His hair was unkempt. He wore sweats. A shadow of a beard actually marred his chin. He looked positively disheveled. For that matter, Lauren wasn’t too groomed either. What was with everyone? It was as if Professor Johnson morphed all the second years into brief-obsessed zombies.
“And why is the door unlocked in the first place?” Markus frowned. “Don’t you realize this is New York? Bad things happen to single women living alone in the city all the time. Don’t you read the papers?”
Lauren turned towards the now wide-open front entrance.
“This is a dorm,” I smiled. Leave it to Markus to provide the comic relief: him as the big, bad boogeyman. “With twenty-four hour security. No one can come in and out without showing ID, and all visitors have to be personally signed in,” I reminded him. That’s why Julian was cooling his heels downstairs while I was still chatting up my classmates. “If anyone murders us, it will be a fellow student. Getting ideas?”
“Hah, hah.” Markus rubbed his chin. “So what are you two up to?”
“This idiot,” Lauren said, “is leaving. For a date.”
“Are you crazy?” Markus stared at me, horrified. “What about the brief? Do you want to fail Con Law? We have two weeks. Fourteen days. Ten of which are full lecture days, which means the weekend is the only time you can really work on it. I came to see if you guys wanted to do the research together, to save time. Otherwise, who knows?” Markus shook his head. “Going out is definitely out of the question.” He paused, then narrowed his eyes at me as if all of Lauren’s words had registered. Finally. “And what does Lauren mean by a date? With whom?” Markus demanded.
Ah jeez. All I needed.
“No one,” I said. “I’m just going out for two, three hours max. Don’t worry! You guys start the research without me. We’re on opposing sides anyway, so I wouldn’t be much help to both of you. And I’ll start my research the minute I get back. I have everything under control. You’ll see.”
WE TOURED THE EXHIBIT for nearly four hours.
Julian pointed out his favorite pictures. I listened to his explanations about lighting angles, backdrops and artistic composition. He admired each picture for close to fifteen minutes. I stood next to him, admiring them just as intently, although—after the tenth one—all the images began to look similar: black and white portraits of obscure artists wearing intense “artist” expressions.
I hardly ever glimpsed at my wristwatch. Well, almost.
Then Julian suggested dinner at his favorite restaurant, a brick-oven pizzeria in Williamsburg. I hesitated. He did mean Williamsburg, Brooklyn, which was a half-hour cab ride each way. Don’t forget the brief, my head screamed. But Julian was so charmingly persistent: I just had to try this pizza. No place outside Sicily made a better one.
So we went.
“How do you like the pizza?” Julian asked as he contemplated the large pie between us.
“Good.” I bit into a slice of pie piled high with steaming mozzarella, homemade tomato sauce and basil. The Margherita Classica. Julian had insisted on it; he was a purist when it came to toppings. “Have you been to Sicily?” I asked.
“Sure.” Julian took a sip of his house white—no beer and pizza for him, thank you—and reached for his own slice. “I love to travel. That’s why I love working in photography. It takes me all over the world.”
“Any Italian in your background?” I asked while I studied Julian’s face. With the olive complexion, I had almost been certain.
“Sure.” He smiled at me, and forked a bite of cheese.
The man used cutlery to eat pizza. How European. I picked up my own fork and knife.
“On my father’s side. But I never visited the fatherland until adulthood. Then again,” he winked, “my mother’s half-Polish, half-Hungarian. Dzien dobry.”
Julian had Polish in him? Now my mother had to approve. A nice Polish boy, that’s what you need, she always said.
“How’d you know I was Polish?”
Now Julian laughed.
“Are you kidding? There are no secrets in the Lamont house.” At my confused stare, he laughed harder. “First Gemma mentioned it, then Lisa filled me in on all your gory details.” He leaned over the table and whispered the “gory” like a narrator in a horror flick.
“How’d she know?” The words “Polish origin” weren’t tattooed on my forehead.
Julian sat back to sip more wine, then grinned. “Background check.” He dropped the two words like bombs in the quiet Arizona desert.
