Oh, decorations. I could look at décor. You could tell a lot about a man by his decorative style, whether it was dead animals, replica scoreboards, or old movie posters. Alexander’s style seemed deceptively contemporary, with a notable exception that caught my eye.
A framed image, frayed on the ends, purposely mounted in a shadowbox to display the wear and tear. Black and white, had to be at least eighty or ninety years old. I gestured toward it before gulping a healthy amount of Chardonnay. “That’s an amazing photo.”
“My paternal grandparents,” Alexander said. “This was taken the day they arrived in the U.S. They came here during the Spanish Civil War. Newly married, idealistic, dreaming of the future. Left most of what they owned behind, spent their entire life savings, and took a little roundabout journey from France to Mexico to Philadelphia before becoming American citizens. Worked their asses off so that their children, including my father, could have a better life.”
There was a bitterness to that declaration I couldn’t quite place. “Guardiola. Catalonian, right?”
“Correct. Very impressive.”
I couldn’t let him give me too much credit. “I Googled it before I came over here.”
“Nevertheless, it’s nice to know you cared enough to do your research.”
“It’s amazing they were able to manage all that. The United States of the 1930s wasn’t very pro-immigration.”
“Not much has changed,” he pointed out.
“The phantoms of history should rightly dog us for all the asylum seekers we rejected back then.”
“One might argue that they’ll continue to do so for a while.”
The nation had a lot of work ahead of it. Apologies and pretty speeches weren’t enough. “The President will likely propose something soon.”
“Hopefully D.C. won’t fall into old habits when starting up that debate.”
Both houses of Congress and the Executive were controlled by the Democratic Party, so there was reason for optimism. But that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be vociferous, xenophobic opposition to any sort of comprehensive immigration reform. “Hopefully. Do you still have family in Spain?”
“Quite a few. I was one of those geeky kids who mapped out their complete family tree in elementary school, so I was able to trace a lot of distant relatives back to the principality. I met several of my cousins once removed when I studied abroad in college.”
He valued history. Held it in esteem. I liked that. “So your grandparents were Spanish Republicans?”
“Fought Franco with all they had, until they realized their odds of survival were better if they left.” He smiled sardonically. “The irony of this situation is duly noted.”
“I’m not sure how much of a Republican I am anymore. And I’m not exactly the Spanish version.”
Alexander tapped the picture with his finger. “I’ll make a unionist out of you. A few more glasses of wine and one very compelling speech, and you’ll be sold. I can be quite convincing.”
“I hope you’ll find I’m not quite that easy a lay.”
Oh god, I said that out loud.
“I didn’t—that is, I—” One glass of wine and I’d lost control of whatever ersatz wit I’d cultivated. I was stammering. Was he going to stop me from stammering? Should I stand there and try to explain that whatever innuendo could be inferred from my remark was likely one hundred percent intentional? There had been no ambiguity; that statement had been damned direct. I should have read a couple of books on flirting for dummies before setting up this date.
He took my hand. “Christine. Can I call you Christine? I never really asked, did I?”
“Yes,” I managed. “Alexander.”
“Alex,” he corrected, his voice warm. “Calm down. Please. Let’s try something. This superficial fluff is getting tiring. How about a little Q and A?” He guided me toward the couch, sneaking a peek at the timer on the oven. “We’ve got a few minutes before dinner.”
“Isn’t this a rudimentary way of getting to know a person?” I asked.
He took the glass of wine out of my hand, setting it on the coffee table. “Can you think of a more effective method to alleviate your fears? Your heart’s beating a mile a minute.”
How on earth had he figured that out? My attempts to be casual had failed miserably. “Okay.”
“Now,” he said. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”
That wasn’t strictly a question, but the words rushed out before I could stop them. “I haven’t been on a non-marital date for over thirty-five years, I’ve never asked a man out before and still don’t know how to act or if I even followed proper date-asking conventions, you’re much younger than me but I’m petrified to ask your age, and I’ve never had any idea of what I’m supposed to do with my hands when I’m talking and I’m not sure how I got through my life without realizing it until now.”
He let out a breath. “Wow. That’s a good start, I suppose. Not what I expected but I hope it made you feel better. I take it you’re not usually open with people?”
Um, not so much. “I’ve never told anyone the hand thing before. I don’t know where that even came from.”
“Anything else you want to tack on before I take my turn?”
My deep-seated daddy issues were better suited for a second or third date as opposed to the all-important first, so I shook my head.
“Are you sure?”
Was this how a Q and A worked for him? It was keeping the conversation going so maybe I shouldn’t complain. “I’m terrified that you’ll assume who I am without taking the time to figure me out.”
“That’s not an issue.”
And that answer was a tad too guileless. “You don’t find me intimidating?”
“There’s a carful of Secret Service agents in my driveway and I’ve got one of the most distinguished figures in recent American history sitting on my sofa. Oh, and she’s damn easy on the eyes. What could be intimidating about any of that?”
“Are you using sarcasm to deflect the question or answer it honestly?”
