Eric gauged his friend’s tone. He was accustomed to this from Jenny, but this was a side of Jordan he’d never seen before.
“There’s always the public defender,” he pointed out.
Jordan laughed shortly. “Most of them couldn’t care less.”
“But you do.” It was a simple statement, but it cut to the heart of the matter.
Jordan didn’t want to commit to anything out loud. He began to deny it, but that was just an automatic response, not one that came from his gut.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. He saw a wide grin blossom on Eric’s face. “What?”
Eric laid an arm across his shoulders. “Jenny would be so proud of you right now, man.”
Jordan shrugged him off. He didn’t want this up for discussion. This was just between them. “You promised not to tell her.”
Eric raised his hands up, fending off the accusation in Jordan’s eyes. “I know, I know, and I won’t, but this would really make her day. Hell, it would make her month. She loves converts.”
Jordan bristled. “I didn’t say I was a convert. I’m just having…thoughts on the subject,” he finally said.
Eric’s grin showed no signs of fading away. “According to Jenny, that’s how being selfless and dedicated to a nobler cause than buying the next pair of designer shoes usually starts.”
Jordan sighed. He should have just kept his mouth shut. By this time next week, life would be back to normal and all this would be moot. He ignored the unexpected pang in his gut and glanced at his watch. It was later than he thought.
Getting to his feet, he said, “I’ve got to be getting back.”
“Anything else on your mind?” Eric wanted to know, picking up both their rackets. Handing Jordan’s to him, Eric followed him out of the room.
For just a single moment, Jordan was tempted. Tempted to ask Eric that all-important question: When did he first know he was in love with Jenny? But asking that would open a door on a subject he had absolutely no desire to get into. An avalanche of questions would follow. And then Eric would tell Jenny no matter what he’d promised.
So he shook his head and summoned his most innocent voice. “Not a thing.”
Lawrence Logan always felt that his emotions were much too close to the surface, more suited to a feminine disposition than to one belonging to a man.
Simply put, he was far too sentimental for his own good.
Right now, he felt emotion all but choking him as he sat in his living room, looking upon all four of his sons. It had been a long time since his boys had been gathered together under one roof like this. Grown, they had gone their separate ways to pursue their lives. All had been successful in their chosen fields and he was proud of each and every one of them.
But he had to admit, in the secret recesses of his heart, that he missed the years when they were young. When they had all been beneath one roof, living within the sound of his voice and he within the sound of theirs. Life had been simpler then. And in many ways, richer.
He supposed, in an odd sort of way, he had his brother Terrance to thank for this, or at least one of his older brother’s offspring.
LJ, his oldest son, had flown all the way from the East Coast to see if he could find a way to break the Children’s Connection’s freefall, saving its reputation before it ultimately crashed and burned. He’d read that Terrence was involved with the organization. According to the article he’d skimmed, it was near and dear to his brother’s heart.
This was presupposing that Terrence actually still had one of those.
Lawrence banished the cynical thought. It wasn’t worthy of him and it had no place at this gathering tonight.
But he couldn’t banish his concern quite so easily.
“Be careful,” he said to LJ without preamble, interrupting a conversation the latter was having with Scott, the youngest male in the family.
LJ looked at him uncertainly, confused. This had come out of the blue. “Dad?”
Lawrence backtracked. “When you deal with the Children’s Connection, be careful. Your uncle Terrence likes to find fault with people and he’s not a very forgiving man, trust me on that.” There was no point in rehashing the origins of the feud, or how Terrence had refused all of his attempts at a reconciliation. It would sound too much like badmouthing his brother.
“I’ll be dealing with Uncle Terrence’s son, Eric, or rather his wife,” LJ pointed out. “He’s the one who called me, but according to Eric, she’s the one who’s really concerned about the effects of all the bad press the organization has been getting.”
His son’s words did nothing to negate Lawrence’s feelings on the matter. “Son, wife, they all belong to that side of the family.”
It sounded so melodramatic. LJ did his best not to grin. “I forget, Dad,” he deadpanned. “Is ‘that side’ the good side or the bad side?”
“It’s just that side,” Lawrence replied. “And it will save you a great deal of grief to remember that you belong to our side.” With that, he rose from the sofa and looked at his other sons. He nodded at the goblets on the coffee table, most of which, he noted, were empty. “Can I interest anyone in a refill?”
Several hands went up.
Chapter Fifteen
When he had initially undertaken this reluctant good deed for Jenny’s sake, Jordan had felt as if he was standing on the wrong side of an interminable jail sentence. He’d thought of the three weeks in terms of minutes, seconds even, dribbling by at an incredibly slow pace. The “sentence” was something to survive and eventually put behind him—with relief.
Now, facing the other side of those three weeks, the last few minutes of the last day, Jordan had to admit that he had never known three weeks to go by so quickly. There just didn’t seem to be enough time to get to everything, certainly not enough time to make a dent in the case load that still remained piled up on his desk.
Not his desk, he silently corrected himself, Jenny’s desk. And the desk of whoever it was that came after him to carry on in Jenny’s name until such time as she was back on her feet again.
