The judge nodded, and she saw that he, too, was intrigued. Sure, who wouldn’t prefer a bit of theater to one more barrage of words? Only the plaintiff, stiff and red-faced as he mounted the stand, looked outraged. He also looked as if he might have tossed back a few shots of eighty proof before showing up here.
“Mr. Tyler,” she said coolly, “can you identify the man who attacked you on the evening of October the twenty-first? Is he in this courtroom?”
[412] “Well, of course I can,” he said. He pointed a stubby finger at the bearded black-garbed man seated at the defense counsel’s table.
“Will you please stand up, Mr. Krupnik?” Rose called out.
There was a hushed moment as all eyes turned to the man seated serenely at the counsel table.
Then Rose watched as, from the crowded spectators’ bench two rows behind, Shimon Krupnik rose, slowly, majestically, the curls bobbing at his ears giving the scene an unexpected touch of whimsy. He broke into a grin.
Rose felt a surge of triumph. And she thought: If only Brian could have been here. Seen this. Better than any of those card tricks I used to show him when we were kids.
Ten minutes later, after her opponent’s harangue and the judge’s grinning dismissal, she was making her way to the back of the courtroom, feeling ten feet tall, a queen bestowing blessings, smiling at a cluster of Hasidim who nodded in appreciation as she passed, not minding for once the jostling of the courthouse hangers-on crowding the doorway.
Then she glimpsed a silver-haired man stepping forward, taking her elbow, steering her through the tall paneled door as he opened it for her.
Pausing in the corridor outside to thank him, she saw that he was older than she would have guessed from his firm touch. Over sixty. But still handsome, virile, in a darkly foreign way. His suit looked expensive, though he carried his jacket slung over one shoulder, and the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up, showing thick forearms matted with dark hair.
What was remarkable, she thought, was the way he was staring at her. Studying her almost, as if she were a painting in a museum, or a rare form of wildlife.
Abruptly, startling her, he’d grasped her hand in a firm, warm clasp.
“May I congratulate you, Miss Santini.” His voice was deep, and carried a faint accent she couldn’t place. “That was quite a performance. I was most impressed.”
“Thank you,” she said and laughed. “It was a gamble. I could just as easily have ended up looking like the world’s biggest fool.”
“No.” He shook his head, smiling. “Never that.”
[413] Why was he staring at her like that? He was making her nervous.
“I don’t believe I know you,” she said, withdrawing her hand.
“Nikos Alexandras,” he introduced himself.
“Have we met before? I’m afraid I don’t recall ...”
A look of sadness that was almost pain crossed his face, and he said, “I wish it were so ... but, no.” Then, with a ghost of a smile, he added, “Good-bye, Rose. And good luck. I hope we will meet again.”
It didn’t strike her until she was outside, descending the wide stone steps of the courthouse. He called me Rose. Strange. How did he know my first name?
The puzzle glanced like a skipping stone across the surface of her mind, then sank.
As Rose hurried along the crowded sidewalk, scanning the late afternoon frenzy of Centre Street for a taxi with its overhead light on, she thought of the evening ahead.
A good bottle of wine, dinner with Max. Why not make it a celebration? Wear that white silk jersey I bought at Bloomingdale’s last week. And flowers. Heavenly smelling lilacs for every room.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed three men turn to stare as she dashed for the taxi that had swerved over to the curb twenty yards ahead. Flinging her briefcase into the back seat and climbing in after it, she smiled, thinking how she’d changed. Not so long ago she would have thought those men were staring because something was wrong with her, a stain on her skirt, a run in her stocking. Now she knew it was because they found her attractive.
And for the first time, she felt attractive. Even pretty. Last night after dinner she and Max had listened to some old Glenn Miller records they’d bought at a flea market last Sunday. Then Max showed her how to do the Lindy, his broad hands clasping her firmly about the waist, spinning her, dipping her, finally tumbling her onto the sofa, sweaty, hot, out of breath, giggling like a teenager. Rose couldn’t think when she’d last had so much fun, or felt so happy. How natural then, this morning when she went to her closet to pick out what to wear, that she should push aside the businesslike, earth-colored suits she usually wore, and choose something bright, feminine, this pretty paisley skirt and pale blue silk blouse.
