Sandwiched

by Jennifer Archer

  They follow me to the car. I get out Max’s kennel, his water and food bowls, his favorite chew toy, which Rod eyes with undisguised scorn. Not a good idea, bringing the squeaky pink kitty, I realize, shooting a glance in Max’s direction just in time to see him squat and water a sparse patch of snow.

  Nice touch, Max. I hold my breath, hoping the Cokers won’t turn around. Why can’t he lift his leg? The big wuss. Doesn’t he care that his reputation’s at stake? Not to mention the stud fee?

  I drop the kitty and the bowls, stalling for time. “Oops. Sorry to be so clumsy.”

  Sally picks up the toy. “How darling! Look, Rod.”

  He grunts, then pokes the half-smoked cig into the corner of his mouth and lifts the bowls from the ground. I take them from him, and Sally and I follow as he hauls the kennel onto the porch.

  “Well, that’s it, I guess.” I whistle for Max. He prisses up onto the porch and sits at my feet. I stoop to look at him. “Mind your manners. Be good to Gertie.”

  As Rod mumbles his way down the steps and Sally coos for Gertie, I lean forward and whisper into Max’s ear. “Prove Bert wrong, would you? Don’t be a girly-dog. Show the world you can be as macho as the next guy.”

  He blinks at me then looks out into the yard where Gertie’s humping Rod Coker’s leg.

  “Good gawd,” the man snaps, shaking the dog off him.

  Max lifts his gaze to mine. This is the girl you’ve chosen for me? his eyes seem to ask.

  Poor dog. He doesn’t want a date any more than I do. I’d call the whole thing off, but unfortunately this breeding thing isn’t just a diversion anymore. If Sue Kiley really goes forward with a lawsuit, who knows what kind of legal fees I’ll wrack up? The extra money will ease my mind.

  I give Max a little shove to the rump. “Where’s your sense of adventure, buddy? Go get her. You can do it.”

  But as I drive away and see Max in the rearview mirror, lying in the yard, his head between his paws, I’m not so sure he can.

  I tell myself he’ll warm up to her eventually.

  Or maybe not. Maybe he needs a boost.

  I could go back to the hospital and ask Mr. Rayburn the name of his Viagra connection. Better yet, I could read Max a few choice chapters of Penelope’s Passion. Maybe the book will have the same effect on animals that it does on people.

  CHAPTER 14

  The offices of Colby and Colby Attorneys are modest by Dallas standards. Robert Spinks, my divorce lawyer, assured me that the Colby brothers’ lack of refinement in decor did not denote a lack of professional ability. According to Robert, Nathan Colby is the best, the one you want on your side if you end up in court. As I stand in the lobby staring at the empty chair behind the receptionist’s desk and the dusty computer atop it, the big fish mounted on the wall, frozen mid-flop, I start to have serious doubts about Robert’s judgment.

  I slip out of my coat, fold it over one arm, then step closer to the entrance of the short adjoining hallway. There’s an open door on the left. I see a long conference table inside surrounded by chairs. Farther down the hall is a second open door, across from it, a third.

  “Hello?”

  No answer. Rhythmic tapping drifts from door number two. Deep, throaty laughter from three, the squeak of a chair.

  “Hello!” I call out, louder this time.

  The laughter stops. A head pokes out of door number three. Salt-and-pepper crew cut, wire-framed glasses. “Hey, there. I’m sorry.” Nice smile. Sincere. A touch of small-town Texas in his drawl. “Be with you in a second. Let me end this call.” The talking head disappears.

  I take another step into the hallway, tap the sole of my snazzy new pumps against the carpet. My shoe fetish patient sold them to me at a drastic discount. They’re perfect with my suit. I dressed up for the occasion. Or down, depending on your perspective. Nice and conservative. Serious professional. Don’t want to look like the sort of loose, lecherous woman who’d lure old folks down the pathway to sin.

  After a minute, the salt-and-pepper crew cut strolls out of his office, tightening his tie. “Sorry about that. Could I help you?”

  “Are you Nathan Colby?” I hope so. His eyes are a sharp blue. Alert and intelligent.

  “I’m Everett. Nate’s brother. You here to see him?”