Background check! Okay, okay, maybe I should have expected one. There were plenty of weirdoes out there, and a scary percentage of them wanted to work with children. Any responsible parent would check out a potential employee.
“You know, place of birth, parents, siblings, schools, grades, jobs, the usual. Luckily,” Julian pointed out, his grin broadening, “you had no criminal record. Not even a disciplinary suspension from school,” he tsked. “Lisa was very disappointed. Though she did have a field day with the Polish bit. Must’ve repeated every Polish joke she’d ever heard, to anybody willing to listen.” Julian puckered his lips, all mock sympathy. “But don’t worry, I let her have it. My mother’s half-Polish, and nobody makes fun of my mamma.”
Lisa? “What’s Lisa got to do with me?” I demanded, my voice harsher than I had meant it to be.
Julian’s grin almost split his face; he was clearly enjoying our conversation.
“Oh,” he said as he toyed with his wine glass, twisting its stem to and fro, “Lisa likes to think she has everything to do with anything and anyone connected to the Lamont name. But I wouldn’t worry.” Here, his hand stopped. Wine sloshed over the brim of his glass. “The girl’s delusional.”
“How?” I shot the word out, almost jumping out of my seat. I shouldn’t care about Lisa, but I did. This was my rare chance to get more details, and Julian knew it.
Fleetingly, though, I wondered why he had mentioned Lisa in the first place.
“Lisa,” Julian said, gulping his wine as if he needed the drink to make her name more palatable, “likes to think she’s in charge. She sleeps with the boss, and she thinks she’s on her way to replacing Monique. Did you know,” Julian went on, a large frown overtaking his face, “that bitch actually tried to get me fired? But I’ve been dealing with the Lamonts far longer than she has, and I know how they operate.”
“How?” I whispered, like a child enraptured with a fairy tale and anxious to hear the ending.
Over and over, the words Lisa tried to get Julian fired rolled about in my head. I could just imagine the scenario: a steamy love session, backstabbing, lying to eliminate the competition.
Julian smirked as he forked a hefty chunk of pizza. “Stephen Lamont likes to sleep with his employees—well, all the pretty and willing ones. And, boy, was Lisa willing. She chased him like a bitch in heat from the moment he hired her as the nanny.” Julian cut another piece of pizza like a butcher carving a carcass. “Guess you can’t blame her. She has higher aspirations than babysitting.”
He chewed and helped the bite down with more wine. I watched his Adam’s apple bob up, then back down.
“And here she is, trying to make herself indispensable as his personal assistant. She runs his office. She tries to run his household. For God’s sake, she even takes his dogs’ poop to the vet—the exemplary mistress, far better than the wife.”
When Julian finished his first slice—the crust still uneaten—he reached for a second one. He paused. “How come you’re not eating?” He nudged his chin at my plate.
I glanced down my half-finished pizza. With all the talk about Lisa, I completely forgot the food. I bit into the cheese.
Julian resumed his own eating, and talking.
“But what Lisa doesn’t realize,” he said as he inhaled the second slice, again leaving the crust untouched, “is that she’s not the first and probably won’t be the last. And besides, he’ll never dump Monique.” Julian shook his head. “He didn’t marry
Monique for her domestic skills or her brains. He married her for her social status, and Lisa will never top that.” Julian punctuated the point with a salute from his wine glass. “So pathetic Lisa can be the little domestic goddess all she wants, can boss the kids and even you around, and believe she actually has power, but in the end, when she becomes just too annoying, Stephen will boot her like he did all the others.”
Julian started in on slice three. I chewed faster, to keep up.
“And I can’t wait for that day,” Julian said, “because Lisa has been especially irritating. At least the other ones just tried to run Stephen’s business and family affairs. Lisa is actually trying to dip her grubby hands into how I manage Monique’s photography interests, trying to question me and my professional integrity. The bitch.”
He sat his knife and fork down and reached for the leftover crust with his fingers. Meanwhile, I pondered my next words. The opportunity was too good to pass up.
