By the time Monday morning rolled agonizingly around, the prosecutor was, if anything, over-prepared for her case, albeit under-rested. Concealer had sufficiently covered the darkness beneath her eyes, such that she was the image of composure and competence, when the trial began. Once the business of selecting a jury had successfully brought on the opening arguments, she found herself totally engrossed in the legal process, as clear-headed before the judge, as skillful before the witnesses, as effective before the jury as her reputation promised. As always when she was on trial, she returned home at night in a state of exhaustion, mustering only enough strength to review her notes for the coming day before falling into bed. It was in many ways a blessing, this all-consuming fatigue, for she was left with precious few moments to ponder Maxwell Kraig.
In fact her only distractions during these evening crash sessions were the phone calls that tore through the silence once or twice each night, sometimes from a friend inquiring as to the progress of her case, sometimes from the silent caller whose persistence had begun to annoy her…but never from Max.
So successful was the diversion of the trial from her personal quandary that she was almost sorry when, on Thursday afternoon, the jury returned with its verdict, thankfully in her favor, guilty on all counts. The sentencing date was set, the jury excused, and Laura returned to her office amid hearty congratulations from her colleagues, the office staff, and the D.A. himself. But nothing from Max.
Pondering the exact nature of the spies he’d mentioned, she returned to her apartment. But the only call that came over the five hours before she finally succumbed to exhaustion, was the wordless one, disturbing her an infuriating two times with his rings, then silence. It crossed her mind to report this pest to the telephone company, yet she knew it was probably a prankster who would never be caught. During the second of the calls, when fatigue had taken claim of any good humor she might have had, she impulsively launched an indignant tirade, then hung up in even greater fury when her harsh words brought nothing more than a faint “tsk, tsk.”
It was Friday morning when, cross as a bear, she stomped down to answer the doorbell and was handed the instantly recognizable yellow envelope of a telegram. Sure enough, it was from Max.
DEEPEST CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR SUCCESS. AM PROUD OF YOU.
MAX
Was that it, she asked herself in disbelief. Was that all he had to say? No phone call, just this two-sentence bit of impersonal garbage?
Fighting the hurt that threatened to reduce her to tears, she carefully folded the telegram and replaced it in its envelope, stashing it in a bureau drawer, out of sight but accessible, before she headed for the office.
Swamped in disappointment, aching from the seeming inadequacy of his response, Laura quickly took care of any office business that had piled up during the trial, then bundled herself up, packed her briefcase, and took off for the rest of the day, knowing the mini-holiday to be well earned, what with the hours she’d kept while on trial.
The afternoon and evening found her at home, waiting in vain for a very particular phone call. As the hours passed, self-doubt flared. Had she imagined the warmth he held for her? Had she, in her cocoon of love, misread his actions? Had she, having given this man the very treasured part of her that was no more, been merely viewing their relationship through rose-colored glasses? Why hadn’t he called?
Question after question arose, to be reiterated mere moments later. Hadn’t Max realized how important each trial meant to her? Wouldn’t he have wanted to congratulate her in person, or, at least, over the phone? How wonderful it would have been to hear his voice.
Hurt and bewilderment gave way to anger. Who was he to keep her on tenterhooks like this? Well, she was not about to sit around forever awaiting word from him—and she was getting tired of the other phone calls, those nuisance ones that had continued to plague her. It was nine o’clock when, in a fit of frustration, she took the phone off its hook and let it dangle freely toward the floor. There. Now she would not be expecting either call!
All night the phone remained uncradled. All night her anger remained intense, unabated by the passage of time and the coming of a new day. If anything, she was even more annoyed that with Saturday morning there was still no sign of Max. Why she had expected him to show up at her door, she didn’t know; it was wishful thinking that seemed destined to remain unfulfilled.
