Flirting with Forever

by Cara Bastone

  She sighed. “I’m just sick over my shop. It took me so long to get it all fixed up just the way I liked it.”

  “We’ll get it back to the way it was, Mary.” And as soon as he said it, he knew he wasn’t spinning a false hope. If he had to come by the shop after work every day for six months, he’d help her restore things.

  “It’s not that, really.” She fiddled with the zipper more. “It’s more that I’m trying to figure out why it happened. It doesn’t even seem like anything was stolen. It’s just this meaningless destruction.”

  She was zipping her bag an inch open and then closed over and over, and John just gave in to gravity. He reached over and took her nervous hand, sandwiched it between his two palms.

  “I don’t know what happened with your shop, Mary, but as a lawyer, I’ve had the opportunity to get into the minds of a lot of people who’ve done a lot of things.” He sighed. “Have you ever seen a little kid stomp on a tulip? Or kick over someone else’s sandcastle? Or have you ever seen someone smash a glass when they were angry? Sometimes it’s just as simple as that. Again, we don’t know anything yet about what happened or who did it, but I know that you might never have an adequate answer for why. Sometimes people just need to destroy something.”

  Her hand pivoted between his palms and her fingers laced with his. Suddenly, John wasn’t just riding the train with Mary. He was speeding underground, every one of his fingers touching every one of Mary’s with his other hand cupped over top, protecting this moment from the rest of the world.

  “But they were coming up to my apartment, John. They kicked open the door right as the police got there. Were they—” She cut off for a second. “Were they coming for me?”

  She was asking him if she was the something beautiful that was next on their list of things to destroy.

  “Mary,” he said carefully, turning on his seat so that he held her eyes as well as her hand. “I thank God that I don’t ever have to know the answer to that question. Because the cops came, and you’re safe here now. If they catch the people who did this, if they see their day in court, you might get some of your answers. But I really think it’s important to concentrate on all the things that did happen instead of all the things that could’ve.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you responded correctly. You called the police, the police came and protected you and your shop. And now the cops do their job and you do yours. We move forward, get things back on track. That’s what we can control.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “And if they catch the guys, then some defense attorney will do their job. Maybe even a public defender like you.”

  He fought off a wince. The system, all societal systems really, was so broken that oftentimes John felt his clients to be as much victims of circumstance as were the victims of the crimes in question. But there Mary sat, her store a smashed ornament on Court Street. “Mary.”

  She shook her sunny head of hair. “And that’s the way it should be, I suppose.” She sighed. “If they weren’t defended, I might always worry they were wrongly convicted. And that’s even more unfair than having your shop destroyed for no reason. I just want the right thing to happen. But nobody knows what the right thing is, do they?”

  John blinked at her. She didn’t want vengeance, he realized, the way so many victims of crimes wanted. No. She wanted justice.

  She fell quiet and leaned her head back against the metal wall of the train, her eyes closed. She tightened her grip on his hand and John did the same. How could he make this woman feel safe again? How? A new door would help logistically, but he knew that this was so much more complicated than just getting a new security system installed. This was about Mary having faced something very ugly and trying to fit it into how she understood the world.

  The train screeched into the station and Mary slid her hand out from John’s. He shoved his hands into his pockets as they filed off, side by side.

  “Look, Mary, are you sure you want to do this? Brunch with my father? It’s pretty much guaranteed to be a weird time.”

  She nodded resolutely as they came aboveground. “I’m starving,” she insisted with a smile.

  John took a deep breath and led her into the restaurant.

  * * *

  JOHN APPARENTLY SPOTTED his father in the far corner almost immediately, and Mary expected John to lead the way through the restaurant. Instead, he pointed the direction and walked slightly behind her, one hand at the small of her back. It surprised Mary that he did this. He’d never struck her as a small-of-your-back guy before.

  Then again, a month ago, she wouldn’t have thought he was a sleep-on-the-neighbor’s-couch kind of guy either, yet he’d gladly given up his space to make her comfortable. Which, she supposed, was exactly what he was doing right now as well. He was guiding her through the restaurant as a gesture of kindness, solidarity, maybe even protection? John might not be the most tactful guy in the history of the world, but Mary had never been more certain that he deeply cared about her well-being.

  John Whitford Sr. rose up from his seat, tucking his phone into his pocket when they approached. His newscaster smile, which Mary was familiar with from all the campaign posters, was firmly in place. Not a millimeter changed in his expression, yet Mary was certain that she was seeing surprise on his face. His eyes darted from Mary to John, to John’s hand at her back, to the bag on her hip. And then those eyes went back to Mary and just stayed there for a long second.

  “Well, hello,” he said, stepping around the table and holding out a hand. Mary was insanely relieved when all he did was shake it; she’d been dreading a back-of-the-hand kiss. “This is a surprise.”

  “This is Mary Trace. Mary, this is my father.”

  “Please, call me Jack,” he said smoothly, adjusting his blue suit coat before he sat back down at the table.

  “Nickname?” she asked, setting her bag down and sitting at the four-top.

  “Only to those who know me best.” Jack winked.