Rose gave the driver her address, and settled back, trying to [414] find a comfortable spot on the caved-in seat. She couldn’t wait to get home.
“Moo-shu pork.” Rose passed Max a carton, then peered into another. “And I can’t even begin to guess what’s in this one. Looks like what was left of poor Mrs. Lindquist’s cat after the garbage truck ran over it.”
“Pressed duck,” Max replied. “It was on special.” He pulled a bottle from the bag. “This too. I thought we should celebrate a little.”
Rose peered at the label. “Perrier-Jouet! Oh, Max, even I know how expensive that is. You shouldn’t have.”
“A bonus. For today.” He wrapped the bottle in a dishtowel, and began easing out the cork. “I don’t think that P. T. Barnum could have done you one better.”
Rose felt a flush of warmth, and thought, I want him to be proud of me. I owe him so much.
She watched him pull the cork free with a discreet pop, and pour foaming champagne into two long-stemmed glasses. He’d just come from the shower, face rosy, hair damp, curling over the back of his collar like a kid’s. Bare-chested and barefoot, wearing only a pair of soft, faded jeans. He looked leaner, younger somehow, and not just because he’d lost weight. It was ... as if he’d gotten brighter somehow. Like all the lights being switched on in a room that had been half-lit.
She wondered suddenly if that was how other women must see him. Vital, handsome, sexy. She felt a prick of envy at the thought of Max kissing some beautiful, sexy client—say, a woman coming in for a divorce.
And soon he’ll be leaving, she thought.
She didn’t want him to go, Rose realized with a rush of sadness. The apartment would seem so empty without him. She’d miss evenings like this one, fixing dinner, discussing the day over a glass of wine. They had a routine, like a married couple in some ways. Taking the subway to work together, and sometimes home, too. But if one worked late, the other got dinner. She took a shower in the morning. He took his at night. They even took turns with the laundry.
Everything a couple did, except go to bed together.
[415] Last night, dancing with Max, feeling deliriously warm and sexy in his arms, she’d thought briefly, Why not? They were friends, they liked each other. And it had been so long ... so very long. Wasn’t this the Age of Aquarius, Free Love, no-strings-attached sex?
But going to bed with Max would risk ruining her one wonderful friendship. And for what? Any day now Max would be moving out, meeting other women, maybe even falling in love.
And I’ll be here still, dreaming about Brian, lonelier than ever. No. Leave it alone. Better this way.
Rose took a sip from the foaming glass Max thrust in her hand. “Mmm. Nice.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“What? The champagne or winning the dismissal?”
“Champagne. Knowing you, I’ll bet you skipped lunch.”
“Too excited to eat, I guess. Anyway, I promise not to be a cheap drunk. I couldn’t. Not at a dollar a sip.”
He clinked his glass against hers. “Here’s to all your future victories, may they be many and ... oh, shit, excuse me, the duck. I stuck it under the broiler to heat it up.” Smoke curled up from the corners of the o
ven, and Rose smelled something that reminded her unpleasantly of the refineries along the Jersey Turnpike. Max lunged for it, wrenched the door open, and yanked out a pan containing the charred remains of their pressed duck. He stared down at it mournfully.
“Never mind,” Rose said. “I wasn’t hungry anyway. I’ll be more than satisfied with the moo-shu.”
Rose drank her wine, and poured herself another one. A pleasant glow was seeping through her, as if warm bathwater were circulating in her veins instead of blood. Her head felt very light, and she seemed to be moving in slow motion, an eternity elapsing between the time she reached for her glass and her fingers closed about its sticky stem.
Okay, so I’m a little drunk. But it’s nice. Can’t remember the last time I got high. Years and years. Brian and I? Yes. Up on the roof. That jug of Red Mountain. Well, here’s to you, Brian, and the lady you’re drinking with now. ...
A sharp pain, like a sliver of glass, wedged itself into her heart, and her throat constricted as she was swallowing. Bubbles rushed up her nose, bringing tears to her eyes.