Slamming the telephone receiver back in its proper place, she vowed to keep herself busy all day. Several phone calls later, she set out to do just that, intermixing her shopping and tennis class with lunch out and then, much later, a visit and dinner with friends. It was good to see the Davissons, a couple to whom she had grown quite close since she’d arrived in Northampton three years ago. Amanda had been a classmate of hers at Mount Holyoke and had married Mark right after graduation, while Laura had gone on to law school. Now Amanda and Mark were the proud and busy parents of a six-month-old, and tied as they were to the house more than they’d been in the past, Laura was a frequent and welcome visitor. She merely had to phone and say she was on her way, and the door was opened to her.
Always before, Laura had enjoyed these visits, enthusiastically conversing with her friends, while all three cooed over the baby. This particular Saturday night was different however.
Amanda and Mark were obviously very much in love with each other, and as obviously crazy about the baby. Laura found herself imagining that it was she and Max who were married so happily, fussing over a brown-mopped, brown-eyed child who squirmed before them. It was an image charged with poignant beauty, staying with her when she thanked her friends and took her leave to reluctantly return to the loneliness of her apartment. The image began to crack when she found no sign of any attempted contact by Max—no note on the door, no mail, no second telegram, no message with Mrs. Daniels. But her loneliness dissolved when, a short time later, she turned on the television to watch the late news. The first items dealt with labor difficulties, an all-too-frequent and totally political problem in the state. A part of Laura tuned out impatiently. The next item, however, drew her full and fervent attention.
The familiar-faced anchorman eyed the camera somberly. “An investigation has begun into the death of ten-year-old Larry Porotska, a resident of the Wilkins Home for Retarded Children.” Laura’s horror grew as the man continued. “The severely handicapped child, a six-year resident of the Home, was found dead in his bed early this morning. Angry parents, including those of the deceased, thronged the administration building to demand an inquiry into the cause of the child’s death. This tragic incident occurs close on the heels of the filing of complaints by a group of these same parents charging negligence at the institution. Earlier this evening our on-the-scene reporter, Mary Hall, was able to speak with Boston attorney, Maxwell Kraig”—Laura’s pulse began to race as her eyes remained glued to the set—“who will represent the parents in this class-action suit.”
The camera switched to the footage that had Laura trembling in anticipation. There, framed by the chrome and wood edging of her television set, was the face of the man she loved. The camera zoomed in on him as the reporter sought his comments.
The deeply confident voice Laura knew so well came loud and clear over the air waves, “There will be an autopsy performed on the body of the child. Until those results are made known, I have no comment.” Sitting on the edge of her seat, dwelling on his every word, Laura cheered him on in the constant battle against prejudicial pre-trial publicity. Despite the urgings of the quick-witted reporter, he was not about to be trapped. Twice more, she baited him, cleverly rewording the same questions. Twice more, he successfully evaded making a commitment. Sensing that there would be no intimate insights from this lawyer, the camera moved back to afford a longer shot. At this moment Laura caught her breath.
Max had obviously been stopped on his way out for the evening. His dress was formal and immaculate, his dark tuxedo visible beneath his overcoat, a white scarf dashingly setting off the c
ombination. He looked freshly shaven, carefully groomed, and perfectly at ease before the cameras. As they pulled back farther, Laura tried in vain to identify the location. She had no trouble, however, recognizing the stunning blonde not far from his elbow as Sara Beth Wilson, an outspoken theater critic for a competing television station, presumably the reason why the camera had avoided her. Now Laura froze as she heard Mary Hall thank Max for his time, closing her report with a devastating, “We hope we haven’t made you and Miss Wilson late for tonight’s opening at the Colonial. Enjoy yourselves and thank you. And now back to our anchor desk…”
With a bound Laura whammed the off switch of the television. She had seen enough. There had been Max, on the way to the theater no less, with…with…a renowned beauty! Here she was, pining away for him! No wonder she hadn’t heard from him!
If she had been depressed earlier, it was the black pit of despair in which she now found herself. She had been so foolish, assuming that Max returned even half of her feelings! How wrong she’d been…how tragically wrong!