But whoever’s desk it was, the case load still remained, each folder belonging to a different person, a different complaint, a different cause.
Strictly speaking, the pace here might have been very close to the one he experienced working at Morrison and Treherne. But that was where the similarity ended.
The people he’d been seeing these last three weeks lived from paycheck to paycheck, their closets were not bulging with clothing bearing designer labels. They did without so that their children could have a few of the amenities that the world he came from took completely for granted. If these people were taken advantage of and had no money to pay someone to speak on their behalf, it was just something else they had to endure.
Not his problem, he told himself. He’d never felt guilty before because he’d been born well off, because his was a life of affluence. But then, he thought, he’d never been in the trenches before, never seen life from the other side before. It did make a difference.
And so, he’d like to think, had he during his stay here. But now it was time to withdraw, to go back to the life that was waiting for him.
His life.
As Eric had said, he reminded himself, rich people needed representation, too. And why shouldn’t he make top dollar for his talent? He’d earned the right, having studied hard and put in his time.
Jordan automatically went through the motions of shutting down for the night. Except that this time, it wasn’t just for the night, or the weekend, it was permanent.
As he packed up, he watched Sarajane escort his last client out. The woman was a single mother whose recently remarried ex-husband, an insurance broker, was trying to win custody of their daughter. The woman, Anita Quinn, felt her ex was only doing it to hurt her, not because he loved the little girl. But he was well off and she, a former housewife with a minimum-wage job, was not. Donald Quinn’s lawyer was using everything in the book to make
his ex-wife out to be a bad mother whose child would be better off with the stability and advantages that he and his new wife could give her.
Someone else was going to have to handle that, Jordan told himself sternly. He wasn’t going to be here. Granted, he’d decided to hang on to Joe Juarez’s case, but there was a limit to what Morrison and Treherne would agree to allow him to do.
The front door locked, Sarajane turned and walked back toward him. He liked the way she moved, he thought. Half poetry, half raw determination. And all woman.
She stopped walking when she came to his desk. “So,” she said. The single word hung between them, waiting to be joined by more or used as a turning point.
“So,” he echoed, suddenly at a loss for anything else to say. So many emotions were ricocheting inside of him, he couldn’t begin to harness them or even get a handle on them.
She took a breath and released it before continuing. “Bet you’re glad this is over with.”
He wasn’t sure he understood where she was going with this. “You mean today?”
Sarajane shook her head. “No, I mean this whole thing.” She gestured around the room. He was going to miss the way she talked with her hands, underscoring her words. “Your stint here.”
She felt awkward.
Worse, she felt like crying. All day she’d felt as if she’d been on a death watch, waiting for that last moment, the one when he walked out that door.
And out of her life.
They were a package, she and Advocate Aid. Once Jordan walked away from one, he’d be walking away from the other. She was certain he knew that.
Her throat felt scratchy as she fought to hold back the tears. She’d be damned if she’d let him see her cry. “For what it’s worth, you were a great help.”
He smiled faintly at her words. “Jenny will be glad to hear that.”
“She’d be gladder to hear that you stayed on.” Damn it, how had that escaped? She’d promised herself not to say anything like that, not to ask, not to hint that he remain. Oh God, was that pity in his eyes? She felt her back going up.
“Sarajane, I can’t.”
“I know,” she fairly snapped, backtracking. Distancing herself from him. “I’m not asking you to, I’m just saying that would be what Jenny would want.” She raised her eyes to his. “But then, you can’t always have what you want, can you?”
“No,” he agreed quietly. “You can’t.” He paused for a moment, trying not to think about how much he was going to miss seeing her weaving her way through the small office every day. Miss bumping into her because the space was so crammed. Miss her. Impulse had him saying, “Come home with me, Sarajane.”
She wanted to. God, but she wanted to. But what would that accomplish? Give her a few more hours with him? And then what? It would still be over. He would still be leaving. It was better all around, for both of them, if there was a clean break.
“I can’t.” When he looked as if he was going ask why, she added, “I promised a friend I’d be over at their place at eight.”
He heard the finality in her voice. He’d never been one to push, even though this time, he wanted to with a fierceness that was all but overwhelming.
“Oh.”
There was no friend and she didn’t know what she would have said if he asked for details. But Jordan didn’t press, so she was spared trying to fabricate more of a lie.
And because he didn’t press, she knew that she’d been right to lie in the first place. Because he was only going through the motions asking her to come home with him. The only thing on his mind was getting in one more night of hot sex, nothing more. If there had been anything more, he would have asked her to change her plans, or volunteered to wait until she had met her obligation. People who cared were willing to snatch tiny shards of time with the person they cared about.
But Jordan had said nothing.
Because he didn’t care.
She shifted impatiently, wanting this to be over before she did something really stupid. Like change her mind and go home with him. “Look, I want to lock up, so, are you ready to go?”
“Yeah.”
