The phone rang again, and she reached for it languidly. “Hello.”
“Hi there!”
Pat instantly recognized Grace’s voice. “You sound awfully chipper this afternoon.”
“Why wouldn’t I? I have a date next week.”
“A date? With the Wade kid?”
“Yes, Eric. And he’s not exactly a kid, Pat. He’s forty-five years old.”
“Yes, I suppose not. I still remember him from when we were kids. But he doesn’t seem to be your type, Grace.”
“You know, Pat, maybe if you weren’t so discriminating you wouldn’t be sitting home alone most Saturday nights.”
Pat wasn’t deterred. “And maybe if you were a little more discriminating you’d have that third husband you want so badly.”
“Touché.” Grace took no offense, as Pat expected. Grace made no secret about wanting to give matrimony one last try and that she was actively looking for candidates.
“Honestly, Grace. What could you possibly have in common with Eric Wade other than the fact that you both lived in Dreiser? I don’t know what he does for a living, but I’d bet he’s nowhere near you on the success scale.”
“He’s a supervisor at a moving and storage company.”
“And how did he react when you told him what you did?”
“Well, I didn’t exactly tell him I’m director of global public relations. I don’t want to scare the man, Pat. I just told him the name of the company I work for and that I’m in the public relations department.”
“So he thinks you answer phones. Grace, that’s so dishonest.”
“Will you get off your high horse, Pat? We can’t all be Dudley Do-Right.”
Pat sighed. How could Grace stand to embark on yet another short-lived affair? From what she’d seen of Eric Wade, the man could barely construct a grammatically correct sentence. Yet, a successful woman like Grace was ready to start dating him. Just because he was buff. Hell, the man moved furniture for a living; he ought to be in shape.
Pat hardly considered herself to be a Dudley Do-Right, but she knew that she and Grace looked at life differently. Grace’s entire life revolved around trying to catch a man. For Pat, there were so many other things, like community service. She practically had to drag Grace kicking and screaming to that Career Day seminar at their old high school. Grace hadn’t wanted to go because there would be no marital prospects there. She knew it would always be that way, unless Grace did manage to find another husband.
“Well, have a good time. Just try not to expect too much out of it.”
Grace’s answer came without hesitation. “I’m expecting great sex.”
After they hung up, Pat pondered Grace’s outlook. Maybe she wasn’t so wrong, after all, in dating these men who were less successful than she. At least she got to have sex once in a while.
Pat remembered hearing about Judge Glenn Arterbridge’s divorce through the office grapevine. She’d hoped he would ask her out, even if she felt a little skeptical about that happening. In her experience the biggest men usually pursued the smallest women, and this had been no exception. The moment he stopped by the table at the bar and grill near the courthouse where she and Grace were dining, Pat knew who he was after.
That might not be the only reason. Grace was a new face to him, while she argued cases in his court three or four times a year. Perhaps he felt it improper to ask her out, although according to the grapevine, nearly as many lawyers were dating judges as lawyers dating other lawyers.
Pat sighed. Maybe she should start being a little more open when it came to the men she dated. The reunion was over. It was time to move on.
Chapter 15
Early April
Lake Forest, Illinois
“Elyse, I’ll have to go to the tailor this weekend. My pants are getting loose.” Franklin pinched roughly three-quarters of an inch from his waistband.
“There’s someone at the dry cleaner’s who’s pretty good; she’s done some work for me. We’ll plan to drive over there Saturday morning.” She smiled at him. “You don’t have to have your pants taken in, you know. You can always start eating more.”
“I really haven’t been trying to lose, but I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.”
“Maybe we can go out to eat tonight and stuff you with a four-course meal,” she suggested.
“I thought you might want to do that. That is, unless you’ve made plans with your newly rediscovered friends.”
“Oh, please. Franklin, it was one dinner and one lunch.”
“And one night spent at a bar.”
“Yes, that, too. A perfectly respectable bar. Not the swankiest place in the world, but every place can’t be The Four Seasons. But it’s all over. If they have another reunion in another fifty years, I’ll probably want to go to that, too.”
“Elyse, we’ll all be dead in fifty years.”
“Exactly my point. The reunion is over, Franklin. Granted, my friends and I did make an agreement to meet for dinner every six months, starting in October. But I’ll be surprised if it actually happens. We’ll probably fall back into the same old habits, exchanging Christmas cards and hardly ever seeing each other.” She slipped her arm through his. “So, now that you don’t have an excuse, does that dinner invitation still hold?”
“Sure. It’s nearly seven. We can leave now, if you’re ready to eat. I’m not particularly hungry, but I probably will be in a half hour or so.”
Her eyebrows jutted up. Not hungry? As far as she could tell—and Franklin wasn’t one to wash out his dishes—he hadn’t eaten anything since the English muffin she’d fixed him at ten that morning, over eight hours ago. An alarm went off in her head. Could something actually be wrong? She’d noticed a decrease in Franklin’s food intake, but she also knew he attended many catered lunch meetings at work that left him full even by dinnertime. She just presumed he was attending meetings where food was served more often lately.
