by Robyn Sisman
Jack chomped carelessly. “It simply struck me that he seemed somewhat on the youthful side. To tell the truth, I wondered at first if he’d gotten lost on the way home from school and was waiting to be picked up by his mommy.”
“I knew it!” Freya spun around in a fury, slapping herself on the thigh. “You go out with someone ten years younger, who can barely string two woofs together, but that’s just hunky-dory because you’re a man. But if a woman does it—how tacky, how embarrassing, what could he possibly see in her?” Freya grabbed the back of a chair to steady herself. “The truth is, Jack, you’re selfish. You do whatever you like, but you don’t want anyone else to have fun.”
“Well, if you really want to fool around with some—”
“His name’s Brett. Not Brad or Brat or Skipper or Chippy or Junior or any of the hilarious alternatives I know you can dream up when you’re pretending to write your so-called novel. Brett. B-R-E-T-T. Aged twenty-six, if you want to know.” She blew out a furious breath. “At least I’m not screwing one of my own students. You can get fired for that, you know. Sexual harassment, gross moral turpitude . . . Where is the little munchkin, by the way?”
The words froze on her lips as Jack’s head snapped around. “It was you!” he exclaimed, his face dark with accusation.
“What was me?”
Jack rose from the table with a crash. “Don’t give me that ‘what was me’ crap. Who else would use a phrase like gross moral turpitude? Jesus, Freya, I’ve been having nightmares about that letter. How could you do that?” He flung one of the pizza boxes at her, spattering her with tomato sauce.
“How could I do that?” She flung the box back. “Who set me up with that Bernard creep?”
“You know what your problem is?” Jack jabbed a finger. “You’re jealous.”
“Jealous!”
“Yes, jealous. Because I can get any woman I want, and you can never hold on to your men.”
“You don’t ‘get’ any women, Jack. They get you—if they’re stupid enough to want you.”
His face tightened. They were both breathing like prizefighters.
“Isn’t it time you moved out?” he asked. “I said two weeks, tops.”
“I’ll call Cat. She’ll have me.”
“You do that. Meanwhile, let’s stay out of each other’s way.” Jack strode toward his bedroom. “If I need to tell you anything, I’ll write you a note.”
“If I’m very bored, I might read it.”
Jack turned, and shook his head in disgust. “I can’t believe I ever liked you.”
“You used to be different.”
“I used to be a lot of things.” He banged the door behind him.
CHAPTER 16
“Ms. da Fillipo, is it all right if I go now?”
Cat looked up from her desk to see her new assistant, Becky, hovering in the doorway, her bag already hooked over her shoulder.
“It’s just that it’s my boyfriend’s birthday,” Becky explained. “There’s going to be this big dinner, and I need to get dressed up.”
Cat checked her watch, amazed to find that it was almost six o’clock. “My God, what happened to today?” she demanded.
Becky stared at her dumbly with anxious eyes. Cat noted the gleam of her freshly washed hair and the flush on her smooth young cheeks.
“So . . . can I go?” she repeated.
“Of course you can go.” Cat beamed her warmest smile, trying to dispel an unwelcome image of herself as a terrifying old dragon standing guard over a beautiful princess. “Have a great evening.”
“Thanks.” Becky’s voice was breathy with relief. Just before she made her escape, she turned back and added politely, “You, too.”
Cat nodded. She could tell that Becky found it inconceivable that someone as boring as herself—an unmarried woman heading for forty, living alone, wedded to her career—could possibly have a great evening. Which just showed how wrong you could be. As it happened, Cat was meeting her brother for a movie and pizza—and looking forward to it. She glanced out at the sky, sallow with heat and humidity, and decided to go home first to freshen up.
Cat sorted through her papers and stacked them in order of priority. She shut down her computer, packed up her briefcase, and checked her desk for anything she might have forgotten. Her eyes rested for a moment on the bunch of flowers that had arrived yesterday from the florist’s, accompanied by a card that read: “With so much gratitude—and good luck with your young man!—Jessica Blumberg.” She turned and marched toward the elevator.
It was, of course, out of the question that Michael Petersen could ever be her “young man.” That would be unforgivably disloyal. Michael Petersen had dumped her best friend—just tossed her out onto the street without warning. Cat stabbed the DOWN button. The bastard! The brute! She couldn’t imagine what crazy impulse had made her invent that silly story of a broken engagement. Maybe she had felt sorry for him because of his cold. She’d fallen for that old sympathy trick before: think of Whiny Wayne. And Deathbed Doug.
The elevator doors slid open. Cat wedged herself into the crowded car and stared blankly at the jacket of the man in front of her. To be scrupulously fair—and Cat prided herself on her fairness—Michael wasn’t quite as obnoxious as she’d imagined. She hadn’t expected him to have a sense of humor (“canine apportionment”!); and he’d been very nice to his mother. She approved of that, even if the mother sounded like a nightmare. He wasn’t bad looking, either. Those nice brown eyes were deceptively warm and honest, and she’d always liked that kind of hair—thick and springy, with a kind of kink to it. In actual fact, when Mr. Blumberg had made them hug each other she had felt a spark of attraction—well, more of a thunderbolt. Cat lowered her eyes. That showed how untrustworthy one’s baser instincts could be. It was just as well she had given up men for good. Imagine being engaged to a guy like that! Yes, imagine . . .