He scooted a little closer to me. A good sign. “I like you, Christine. Sincerely. I suspect I’m just as nervous as you are.”
“But how can you tell? That you like me, I mean. We spoke at that party for maybe five minutes. Ten if you count the subsequent phone call.”
“You kept track of the time?”
“It was on the screen when I hung up and I remembered when we met at the office and…” I blushed. “You’re making fun of me.”
“A little.”
I shook that off. “But how do you know?” I insisted.
“Do you like me?”
He would ask that question. “I asked you out, didn’t I?”
He patted me on the knee. “I knew you had a comeback in you. You’re exceptionally insecure. You do know that, right?”
I’d give him praise for perceptiveness, but it didn’t take a mental giant to figure that one out. “So I’ve been told, yes.”
“Sometimes it doesn’t take much for people to click. Might take a few words, might take a glance, might take a connection we don’t understand. I figure there’s nothing else to do except roll with it, right?”
Men. So very banal. “I guess. Is it your turn to say something stupid? I think I’ve hit my quota for the night.”
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s to never sell yourself short.”
Oh, good. I probably had hours to go to keep myself from messing up again. No pressure. This was fine. “It’s your turn,” I repeated.
“Okay, here goes. Buckle up, because this one might throw you for a loop. I don’t get along with my father.”
I gasped. “Fetch my vinaigrette, for I feel faint. I never would have guessed.”
“Is that why Susannah shoved you into the ladies’ room the other night?”
So. Very. Banal. Although she hadn’t shoved so much as forced me to toddle along behind her. “Your investigative skills serve you well, coun
selor.”
“Do women ever go to the bathroom to actually use the facilities?”
“Yes, but only in pairs. It’s an unwritten rule.”
“Except you have to take your agents too.”
Which was tremendously annoying and part of the reason why I kept to trusted private residences most of the time. I don’t need to tell you how inelegant it is to step into a lavatory stall and know that the person next to you is—pardon my pun—peeing her pants at the knowledge that she’s sharing a potty with a former POTUS.
My agents were usually pretty flexible, but I’d noticed a slowdown in restroom traffic once Susannah and I darted inside. “I hope they didn’t interfere with any other woman’s attempt to escape from an awkward situation. I’d feel a bit guilty.”
“You weren’t gone that long,” Alexander said. “Just enough time for dad to make it clear that I was throwing a wrench into his night.”
Well, he had, but I wasn’t about to point that out. “You said you felt obligated to attend, but why did you really come? You don’t strike me as the type of man bound by Miss Manners or her rules.”
“It’s complicated. George Guardiola gave his entire life, his whole identity to that fucking firm—excuse my language—and his supposedly brilliant offspring responds by accepting a highly competitive, lucrative position and then ditching it after a few years to run off and change the world. I think I felt more compelled to go out of respect for the firm than for him. They expected more from me and I never delivered.”
“Is that really your fault? You can’t be expected to tie yourself down to one position for your entire life.” That seemed a bit iniquitous to me but then again, BigLaw had never been all that benevolent.
“He did.”
To the tune of fifty-plus years, as I recalled. “You’re not him.”
He gave me a crafty grin. “Obviously.”
Oh, now I was dying to know what his father had said to him when he warned him I’d be calling. But I knew I’d never ask. “Tell me more about who you are, then.”
Alexander polished a make-believe halo. “I’m an angel of mercy, obviously. Didn’t you hear about all my good works?”
“Seriously.”
“Hang on,” he said, getting up to grab the bottle of wine and a glass for himself before refilling mine. “This requires fortification.”
“Is it that bad?” What would I do if it were that bad?
“I stayed local for college. Penn.”
That didn’t sound bad. At all. And ooh, a bonding point. I jumped in. “I went to Penn for medical school.” I paused and took another healthy swig of wine as I once again did that pesky math. “Probably before you were born.”
Alexander took the glass out of my hand and set it on the coffee table. “Is age going to be an issue?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Is it?”
“It’s not an issue for me.”
Which seemed like much too simplistic of a statement to make when we barely knew each other. But at least we were having what appeared to be a real conversation, not driven by my fears or our inability to do anything other than talk about basic personal identifying information. “My daughter was trying to set me up with your father and you don’t think age is an issue?”
“Why should it be?”
What planet was he living on? “How old are you?”
“I turned forty-one in November.”
“Do you know how old I am?”
“A sixteen-year gap is barely a blip on the human evolutionary timeline.”
Guess he did, then. “I’m glad to know you’re a lawyer who can do math.”
“We are few and far between, we legal unicorns.” He gave me back my glass. “Is it that big of a deal to you? What if the roles were reversed?”
That was hardly the point, but… “You know full well that there is an entirely separate set of standards when the man is older than the woman.”
“Ah,” he said. “But should such standards exist?”
“Did you major in philosophy at Penn? I feel like that may explain a lot.”
“Urban Studies. With a minor in International Development. Next question.”
“Alexander—”
“Alex,” he corrected.
