The First Law of Love

by Abbie Williams

  “And you’ve done everything you had planned back then,” he observed. “I admire that a great deal. I just want you to know that.”

  “Thank you,” I told him intently. I had never been more quietly proud of myself than I was at this moment, though I kept all of that from my face. I whispered, “I worked hard for it.”

  “I can tell you work hard for anything you put your mind to,” he said, again complimenting me perhaps more than I deserved. “I’d hate to come up against you before a judge, I’ll say that. And everything you’ve been working on around here. That bar exam has nothing on you.”

  I somehow felt as though we were dancing around one another like a pair of predatory animals claiming territory. I said, “I’m still worried,” but that was a flat-out lie; I had hardly thought about the exam in days, other than the fact that it was forcing me to leave this place.

  “You’ll be glad to see Chicago?” he asked, though carefully, as though it might be an offensive thing to ask. Or maybe he just didn’t want to hear my answer.

  “It’ll be good to see my dad,” I said, side-stepping his question. Such a goddamn lawyer.

  “Will you see the place you plan to work?” he asked, and beneath the question his voice was strained; it hurt him to ask this of me. It hurt me just as badly to respond.

  “Turnbull and Hinckley,” I whispered. I shook my head, indicating that probably I would not.

  “It’s much different than Howe and James, I’m guessing,” Case said. He asked, “It’s what you want?”

  “For three years now,” I whispered. I closed my eyes for a second. Because I couldn’t think any more about Chicago, I said softly, “Thanks for playing your song. I just love it.”

  He was silent. I opened my eyes to find his gaze so intently upon me that I swallowed hard. I thought of how he’d touched my back last night, how he’d touched my hair. I knew he wanted to touch me as badly as I wanted to touch him; he was holding back for reasons of his own, I was certain of it.

  He said quietly, “Thank you.”

  I asked him, “Do you like making music for a living?”

  He tipped his head a little, questioning what I really meant by this; I scrambled through my own floundering thoughts, wondering just what I meant too. Reading between the lines could suggest I was indirectly asking a number of rather insulting things, such as, It doesn’t make you much money, does it?

  “It pays the bills,” he said then. He was perceptive, following this with a matter-of-fact tone as he allowed, “I’ll never be rich, if that’s what you mean.”

  I let that go.

  “How long were you married?” I asked then, though I knew; I was pulling out all the stops now and I wanted to hear it from him.

  As always, his gaze was like a touch on my flesh, so intense and searching were his eyes. I refused to look away. He said, calm and quiet, “Close to three years.”

  “What happened?”

  “Does it matter?” His voice wasn’t as sharp as the question could imply, but there was an edge there.

  “No, it’s not my business,” I admitted, at last looking away, first to chicken out on our undeclared staring contest. My face was so hot that I might as well have been leaning directly into the flames.

  He linked his fingers together, still watching me. My hair was loose all down my right shoulder. I had edged up the hem of my skirt just fractionally. I felt dangerous and reckless and wanton, and all of these things were no secret as I looked back at him. My heart crashed and throbbed, like a prisoner rattling the bars of my ribcage. I had never felt as alive as I did just now.

  Case, come over here, please, oh please, come over here. Carry me somewhere and make love to me. Out beyond the wagons. Oh my God, make love to me until dawn. Case…

  I told him this with my eyes, not repressing anything in this moment, and his own darkened instantly. In the firelight he was heart-stoppingly handsome, and as he continued studying me without so much as blinking, I felt like I might just die if he didn’t come to me. And then he shifted as though to rise.

  Oh God, oh God…

  Oh my God…

  He stood, slow and deliberate, and stepped around the fire. I made a small, inadvertent sound deep in my throat, I couldn’t help it, as he came to a halt no more than a foot from me and reached to put the fingertips of his right hand beneath my chin. Hot and furious sparks flamed outward along my skin as he stroked me there, so gently, his eyes burning down into mine, at long last hiding nothing. He traced his thumb over my bottom lip then, once, twice, before gently pressing the center of it, and my chest hurt with repressed breath. My heart was out of control. Another whimper escaped my throat and I gripped my knees, my fingernails cutting into my bare skin.

