by Joy Fielding
“You’ve been staring at that bowl of soggy cereal for the past hour. That tells me you have something on your mind.”
“So she’s not only gorgeous, she’s perceptive as well.”
Kristin pulled a quart of fresh orange juice from the fridge and poured herself a glass. “I love it when you talk dirty,” she said, holding out the carton. “You want some?”
“Sure.”
Kristin poured him a glass and deposited it on the table, pulling up the chair beside him. “So, are you going to tell me?”
“She’s married,” Will said simply.
Kristin didn’t have to ask whom he was referring to. “Yeah, I know. Jeff told me about your little trip to Coral Gables.”
“Why am I such an idiot?”
“How can you be an idiot? You have a PhD from Princeton.”
“I haven’t finished my dissertation,” he reminded her. “And trust me, when it comes to women, I’m an idiot.”
“Well, don’t sweat it. It’s part of your charm.”
“You think I’m charming?”
Kristen laughed. “I don’t think you’re an idiot.” She lifted her glass into the air, clicked it against his. “To better days.”
“I’ll drink to that.” They downed the contents of their glasses. “What time do you start work?” he asked.
“Not till five. What about you? You have any plans?”
“Haven’t decided.”
“We could hang out, maybe go to a movie,” she offered.
“I think I’ve seen enough movies for a while.”
“Oh, that’s right. I guess that means the beach is out, too, huh?”
Will laughed. “God, I’m pathetic.”
“Just a little. You liked her; what can you do?”
“How can you like somebody you don’t even know?” Will asked.
“I think sometimes it’s actually easier that way,” Kristin said. “Sometimes the more you know about someone, the harder it gets to like them. The less you know, the better.”
“I think you’re the one who should be going for her doctorate.”
“There you go, talking dirty again.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. This is all my fault, isn’t it?”
“How could anything be your fault?”
“I’m the one who told Suzy about the bet you guys had going, asked her to pick you.”
“You didn’t know she was married.”
Kristin shrugged. “I understand her husband was pretty creepy.”
“Creepy’s an understatement. Guy’s a psychopath.”
“Worse than Tom?”
“Smarter than Tom,” Will said. “I’m not sure which is worse. Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“It’s kind of personal.”
“What kind?”
Will smiled. “What would you have done if she’d picked Jeff?”
Kristin shrugged again, said nothing.
“Would you really have been okay with it?”
A third shrug. “It’s no big deal.”
“It isn’t?”
“Look. Before I started bartending, I was working every seedy strip club in Miami Beach. Occasionally, I got a job modeling swimsuits or lingerie. More often, I supplemented my income by appearing at stag parties. Which is where I met Jeff. It was a pretty rough group of guys, they’d all been drinking, and for a few minutes, it looked as if things might get a little out of hand. But your brother stepped in, calmed everybody down, got me out of there. Even made sure I got paid. He asked for my phone number. We ended up at his place. Of course, I found out later the whole thing was a setup, that he’d bet the guys a hundred bucks he could get into my pants. But by then, it didn’t matter. We were already living together. I quit stripping, took a course in bartending, the Wild Zone opened, and I got a job. And that’s the story. It’s easy with Jeff. There’s no drama, no fuss, no mess, no unrealistic expectations. He lets me do my thing; I let him do his.”
“Which includes other women,” Will stated.
“If that’s what he wants . . .”
“What about what you want?”
“Sometimes he asks me to join in.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
“What are you really asking me?”
“Do the same rules apply?” Will asked after a pause. “Do you ever . . . ?”
“Ever what?” she said, goading him, a sly little half smile tugging on her lips.
“Well, they say what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”
“Really? Do they say that at Princeton?”
“I believe it was Nietzsche who said it first.”
Kristin laughed, a sweet, surprisingly delicate sound that Will found very appealing.
He cleared his throat in an effort to clear his head. “What’s it like—making love to another woman?”
“It’s all right.”