“And how do you manage Monique’s interests?”
Julian’s hand froze midway to his mouth. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” I spoke slowly and carefully, “Mr. Lamont romances his assistants … so how about Monique?” I didn’t, couldn’t, breathe.
Julian gaped at me, then burst out laughing.
“Is that what you think?” He almost choked on his laughter.
I said nothing. The question wasn’t far-fetched. Monique was beautiful and, clearly, available in some ways. Julian was handsome. They traveled together, spent a lot of time alone. And Lisa had hinted …
“Oh God, no,” Julian hiccupped. “I’m not that stupid. That’s the fastest way to get fired. Relationships go bad and someone—the employee—is always the liability, the inconvenient reminder. Plus, believe me, Monique’s not interested.”
“What do you mean?” I parroted, disbelieving. How could she not be? Just look at you!
“Listen,” Julian wiped his eyes. “Monique has her share of affairs, but only with the rich and famous. You know, the Tommy Lees and Tom Cruises of this world. I’m too poor and humble for her tastes. She also needs me to do the work, and I need the job. We both understand the boundaries. Oh God,” he chuckled. “Me and Monique. That’s rich. Whatever gave you the idea? Though I’m flattered you’d think so.”
“Sorry.” I shifted in my seat.
Julian tried to catch his breath. “That was a good one. But, really, enough about the Lamonts. Tell me more about that other guy you’re seeing.”
“Who?” Now I gaped, disoriented by the sudden change in topic.
“The other guy you mentioned,” Julian grinned and winked. “You know, from law school.”
“Oh.” I gulped. He had to mean Markus, my little white lie—the one I made up when I thought there was a Julian and a Monique. “Him. Err … ” I scrambled for an out. Apparently, Julian and Monique didn’t exist. Therefore, there was no need for a Markus. But no way would I fess up to the fib; I’d look desperate. “He’s sort of, like, a classmate. We see each other every day, for school,” I rushed on, lest Julian get the wrong impression. “But really, it’s nothing serious. We’re just friends. Good friends.” Yeah. Friends, with a capital F.
“Glad to hear it,” Julian nodded. “But be honest, no other guys chasing you? You’re such a pretty girl, I’m sure you drive them all crazy.”
I felt my face burn beet-red. I could just envision the hot splotches all over my cheeks.
I shook my head no. “That’s not how law school works. Everyone’s too busy. Studying.”
“Oh, come on,” Julian plastered his palm against his chest, like an actor on an Elizabethan stage. “Don’t crush my fantasies. Such intense academic pressure and no passion, not even from a distinguished professor?”
The distinguished Professor Johnson popped into my head. He was chasing me, all right. Just not for romantic reasons.
“No,” I smiled and firmly pushed Johnson out of my head. He and his Constitutional Law wouldn’t spoil this date. “No one.”
“Great,” Julian smiled back. “Now finish up.” He glanced at my plate. “I’d love to take you for a stroll in Central Park. What do you think? The evening’s nice, and there’s nothing like bonding over nature. You got the time?”
BY THE TIME I RETURNED TO THE DORM, it was past midnight.
The stroll through the park, then the stop at a café for late-night desserts and finally the walk back to the Village—and reality—had taken far longer than I anticipated.
But at least the delay was worth it, because Julian had kissed me.
Julian.
I savored the memory of the kiss, rubbing my lips together to remember his taste. He’d tasted of Espresso and mint, and kissed me for like five minutes: it was a real kiss, in the park, on the great lawn, just as the sun descended.
We had sat to watch the sunset when it happened. He had leaned over, and brushed his lips against mine—a gentle caress, then another. He’d run his tongue along my upper lip before he nibbled on the lower one, then dipped for more exploration.
No groping or tongue shoving for Julian, no siree. The man had technique, finesse. I didn’t even have a chance to get nervous.
When the kiss was over, he took my hand into his, touched the knuckles with his lips, and insisted on chocolate to mark the occasion.
The chocolate mousse cake tasted almost as good as the kiss. Almost.