  “Tish,” he said, and his deep voice shook a little, despite his outward calm. “No one could ever compare to you. Oh God, not ever.”

  “Case,” I whispered, trembling now, as he lightly stroked my throat. I could feel that light touch in a fiery arc all the way down my body.

  He withdrew his hand then and stepped away, and I felt like a lightning bolt just may strike me dead, stunned that he had withdrawn; for a second he covered his face with both hands. He let them drop back to his sides and said, quiet and resigned, “But I wrecked myself on you for way too long. You’re leaving and I can’t go through that again.”

  “Case,” I said again, breathless and shattered.

  “I can’t,” he repeated and then his movements were decisive. He collected his guitar, his fiddle, and walked away without a backward glance. I sat unmoving in his absence, hugging myself around the midsection, fiercely, as though to keep my heart in place. I felt cold and disastrous and sickly. I was shocked, twofold, at both his words and what they meant, and by my own incredible need for him, which had blindsided me. Even untapped, it felt all-consuming.

  Playing with fire, I thought, over and over. You’re playing with fire, and Case is not someone you can play with. He doesn’t deserve that shit. You’re going home to Chicago after Labor Day. And that’s that.

  What have I done?

  Oh God, I want him so fucking much.

  No, Tish, not ever.

  You can’t ever go there.

  I heard him climbing into his truck, I heard it growling quietly to life, but I didn’t move. I remained stone-still, alone at the fire, his words trampling through my mind like runaway horses, and he drove away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  July 2013 - Chicago, IL

  Dad met me at O’Hare the next afternoon, catching me close to his familiar scent and then drawing back with an ill-concealed wince. His perfect nose wrinkled as he observed, “Kiddo, did you get caught in a fire on the way home, or what?”

  I giggled a little; Dad was impeccable as always, his dark curls without a hair out of place, his casual, summer-weight designer suit and gold pinky ring set with a tasteful diamond to match his wedding band, his teeth professionally whitened. He smelled of aftershave and a hint of his cologne, which Lanny handpicked for him. He was dressed for work, had taken off the afternoon to pick me up.

  “No, I just haven’t had a chance to wash my jacket,” I explained. Dad didn’t need to know that it wasn’t technically my jacket, I had no intention of washing it, and that last night I had slept in it (and nothing else). I was wearing it over a short green sundress and green flip-flops. I had settled my sunglasses over the top of my head.

  “Isn’t it a little too big for you?” Dad asked. His tone was just on this side of critical. My dad, the control freak/fashion police. But again, I was back in Chicago. I would never have considered dressing this way at college, or even to go out on the town, less than two months ago.

  “It’s my new look,” I said to tease him, and then pointed at the baggage claim to redirect his attention. “There’s mine!”

  “So what have you learned, daughter of mine?” Dad asked as he shouldered my duffle and led us to a taxi.

  I filled him in on some of the det
ails, and he appeared to be listening intently, but I knew him well enough to realize that he was fairly distracted. He was such a consummate lawyer that his current expression fooled most people, but not me. I finally concluded, “I feel like I’ve done some good. I like Al a great deal. I’ve enjoyed working for him this summer.”

  “Hon, I wish you didn’t have to worry about it one more minute,” Dad said then, loosening his tie a little, as though he hadn’t processed what I had said. His gaze moved out the window and he added, “But I am so proud of you for working out in no-man’s land for the summer. It is good experience, if nothing else.”

  I nodded as though I agreed with his condescending words.

  “And Ron is very appreciative. And that’s nine-tenths the battle, making contacts, doing favors, getting ahead of the next guy. Ron will open doors for you down the road, in return for helping him now.”

  “I thought possession was nine-tenths,” I teased lightly.