But this was a weekend.
She looked at him carefully. He certainly didn’t appear unwell. He’d always kept fairly fit. For years he’d joked that he didn’t want to get all out of shape and risk losing her to a younger man, a playful comment she noticed he hadn’t made lately, since they’d had words about his lack of energy. He did have a little bit of a potbelly, but not enough to get in his way. The weight loss actually looked good on him.
Elyse had struggled with weight her whole life. As a child she’d been what was then referred to as “pleasingly plump.” In her first year of college she’d packed on thirty pounds, losing it painstakingly shortly before she met Franklin at a homecoming weekend during her junior year.
Even now, with her children grown, her weight fluctuated. She kept her closet organized by clothing size—the clothing she wore regularly and the clothing for times when she picked up a few pounds.
Franklin’s weight, on the other hand, had always been pretty stable. Her eyes searched for anything that suggested a change in his health. He looked pretty much as he always did, other than having lost a few pounds.
“I’m going to change. Be back in a minute.”
He looked relieved and happy. She realized he’d probably worried about her intentions, thought she was about to start hanging out with her girlfriends on Saturday nights. Like she’d really want to do that. As Pat had pointed out, it was far better to snuggle at home with your husband than to be out looking for one. Her friends all had her contact information, and she’d exchanged e-mail addresses with Kevin so they, too, could keep in touch, but she had no plans to see anyone. She already had all she needed to feel happy and complete.
“Wait,” she said suddenly. She moved close to him and raised her chin. “I haven’t had my kiss today.”
She closed her eyes dreamily as their lips met for a second or two. When she opened her eyes her smile faded as she noticed something strange.
The whites of his eyes had a yellowish tint, like he had some kind of vitamin deficiency. She hadn’
t noticed it until now. The first twinges that something might really be wrong wiggled through her chest.
“Franklin,” she said suddenly, an underlying urgency in her tone. “I want you to promise me that you’ll make an appointment with the doctor.”
Chapter 16
Early April
Chicago
Pat studied the file in front of her. She’d been prosecuting the accused long enough to know when someone was holding out on her, or lying. She found that intolerable in her own witnesses. Best she find out before the defense, who would undoubtedly go for blood when they figured it out. If this witness was being evasive or outright lying, that usually meant they were protecting someone—or that they’d committed the crime themselves.
The phone at her elbow rang. She reached for it absently, her eyes fixated on the spot in the file notes that differed from what the witness had actually said on the stand. It would be easy enough to check out. She’d get her assistant on it right away.
She placed a Post-it note over the text as she reached for the phone. “Patricia Maxwell.”
“Hello, Pat.”
She frowned, not recognizing the male voice on the other end of the line. A look in the window panel of her phone showed that the call came from outside the building. Judging from the warmth in the man’s tone, he certainly seemed happy to hear her voice.
That notwithstanding, she had no time to play guessing games. She had a full caseload. “Hello. Who is this, please?”
“It’s Andrew Keindl. From Northwestern. I hope you remember me.”
Her annoyance vanished like Noxzema skin cream left on too long. “Andy? Is it really you? What a surprise! What’s it been, twenty-some years?”
“About that, yes. I read an article about you in the newspaper. I wouldn’t have been sure if I had the right Patricia Maxwell, but there was your picture. It said you were an ADA. I figured I’d give it a shot and call the prosecutor’s office.”
“Are you back in Chicago?” Andy, with whom she shared numerous classes during their time in law school—they were friendly rivals for the number one spot—had taken a job in L.A. after graduation. Pat remembered good-naturedly teasing Andy about wanting to get in with the movers and shakers as she bid him farewell at graduation. She hadn’t seen him since.
“Yes. My firm is opening a branch here, and I decided to come back and helm it. I’m a little tired of L.A.”
His firm, she noted, not the firm. She wondered if he was a partner in it. Probably, she decided. He’d been a brilliant student. And here she was, toiling away as a public servant....
“Am I calling at a bad time, Pat?”
Her eyes went to the file on her desk. “Uh . . . I am a little busy right now, actually.”
“Well, why don’t you tell me if you’re free for lunch this week. I’d love to see you. We can catch up. Plus, you can give me the lowdown on the judges I’ll be trying cases in front of.” He chuckled.
“What’s your specialty, Andy?”
“Criminal.”
“That means you and I will probably be duking it out one of these days.”
“I’ll have to make sure I’m well prepared. You were sharp in law school, and I hear you’ve got a great conviction rate.” He paused. “Maybe we ought to make it dinner instead. We’ve got over twenty years to catch up on. Hard to do in an hour.”
She brought up her calendar on her computer screen. “How does Thursday look for you?”
“Thursday . . . I’m open. Six o’clock?”
“Fine. Are you familiar with the pub near the courthouse?”
“Yes, I know it. I’ll see you there. And Pat—”
“Yes?”
“I’m really looking forward to it.”