  I glance at my watch. “I have an appointment at ten.”

  “Ah.” He nods at door number two, beyond which the tapping ensues. “Follow me.”

  A man sits behind the desk, his back to the door, his boots propped and crossed on the credenza beneath the window he faces. The boots are scuffed hikers, not buffed cowboys like You-Can-Call-Me-Hank’s. He wears jeans that look new, a pale blue dress shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows…and earphones. His fingers drum the flat surface of the laptop that’s perched on his thighs.

  Everett walks into the office and across to the edge of the desk. “Nate.”

  The man turns slightly, but the movement has nothing to do with his brother’s voice, which he obviously doesn’t hear. I see his face in profile. His eyes are closed. His head moves along with the beat he drums on the laptop. Rubbernecking, my dad would’ve called it. “I can’t get…” he sings under his breath, off-key.

  “Nate!” Everett knocks on the desk. “Hello.”

  “…sa-tis-fac-tion…” tap, tap, tap “no sa—”

  Everett pulls one earphone aside. “Nate!”

  I expect a startled shout, boots falling from the credenza, the laptop crashing to the floor. Instead, he simply opens one eye. “Hey there, brother.” The earphones come off. He yawns and stretches then, easy and smooth, lowers his feet and twists his chair around. “Well, now…” He nods at me. “Hello there, ma’am.”

  A slow grin spreads across a long face carved in hard, jutting angles. Only the grin is soft, full of sheepish charm, a boy caught fishing when he should be in school.

  Everett shakes his head and sighs as Nathan places the laptop on one of the many paper stacks that clutter his desk. “Your ten o’clock’s here. Ms—?” He glances across at me.

  “Dupree.” I slip an arm from beneath my folded coat and shake Everett’s hand. “Cecilia.”

  “Glad to meet you, Cecilia.” Everett nods at his brother who walks around the desk to join us, tucking his shirt in. “Meet Nathan.” He cups a hand around the corner of his mouth and whispers, “He thinks he’s Mick Jagger. Humor him.”

  “Sorry I didn’t hear you come in.” Nathan Colby extends his hand. “The place goes to pot when Jo’s not here. Our secretary. She’s off on her honeymoon. Cancun.”

  I give the younger of the two men the once-over as I shake his hand. His hair is longer than his brother’s, over the ears and minus the salt. His drawl is lazier, deeper. No grooves at the corners of his eyes or mouth yet, only the hint of their approach. He doesn’t wear glasses. No tie.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” Everett says, heading for the door.

  I want to yell, Come back! Robert made a mistake. He referred me to the wrong brother. He meant to say Everett, not Nathan. Middle-aged Everett of the professional attire and haircut. Fast-moving, professional Everett. Everett, whose appearance says “ambitious, savvy, mature.” Everett of the wide gold band, third finger, left hand.

  Nate’s eyes are the same blue as Everett’s and, surprisingly, as sharp, but the resemblance ends there.

  He motions me into a chair then returns to his place behind the desk. “So…I read the papers Robert faxed over.”

  “I was served last week. Sue Kiley didn’t waste any time. The media, either. There’s already been a small article in the Dallas Morning News.” Uneasiness ruffles inside me, a premonition of danger ahead, an icy curve in the road. “At least my name wasn’t mentioned.” Yet.

  He shuffles through a pile on the right corner of his desk, finds Robert’s fax, glances over it. “Four plaintiffs. Looks like Miz Kiley isn’t the only one who wants to sock it to you.”

  “Apparently there’s no end to the number of pe
ople who want to blame me for their parents’ resurrected hormones.” I gesture at the paper. “I don’t even know who two of them are.”

  Nate lays the fax on the desk. The chair squeaks as he leans back and laces his hands behind his head, elbows out. “You want to tell me what led up to this?”

  I draw a deep breath and launch into the facts. Mother and the reading group, the fall-off of attendance, the introduction of Penelope’s Passion. The sudden surge of amorous incidents among Parkview’s residents, the warning from Doris Quinn’s son and Frank Rayburn’s daughter. Finally, I finish with the Viagra incident and Frank’s close call.

  When I finish, Nate whistles. “That’s quite a story.” He doesn’t laugh, but his eyes do.