  Mary smiled a little woodenly. He was just so smarmy. Nothing like John in the least.

  She looked up at John and saw he was still standing, staring down at the table in consternation. “There isn’t a third place setting. I’ll get the server.”

  And leave her there with Jack? Without thinking, Mary reached up and tugged at John’s hand, her fingers automatically finding the warm part of his palm. “The server will be back in a moment,” she reassured him.

  When they’d been at the bar and she’d been trying to shake off his friend Hogan, John had read her eye contact exquisitely. He did the same thing now, his eyes searching her face. He nodded curtly and plunked down in the chair next to her, across from his father.

  Jack cleared his throat. “I would have made the reservation for three if I’d have known...”

  John waved his hand through the air. “It was unexpected for us as well.”

  Us. His hand on her back through the restaurant. John wasn’t doing a very good job of explaining to his father that they weren’t, in fact, together. The thought was giving Mary underboob sweat.

  The restaurant was semi-fancy. It had golden lights and big-leafed ceiling fans spinning lazily. There was a river view out the back windows, and Mary’s eyes followed a barge as it plodded its way downstream, the city fanning out beyond it. She wasn’t sure if it was the heat, or the hell of a thirty-six hours she’d had, or the memory of her hand laced with John’s, but Mary felt slightly dizzy.

  She needed a second.

  “I’m going to run to the restroom real quick.”

  She smiled at both men, pushed her chair back and moved quickly, and she hoped, gracefully to the restroom. She grabbed a paper towel, wet it and stepped into an open stall. Mary slapped it over the back of her neck and took a deep breath.

  What a strange world. On a normal Saturday morning, she’d ju
st be opening up her shop right now. Instead, she’d slept at John’s house and was having brunch with his father. She looked for a second at her hands. Almost indulgently, she laced her own fingers together, the way she had with John on the train. He’d more than held her hand. He’d gripped her with one hand and sheltered her from the world with his other hand.

  And touching was such a slippery slope, wasn’t it? Because only moments later, he’d put one of those warm, calm palms at the small of her back. And moments after that, she’d slid her hand back into his, guided him down to his chair.

  This was getting out of hand.

  It was confusing to sleep in a man’s bed and hold his hand and meet his father. And Mary wasn’t even letting herself think about the two hugs they’d shared in her kitchen. She hadn’t, even in the deepest parts of last night, allowed herself to mull over how it had felt to look up from her conversation with the detective to see John unexpectedly standing there, looking as curmudgeonly as always.

  Talk about slippery slopes. Mary could practically feel herself clicking into skis, adjusting her goggles, pushing off down a black diamond.

  “He said we’re in different stages of life,” she firmly reminded herself. “He doesn’t look you up and down. He’s not attracted to you.”

  Deciding that she’d feel better after she ate, Mary washed her hands, glared some sense into herself in the mirror and headed back out to the dining room. As she approached, she saw John and Jack in some sort of heated discussion. John leaned forward across the table while Jack leaned lazily back, a smug expression on his face. They cut off the moment they saw her and Mary was one hundred percent positive that conversation had been about her. No doubt John defending the innocence of their friendship. She could only imagine what he’d said.

  As she slid into her seat, she couldn’t help but smile down at the black coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice that had been delivered to her place. John had the same at his. “Thanks,” she told him.

  “You’re welcome.”

  They ordered breakfast, and when Jack handed over his menu, Mary felt his focus shift to her.

  “So, Ms. Trace. Tell me about yourself.” He turned those dark eyes on Mary, so unlike John’s, and Mary couldn’t help but feel as if she were on the witness stand. There was something in Jack’s gaze that was complicated. He was reserving his judgment of her based on her answers to his questions, and he wanted her to know it.

  “Jack—” John started.

  Mary cut in. She wasn’t scared of Jack Whitford. She’d been raised by Naomi Trace, for shit’s sake. She knew how to deal with judgment when it sat down at the breakfast table.

  “Well, I own a shop in Cobble Hill that does very well for itself. I’ve lived in Brooklyn for six years. I was born and raised in Connecticut, although I did my undergrad at Rutgers.”

  “And you’re friends with my son.” He stressed the word friends in a subtle yet accusatory way.

  “Actually, I was originally friends with Estrella. She’s the one who introduced us.”

  Just as she’d expected it might, the mention of his ex-wife altered whatever line of questioning he’d been headed down. He blinked at her for a moment. “Right.”

  “Whitford,” a voice said over Mary’s shoulder, and Mary craned her neck to see a very attractive man behind her. She blinked in confusion when the man’s face was pointed toward John and not Jack.

  It had never occurred to her that someone would refer to John as just “Whitford.” It didn’t suit him at all.

  “Willis,” John said in a voice as dry as it was gravelly. He wasn’t happy to see this man. He cleared his throat. “Jack, Mary, this is my colleague Crash Willis. Crash, this is my friend Mary Trace and my father, John Whitford.”

  Mary noted that this time Jack didn’t offer his nickname. He merely shook hands with this Crash person and eyed him appraisingly. “Colleague? You’re also a public defender, then?”