He rose and she found that she was standing much too close. Their bodies were almost touching. More than anything, she wanted to ignore her pride and just throw her arms around him. Just kiss him one more time. Have the world stop turning one more time as he kissed her.
But she’d hate herself in the morning and she knew it.
This is better, that logical little voice told her. She hated that logical little voice.
“Need a ride?” he asked as they walked outside together for the last time.
She shook her head. “Car’s still working,” she told him. “That mechanic you suggested did a great job.”
Each word she said stuck to the roof of her mouth like overly moist peanut butter. She hated small talk. Most of all, she hated him. For making her care again. For making her fall in love.
Abruptly, Sarajane put out her hand. “Well, see you,” she said with a cheerfulness that was conspicuously absent from her soul.
He looked down at her hand. What he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and kiss her until they were both numb. What he wanted to do was ask her to come with him, not for the night, but forever.
But he was letting his emotions get the better of him and besides, she’d made it clear that she was severing ties. That she wasn’t interested in continuing anything they had.
So he took her hand and shook it. “Yeah, see you,” he murmured. Dropping her hand again, he separated himself from her.
She’d lost count of the number of times she’d picked up the receiver, and then put it back into the cradle again, each time battling and overcoming the urge to call Jordan.
She wanted to apologize for being so stiff, so distant on Friday evening. She wanted to rage at him for not doing anything to break down the barriers around her, the barriers that were flimsier than wet paper. She wanted to ask him to really consider coming back to the agency. And if not that, at least to come back to her.
But she didn’t call, didn’t ask, because she feared hearing a single word in reply: No. And even if he didn’t reject her, even if he said yes, he’d be doing it because she’d begged, because he’d felt sorry for her. That was no foundation upon which to build a relationship. She would never know what was really in his heart. And there’d always be that fear haunting her that he would hate her for making him feel guilty.
This was better, she told herself, curling up with a half-gallon container of ice cream in front of the TV. An old sitcom episode she knew by heart was on. The familiar. That was comforting somehow.
The sides of the container she held were already beginning to sweat. Moisture slid down the sides like morose tears.
Better never felt so awful.
Jordan frowned as he replaced the receiver on his landline. That was the third invitation to go out this evening that he had turned down. He would have thought, after spending all that time cooped up in that shoebox of an office, he’d be happy to shake the dust off and get back into the swing of things. Get back to the world he’d been born to. The world he knew.
And yet, he had no interest in doing that. No interest in getting together with Belinda, who had called to invite him over for an intimate dinner, or with Patrice who was throwing an impromptu party for “fifty of her closest friends” or even with Kevin Ritchie who, now that Eric was out of the game, had become his designated wingman when they hit parties and sports bars.
He was completely devoid of any desire to socialize, to mingle. To meet women and make love with them.
It was because she had infiltrated his head.
Infiltrated it like some damnable virus for which there was no cure. What the hell was wrong with him? He was Jordan Hall, he could have any woman he wanted. He didn’t waste time mooning over some petite crusader with a cause. Ever.
And yet…
And yet nothing, he thought, annoyed. It was time to stop acti
ng like some lovestruck adolescent who didn’t know which end was up and get his act together. Come Monday morning, he was back to being one of the highest-paid attorneys in Portland, sought after by clients who could afford to pay any price just to have him take on their case.
But that was before he’d lost a case.
To hell with that, he upbraided himself angrily. That was Sarajane’s fault. Everything that was wrong was her fault.
Clinging to that condemnation, Jordan went into his bedroom to change his clothes. As he walked, he took out his cell phone and called Patrice. He felt like going to a party.
Maybe it was her imagination, but the streets felt lonelier somehow this morning.
Driving to the office on Monday, Sarajane was aware of every person loitering on the corners, their faces vacant, without purpose. She was aware of the debris that seemed to be chasing itself in circles here and there along the dirty street. Aware of the empty storefronts that pockmarked the neighborhood and stood like blackened eyes and missing teeth along the blocks.
The sky above was gray.
As gray as her mood.
“Stop it,” she upbraided herself out loud, raising her voice over the song on the radio. “Get a grip and get over it. The man was on a vacation. He was slumming. Nothing more. Now it’s back to work for him and for you. Back to business as usual. You don’t have time to act like some lovesick puppy. There’re too many people depending on you.”
She knew the office didn’t run itself, nor did it run for anyone else who was there. Without her, Harry and Sheldon were completely lost. She was the one who knew where the forms were, who knew the numbers to call no matter what or who was needed. And she was the one who ultimately kept order among the people who crossed their threshold on a daily basis. There was no time to feel sorry for herself and mourn what would never be. She had too much work to do.
Pulling into the lot, Sarajane parked her car directly behind the storefront where Advocate Aid was housed. She got out and locked the vehicle. The lot was empty for the most part. A couple of cars were parked on the far side, but she hardly glanced in that direction. When the area was empty like this, night or day, she’d learned that it was best just to keep walking and get to her destination quickly. The last thing she wanted was to become another statistic. One near-mugging in a lifetime was enough for her.
Mr. Hall Takes a Bride Page 16