Let's Make It Legal

by Patricia Kay

  “I’m going home, Norma. You can go, too.”

  Riding down in the elevator, Sydney chuckled as she thought about the expression on Norma’s face.

  Sydney pulled into the underground garage of her high-rise building at three-thirty. She waved at Pete, the daytime garage attendant. After a minute, he waved back, but she saw the expression of surprise on his face. She grimaced. Was she normally so preoccupied that a simple wave was enough to cause raised eyebrows?

  Ten minutes later, she was unlocking the door to her eighteenth-floor condominium. Her Post Oak area building was twenty stories high, and each story had six condos. The four larger ones were corner units, the two smaller ones were inside units. Sydney had an inside unit, but it faced southeast, so she had a magnificent view of downtown Houston, which she loved, and a completely private patio, which she also loved.

  She looked around the condo with a critical eye. Her once-a-week maid had been in yesterday, so the place was clean. She wondered what John would think of it and tried to see it through his eyes.

  The condo consisted of a large combination living/dining area, a small kitchen, a guest bath, two bedrooms—one small and one large—the master bath, and a tiny utility room just big enough for a stack washer and dryer, and a sink.

  Lifeless, she thought, studying the impeccably decorated, but completely impersonal living area. When the decorator had suggested the black-and-white color scheme, with touches of red and yellow to give it “oomph,” as she’d called it, Sydney had agreed without much interest or enthusiasm.

  “As long as it looks good, I don’t care what you do,” she’d said, giving the decorator carte blanche. Actually, if she’d thought no one else would ever see it, she wouldn’t have even cared if it looked good. She’d only bought the condo to give herself a tax break and to have a secure, safe place to live—somewhere she wouldn’t be frightened to come home to when she worked late.

  Now, though, she saw what John would see. A place where there were no personal touches. A place where Sydney didn’t spend enough time to make it into a real home. A place without life.

  A lonely place.

  Sydney shook off the depressing thought and walked to her bedroom. She tossed her briefcase on the bed, shrugged out of her suit coat and walked to the closet. She slid open the mirrored door, flipped on the interior light and walked inside. After hanging up her suit coat and divesting herself of the rest of her work clothes, she stood in her underwear and surveyed the contents of her closet.

  Dozens of suits in subdued neutral colors lined the long wall. They were color-coded and arranged according to seasons. Both the skirts and jackets hung on the top tier of a divided rack. On the bottom rack, at least a hundred blouses hung, also color-coded.

  On the right wall of the closet were Sydney’s casual clothes, and to the left her dressy clothes. Her shoes were neatly boxed and labeled and stacked in rows on shelves.

  She needed something dressy for tonight. The selection of dressy clothes was pitiful, she decided, thinking that was another sad commentary on her life, just as the parking attendant’s reaction had been.

  She sighed. What should she wear tonight? She had made reservations at Brennan’s, one of her favorite restaurants. People usually dressed up to go to Brennan’s.

  She eyed her small selection of dresses, finally settling on a black, long-sleeved, jewel-necked silk crepe with a self-belt. It was awfully plain, but it would have to do. It was the best she had, other than a cocktail suit with sequins, which she’d never liked and which was much too fussy, anyway.

  By six-thirty, she’d had her bath and washed her hair. She’d tried curling it, with no success, and finally resigned herself to wearing it in the same simple style she effected for work. She’d experimented with eye shadows, but thought they all looked ridiculous on her, so ended up with the touch of blue-gray she always wore. She’d put on one of those new wine-colored lipsticks, but thought it made her look like a vampire, so she’d wiped it off and gone back to her same old rosy pink.

  When it came to jewelry, she really wished she had something glitzy. Some big earrings with rhinestones or something. But she didn’t. Her entire jewelry collection consisted of six or seven pairs of sedate gold earrings, a thick gold chain necklace, a thin gold chain necklace, a gold circle pin, an onyx and gold bracelet and matching earrings, and small pearl earrings with a matching two-strand necklace.

  She sighed.

  She wore the pearls. A small black suede evening purse and two-inch black suede pumps completed her outfit. Wait a minute. Why not wear your red shoes? Suddenly Sydney smiled. Kicking off the suede pumps, she headed back to her closet.

  Promptly at seven, Bruce, the lobby security guard, announced John’s arrival. “Send him up,” she said. She pressed her stomach to still the sudden flutter of nerves.

  The doorbell chimed.

  When Sydney opened the door, her breath caught. She had forgotten how attractive John was, how... sexy. And John in a dark, pin-striped suit was even better-looking and sexier than John in anything else she’d seen him in so far.

  He smiled. “Hi.” His gaze swept over her. “Don’t you look nice.”

  The approval in his warm, dark eyes made her insides feel like someone had poured hot liquid through her.

  “Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself. Come on in.”

  He walked past her into the condo and headed straight for the expanse of picture-window and patio doors. Sydney had opened the floor-length white drapes, and nighttime Houston, with its glittering expanse of lights, beckoned.

  “Wow,” he said. “What a view.”

  Sydney walked up beside him. He smelled wonderful, she thought, from some kind of tangy-scented, male cologne. “It is spectacular, isn’t it? Would you like to go outside for a while?”