She gave a start when the elevator bumped to a halt, and walked briskly through the lobby. Get real, Caterina. Apart from anything else, Michael would never go for her. If he hadn’t thought Freya good enough, with her gorgeous legs and classy accent, he was hardly going to fall for a dumpy Italian from Staten Island. Cat smoothed her canary-yellow dress over her hips. She would put Mr. Michael Petersen right out of her head. Fortunately, she was unlikely to meet him ever again.
But as she pushed through the revolving door to the street, the very first person she saw was Michael. He was standing a little way down the sidewalk, gazing distractedly into the sky as if he were trying to memorize something. Cat’s heart tapped a Fred Astaire number in her chest, and in a very un-Catlike manner she bolted back inside and hid behind a large potted plant. Fumbling frantically for her sunglasses, she slid them onto her nose and peeked out cautiously. She was not hallucinating. It was definitely him. What was he doing here?
She watched him smooth his hair. He looked nervous, and rather forlorn. Was he waiting for someone—for her? Explanations darted through Cat’s brain. Maybe there was a loose end on the Blumberg case; or he wanted to consult her on some general legal point; or he’d decided he wanted Freya back, and needed her help. The brute. There was only one way to find out.
Cat came out of the door like a bullet and marched right up to him. “What are you hanging around here for?”
Michael gaped at her. A slow smile of amazement lit his face. “I—I was waiting for you.”
“Why?” snapped Cat. He wasn’t good-looking; he was gorgeous.
“Caterina . . . could we go somewhere for a cup of coffee?” Michael gestured vaguely at a coffee shop across the street, but his eyes were fixed on hers with mesmerizing intensity.
“Okay,” Cat heard herself say. Quickly she tried to regain control of the situation. “But not that place. Their coffee tastes like goat piss. Let’s go around the corner.”
They walked in nervy silence. Holy Mary! What had made her say piss out loud? He already had her down as a loudmouthed, bossy feminist—not that his op
inion mattered in the slightest.
Café Olé was the usual affair of white walls, blond wood, hissing steel machines, and classical music on the sound system. Michael insisted that she sit down at a small table while he lined up for their order. The chair beneath her was utterly ordinary, but Cat felt as dizzy and disoriented as if she were perched on the edge of a precipice. Something terrible was about to happen—or something wonderful; she couldn’t tell which. For someone who had always boasted of having a brain in her head and two feet planted firmly on the ground, this was unnerving.
Michael brought two cups over on a tray. His movements were neat and careful. He had nice hands, with clean, blunt nails. When he sat down opposite her, barely two feet away, his physical presence seemed overwhelming. Her painfully sharpened perception registered the weave of his shirt, the spirals of his ears, a shallow cleft in his square chin.
“So what did you want to talk to me about?” she demanded.
“Well, . . .” Michael put a sugar lump in his coffee and stirred it about fifteen times. “I wanted to thank you for helping me out with the Blumbergs the other day.” He looked up and smiled at her admiringly. “You were fantastic.”
“I was insane!” Cat tossed her head, but she couldn’t help feeling a glow of pleasure. “Jessica Blumberg sent me some flowers.”
“I got a bottle of wine.”
Cat wondered if he had also gotten a card wishing him good luck with his “young woman,” and felt a blush flood upward. “Well, you’ve thanked me now.” She gave a businesslike nod.
“And I also wanted to talk to you about Freya.”
Freya. Of course. “What’s to talk about? You dumped her, and she’s very upset. Those are the plain facts. As her best friend, I feel very uncomfortable even sitting here drinking coffee with you.”
“I didn’t ‘dump’ Freya!” Michael protested.
“What else do you call it when you invite the woman you’re living with to a special dinner, and instead of—” Cat bit back the words. It would be disloyal to reveal Freya’s expectations of a proposal of marriage.
“I can see I did it all wrong.” Michael frowned unhappily.
“And now you’ve changed your mind.”
“No!” He looked astounded. “Absolutely not.” He plucked rather wildly at the knot of his tie.
“You can take that thing off if you want,” Cat said.
He looked at her as if she’d made a daring suggestion, then slid the tie from around his neck and undid the top button of his shirt. Suddenly he looked much younger.
“I wanted to tell you about Freya because of what you said the other day. You seemed very angry, and I—well, I don’t want you to think badly of me.”
“I see.” Cat’s heart began to thump. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.