The shrill sound of the telephone physically jolted her. Laura saw red; if it was Max calling at this late hour, having spent a full evening with the blond bomb-shell of the airwaves, she would give him a piece of her mind. Clenching her teeth, she stormed into the kitchen and snatched up the receiver.
“Hello!” she yelled into a subsequent and continuous silence. Oh, God, not again! She sighed, then repeated her command. “Hello!” Silence. As she readied to hang up on the perverted phoner, a new sound caught her attention and promptly appalled her. Heavy breathing, vulgar and obscene in its wordless implication. With a shudder of revulsion she slammed down the receiver. It was the last straw!
Racked by a gamut of emotions ranging from sorrow, pain, and heartache, through jealousy, hurt, and puzzlement, to disgust and finally, fear, she surrendered to the storm of long-pent-up tears, throwing herself across her bed in utter defeat. It was in this position that she cried herself to sleep, the first time she had done so since she’d been a child.
But Sunday dawned a new day, and as far as Laura was concerned, a new start. Gone were the hopes of Max’s calling her. Dispelled were the dreams of his loving her. All that remained was the ache of a love which was not to be. Unable to fault him for something he’d never claimed, Laura had only herself to blame. He had never spoken of love; he’d never made promises he hadn’t kept. It had all been in her own wild fantasies.
There was a bitter irony in Max’s performance last night, she mused sadly. Just as he had refused to take a stand on the death at the Wilkins Home, parrying the reporter’s hints with ease, so he had, she now saw in hindsight, refused to take a stand on his feelings toward her.
Determined to work Maxwell Kraig out of her system, Laura dressed, drank a cup of coffee quickly, and headed for the library to bury herself amid her silent and steady hardbound buddies.
Last night’s phone call suddenly hit her with new force. In her agony over what she had seen on TV she had blotted out that very call that had finally broken her. Who was calling her? Why? Was it a mere prankster…or something more? Perhaps it was time to report these incidents.
But many people receive crank calls. If she persisted in ignoring them, surely the perpetrator would grow bored. Her reaction last night had been to the sight of Max on television with another woman. For the time being, she vowed to stay calm and hang up the phone when the nuisance calls came. But heavy breathing—was that pure nonsense?
She worked feverishly through the day. When she finally returned home at eight thirty, the telephone was the first sound to greet her. Her stomach began to jump. Should she let it ring or answer it? Let it ring, let it ring, one part of her cried, wishing only to avoid confrontation with either Max or the prankster. Answer it now, the other part argued, suggesting that it could be her father, a friend, or a work-related call. In any case she should not be made a fugitive in her own home. This latter voice won out. Gingerly, she put her hand to the receiver; timidly, she raised it to her ear. Then she waited and listened. The wait was short.
“Hello? Laura?” Pause. “Laura? Are you there?” Perversely wishing she’d decided not to answer even as her pulse raced in involuntary excitement, she heard Max’s voice, loud, clear, and quite concerned. “Hello? Laura!”
“Hello, Max,” she responded quietly.
“Is something wrong, Laura?” He was concerned.
“No, no. I’m just tired—”
“I’ve been trying to get you all day. Where have you been?” It was none of his business where she’d been; she hadn’t asked where he’d been. Yet why did he sound so worried?
In a faltering voice she began. “I’ve been…busy…working.”
“Working? All weekend?”
Gradually her composure grew. “No, I haven’t been working all weekend.” Let him think what he wished, she mused spitefully.
“Laura, is everything all right?” His voice was softer, more gentle now, quickly approaching the melting point. Realizing this, she steeled herself for its heat, willing her voice to remain as cool as possible.
“Of course. Everything is fine.” She lied.
“You don’t sound right.” How perceptive of him, she acknowledged with a sigh. A silence followed his accusation, during which she felt at a total loss. Her greatest urge was to tell him how she missed him, how she wanted him. Yet even this made her angry. Finally she took a deep breath.