“Just all right?”
“It’s different,” Kristin said, remembering the first time she’d been with a woman. A girl, really. They’d both been so young.
It was just after her mother had kicked her out of the house. She’d dropped out of school, been picked up a few weeks later as a truant, and was put in the care of Child Services, then sent to a group home, where she’d stayed the better part of three years. It was there, in those drab, indifferent surroundings, eight girls to a room, that she’d met someone as damaged, in her way, as Kristin was. For months, they’d circled each other warily, rarely speaking, carefully sizing each other up. Eventually, Kristin had broken the silence: “I can’t find my wallet. You have something to do with that?”
Despite that provocative beginning, or perhaps because of it, the two girls soon became inseparable, their friendship only gradually developing into something more, something neither one had expected. It happened naturally, effortlessly. One night, the girl had simply climbed down from her top bunk and slipped into Kristin’s narrow bed below. Kristin had slid over to make room, holding the young woman in the dark, marveling at her softness and the exquisite tenderness of her touch. For the next eighteen months, they’d spent every minute they could together. The love of her life, Kristin understood, even then.
And suddenly, one day, without warning, she was gone. The semi-official explanation was that her parents had taken her home. Later came the news that the family had moved to Wyoming, that she wasn’t coming back.
She didn’t. Nor did she visit. Or write. Or phone.
Two months later, on Kristin’s eighteenth birthday, Kristin had walked out of the group home and disappeared into the humid, mean streets of Miami.
“Do you think Jeff would be upset if you slept with another guy?” Will was asking now, returning Kristin abruptly to the present.
“Only if he didn’t get to watch.” This time Kristin’s laugh was harsher, more forced. “God, Will. You should see your face.” She suddenly stopped laughing, her face growing dark and serious. “Did you just proposition me?”
“What? No. I just meant—”
“Relax. I know what you meant.” She leaned forward so that their knees were touching. “There are no other guys, Will.”
“Do you love him?”
“Do I love him?” Kristin repeated. “Now that’s a loaded question.”
“I would have thought it was pretty simple.”
“Nothing’s simple.”
“You either love him or you don’t.”
“I haven’t really thought about it. I guess I do. In my own way.”
“What way is that?”
“The only way I know how.” She stood up. “Anyway, enough soul-searching for one day.”
“I’m sorry,” Will apologized immediately. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“You didn’t.” She reached over, stroked his cheek. “God, you’re sweet. I’m really sorry you’re hurting, Will. I wish I could kiss you and make everything all better.”
“Be careful what you wish fo
r,” Will said with a laugh. He pushed himself to his feet, so that they were standing no more than a foot apart.
For several seconds they remained that way, neither moving, their eyes locked as their bodies swayed slowly toward one another.
Is she going to kiss me? Will wondered. Could he do that to Jeff?
Is he going to kiss me? wondered Kristin. Can I let that happen?
From the other room came the sound of a key turning in the front door.
“Hello?” Jeff called out. “Anybody home?”
Kristin quickly pulled back and away. “Jeff?” She marched out of the kitchen, taking several deep breaths along the way. “Is everything all right? I thought you had clients all day.”
“My eleven o’clock canceled. I only have a few minutes. Is my brother here?”
Will stepped into the doorway between the kitchen and living room. Jeff was standing just inside the front door. “Is there a problem?” he asked.
“Somebody wants to talk to you.”
In the next instant, Suzy was standing in the doorway, a genie freshly freed from her bottle, backlit by the sun. Her soft voice emerged from the shadows. “Hello, Will,” she said.
