to patch things up.”

  “Is Leon Barrett the third boyfriend she’s accused you of stealing?”

  “Seems so. But I never hooked up with either of those first two guys, and I told Mr. Barrett he’s wasting his time on me. The second one tried to make up with her but she wouldn’t take him back. Mrs. Thorpe, if it’s going to help Cristi at all, I want you to know I don’t hate Cristi, even after she tried to stab me. I think she was distraught and wasn’t thinking right. I don’t think she should spend time in prison. I don’t want her to go to prison. I think she’ll go crazy in there.”

  “You’d say that even after she went at you with a pair of scissors?”

  “She didn’t mean to. I think she grabbed the first thing she could lay her hands on to strike me with. So, yes, I’m sure she was quite mad. She had this crazy glassy-eyed look when she raised her hand for the second time, as if the real Cristi was not there. I felt somehow that she didn’t know who I was, that she wasn’t aware of what she was doing.”

  “Are you prepared to say all that you’ve told me in court, Ms. Lambert? All the things you just told me are not in any of the reports I’ve read
.”

  “Of course, I am. No one has asked me the questions you’ve asked. And I never thought to tell anyone. Do you think my testimony will help her?”

  She leans back on her chair. “It certainly will, especially since it’s consistent with the psych report by the psychologist who saw her shortly after she was taken into custody.” She pauses and fixes her gaze thoughtfully on me. “You and Cristi are friends and you seem to be sincerely anxious to see that she doesn’t go to prison.”

  I nod. “I’m anxious about her. I think what she needs is help.”

  Elise Thorpe leans forward again. Her lips twitch into the beginning of a smile. “Ms. Lambert, I’ll do what I can to have the court dismiss the case against Cristi. Your testimony today will help that. If that fails, then, I’ll work toward a plea bargain that she can accept. That means the case won’t go to trial but she might be put on probation. I’ll argue for psychological counseling. If that still doesn’t work out, we’ll go for an NGRI plea—that means ‘not guilty by reason of insanity.’ She won’t go to prison but she’ll likely be required to go to some facility for psychiatric care. She needs that right now, anyway, since she’s suffering from severe depression according to the results of the psychological workup by our psychologist.”

  “Thank you for telling me all that. That reassures me that Cristi is in very good hands. You’ve also given me a better impression of lawyers.” I wanted to add, at least, of you in particular. But I decide it’s more appropriate to end with a smile. I like her. She respected my intelligence by sharing her strategy and not sparing me the legal terms.

  “You’re quite a lady yourself, Ms. Lambert, standing by a friend. I think it’s brave and it shows integrity.”

  Before I leave, she extends a hand to me again. We shake each other’s hands more vigorously, although that’s probably me shaking hers a little longer out of gratitude. This interview has eased my anxiety, lessened any guilt that still bothers me about Cristi.

  She says, “I hear you’re a chef at Du Cœur. I’ve only been to that restaurant once. My husband prefers intimate dinners at home when we celebrate …”—she laughs—“anything, really. Your restaurant serves great food. Inventive dishes, but tasty and a feast for the senses.”

  I smile, embarrassed. “I’m just a cook and it’s not my restaurant.”

  She smiles—a casual, reassuring smile. “Well, I bet you want to own one someday. I wish you much luck and when you do have your own place, send me an announcement.”

  *****

  A couple of months later, I get a call from Lieutenant Hansen. “Miss Lambert, I thought you might like to know. You’ll get an official notice from the DA’s office but I thought I’d spare you a few days of anxiety. Miss Silva isn’t going to trial. Seems like her defense lawyer negotiated a favorable plea bargain for your friend.”

  “Thank you, lieutenant. That’s such a relief. And how nice of you to inform me as soon as you knew.”

  “My pleasure, Miss Lambert … Gina. At some point, the district attorney will probably inform you of the terms of the plea bargain. Conditions she’s accepted, like probation and going to therapy.”

  “Thank you again.” I hesitate. We’re at the point where I should hang up. But I remember Marcia’s request. “Lieutenant Hansen …”

  “Yes, Gina? Anything else I can do for you?”

  “No, nothing … I think. Well, yes, there is but I don’t know if it’s appropriate.” An idea has suddenly hit me.

  “Tell me and I can tell you if it’s allowed.” I can almost hear a smile of amusement in his voice.

  “I’m aware you’ve been assigned to … interrogate me—is that the word? I think it’s my turn to tell you how much I appreciate the fact that you’ve been so considerate and shown such concern every time you asked me questions. I don’t know if other detectives are like you. Anyway, I wanted to know if you might join a couple of my friends and me for dinner one evening. My way of giving thanks.”

  “That sounds real tempting. You cook for the best restaurant in the area so you must be exceptional. I’ve never totally forgotten those delicious smells that day I came to badger you with more questions. When is it going to be?”

  “I haven’t a firm date yet. I’m still waiting for my friend to confirm. Can I call you back on it?”

  “Sure. You have my card. Use the second number. Thank you. I’ve always wondered what it’s like eating at that restaurant.”