Rose gasped and began coughing uncontrollably. Max thumped [416] her on the back. Finally it was over. She looked up at him, saw the concern in his face, and suddenly she was winding her arms about him, pressing her cheek to the solid warmth of his bare chest.
“If you were trying to get me drunk, it worked,” she muttered. “Promise me one thing. If I pass out, will you put me to bed?”
“Sure. What are friends for?”
His hand came to rest on the top of her head, lightly, smoothing over the curve of her skull. Rose shivered, feeling the brush of his fingers through her hair, along the back of her neck. Nice. So nice to be touched ...
Abruptly, Max pulled away. He moved over to the sink, and cranked the water on. Rose watched it shoot up in a dirty geyser as it hit the blackened pan the duck had been in, splattering the countertop with greasy droplets.
“Max?” she called.
Something was wrong. He was moving in a tight, jerky way, as if he were angry. The muscles in his shoulders bunched up. Then he turned, and she saw. Heat crawled into her cheeks. She felt stupid, clumsy.
Max wanted her.
Of course. He hadn’t been with a woman ... at least not that she knew of ... for months. How could she have been so thoughtless? Slopping around mornings in her pajamas. Hardly stopping to think when she dashed out to get the phone, half-dressed. And now ... God, what must he think of her?
A locker-room word from high school popped into her head. Cock tease. Crude, but descriptive. It struck her as ridiculous, and funny too, thinking of Rose Santini as that, an overgrown cock tease.
She felt a giggle work its way up her throat, and bit down hard on her lip. “Oh, Max,” she said and sighed. “Let’s go to bed. Right now. Never mind about dinner. I may be drunk, but not so drunk I don’t know what’s good for me.”
Rose got up a little unsteadily, and went to him. She looped her arms around his neck.
“Rose ... ,” he began, his voice hoarse.
“I know what I’m doing, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said, smiling a little. “I won’t be sorry in the morning. As long as we’re still friends. Okay?”
[417] He nodded, and his Adam’s apple worked. Then with a groan, he pulled her to him, kissing her. Deeply. With so much hunger, Rose felt, quite suddenly, as if she’d been plucked inside out, her head spinning. Dear God. Who would have guessed? Max ...
Wonderful, oh God, how wonderful, she thought as he undressed her in the bedroom. Kneeling to pull her socks off last, kissing her feet as he did so, running his tongue softly along the arch. Then turning her over onto her stomach on the big brass bed, and doing the same to the backs of her knees, and the tender crescents of flesh under each buttock.
Rose shivered with pleasure, each sensation a new and unexpected gift to be unwrapped slowly, savored. A box of fine chocolates to be nibbled one by one. What heaven, to make such love without being in love, without the Sturm und Drang.
Gently, he urged her onto her back, his head moving down between her legs.
Oh dear God ...
She was coming. Swiftly, uncontrollably, like tumbling over and over down a hot, slippery sand dune. Her legs twined about his chest, fingers buried in his hair. Jesus ... sweet Jesus ... Max ... how did you know to do this wonderful thing?
And when it was over, she was left gasping, glowing, hungry for more. “Inside me,” she moaned. “Hurry.”
Even better like this. Better than the silvery trills he created with his tongue. Solid, deep. Hips arching, falling, the muscular power in his arms and legs flowing into her like an electric charge. So different from Brian, long and loose-limbed. The difference between a long-distance runner and a prizefighter.
No, she told herself, don’t think about Brian. It’s not fair. Not fair. Even if you’re not in love with Max. You have no right bringing Brian into this.
Max’s breath was coming faster, coming in hard little gusts against her ear.
“Rose ... I can’t hold ... oh Christ ...”
“Yes, Max, yes.”
She felt him shoot forth, and she was carried along too. Her body singing with the exquisite pleasure of it. Again and again and again ...
[418] Afterwards, she collapsed, unable to move, her heart galloping in her chest. Wrapped in the warm slippery cocoon of sweat created by their bodies. Listening to the gradual slowing of Max’s breath against her ear.
“My God, Max, my God,” she whispered, stunned.