  I sit straighter. “They don’t have a case, right?”

  “Of course they have a case.” His expression becomes more serious. Good move on his part since I refuse to hire an attorney who considers my predicament a big joke. He leans back farther, so far I’m afraid he might fall backward through the window behind him. “Remember the restaurant chain that got sued years back over serving the coffee too hot?”

  I nod. “McDonald’s.”

  “They paid through the nose. It was all over the news.”

  “I remember.”

  “The right lawyer can make a case out of most anything. I figure you know that.”

  I feel sick. I’m not sure if it’s the bad news or the blueberry doughnut I ate in the car on the way over. “I guess I was hoping you’d say it isn’t so.”

  “It’s so.” The corner of his mouth curves up. “Sorry.” He lowers his hands from behind his head, lets the chair drop. “The good news is, the right lawyer can also fight any case. And with a little luck, win.”

  “Are you the right lawyer, Mr. Colby?”

  “Nate.” He grins that grin again, full of little boy charm. “I think I am.”

  “And how are you in the luck department?”

  “I get my fair share.”

  I bet you do.

  He holds my gaze. “Of luck, that is.”

  Did the room just heat up by twenty degrees, or am I having my very first hot flash? The man’s either flirting or trying to run me off. Must be the latter. What would a studly young lawyer like him want with a pastry-addicted, perimenopausal girl like me? A girl who, at the moment, desperately needs to burp?

  I fold my hands in my lap and force myself not to glance away from Nate’s eyes. “I realize this case is a crap shoot, Mr. Colby.”

  “Nate.”

  “If you don’t think it’s worth your time, I understand.”

  “On the phone, you said the reading group is unanimously on your side? Even the parents of the people filing suit?”

  “That’s right. They feel that I’m not only being victimized, they are, too. They’re eager to testify or give depositions or whatever else is needed.”

  “And they’re all of sound mind, in your opinion?”

  I start to answer in the affirmative, but then I think of our new member Paulie Perkins who blurts out his own lines of dialogue in response to Penelope’s questions. And Nita Mae Newsome, who once in casual conversation, mentioned that she hadn’t slept all night because she’d been worrying about what would happen to Penelope if the captain deserted her after the ship docked. I wince. “Most of the members are mentally sharp, yes.”

  “Well, I’d like to give it a go, then. It’ll be a nice change from medical malpractice and car wrecks.”

  After a short discussion about fees and a payment plan, an awkward moment of silence follows. Awkward for me, anyway; Nate doesn’t seem fazed. We stare across at each other. He smiles. I smile back and try to digest the doughnut in a quiet, ladylike manner. His eyes lower to my calves, and suddenly I wish I’d worn slimming, concealing black slacks instead of a beige skirt. I cross my legs, then wish I hadn’t. Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered by his interest, but I feel like Sharon Stone in that infamous Basic Instinct scene where she’s being interrogated. Not that the man would be turned on by my granny panties if he did see up my skirt, but still…. At least my shoes are good. Young shoes, not dowdy, not middle-aged like the panties.

  Uncrossing my legs, I press my ankles together. Why does it matter what he thinks about the shoes? About my legs? The panties? My age? I lift my chin, glad there’s no pimple on it today, mad at myself that I’m glad, that I even care. “So, what’s next?”

  “I have some documents to file. Lawsuits usually take their sweet time. I’ll stay in touch, though. Let you know what’s happening each step of the way.”

  He takes down my phone number, my address, a few other facts.

  Sensing we’re finished, I stand and slip on my coat, then reach beside the chair for my purse.

  “Just out of curiosity,” he asks, “what do you think about all these old folks getting cozy? From a therapist’s viewpoint?”

  “Seniors who engage in healthy sexual relationships tend to be happier and more active. They maintain better social skills. But I never encouraged their actions. I just read a novel to them. They made their own choices about their romantic relationships.”

  “And from a daughter’s point of view? What if it were your mother involved in a relationship at this stage of her life?”

  The question catches me off guard. “My mother’s not alone.” The words sound snappish, even to me. Opening my purse and avoiding his eyes, I dig inside for my keys. “She lives with my daughter and me. She has plenty of companionship, plenty to keep her busy.”