She looked into her closet Wednesday evening. She was no clotheshorse, like Grace, but she believed in dressing well. While she would never tell anyone, some of her very best suits had been purchased at the Salvation Army thrift store, a habit her mother had cultivated out of necessity when Pat and her brothers were growing up. Her parents, both unskilled laborers, had difficulty supporting their three children, and her mother had started making regular trips to the thrift store to purchase used winter jackets and dress clothes as well as jeans and tops, always of high quality. They used the little money they had to buy other necessities new, like underwear, shoes, and pajamas.
Pat used to pray that no one would find out where her clothing came from. Being dressed by the Salvation Army was one of the cruelest taunts that could be leveled at a child. It meant that your family was among the poorest of the poor.
They were poor, of course, even by Dreiser standards. They didn’t even own a car. But the Maxwell children were among the best-dressed in the neighborhood. They wore outfits that most working-class people could never afford. Pat knew that the practiced eye of the other mothers recognized that she and her brothers wore rich people’s castoffs. Indeed, many of the women who worked as maids in swanky Gold Coast households accepted the clothing of their employer’s family for themselves and their children when they were discarded or outgrown. But Cleotha Maxwell instilled in her only daughter that she should never be ashamed of wearing thrift shop duds as long as they were clean.
Pat knew she would never get rich working for the prosecutor’s office. Still, she wanted to look nice in court. When Pat complained to her mother about the high cost of clothing, Cleotha suggested she check out the thrift shops. Pat went browsing and found that many wealthy women donated garments they’d grown tired of, if the quality and up-to-date styles were any indication. She bought designer outfits for a song, including handbags that were usually kept in glass cases in department stores. She remembered all the attention paid to Marcia Clark’s wardrobe when she prosecuted O.J. Simpson a dozen years ago. Many of Ms. Clark’s ensembles had been borrowed from L.A. fashion houses glad to have the exposure. It gave Pat a strange sense of satisfaction to know that if she ever prosecuted a case that garnered nationwide attention, she wouldn’t need to borrow any clothes. What she had in her closet would work just fine.
Even at age forty-nine, she still guarded her secret as fiercely as KFC executives safeguarded the exact mix of the Colonel’s eleven herbs and spices. Grace would be appalled if she knew the origin of Pat’s wardrobe. But Pat didn’t make the money Grace did. She didn’t earn six figures plus a hefty bonus at year-end and stock options. And Grace had only herself to spend her money on. If Pat didn’t help her parents out each month, she didn’t think they’d be able to live decently. As it was, her father still worked part-time bagging groceries at a supermarket, and her mother checked out books at the library to supplement their meager Social Security checks. Pat found it painful that her parents, both past seventy, still had to work, but Moses and Cleotha Maxwell never had had much money. She wished they would retire somewhere with a lower cost of living and a milder climate—like their hometown of Wabbaseka, Arkansas—but apparently her father really meant it when he said he’d never live there again.
She also suspected that her parents wanted to be close to her, their only living offspring, and she wasn’t about to move to Arkansas. Even as a child, she hated going down there.
Her mother cried the first time Pat left two hundred dollars on their kitchen table, and even her father appeared a little choked up. Pat gave them that amount every month. For their golden anniversary a few years back, she’d also paid for them to go on their first real vacation, a cruise to the east and west coasts of Mexico through the Panama Canal. She and Grace sailed on the same ship—no way could Pat send her parents, inexperienced travelers, on such a complex trip alone. Both her parents marveled at the abundance of food on board, at the number of black passengers who could afford to take the expensive trip, and at how many of the ship’s low-paid crew came from countries in Central America and Asia. Pat knew they’d expected to see fewer black passengers and more black crew.
It did Pat’s heart good to see her parents have such a wonderful time. After
dinner they danced like newlyweds, and on the formal dress nights her mother put on her new dresses, and her father looked quite dapper in the tux he’d bought from a rental shop on Cottage Grove Avenue that had gone out of business and sold its inventory at deep discounts.
In order for Pat to look good and still enjoy life—and to prepare for her own retirement, since she had no devoted children to help her out—she had to economize somewhere. If she didn’t, she would have had to pass on that Mediterranean cruise she was taking with Grace and two other women in July. They’d planned it two years ago. Pat needed that much lead time to pay for it because of the money she gave her parents.
She decided on her brown wool suit, but instead of pairing it with a typical button-down tailored top, she chose an especially pretty high-necked yellow chiffon blouse. She hadn’t seen Andy in over twenty years, but even now she still felt a faint undercurrent of competition, which had been the nature of their relationship. She’d been annoyed back in ’83 when he’d received more associate offers than she, convinced that racism as well as sexism lay behind the discrepancy. He might have been ahead of her in class, but only by a hair.
Pat had felt slighted, even though she’d never wanted to be in private practice. She wanted to prosecute the drug dealers and gang members who had gotten her brother Clarence hooked on heroin and her brother Melvin shot on the street.
She remembered how Andy had said “my firm.” He hadn’t accentuated the first word, but he’d sounded pretty proprietary just the same. A successful criminal attorney would probably dress the part with gold cuff links, Johnston & Murphy wing- tips, the whole nine yards.
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