Slowly and hesitantly he began to explain why he had ended the relationship as he had. The plan had been that he and Freya would go together to this wedding in England—Cat must know about that. She nodded. But as the date approached he had felt increasingly uncomfortable. He knew in his heart that the relationship had no future; and he had genuinely thought that Freya sensed it, too. Much as he admired her and cared for her, they were simply wrong for each other. It was nobody’s fault, just one of those things. To accompany Freya to England and be presented to her family as her “partner” would raise certain expectations that he realized he couldn’t honorably meet. Rather than place them both in a false position, he had decided to take the initiative and discuss the situation openly with Freya. Of course, he had messed it up; he’d never been very good with words.
An extraordinary sensation came over Cat as she watched Michael’s face and listened to his halting account. She ached to reach out and touch him. Instead, she smiled into his eyes and said again, “I see.”
Michael leaned forward. “Is she very upset?”
“Who? Oh—Freya.” Cat gave a guilty start. She struggled to recapture her sense of righteous indignation on Freya’s behalf, but she couldn’t. Freya was all wrong for Michael, and vice versa: it was a plain fact. Anyway, hadn’t there been a breathy phone call about some hunky young guy on a bicycle? Freya wasn’t exactly in mourning; it would be unfair to mislead Michael when he had been so transparently honest with her. “She’ll get over it,” Cat said briskly.
“It was my own mistake,” Michael admitted. “That first time I saw her, she looked so beautiful and lost. I had this . . . fantasy, I guess, of making her happy.”
“You’re a romantic,” Cat told him. Suddenly, she felt indescribably happy herself.
“Am I? No one’s ever called me that before.” But he looked rather thrilled. “Actually, I think I bored her sometimes. She’s so quick-witted and reckless. Do you know she once lost fifty dollars in a poker game?”
“No!” Cat widened her eyes, teasing him.
Michael acknowledged his own stuffiness with an abashed chuckle. “I guess lawyers are kind of boring.”
“Well, thanks!”
“Not you, of course. You could never be boring, Caterina.” He smiled with such warmth that Cat’s defenses melted further. It wasn’t disloyal just to talk to Michael. She decided that she’d tell Freya that the two of them had met—but that’s all. There could be no virtue in troubling her with a more detailed confession that might, quite unnecessarily, throw a wrench into their long friendship.
Michael and Cat began to talk about law—where they had each studied, how they liked their jobs, that pig of a judge who always made their female clients cry. The conversation caught fire, and before they knew it they were vigrorously debating the relative merits of the botanical gardens in Staten Island and Minneapolis, by way of New York politics, Cat’s relatives in Calabria, and the appropriate use of truffle oil. Michael didn’t seem to be having any problem whatsoever with words. He leaned across the table, eager and bright-eyed, completely transformed from the man she’d encountered with the Blumbergs two days ago.
“What happened to your cold?” Cat asked suddenly.
“Gone! I went to that place you recommended, and they gave me some amazing stuff.”
“Really? You went there?”
“Of course.”
Cat felt ridiculously flattered.
“You know, it’s so funny we never met before,” Michael said. “I used to hear about you all the time: Cat this, Cat that.”
“And I used to hear about you. Michael, Michael, Michael.”
“Maybe Freya didn’t think we’d get along,” Michael suggested.
They looked at each other. Neither said a word, but the truth rose warm and palpable between them. They got along just fine. Cat felt she could sit here with him forever.
“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed, looking at her watch. “I have to go.”
Michael’s face fell. “Already?”
“I’m meeting someone.”
“Oh.” He looked completely crushed. “Of course. I see.”
No, he didn’t see, the great lummox. “I’m meeting my kid brother,” she told him. “Well, he’s almost thirty, but you wouldn’t believe the messes he gets himself into.”
“Brother,” Michael echoed, cheering up.
“Youngest of five and spoiled rotten. I’m going to read him the riot act tonight. Now, where did I put my briefcase?”
“It’s here.” Michael reached down for it. “I wish I’d had a big family,” he said. “They sound such fun. I’m the only one.”
Another door opened in Cat’s perception. She had the sense that Michael had been on his best behavior all his life—devoted son, good grades, solid job, decent citizen. Yet there were other, more passionate impulses straining to break free. His wooing of Freya, fervent if wildly misguided, had been one example. Cat thought—in fact, she very much hoped—that lying in wait outside her office today was another. But what if she was mistaken? Michael hadn’t suggested another meeting, and any minute she’d be gone. She stood up reluctantly. “Time to catch that subway.”
Michael jumped to his feet and asked politely if he could walk her to the station. He opened the door for her and insisted on carrying her briefcase. Oh, this was so regressive! Cat loved it. And she loved the way he used her real name. Cat was the pugnacious lawyer, the dependable friend, the upfront city girl; Caterina was someone much more feminine and mysterious. She could see this other self reflected in Michael’s ardent face every time he glanced at her, though still he said nothing aloud. Unconsciously she began humming a tune that had been playing in the coffee shop—the duet from La Boheme.
Michael stopped dead in the street and turned to her. Speculation leaped in his eyes. “You like opera?”
“Of course I like opera. I’m Italian.”