  I glance up, find humor again in his blue, blue eyes. I don’t appreciate his amusement, don’t like what it seems to imply. That I’m not fooling him. That he sees right through me. But what does he see? That I know what’s best for my own mother? That I don’t want her hurt again? That I can’t stand seeing her with a man who isn’t my dad?

  I return my attention to my purse. Where are those damn keys? And where did that last thought come from? It’s not that way at all. I’m not like the people suing me. I’m not thinking about me, I’m thinking about Mother. What if she begins to care too much for Oliver and ends up like Doris? Shattered, emotionally fragile, worried to death over the health of some old man? Or worse, what if she marries him?

  From the corner of my eye I see Mr. Colby unfold his tall, rangy body from the chair. “Here they are,” I say. The keys jingle as I reach across the desk to shake his hand. “Keep me informed.”

  “Sure thing. And don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  He tilts his head to the side, cocks a brow. “If that look on your face isn’t worried I don’t know what is.” He glances at his watch. “We could grab an early lunch. You could ask me more questions. Ease your mind.”

  “It’s eased, I assure you.” He sees too much. If he didn’t have Robert’s endorsement, I’d change my mind about hiring him. I muster my most confident smile. To prove I’m not worried. To prove him wrong. Crazy, I know, since Nathan Colby’s on my side. “Goodbye.”

  “Sure you won’t join me for lunch?”

  The burp escapes. Classy, Cecilia. That’a way to make an impression. Heat creeps up my face. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”

  “Obviously not.” I can tell he’s wrestling with a grin as he escorts me down the hallway. “I’ll call you soon. In the meantime, don’t you be putting ideas in any old geezers’ minds. You might want to check out the Christian bookstore down on the next corner.”

  I open the door, then turn to glance back at him.

  “I bet they sell romances.” He loses the wrestling match. The grin wins. “The safe-sex kind. Kisses only.”

  Saturday morning, Erin, Mother and I head for the Galleria to finish our Christmas shopping. The mall is crammed with other procrastinators, all in a wild-eyed rush. Ah, the spirit of the season.

  We agree to meet at one-thirty for lunch at a café on the upper floor of the mall, then Erin heads off in one direction, and Mother and I in another.

&n
bsp; It’s almost two before Erin, arms loaded with packages, makes it to the café and goes through the line. Mother and I are already finished eating and are watching the mass of shoppers below.

  “I found shoes to go with my concert dress.” Taking another bite of roasted chicken, Erin pulls a box from beneath the table and removes the lid.

  The shoes look painful, the heels high and spiked, the toes narrow. I’m crazy about them. For me, not her. I keep my mouth shut. I’m learning. It isn’t easy.

  “Very funky,” I say, sipping my tea. “They’re perfect.”

  Mother winces. “I’d hate to have to walk in them. There was a time I would’ve, though.”

  The concert’s tomorrow afternoon. Erin’s been in a good mood all day and yesterday, too. It’s great to see her so enthused about something besides biker-boy. Not that I can complain too much about him. They don’t really date much, he usually just comes over. A couple of times they’ve left with Suzanna and another kid in Suz’s car. But they’re always back early, before Erin’s curfew.

  “I can’t wait to hear your solo,” I say.

  Erin picks at her food. “It’s not really a solo. Just a short part of one piece where only I’m playing.”

  Mother takes off her glasses. “Hmmm. I thought that’s what a solo was.” She polishes the lenses with a handkerchief she pulls from her purse.

  Erin shrugs. “Sort of, I guess.”

  I smile at her. “Well, I bet you’ll do great. You’ve been practicing hard these past weeks.”

  Erin blushes and looks away.

  “Well you have worked hard!” I’ve never known my daughter to be so modest about her music. “Two and three nights a week is a lot. I feel like I’ve hardly seen you this month.”

  A kid with mohawked blue hair walks by. Nose ring. Tattoos by the dozen. He wears a T-shirt sporting a picture of some strung-out looking rocker on the front. “Thank God you’re into orchestra instead of some punk band or something,” I mutter under my breath. “I’m really proud of the choices you’ve made, honey.”

  I wait for Mother to back me up. She doesn’t.