  “Well, I won’t be preparing anything as fancy. But I’ll try to recreate a dish or two we serve there.”

  A few days later, an official looking letter arrives from the district attorney’s office. A resolution has been met in Cristi Silva’s case and there won’t be a trial. Cristi won’t be going to prison. She has agreed to psychiatric care at a state-funded facility where she’ll stay two months.

  Just like that, it’s over. I’m relieved. But also sad. I think I’ve lost a childhood friend.

  But it’s time to move on.

  *****

  I have a new problem. Well, it’s not exactly a problem. At least I don’t think so but it will take time and effort above my usual routine. I have set myself up for giving a dinner. How do I do it in my cramped, ugly apartment? In a kitchen with tableware for two, a saucepan, a skillet, an electric hotpot, a ladle, and a spatula. And a razor-sharp chef’s knife.

  On my next break with Marcia, I bring up the matter of the dinner with Lieutenant Hansen.

  “Marcia,” I say. “I’m in a bind and you’re mixed up in it.”

  “Tell me. I might be able to fix it.”

  “You have to because Lieutenant Hansen is mixed up in it, too.”

  She grins broadly, “Well, well. Definitely count me in.”

  “Then, you’re invited to dinner with the lieutenant and another friend I don’t have.”

  I recount my conversation with Lieutenant Hansen, starting with his news about the closing of Cristi’s criminal case.

  She says, “Great! Not a moment too soon. It seemed like you put a good part of your life on hold.”

  “Yeah, sometimes I think I must have felt guilty for Cristi’s attacking me.”

  “You mean like it’s your fault.”

  “Yeah, like I drove her to it.”

  “No, you didn’t and I won’t go into the usual clichés to convince you it’s not your fault. The whole unfortunate episode is over. Done with. Finis. Move on.” She slaps her hand lightly on my thigh. “Anything I can do for that dinner besides dessert?”

  “Okay, moving on. The problem is, I committed to this dinner but my apartment is cramped and, frankly, I’m ashamed of it.”

  “Consider that problem solved. We’ll do it in my big, well-appointed—by me, that is—condo. After all, you’re doing this for me and the lieutenant. What’s problem number two?”

  “The ‘other friend.’ The one I don’t have.”

  “What about Leon? Duh!”

  “I don’t want to involve him in this.”

  “Come on, Gina. Cristi is history. Live a little. Have fun. Leon will give you that and more, I assure you.”

  “I’ve asked him to turn his attention elsewhere. If I invite him he’ll think I didn’t mean what I said.”

  “So what? That’s the great thing about being a woman. Men think we’re fickle so we can change our minds anytime we damn well please. Take advantage of your advantages, woman.”

  “But what if Lieutenant Hansen and Leon are uncomfortable with each other? Lieutenant Hansen has investigated another case before that involved Leon. Maybe those two can’t stand each other.”

  With a mischievous twinkle in her eye, Marcia says, “That’ll give them something to talk about. Anyway, I’ll take care of the lieutenant if you take care of Leon. They may not have to interact much with each other at all. I have two bedrooms, you know.”

  “Marcia, you’re naughty. That wasn’t part of my scheme. This is a get-acquainted d
inner.”

  “Gina, this is the twenty-first century, the era of quick bytes and fast forwards. I want to get past the intro as quick as possible. But more to the point, my clock is ticking way too fast for me.”

  “You think the lieutenant is husband material?” The idea of the lieutenant being married to Marcia gives me a queasy stomach.

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead. But I wouldn’t mind making a baby with him.” Once again, that mischievous glint in her eye. And that queasiness in my stomach.

  “Break is up,” I say, looking at my watch and getting up. I trudge ahead of Marcia through the back door into the kitchen.

  *****

  I call Lieutenant Hansen on my way home from the restaurant. It’s a business number, and I intend to leave him a message. But it isn’t a machine that answers.

  “Hello, Miss Lambert … Gina.”

  Surprised, I say, “Hello, Lieutenant, are you still at work?”

  “No, I’m at home.”

  “I’m sorry. Did I wake you up?”

  “Actually, I was just about to go to bed.”

  “I thought this was your work number.”

  “It’s my personal cellphone. I only give it to a few people.”

  The lieutenant’s answer gives me pause. I don’t quite know what to make of it, but I smile, pleased.

  “Am I one of the few because I’m inviting you to dinner?”

  “I gave you that card before you invited me.”

  For an instant, I’m speechless and the lieutenant says, “What’s up? Anything I can do for you?”

  “Yeah. About that dinner? Two Mondays from today. Can you make it? Sorry it’s your work day, but that’s when the restaurant is closed.”

  “I’ll be there. Where?”

  “At Marcia’s place. She’s my friend. Pastry chef at Du Cœur.” A little uneasy anticipating the lieutenant’s reaction, I add, “I think she’s inviting Mr. Barrett.”

  But Lieutenant Hansen doesn’t hesitate. “Sounds good. I’m looking forward to it. Where’s Marcia’s place?”