  Dad and Lanny took me out for dinner at Jerome’s, one of our old favorites. Dad insisted gently but firmly that I leave the jean jacket at home, and so it was that I was clad in a designer dress Lanny kindly lent me, sleek and black. I was tall in heeled sandals, and couldn’t help but wonder what Case would say to this whole evening – how I looked and where we were dining. In comparison to Jalesville, it was posh on a scale almost incomprehensible. Linens and crystal, champagne and forks for every course. People murmuring in quiet conversations at nearby tables, anonymous as fish in the sea. Lazy jazz from a quartet in the bar.

  I looked around and felt as though my heart might shred apart from homesickness. I wanted to be at The Spoke. I wanted to hear Case playing his guitar. I wanted to be at the Rawleys’ dinner table, around the fire with the guys, in my little office on Main Street, recognizing nearly everyone who walked by out the window.

  What in the hell has happened to you? I wondered, as Lanny perused the wine list with her plump lips in a slight pout; though I suspected this was due to a recent collagen injection rather than any sort of current petulance.

  Dad rose smoothly from his chair then, offering his lawyer smile to someone beyond my shoulder. I turned just in time to see my former classmate Robbie Benson making his way through the tables behind the maitre d, smiling just as toothily.

  For the second time in the last half-minute, I thought, What in the hell?

  Robbie joined us and shook Dad’s hand as though concluding a business deal.

  “Jackson,” he acknowledged. “Lanny, it’s a pleasure as always,” and then to me, “Tish, it is wonderful to see you. You’ve been getting some sun out west, it appears.”

  “Hi,” I said, somewhat weakly. Robbie was clad in black tie, just like Dad, and took the seat that the maitre d quietly withdrew from our table.

  “Rob is going to be joining you in Jalesville for a spell,” Dad explained.

  I’d forgotten this might ever be an option and I felt a flash of anger, as though they were conspiring against me.

  “I think I have things under control,” I said, just a little heat in my voice.

  Robbie knew me well enough to pick up on this irritation, which tickled him to death, I could tell. He hid a smile behind his shiny copy of the wine list. Lanny glanced at me as though slightly interested in the conversation.

  Dad sighed and said, “It’s not about that, I assure you. He needs summer clock hours too, and contacts.”

  “I have the distinguished honor of house-sitting for Ron. His manager needs two weeks off. Maybe ‘cabin-sit’ is the more appropriate phrase,” Robbie pondered. He was too perfect-looking, disgustingly so, with polished skin and robin’s-egg-blue eyes, teeth from a mouthwash commercial and his wannabe Kennedy brother haircut. He was sun-bronzed and I recalled that he had just returned from abroad.

  “Don’t expect me to entertain you when you’re there,” I told him caustically, and Dad rolled his eyes.

  “We’ll have a bottle of the 2003 reserve cabernet,” Lanny murmured to the sommelier as he approached our table discreetly.

  “Oh, I won’t,” Robbie assured me, eyes on his menu. I could tell he loved torturing me this way; we’d always been as competitive as siblings.

  “Are you flying back with me on Thursday too?” I asked.

  “No, I’m driving out. I’ll be there by late Friday, early Saturday,” Robbie said. Without looking at me he teased, “We’ll have fun, Tisha.”

  I sent my dad a scorching look and he muttered under his breath, “You look just like your mother.”

  I took this as a compliment, as my mother was the best-looking woman I knew.

  “For real,” Robbie said, cajoling me with his tone. “I won’t be in your hair. I won’t even be in town for more than two weeks. I have to be back here before August is done. I need the goodwill bump, I admit. I need Ron to know that I’m willing to do what it takes.”

  “Speaking of the devil,” Dad said then, though his face was again wreathed in his most charming smile as someone else approached. Dad murmured, “Game face, Tish.”

  I turned just in time to see Ron Turnbull and his wife Christina en route to a table. My heart snagged on something sharp but I smiled graciously as the two of them paused to greet us.

