by Stone, Jean
The partners rose. Meg quickly stood and smoothed her taupe-colored skirt. Not exactly funeral attire. But she knew the elegant shade brought out the toffee-colored flecks in her eyes. If she had to see Steven Riley, she might as well look her best.
As they filed from the pew, Meg tried to think about Avery. He would have chastised her for not wearing black. Or navy, at the least. Sorry, boss, Meg said silently as she watched the casket being wheeled by. A woman’s got to do what a woman’s got to do.
She took a deep breath and followed the partners down the telescoping aisle. Slowly, they walked. On either side people stood, solemn-faced. Meg didn’t have to look at them. She knew their eyes were on her. She’s the one who defended Holly Davidson, she could sense their whispers. She’s the one who got her off. She wondered if Steven knew about the trial. She wondered if he knew about all the guilty people she’d defended, that money had become what made Meg Cooper tick. She wondered if she would be able to feel which pair of eyes was his. Alissa’s words again echoed in her mind.
“You don’t know that he’s happy.”
Meg kept her eyes fixed on the navy-suited back of one of the partners. Would it be so wrong for Steven and her to love again? The navy suit continued to move stiffly in front of her. She wasn’t sure who it belonged to; from this view the partners all looked the same.
At last there was sunlight. They moved onto the front steps. Meg drank in the fresh air, relished the commotion of Fifth Avenue, the rush of footsteps, the impatience of cars. She ignored the converging media as a small disappointment rose within her. She had not felt Steven’s eyes. He must not have been there.
George Bascomb, next in command at the law firm, leaned toward Meg. “Smile for the cameras,” he said sarcastically. “I’m sure they’re only here to see you.”
Meg ignored him, too, and walked toward the limo. Just as she bent to step inside, she heard the shout of a reporter:
“Senator Riley! Would you care to comment on the defense cuts?”
Meg stumbled into the car. She pulled the door closed before the chauffeur had a chance. She stared straight ahead. She would not look. She would not turn her head. But as the car pulled from the curb, she could not stop herself. Something—magnetism, chemistry, curiosity, or pure stupidity—made Meg turn her head. Just a little. But through the crowd of people on the stairs, she could not see Senator Steven Riley.
He did not go to the cemetery. From behind large sunglasses Meg had studied every dark-suited man who stood over six feet. But Steven had not been among them. After the graveside service, she had skipped the formal luncheon at Le Cirque. Avery would not have been surprised.
Now she unlocked the door of her brownstone and immediately sensed something was wrong. She stepped inside and glanced around the foyer. The huge Steuben vase stood in its place on the table, filled with delicate silk lilies. A stack of mail sat neatly beside it, exactly where Meg had left it the night before when she’d returned from the spa. But still, something wasn’t right.
“It’s about time you got home,” came a voice from the living room.
Meg smiled. “I’d ask how you got in, but you’d probably lie to me.” She went into the living room. There, on the white-on-white sofa, sat Danny. He was still dressed in his funeral outfit—pale-blue shirt, red tie, navy sport coat, and jeans. A smug grin was on his face.
“I wouldn’t lie,” he said. “I’d say it’s a professional secret.”
“And I’d say it’s breaking and entering,” she said as she flopped beside him and kicked off her shoes. “But I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’m not staying.”
“No?”
“Neither are you.” He loosened his tie, then took it off and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. “Put on some walking shoes. We’re going to the zoo.”
They bought pretzels at the entrance to Central Park—his with mustard, hers with no salt. They walked through the entrance, past the life all around them—the people, the pigeons. Danny broke off a piece of his pretzel and threw it. The birds converged; the birds fought. The winner took all.
“Life is a skirmish, Meg,” Danny said. “Avery got what he wanted out of it.”
Meg tucked her hands into her pockets and silently walked beside him along the winding path. Suddenly she became aware of the zoo sounds, the zoo smells. She went to the massive seal cage and looked inside. The animals were sunning on the rocks, peaceful, quiet. She leaned against the rail.