“Alex,” I said. “You don’t think an age gap might cause problems?”
He leaned back on the couch. “I tend not to dwell on issues until they arise. And this has yet to raise my hackles.”
Which seemed like an oversimplification, but if he didn’t want to pursue it, I wasn’t going to force the issue. We weren’t exactly generations apart. “Does it bother you that your father, um, had his eye on me first?”
“No,” he said, a bit too quickly. “But I don’t want to think about what would have happened if he’d asked you out and you said yes.”
I shuddered. “That never would have happened.”
“I know. That’s why I knew it was a good idea to say yes when you called.”
We were getting off track. Not that this wasn’t fascinating, but still. “Where’d you go after Penn?”
“Boalt Hall.”
All the way to California to one of the best law schools in the country. Alexander Guardiola was no dummy. “Berkeley. That’s a bit of a hike from here.”
“I needed to get away from things and figure out who I was.”
“Yet you came back to work at your father’s firm.”
He finished his own glass before refilling it again. “We all make mistakes. I’d like to think I’ve learned from mine.”
I raised my glass, probably more out of habit than anything else. Whenever someone made a benignly positive statement like that, the predictable political urge to reinforce it was automatic. “Hear hear.”
“I stayed with the firm for a few years. Litigation. Some appellate work. I was good at oral argument and could write a killer brief. Close to a photographic memory so processing discovery and voluminous legal documents was no big deal. I carried a huge load, didn’t complain out loud, and was likely in the express lane on the partner track. But I didn’t like what I had to do. Dad and I didn’t cross paths all that much but still… I’d go home and look at myself in the mirror and wonder how many people I could screw over before there was nothing left of me. I tried to distract myself by staying busy during my few off hours. I bought this house, renovated it, and then my grandfather died.”
He pointed at the photo again. “Dad has two siblings, a brother and a sister. There are six of us grandkids total, two to each of them. Very statistically sound reproduction in the Guardiola family.” He paused. “Grandma passed when I was in law school, and grandpa didn’t really have a reason to hang on much longer than that. They’d both lived long, full lives. Both made it almost a century.” His voice was wistful, and he took yet another sip of wine before speaking again. “Logically there should have been a three-way offspring split after their deaths, right? Well, there was a bit of a kerfuffle when the lawyers read the will, because my grandparents had left a substantial percentage of their estate to me. No real reason or justification, and no grounds to challenge it. I gave my notice at the firm the next day. And my shaky relationship with my father got even shakier.”
“Your Thanksgivings and Christmases must be very interesting,” I said.
He laughed. “It doesn’t help that my parents are divorced.”
Ah. That was the reason George was on the market, so to speak. “Do you get along with your mother?”
He nodded. “She’s the heart of our family, for sure. My sister Olivia lives in Houston and mom moved to Texas after the divorce. She’s living the high life on Galveston Island, serving as occasional grandkid babysitter and full-time crocheter.”
“Do you see her much?”
“Not as much as I’d like.”
Texas and California had seceded during the constitutional crisis that was the Santos presidency. I’d welcomed them back into the fold with open arms once the opportunity arose
, and both states quickly returned to the union without incident. “Was it weird when she was… temporarily not American?”
“Everything is bigger there, you know, including my mother’s patriotism. As she would say, 'Fuck Santos. He may go to hell and I’m gonna stay my stars-and-stripes-loving ass in Texas.'”
His imitation of her voice was quite amusing. “I like her already.”
“I think she’d like you too.” He laughed. “She and my sister are the only two who really matter, anyway. They defended me when the rest of the family turned. I got quite a bit of side-eye when my aunt and uncle passed the yams during that first holiday season after the estate was settled. But I haven’t done a lot of local family events in the past few years, so it hasn’t been that much of an issue.”
He seemed more comfortable talking about his strained relations that I thought he’d be, so I figured it was safe to push a bit further. “How often do you see your father now?”
“The other night was the first time in months. He calls me every few weeks. Usually to gloat about something. Or remind me that I’m borrowing something that actually belongs to him.”
“But he’s a lawyer. He knows the law.”
Alexander shrugged. “Emotion trumps logic. Always has, always will.” He stared at the photo for a moment. “His parents named him Jorge. J-O-R-G-E. He formally changed his first name before he sat for the bar. Whether it was to get ahead or disregard his parents’ intent, I have no idea.”
“I take it he’s not as invested in his heritage as you are?”
“No, and it’s always bothered me. He anglicized himself in more ways than one, and I find that foolish. You can’t escape who you are. I hate that he’s ashamed of where he came from, to the point that he tried to become someone else. To a certain extent, I benefited from that erasure of identity as well, and it makes me sick.”
I hadn’t liked George but I didn’t want to write off his redeemability completely. My relatively open-minded magnanimity was clearly the result of Caroline’s influence. How far I’d drifted from the conservatism of my past. “It was much harder for nonwhite and female attorneys to break into the old boy network at law firms in the mid-Twentieth Century. Maybe—”
Songbird (Bellator Saga Book 7) Page 11