Too bad the pleasant part of the evening was over.
I looked around the dorm suite. All was quiet, all lights off. Lauren had to be asleep. I tiptoed to my bedroom. My own bed looked inviting.
But no, I had to work on the brief. So I changed into a sweatshirt and jeans, took my laptop off my desk and tiptoed back out of the room, out of the suite and the dorm. I would put in at least two hours of research, but not here, so as not to be lulled by those who were sound asleep. I needed the artificial light, the lack of time reference, of the library.
I set up shop in its basement. A scatter of hardcore students occupied a few of the study desks. But mostly, even the library was empty. Late Saturday nights, with the promise of a full working Sunday, were usually quiet, even in law school.
I hooked my laptop to an Internet portal and logged into the library’s electronic database. I typed, “Work for Hire,” into the search bar. The search wrote back, “236 results.”
I groaned—this would be a long night—and clicked into the first case: Community for Creative Non-Violence versus Reid. It read, in part: “ … In determining whether a hired party is an employee … consider the hiring party’s right to control the manner and means by which the product is accomplished.” I yawned, and clicked out of case one.
Surely case two had to be more interesting, more understandable. I skimmed the text: “ … No one factor is dispositive … ”
Nope. Just as bad. What the hell were these judges writing about?
My vision blurred. I closed case two and scrolled down the remaining headings: Aymes v. Bonelli, Carter v. Helmsley-Spear, Inc., Avtec Sys., Inc. v. Peiffer. The cases, their names, blended, morphed into indecipherable gibberish. I also found I could barely keep my eyes open.
This was not working.
I got up from the desk, moved away from the computer and stretched, thinking. I could read all night but process nothing, or I could go back to the dorm, get a good night’s rest, and start fresh tomorrow with no distractions. Sure, I’d lose a few hours, but how productive would those hours be in the first place?
So I collected my things and almost flew back to the dorm, past the empty street that separated the library from the student housing, the sleeping doorman at the front desk and the mailroom.
I stopped.
The mailroom. I hadn’t picked up my mail in days, not that I was expecting any. The tuition bill was paid and my housing costs were up to date, thanks to the Lamonts. God bless them. The school had no reason to send its friendly reminders. Still, in my preoccupation with Gemma, Xander and Julian, checkin
g the mail was another chore I had let fall by the wayside—but fortunately was one that I could easily remedy.
And I did.
Except for one folded sheet of paper, my box was empty. I unfolded the sheet and eyed the official Law Review letterhead; it contained two terse sentences: Your appearance is requested at a meeting with the Editor-in-Chief on Monday, 11 a.m. Thank you.
I read the lines again.
Such unadorned language did not bode good tidings.
CHAPTER 18
“HEY, TEKLA, how’s it going?”
The phone woke me up at seven the next morning. I wouldn’t have answered, except it was from Xander. It’s about the party, was all I could think.
“It’s going fine, Xander.” I clutched the receiver in my hand. “And how about with you?”
“Oh,” Xander drawled as if he had just called to shoot the breeze. Somehow I doubted it. He liked me, but not that much, and not that early on a Sunday morning. “Things are just dandy here.”
“Then why,” I said as I rolled out of bed and squinted at the alarm clock on my nightstand, “are you calling me at 7:03 a.m., on a Sunday?”
“To say hi?” Xander’s voice squeaked.
Yeah, right. The words hovered on the tip of my tongue. Be nice, I reminded myself.
“Xander!” I scowled at the telephone. “Are you okay?”
“Sure,” Xander chirped. “Never better.”
He didn’t elaborate.
“Is Gemma okay?” I persisted.
“Uh-huh.”
I shut my eyes. Talking to the boy was like pulling teeth.
“Is the house still standing?” Obviously, he had called to tell me something. And if he was dillydallying, that something couldn’t be good.
“Sure,” Xander said. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I snapped, my patience quickly waning. “Maybe because you had a party last night and now you’re calling me at, like, the break of dawn. Come on, Xander, out with it. What happened?”
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