And in that instant, she felt a piercing sadness. She wished so that she were in love with him.
Hours later, sleepy, sated, Rose snuggled close to Max, thinking how even after lovemaking she liked having him in her bed. Other men she’d slept with in the past, she had enjoyed, but then after a while she had started to feel restless, impatient for them to go so she could reclaim her solitary bed. But with Max, she felt cozy, in no hurry for him to leave her side.
She was on the verge of drifting off to sleep when she heard him remark casually, “I got a call today from Stu Miller at Prudential. One of his policyholders is being sued ... a doctor, someone you know, in fact ... Rachel Rosenthal.”
Rose felt as if he’d dumped a bucket of icy water over her, every nerve shocked awake, her heart racing. Rachel ... Brian’s wife ...
She rolled onto her back, avoiding Max’s eyes. She didn’t want Max to guess her feelings; they were too private, too painful.
“Is that so?” She forced a yawn. “Too bad. What’s it about?”
“Don’t know all the details yet. I’m having a meeting with Stu about it tomorrow morning. He wants me to handle it. Thought you might like to join me. Should be interesting.”
Dammit, why was Max doing this to her? He had to know how difficult it would be.
“I don’t know,” she said, careful to keep her voice neutral. “I’ll have to check my calendar.”
But her mind was racing, leaping ahead. In her imagination, she was already placing herself at that meeting. Seeing Rachel, and maybe Brian—would Brian be there, too? Rachel would be upset, and Brian with his arm around her, consoling her. God, no, how could I stand that? After everything I’ve already been through?
No, dammit, feeling sorry for Rachel wasn’t on her agenda.
[419] But then suddenly she was imagining it a different way. Couldn’t she merely pretend to feel sorry for Rachel, to want to help her? And maybe in the end she really could help, with Max so tied up these days on that Boston Corp case. And then how noble she would seem! How forgiving!
And wouldn’t Brian be grateful? Oh yes. She could see it now ... how they might get together, for coffee or lunch ... united in the same cause. At first they would talk only of Rachel. But later, the talk would turn to other things ... they would laugh together, remembering when they had loved each other. ...
It struck Rose with stunning force: a link. Yes, that’s what it would be. A link between her and
Brian.
But Max? What would she tell him? This was some kind of test, had to be. Max was too damn sharp, he never missed a thing. He had to suspect what this might mean to her. Damn him, he was holding this out to her like bait. If she showed up at that meeting tomorrow, he’d know she was still interested in Brian somehow.
But why should he care? That’s what she didn’t understand. Rose turned it over in her mind. Well, okay, she’d take the bait ... but on her own terms, not his.
Slowly, she rolled over to face Max, charged, crackling with excitement, as if she could stay up all night and not feel the least bit tired.
“Never mind my calendar,” she told him, “I’ll make room.”
Chapter 29
Rachel shifted impatiently on the low-slung white couch in the lawyers’ waiting room. For the third or fourth time she looked at her watch. Almost eleven, and the appointment was for ten-thirty. If only she could spring up, and walk right out of here.
The place was super-air-conditioned, cold as Antarctica, but nonetheless she was perspiring. Her armpits soggy, her pantyhose sticking to the backs of her thighs. So long since she’d even worn pantyhose, much less a business suit. And God, why had she dressed up? Who was she trying to impress?
Five more minutes, she told herself. Then I’ll make some excuse to the receptionist, and duck out. I probably have a screw loose, coming here in the first place. Of all people, Rose Santini as my lawyer!
When the insurance agent first told her the name, she’d laughed out loud, couldn’t help it. God, the irony of it. Fate, like a hand pushing at her from behind, shoving her in Rose’s direction. God, why Rose, of all people? Of all the thousands of lawyers in this city, why her?
Was that why she’d come? Curiosity? No, it was more than that, something stronger. Rachel had had to come, to see her, to know her. This woman Brian once had loved ... and might still.
One visit, she’d told herself in the taxi on her way over. That was all. After all, the appointment had already been made. She would just see Rose, talk to her, then insist Prudential find her another lawyer.
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