  He looked at his watch. “Didn’t you say our reservations were for seven forty-five?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps we’d better get going, then. Maybe when we come back?”

  Maybe when we come back.

  The words sent a thrill through Sydney, conjuring up all sorts of exciting images. She smiled. “All right.”

  When they got to the parking garage, John apologized for his Bronco. “Trucks aren’t exactly made for high heels.”

  “I’m fine,” Sydney assured him as he helped her up. The feel of his strong hands on her waist made her tingle inside.

  She couldn’t help silently laughing at herself on the way to the restaurant. She had never been the kind of woman who needed or wanted a man’s help. Yet tonight, there was something very appealing about playing the subordinate role. She actually wanted doors held open for her, an arm at her elbow, someone else taking the lead.

  Later, seated across from John at a table overlooking the courtyard, she wondered what it was about him that produced such contradictory emotions in her. She felt more relaxed and comfortable around him than she’d felt with anyone in a long time, yet overriding this feeling was a delicious tension and awareness of him as a man.

  She knew what produced the last feeling. She was attracted to him sexually.

  It was the comfort she tried to analyze. Perhaps this feeling came from the fact that he wasn’t one of those men who wanted to talk of nothing but themselves. He actually paid attention to her. Listened to her. As if he really cared what she said.

  Yes, that was it.

  John seemed truly interested in her, and he let her know it.

  She smiled. He made her feel special. He certainly didn’t make her feel as if he thought she was boring and one-dimensional, as a long-ago boyfriend had said when they’d broken up. Sydney grimaced inwardly. That night had been one of the low points of her life. It had been the only time she’d really thought she was in love, and when Ken made his dismissive assessment of her character, she felt more inferior and inadequate than at any time before or since. Even now, remembering, the old hurt rose to claim her, and she had to fight it back.

&nbs
p; “So how’s your final argument coming along?” John asked as they waited for their first course of turtle soup.

  “It’s ready, I think. I did final polishing today. Of course, there may be some minor changes after the last couple of witnesses testify... you know, if something is said that I think needs to be refuted. That kind of thing.”

  “Yes, I remember.” He smiled, but Sydney thought there was a look of longing in his eyes, which he quickly masked.

  “Do you miss it?” she asked softly. “Do you miss practicing law?”

  He hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I have to admit it. Sometimes I do miss it.” He picked up a roll and split it open.

  “Tell me something,” Sydney said, breaking off a piece of her own roll. “I know you said you stopped practicing law because you wanted to be around for your kids, but couldn’t you have just scaled down your workload and accomplished the same thing?”

  He gave her a rueful look. “I suppose I could have. At the time, though, I was so torn up emotionally, I wasn’t really thinking straight. And now, well, now it’s too late.”

  Sydney frowned. “Why is it too late?” She ate a piece of roll.

  Their waiter arrived with their soup, and John waited until the man had served them before replying. “Well, there are two reasons. First and most important is the kids. I promised myself I’d be there for them. Second, there’s the agency. I couldn’t walk out on Janet. And even if I could, I know myself, and I know how easy it would be to get caught up in all that again.”

  “All what again?” Sydney tasted her soup. As usual, it was perfection.

  “You know. The excitement. The challenge. The kill.”

  Sydney smiled quizzically. “The kill? I thought you were a tax lawyer.”

  John smiled. “Well, I was kind of a big-time tax lawyer.”

  “He said modestly,” she added, chuckling at his sheepish look.

  “I’m tired of talking about me,” he said. “Let’s talk about you for a while.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about your children first? How old are they?”

  “Emily’s ten and Jeffrey’s six.” His voice rang with pride. “They’re great kids, although Emily worries me sometimes.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s a perfectionist. Extremely competitive. Exactly like her mother was.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Sydney was a perfectionist and competitive, herself.

  “I don’t want Emily to be that driven. It certainly had disastrous consequences for Andrea.”

  “Oh, John, surely you realize that what happened to your wife would have happened to her even if she’d been June Cleaver, at home baking cookies all day. I don’t think aneurisms choose their victims according to personality types.”

  “We don’t really know that. Maybe if Andrea had taken life a little easier, relaxed more, she would have lived longer.” By now their salads had arrived, and he picked up his fork and speared a crouton. “I just don’t want Emily to always think she has to be number one. It’s not healthy to push yourself that way.”

  “I don’t think I agree with you,” Sydney said. “What’s wrong with trying to do your best?”

  John didn’t answer for a while, and Sydney grew a bit uncomfortable under his steady gaze. She ate some of her salad and wondered if she should have kept her opinion to herself. After all, he was Emily’s father. What did Sydney know about kids, anyway? Being a children’s advocate wasn’t the same as being a parent and living with a child twenty-four hours a day.

  “You’re right that there’s nothing wrong with trying to do your best,” John finally said. “But I don’t want my children to be one-dimensional. I want them to have full and happy lives. Lives that include marriage and children and fulfilling work and lots of time to play and have fun.”

  Sydney felt as if he’d punched her in the stomach. One-dimensional. Was that what he thought of her?

  Had she been kidding herself when she told herself that John really liked her? That he was interested in her?