  “Well if it isn’t my two hardest-working interns,” Ron said, jovial and smiling, though this expression did not detract in any way from his basic air of intimidation. He asked me, “Glad to be back in civilization, my dear?”

  “Yes, but I’ve been enjoying working for Al,” I said as smoothly as I was able, as the words ‘fairly despicable’ floated unchecked through my mind. “I feel as though I’ve accomplished a great deal there this summer.”

  Ron winked indulgently at me. He said, “It’s a lovely place to spend a month, I’ll give you that.” To Robbie he added, clearly teasing, “Just remember, young man, no house parties in the cabin.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Robbie said, on guard and at his most deferential. I could tell it was taking everything he had to keep his eyes from popping out at the sight of gorgeous Christina Turnbull, who was perhaps all of twenty-eight, with ice-blond hair and ice-green eyes, breasts the size of ripe coconuts; Lanny’s lips had instantly pursed and her spine had straightened at this imminent threat to her status as the most desirable woman in the room. Christina, appearing bored as always, regarded her nails, the view out the window, though I was observant enough to see the sidelong look, quick as a flash, that she sent my father.

  Interesting. And ick.

  Dad didn’t appear to notice this. Instead he said to Ron, “Tish tells me that she and Al are this close to running Capital Overland out of town for good.”

  Ron’s silver eyebrows lifted just a fraction. He said, “Impressive work. And here I was considering selling to them.”

  He saw the stun on my face, which I couldn’t suppress in time, and he reassured, “Only joking, my dear.”

  “I still haven’t discovered everything, but I intend to,” I said, with some asperity; maybe it was the power of suggestion, what Al and Helen Anne had said about him, but I suddenly found that I quite disliked his patronizing attitude. Or maybe I was just pathetically hoping for praise as I explained, “I’m looking into a connection between the local power plant selling to Redd Co. and the Yancys sweeping in so conveniently. The timing is too perfect.”

  Dad was smiling admiringly at me, subtly, which did my heart good. Ron’s expression didn’t change as he said, “Lovely and smart. A lethal combination,” and then he had the nerve to wink at me again. Christina Turnbull looked right at me, for the first time. I doubted she even knew who I was before this moment. I met her eyes and tipped up my lips, though I couldn’t quite convince my eyes to likewise smile.

  “We’ll let you dine,” Ron said then, and I pictured how he had appeared the times I’d argued before him in appellate court, while still in school, how fucking much I’d longed to impress him. To Robbie and me he added, “Good luck on those exams, the both of you.”r />
  “Thank you, sir,” Robbie said at once.

  I nodded my own thanks, as Dad and Robbie both rose and shook Ron’s hand before the maitre d escorted them to their own private table.

  By the time dinner was over I was more than ready to go home, despite Robbie’s sly coaxing to come and have a drink; Grace and Ina both texted to say they would love to see me, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was exhausted, and besides, all four of us had two days worth of testing ahead of us. We hadn’t just graduated law school for nothing.

  Later that night I lay sleepless in the guest room in Dad and Lanny’s townhome, which they had purchased my first year at Northwestern. It was a place with sweeping panoramic views of the skyline that glimmered like a seductive promise beneath the black and always starless sky (far too much light pollution here for a chance to make a wish on any stars), a glittery promise of my future career here in the city. I rolled to my other side, as restless as if I was staying in an impersonal hotel. My only comfort was curling into the scent of Case’s jacket, again the only piece of clothing I was wearing, my bare legs chilly in the sleek sheets of the guest bed, here in the ultra-air-conditioned space.

  Case, I thought again and again. I didn’t even have his number, I couldn’t so much as call him right now.

  I miss you.

  I miss you so much that I hurt.

  I thought of his words at the fire last night; I had thought of little else all through my plane ride from Billings, and all the hours of today. He had confirmed that he still felt something for me and that he would not allow himself to continue.

  You’re leaving, he had said.

  I pressed my forearms to my face and considered the insanity of maybe not leaving. Of staying in Jalesville, of working there.