“Avery died alone,” she said.
Danny nodded.
“That scares me, Danny. Dying alone.”
Danny brushed the hair from his forehead.
Meg gave a short laugh. “The trouble is, in order not to die alone, you have to live with someone. I don’t know which scares me more.” She stared at the seals, at their immobility. She wondered if they were sleeping. She wondered if they were dead.
Danny took her arm and led her across the walk, toward a small arched bridge. “There’s more to life than worrying about dying, Meg,” he said. “It’s living you should be thinking about. You haven’t done a whole lot of that, you know.”
She stopped and stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
“You work, Meg. That’s it. Oh, sure,” he said with a wave of one hand, “once in a while you have a boyfriend. But you’re just going through the motions.”
She looked out over the water that lay idly beneath the bridge. It was too early in the season for small boys with their sailboats; it was too early for lovers lounging on the grassy banks.
“I’m worried about you, Meg,” Danny went on. “Work is one thing, but it’s going to be different with Avery gone.”
Meg shrugged.
“Isn’t there anything you’re passionate about, Meg? Isn’t there something that excites you more than anything in the world?”
“I love the law,” she said quietly. “Sure, the phoniness of our clients bothers me. And the sensationalism. God.” She shuddered.
“It is going to be tougher, now that the partners will be in control.”
“They don’t like me very much. They tolerated me because Avery believed in me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Avery was the big name in that firm. After him it’s you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you, Meg. The reputation you’ve developed. In your own enigmatic way you’re the most visible part of the firm. Don’t sell the partners short. They may be envious of you, but they need you. I think you’ll be able to call the shots now. Choose your cases. Handle only the ones you’re comfortable with. They need you, Meg,” he repeated. “You’re their drawing card now.”
The trembling seemed to start in her knees. Quickly it spread to her thighs, her breasts, her shoulders. Meg sank her teeth into her lower lip so hard she thought it might bleed. And then the tears erupted. Danny stepped forward and took her in his arms. She sobbed deep, racking sobs, onto his neck, into the strands of his flyaway hair. He rubbed her back, he smoothed her hair. He kissed her lightly on her head.
“I don’t want to be anyone’s drawing card,” she cried. “I just want to do my work. I just want to be left alone.”
He held her more tightly. “I don’t think so, babe,” he said quietly. “I don’t think that’s what you want at all.”
She tipped her head back and looked into his eyes. Suddenly his mouth was on hers. She clung to him, to his kiss. His tender touch eased her tears; his loving taste warmed her heart. But as her senses calmed, Meg remembered that this was Danny. Danny, her friend.
She pulled away and turned back to the bridge, back to the pond below.
He walked up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Jesus, I’m sorry, Meg. I didn’t mean to do that.”
Meg smiled and wiped the last tears from her face. “It’s okay, Danny. It was actually kind of nice.”
“I guess I was feeling as scared as you. As lonely.”
&nbs
p; “Do you think we’ll always be alone, Danny? You and me?”
He rubbed her arm. “I’m forty-three years old, Meg. But I haven’t given up my dreams that somewhere out there is the right woman for me. As long as I keep the dream, I don’t worry about being alone. But you have to dream, Meg. You have to dream.”
“Sometimes that’s hard.”
He squeezed her gently. “A lot of people might wonder why in the hell we’ve never gotten together, you know.”
“I know. But what they don’t know is we have something so much stronger, so much better.”
“We’re friends.”
She rested her head against his cheek. “The best kind of friends.”
He kissed her hair. “I love you, my friend,” he said. And Meg knew that he meant it, in the way that only a friend can love another friend, without obstacles, without conditions.