  Crash shook his head, coming to stand around the side of the table where Mary wouldn’t have to crane her head to see him. “No. An ADA.” He clapped a hand on John’s shoulder. “John’s worst nightmare.”

  John slid his eyes over to Mary and gave her a look so droll, so dismissive of Crash, so confident, that she almost aspirated her orange juice. She’d known that John was attractive, but didn’t he know that a look like that was panty incinerating? No, she was certain that he did not know what effect this casual confidence had on Mary as he leaned back and said something snide to Crash.

  The three men began talking and Mary found herself in a brief, potent daydream. She’d once imagined John scowling his way around a courtroom, dramatically pointing at the opposing counsel, passionately advocating for the wrongfully accused. But now she realized how ridiculous that assessment had been. John wasn’t the type to strut and dramatize. No. He was too good for that, too confident in his own skills. John’s main weapon, she was sure of it, would be ultimate, careful competence. He would lead the jury by the hand, calmly, confidently, without spoon-feeding them. He’d expect them to make the right decision, to side with him, because where else would anyone in their right mind side?

  She imagined his midnight tie against his white shirt, his wide shoulders and wingtips, and his presence. John wasn’t graceful, exactly. He took up too much stocky space for that. But he was incredibly self-contained, aware of his space and energy. And wasn’t that almost the same thing?

  Mary desperately wanted to observe him in court. To hear the rise and fall of that two-toned voice of his. She also knew just how dangerous that could end up being. This crush of hers would eat her alive if she ever got to see him work a room like that. Even now, him leaning irreverently back on two legs of his chair, some sly remark on his lips, Mary’s feelings for him threatened to come tumbling forward. She desperately wanted to hold his hand again.

  After a few minutes, Crash excused himself, his eyes lingering on Mary for a moment in a curious way, and then he was gone.

  “Interesting guy,” Jack said to John. Though he’d said only two words, Mary was certain that he’d actually said a mouthful to his son, à la Naomi Trace.

  “Sure,” John replied, craning his head as he looked around the restaurant. “Food’s taking a long time.”

  “Seems to have his head on straight.”

  John didn’t seem to be able to restrain his sigh this time. “Yup.” He popped the P.

  “Has a next step in mind for his career.”

  Ah. That was where this was heading. Compliments to this other guy’s career were apparently digs on John’s career. John didn’t even bother responding.

  Mary cleared her throat, finally drawing the men’s attention away from one another and back to her. “Did it surprise you when John went to law school?”

  Jack’s eyes slid back to John. “No. But it surprised me when he decided to become a defense attorney.”

  John’s loose confidence from moments before was dissolving into stiff-backed reserve. Mary intimately recognized the pose. It was what children did to block the judgment of their parents.

  “And here we are again,” John sighed in a near-sour tone.

  “Why would it surprise you that he wanted to be a public defender?” Mary asked. To her, it made perfect sense that he’d land in that arena of the law.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me now that he wanted to do that,” Jack told her, swirling his coffee in his cup. “But back then, I’d thought he might want to follow a little more closely in my footsteps. There were quite a lot of open doors he turned his back on.”

  “Jack,” John muttered exasperatedly.

  “John doesn’t like open doors,” Jack informed Mary cattily. “He gets pleasure from slamming them closed.”

  Mary looked back and forth between them, cataloging everything about Jack that she’d known prior to this brunch and everything she was learning at
an alarmingly fast pace. She tilted her head to one side and took a sip of coffee, measuring Jack. What he was really saying hit her like a bolt of electricity.

  “Hold on, you think John became a public defender just to spite you?” Mary asked incredulously, her amazement winning out over her propriety. Perhaps she’d only known John for half a summer, but she already knew just how ridiculously off base that assessment was.

  Jack’s eyebrows flipped upward at her tone. His mouth twitched with a slight smile that Mary wasn’t sure was altogether good-natured. He said nothing.

  “There’s no way that’s true,” she insisted. She felt John shift beside her and she glanced at him but couldn’t interpret his expression. She’d expected his eyes to be on his father, but instead they were fairly well glued to her. Mary studied him for a second, attempting to gauge if she was making things better or worse. She couldn’t tell. John looked just as mixed-up as she felt.

  “Why do you think he became a public defender?” Jack asked with all the trap-laying of a seasoned lawyer. She couldn’t begin to guess what he thought of her, but Mary knew that in the last few minutes, she’d sealed the coffin on her first impression with Jack. There was nothing she could say now that would change his opinion of her. She also knew that with just the asking of that question he was implying to her that she didn’t actually know the answer. That he knew better than she.

  She straightened her back and set her coffee down, her eyes on John’s for a long beat before she turned back to Jack and answered his question.

  “Well, I don’t know John well enough to really answer that question in full. Decisions like that are generally layered. But come on, what the heck else was he supposed to do with that huge, bleeding heart of his?”

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Mary understood the full truth of what she’d said. Jack’s eyes widened just a touch, and she felt her heart mirror his surprise. Because she was realizing—almost in real time—that John, who’d once seemed so cruel and hard-hearted to her, actually had the biggest heart of anyone she knew.