ELEVEN
TOM STOOD IN THE glass-enclosed foyer of the pink three-story building on West Flagler Street, scanning the office directory for at least the fiftieth time. He’d read it so many times in the last sixty minutes, he knew it by heart. First floor: Lash, Carter, and Kroft, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 100; Blake, Felder ' Sons, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 101; Lang, Cunningham, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 102; Torres, Saldana, and Mendoza, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 103. Second floor: Williams, Seyffert, and Keller, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 200; Marcus,Brenner, Scott, and Lokash, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 201; Levy, Argeris, Kettleworth, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 202; Sam Bryson, Attorney, Suite 203. Third floor: Tyson, Rodriguez, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 300; Michaud, Brunton, Birnbaum, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 301; Abramowitz, Levy, and Carmichael, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 302; and finally Pollack, Spitzer, Walton, Tepperman, and Rowe, Attorneys-at-Law, Suite 303.
“What do you call a hundred lawyers at the bottom of the ocean?” Tom asked out loud, pacing back and forth across the small space. “A start!” he shouted, laughing at his own joke and wondering whether anyone had heard him. The place seemed deserted. There was an elevator to his left and a stairwell right behind it, but nobody had used either since he’d arrived. “Business is obviously booming,” he muttered, thinking he could start at the top floor and work his way down. “Hello, Misters Pollack, Spitzer, Walton, Tepperman, and Rowe. Greetings, Misses Lash, Carter, and Kroft. Any of you legal beagles seen my future former wife?” He laughed again, wondering how long it would take to locate her. Certainly not any longer than the hour he’d already wasted waiting for her down here.
Why didn’t any of these big-shot attorneys list their specialties, for shit’s sake? Surely they had them. Was it too much to ask for a little clarification? How about Lang, Cunningham, Family Law ? Or Sam Bryson, Specialist in Divorce ? Something—anything—to give him a clue, point him in the right direction. No, that would be too easy.
And Lainey wasn’t about to make this easy for him.
Not that she ever had.
“Never should have gotten mixed up with her to begin with,” Tom muttered. Jeff had warned him about her, said she was a leech and that he deserved better. Except “better” usually consisted of Jeff’s discards, and he was tired of the hand-me-downs he’d been getting all his life, first from his brothers’ closets, then from his best friend’s bed. He wanted a woman that didn’t come with Jeff’s prior-rated seal of approval, and one of the things he liked best about Lainey was that she’d always been relatively impervious to Jeff’s charm. “I just don’t get what all the fuss is about,” she’d said one night, not long after they’d started seeing each other, and Tom had fallen instantly in love.
Of course, he’d fallen out of love even faster. Just seeing Lainey through Jeff’s eyes—“Christ, man, she’s not even pretty. She’s got these little beady eyes and her nose is way too big for her face. Plus, man, her legs are like bowling pins. You can do better than that”—had been enough to completely quench his already cooling ardor. Except by then it was too late. Lainey was already pregnant, and she was pressuring him to get married. He’d let her talk him into believing that, after Afghanistan, what he needed was a little stability. Let me take care of you, she’d urged. And why not? he’d decided. He deserved a little looking after. He could always get a divorce later on.
So why was he so upset now that it actually seemed to be happening?
Because nobody walks out on Tom Whitman, he thought. “I decide who leaves when,” he announced to the directory of lawyers. He thought of Coral Gables. That asshole husband of Suzy’s. Don’t let me catch you boys in this neighborhood again, he’d warned them. Who the hell did he think he was talking to? “I decide who does what,” Tom said now. “I decide how. I decide when.” Just ask that little cunt in Afghanistan.
Of course, the bitch had almost gotten him thrown in jail. Tom remembered the accusations, the weeks of investigation, the very real threat of incarceration. Ultimately, the army had decided against bringing the matter to trial, choosing instead to ship him home. After having laid his life on the line for almost two years, two years spent eating sand and watching friends die, his prayers reduced to a single wish— Please let me come home with my legs —he’d been unceremoniously tossed out on his ass. Dishonorably discharged. That was the thanks he got.
Just like with Lainey.
Another dishonorable discharge.