The partners had scheduled a review meeting for the next morning. Meg stood at the reception desk, looking through her mail. She would have to deal only with Bascomb, Smith, and Paxton now. The other partner, Josh Rheinhold, was dying a slow lung-cancer death and had retired to his summer home in the Hamptons. Out of professional courtesy his name remained stenciled on the door, imprinted in Park Avenue conservative gray on the letterhead. Meg wondered how long it would be before the partners deleted Avery’s name from the firm. She guessed they would hold off. No matter what kind of “drawing card” Danny thought she was, Avery’s name and reputation would continue to bring in the big bucks. Avery or no Avery.
Janine had separated the condolence cards from the rest of the mail. “Everyone should see them,” she said.
Meg picked up the stack of cards and quickly flipped through them. One caught her eye. She stopped and stared at the envelope. “United States Senate,” the return address read. This could be from anyone, she reasoned. There were several Senators at the funeral yesterday. This could be from any one of them. She hesitated. But it could be from him. If she took out the card, she could see his signature. She glanced around to see if anyone was watching. Janine was by the coffee machine. Meg slipped the card from the envelope. It was a standard white card engraved in gold. “Deepest sympathy from the office and staff of Senator Howard Levine.” She shoved the card back into the envelope and continued flipping through the cards. There was another one. “United States Senate.” She pulled out the card. It was identical to the other, except that this one read, “Deepest sympathy from the office and staff of Senator Steven Riley.” Beneath the type was his signature. “Steven K. Riley.” Meg wondered what the K stood for. Was it possible she’d never even known his middle name?
“Are you ready for the meeting, Meg?” The voice startled her. She looked up to see Lloyd Paxton standing in the doorway of the conference room. “We have a lot to go over.”
Meg quickly tucked the card from Steven’s office into her own pile of mail. “Right away,” she said, then took her mail, her briefcase, and went into the conference room.
They were seated at the long oval table in their usual spots. Except for George Bascomb. He sat at the head of the table. Avery’s place. Meg felt a twinge of resentment as she took her own chair. Maybe they’d leave his name on the door for a while, she thought, but inside, where there was no one to impress, Avery Larson was history.
“All right, people, let’s get started.” George Bascomb’s voice commanded attention. Meg shifted uneasily in her chair. She’d never worked on a case with George; she hardly knew him. He was as short as Avery had been tall. He was younger than Avery had been, fifty, perhaps. He was round, going bald. He also had an eighty-foot yacht moored off the Bahamas and a well-connected wife with old money.
He began to review the caseload in progress. Tax litigation. Insurance fraud. Embezzlement. In turn the partners gave updates, but it was clearly George who was in control. Meg sat quietly and doodled on her yellow lined pad.
“Arnold Banks,” George finally said. “Murder one.”
Meg sat up straight. Arnold Banks was a sixty-five-year-old museum curator accused of strangling his elderly mother after years of abusing her. Of the domestic staff of five at the Banks’s three-generations-old stately Park Avenue home, two said he did it, two said he didn’t. One wasn’t talking. It was rumored that Dominic Dunne had already received a hefty advance from Vanity Fair to cover the story. And one witness had already signed an exclusive with a TV “news” show. The case was primed for sensationalism. Weary of tales of sexual, spousal, and child abuse, America’s tastebuds were now whetted for elder abuse. Meg wanted no part of it.
George shuffled some papers. He peered over his glasses. “As you know, this was Avery’s case.”
No one spoke.
George set down his papers. “The Banks’s account has been handled by this firm for a number of years. He’d prefer one of the senior partners to take over the case.”
Meg felt her spine relax. She needn’t have worried about George insisting she defend Arnold Banks: clearly, Banks was a good old boy, and the good old boys must stick together, without interference from a young, dynamic female.
“However,” George continued, “I disagree.” His tiny eyes focused on Meg. “It’s your case, Meg.”
She dropped her pen. “What?”
“You’re going to defend Arnold Banks.”
She gazed around the silent room. Then she looked back at George. “I don’t want it.”
One of the other partners stirred in his chair. Another coughed.