“Was there something you wanted?”
Again a silence, as though Max were unsure himself. “Did you get my telegram?”
“Yes. Thank you.” Another silence.
The force of his explosion made her jump. “Look, Laura, I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like it. I’m going to be in on Friday and I’d like to see you that evening. Do you think you could make dinner? I’d like to talk in private.”
Under the burden of confusion Laura’s eyes brimmed liquid. Just this morning she’d willed this compelling man out of her life. Now the very sound of his voice was enough to make her rethink her vows. Maybe he would have some explanation for her. Maybe they would be able to straighten things out.…
“Laura?”
Her voice was a mere whisper. “Yes, Max, that’s fine.”
Suddenly, there was the deepest tenderness, almost a pain in his voice. “What is it, baby?” His tone, his words, the fact that he was finally on the other end of the line choked her and made her incapable of speech. “Laura, I’m driving out there now—”
“No!” she cried out frantically, then quieted. “No, Max. I’m perfectly all right. Just tired. I’ll see you on Friday.”
Despite her efforts to push it out of memory, the low croon she heard was forever imprinted on her mind. “Laura, I…miss you. I’ll see you then.”
Not knowing if she felt better or worse, she cradled the receiver, made herself a cup of hot chocolate with two marshmallows on top, and curled up on the sofa. It took little thought for her to realize one stark fact. She wanted so badly to see and be with Max that she would forgive him most anything…as long as he came back to her! Love was such a complex emotion, so overpowering and all-consuming. Love conquered all, the old saying went. In her case it was true. The anger, the hurt, the bitterness—all had simply evaporated the minute she’d heard his voice. If only Max could feel the same.
The phone rang once again that evening, the earlier debate renewed, ending similarly. This time it was Frank, calling to ask about one of her other cases. Although she could have sworn she had discussed the very matter with him before, she chalked her confusion up to the pressure she’d been under. She had no way of knowing that the D.A.’s call was purely one of concern, sparked by an unexpected call he himself had received moments earlier.
The anticipation of seeing Max kept her buoyed up all week. She willed any negative thoughts into the background. Even the few repeated incidents of heavy breathing seemed less crucial, and as she had decided, she calmly and quickly repla
ced the receiver on each of these occasions.
Friday couldn’t have come soon enough. To avoid a possible meeting with Max in the courthouse, Laura left work early, questioning whether she would be able to remain neutral to Max in a public place. My God, she found herself wondering, if I am so concerned about a simple encounter here, how am I ever going to manage the trial? The only conclusion she reached, as she whipped up egg whites for a soufflé, was that it was the personal nature of this particular encounter that was throwing her; in an impersonal professional situation, she vowed, she would be able to keep her cool. And with the trial less than three weeks off, she prayed this would be the case.
seven
NEVER HAD LAURA TAKEN SUCH CARE DRESSING. After lengthy deliberation, she chose a pair of soft wool slacks, snug-waisted and slim-hipped, with a matching hand-knit sweater. Her hair fell free, her cheeks flushed slightly, her beautifully manicured nails in vivid contrast to the paleness of her skin. Those slender hands were none too steady when the doorbell rang; reflexively, she touched the small gold heart, rubbing its ruby nervously.
She opened the front door to reveal a Maxwell Kraig even more mighty and attractive than he’d been before. His face was the proverbial oasis in the desert, the merciful return of the dove to the Ark. Awestruck by the torrent of emotion that washed over her, she silently stood aside to let him enter, closed the door behind him, then looked almost shyly up at the face that beheld hers. His expression was serious, his gaze intense, his mouth betraying a tension that seemed gradually to abate as they looked at one another.
“Hey…” he whispered in a husky greeting that demanded but one in return. In a split second Laura was in his arms, heedless of the chill that lingered on his heavy jacket, conscious only of the bulk that held her to him. Eager lips came together in hungry fusion, a mutual excitement emanating from the embrace.
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