  You’re the most boring, one-dimensional person I’ve ever known.

  Ken’s old taunt reverberated in her mind. The disgusted, pitying look he’d given her was as freshly wounding as if it had just happened.

  It did just happen, Sydney thought.

  The only reason John had agreed to tonight’s dinner is that I’m a valuable client for his agency.

  For the rest of their meal, the thought hammered at Sydney. No matter how she tried, it refused to go away. Everything John said after that, she analyzed and looked for the hidden meanings.

  He hadn’t wanted to go out with her again. He’d agreed to dinner because when she called and asked him out, he hadn’t wanted to jeopardize her business.

  He had no personal feelings for her. She had been deluding herself, thinking he felt the way she felt because that’s what she wanted to think.

  You’re so stupid! Sure, he has personal feelings for you. He feels sorry for you! He thinks you’re one-dimensional.

  By the time they’d finished dinner, Sydney was miserable. She knew John felt the change in atmosphere between them, because his conversation had become strained, and he kept looking at her as if he was trying to figure out what was going on in her mind.

  Sydney couldn’t wait to get home.

  She couldn’t wait to get away from him. Away from those eyes.

  She almost laughed, thinking how excited she’d been about this evening earlier.

  Dinner was finally over. And when the waiter brought the bill, Sydney snatched it up before John could even think about paying it.

  “I’m the host tonight,” she said stiffly, avoiding John’s eyes.

  As they walked out into the navy night and waited for John’s Bronco to be brought around, Sydney wanted to cry. She never cried. The last time she’d cried, she’d been ten years old and gotten her arm broken when her horse threw her. She still remembered what her father had said.

  “Only weak people cry, Sydney.”

  She forced the tears away.

  Chapter Six

  What the devil was wrong with her?

  John searched his mind for clues on the silent ride home. He couldn’t imagine what had brought about her change in behavior, but it was cold enough in this car to freeze Miami in August. To relieve the tension and silence, he inserted a Lyle Lovett CD.

  “Do you like Lyle Lovett?” he asked as music flooded the car.

  She shrugged. “I’d never even heard of him until he married Julia Roberts.”

  That statement was a perfect commentary on Sydney’s life, John thought. “Sydney, you need to relax more.”

  He could almost feel her stiffen beside him. “I’m perfectly happy with my life,” she said.

  Oops. Better steer clear of that subject. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound like a criticism.”

  “I know exactly what you meant.”

  John glanced at her rigid profile, then lapsed into silence. Better to keep his mouth shut, he decided, because it was obvious that anything he said was going to be misinterpreted. Somehow, during the course of the evening, he had done something to distance her, and until he figured out what it was, he was better off saying nothing.

  She stared straight ahead for the remainder of the ride. He was glad it was short.

  When they reached her building, she said, “You can just pull into the turnaround in front and drop me off. Save you having to park.”

  John almost agreed. After all, that would probably be best. Drop her off. Write her off.

  And then he looked at her tense face, the tautness of her shoulders, the way she wouldn’t look directly at him, and knew he couldn’t leave with things like this between them. He had alienated her in some way, and he had to make things right.

  “I thought you promised me the view from your patio,” he said softly.

  For the first time since they’d left the restaurant, she looked directly at him. Although it was too
dark in the car to know for sure, John thought he saw a questioning flicker in the depths of her eyes.

  “And I’m holding you to that promise,” he added.

  Without another word, he pulled into the garage.

  * * *

  Sydney’s mind reeled in confusion.

  Why had he insisted on coming up? If he thought she was so boring and one-dimensional, why did he want to spend even one more minute in her company? As they stood outside her condo door, she fumbled with her keys.

  “Here,” John said behind her. “Let me.” He took the keys from her and opened her door.

  “Thanks.” She didn’t look at him. Why didn’t he just go home and leave her alone? She dumped her purse on the coffee table. “The patio door is unlocked if you want to go outside.” Realizing how chilly she sounded, she forced herself to turn around and inject a friendly note into her voice. “Can I bring you something? Coffee? Brandy? Or how about some Bailey’s?”

  Yes, that was it. Cheerful, friendly, completely nonchalant. Two could play at this game, she decided. She’d be the perfect hostess, even if it killed her.

  He turned, giving her a smile. His eyes held a curious light. “Bailey’s sounds nice.”

  “Bailey’s it is.” As she poured their drinks at the bar, she heard him open the patio door and walk outside. Muted sounds of the traffic below drifted into the room. Sydney used the few moments to gather together her shredded confidence. She told herself she didn’t care one way or the other what John thought of her. So he’d disappointed her because she’d thought he was different. So what? She’d been wrong before.

  She pasted a smile on her face and a few minutes later, two small crystal glasses of Bailey’s in her hands, she walked out to join him on the patio. He was standing at the railing, the lights of downtown winked in the distance, and spread out around them like a carpet of diamonds was suburban Houston.

  “Here you go.” She handed him his drink, then stood a few inches away from him.

  He smiled his thanks and took a sip.

  She took a sip of hers. The smooth liqueur slid down her throat and warmed her. I’m okay, she thought. I can do this.