“This isn’t a question of what you want, counselor. It’s a question of what’s good for the firm. For some reason the media has taken a liking to you. If we play our cards right, this case will become more sensational than Holly Davidson. The more press the firm receives, the better.”
If we play our cards right. Meg sucked in her cheeks and moved her gaze to the top of the table, to the montage of indiscernible doodles on her yellow lined pad. You’re their drawing card, Danny had said. God, Meg thought, the practice of law really had become nothing more than a game—and she’d been as great an offender as any of them.
“And if I refuse?” she asked.
George slammed his fist onto the table. She flinched, then hated herself for it, for allowing George Bascomb to strike a cord of visible fear.
“This is your case. Period. This transition is not the time to be a prima donna. You’ve got to think of the firm. Do it for Avery’s memory. He would have expected nothing less from you.”
She picked up her pen and formed a string of neat triangles on her pad. The greater the challenge, she thought, the bigger the rush. But would deferring to George Bascomb be worth it? She connected the triangles. She could get up, she could leave right now. Leave the office, leave the firm. She could easily find another job. She filled in the spaces, wiped out the triangles. She knew it would be no better anywhere else. Another firm would only expect her to maintain the image she’d already created. She pushed the tip of her pen into the paper.
“The trial is scheduled a few weeks from now, so you’d better get started today,” George continued. “I’ve had Avery’s files transferred to your office.”
“I think that Avery at least would have listened to my argument,” Meg said.
George bent his head and straightened his papers. He stood up. “Avery is dead, Meg. I’m in charge now.” He took his briefcase and left the room.
The files on the State of New York v. Arnold Banks sat in the middle of Meg’s desk. She pushed them aside and sat down, tossing her briefcase onto the floor, and her mail where the files had been.
She sighed and picked up the stack of mail. From between the envelopes slid the engraved condolence card from Steven’s office. Meg picked it up and ran her finger across his signature. Steven K. Riley. He hadn’t prefaced it with “Senator” or “The Honorable,” or any of those pretenses he could have used. Perhaps that meant he hadn’t changed. Perhaps that meant he was still the unaffected, sensitive man who had taught her about the la
w, and about love.
She opened her top drawer and put the card inside. She stared at the card. Did she have the nerve to actually face him again? To be close enough to feel his magnetism, his warmth?
“I cannot bear the thought that you will never touch me again.” Those had been Steven’s words the last time they were together. The time when she lied and told him she no longer cared for him. The time that he cried.
The phone on her desk buzzed, startling her. “What is it, Janine?” she barked.
“Mr. Bascomb wanted you to know that Mr. Banks is scheduled to come in at three this afternoon. He said you’ll take the meeting. Is that okay?”
Meg gently closed the desk drawer. No matter what she thought of George Bascomb, he was still a senior partner.
“Yes, Janine,” she answered. “Three o’clock is fine.”
She pushed all thoughts of Steven Riley from her mind and carried the stack of the State of New York v. Arnold Banks files to the sofa. It was time to get back to work. Time to rise to the challenge. She slipped out of her heels, sat on one end of the sofa, and put her feet up on the other end. Then she began to read. Page after page of double-talk, page after page of boredom. Arnold Banks, Meg deduced after less than one hour, was, indeed, guilty. No doubt about it.
She skipped lunch. Shortly after one o’clock her phone buzzed again. Maybe it was Banks canceling. Maybe it was George saying he’d changed his mind.
“Yes, Janine?” she shouted from the sofa.
“A woman on the phone for you. Someone named Alissa Page.”
Her first thought was that something was wrong with Zoe. She jumped from the sofa, darted to her desk, grabbed the phone receiver, and pushed in the red flashing light. “Alissa?” she asked. “Is everything all right?”
The laugh was unmistakably Alissa’s. Meg felt a strange comfort of familiarity.
“Everything’s fine. We just wanted to be sure you got home safe and sound. How was yesterday?”