He’d done the right thing by her, and now she was trying to screw him out of what was rightfully his—his kids, his house, his way of life. Was that what she wanted? After almost five years together, did she really expect him to just walk away? So what if her parents owned the house? That was just a technicality. It was still the matrimonial home. His home. And Candy and Cody were his children. Did Lainey really think she could just walk away from him, that he would give up without a fight? Hell, if a fight was what she wanted, he’d give her the battle of her life.
The elevator doors suddenly opened, and a woman got out. She was blond and middle-aged, and was wearing a suit jacket, despite the heat of the day. She had a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other, ready to light up as soon as she stepped outside.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Tom said, propelling himself forward so abruptly the woman almost dropped her cigarette. “Are you a lawyer?”
The woman looked wary. “Yes. Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Lainey Whitman.”
“Lainey . . . ?”
“Whitman.”
“I don’t think I recognize the name. Which firm is she with?”
“She’s not with anyone. She’s here seeing somebody.”
Now the woman looked confused. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t know—”
“Can you tell me which firms specialize in divorce?” Tom asked as the woman backed toward the door.
“I believe Alex Torres deals with divorce, and Michaud, Brunton, Birnbaum has a family law department. Maybe Stuart Lokash handles divorce cases. I’m really not sure.” She pushed open the door, backed into the street, was swallowed by a flash of sunlight.
A wave of hot air blew across Tom’s face. “Alex Torres, of Torres, Saldana, and Mendoza, I presume. Suite 103.” He could start there, he decided, taking the stairs two at a time, pushing open the door to the first floor seconds later.
The hallway that greeted him was wide and lined with blue and silver carpeting. He walked down the corridor, passing the offices of Lash, Carter, and Kroft; Blake, Felder ' Sons; and Lang, Cunningham, before stopping in front of the closed double doors to suite 103. Probably should have worn a tie, he thought, tucking his shirt into his jeans and patting the gun tucked inside his belt buckle, making sure it was well concealed. Then he grabbed the brass knob of the heavy, wooden right-hand door and pulled
it open.
He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but whatever it was, it wasn’t this. Weren’t lawyers supposed to be rich? Weren’t they supposed to inhabit spacious rooms with spectacular views? Weren’t they supposed to have beautiful furniture and well-dressed secretaries and a drop-dead gorgeous receptionist waiting to offer him a cup of much-needed coffee? Instead, what Tom saw was an elderly Hispanic woman behind a strictly utilitarian desk in front of a dreary beige wall, a line of closed office doors stretching out behind her.
“Can I help you?” she asked pleasantly.
“I’m here to see Alex Torres.” She’s probably his mother, Tom thought.
“I’m afraid Mr. Torres isn’t in today. Do you have an appointment?”
“No.” Tom didn’t move.
“Oh. Well, then, perhaps I can find someone else to assist you.”
“Perhaps,” Tom repeated, with exaggerated politeness. Where’d she learn to speak that way? “I’m looking for Lainey Whitman.”
“Lane Whitman?”
“Lainey. Elaine,” Tom corrected. It would be just like Lainey to go all formal on him.
“I’m afraid we don’t have anyone here by that name.”
“She doesn’t work here,” Tom corrected sharply. “She’s here seeing someone about a divorce.”
“Are you sure you’re in the right place?”
“I saw her come into this building an hour ago.”
The woman grew flustered. She reached up, patted her gray-streaked, black hair, which was pulled into a high bun. “You realize there are many law firms in this building.”
“Twelve, to be exact,” Tom said. “Four per floor. You want me to name them?”
The receptionist reached for her phone. “If you’d like to sit down, I’ll see if I can find someone to help you.”
Dumb bitch, Tom thought, tempted to blow her head off, just for the fun of it. Instead he mumbled, “Don’t bother,” and walked out of the office. “Where are you, Lainey?” he muttered, deciding to return to the lobby, rather than risk another confrontation with some lawyer’s snooty grandmother, and wait for her there. Surely, wherever she was, she wouldn’t be there much longer.