Man at Work

by Elaine Fox

  “Is that enough, do you think? Can you do it for that?” Marcy asked anxiously. She had no idea what caterers generally got paid, but it wouldn’t surprise her if Downey Fin was a lowballer.

  He laughed incredulously. “Oh, it’s enough.” He looked up at her, his brows knitted. “But Marcy…”

  “Don’t worry,” Marcy said, “that’s what she’s expecting. And delighted to get the chef from Bella Luna at such a bargain rate, too.”

  Calvin’s eyes suddenly turned misty and he smiled wanly. “Marcy P….” he said affectionately. “Thank you, gal.” He reached over and ruffled her hair.

  Marcy felt a lump grow in her throat, so she just smiled and looked down at the counter.

  Marcy went home and showered, then dressed casually and went to the office. It was Saturday, so the people working were mostly associates—lawyers like herself who were only three or four years out of law school. Marcy was lucky, however. She’d been given the Burton case despite being fairly junior. It was a mark of Win’s trust and faith in her.

  Now she felt once again that she’d let him down.

  What was it about Tru Fleming that made her throw caution to the wind? Last night she’d chosen to…well, to forget all about her obligation to the case. Just as she had last week. From the time she’d entered the pool hall until the moment she’d woken up this morning, she’d felt as if she knew Truman for a different reason. Like they were…friends. Even in a relationship. Or something.

  She rested her forehead in her hand, elbow on the desk, and looked askance at the phone. She’d been here for hours already and had set the phone to DND, do not disturb. If he’d tried to call, she wouldn’t know it. Not unless he left a message and she decided to check.

  But she didn’t know what she’d say to him if he called. She’d crept out of there this morning at the crack of dawn, like a thief making off with the stereo. She’d gathered her clothes and dressed outside the bedroom in the kitchen, Folly wagging and circling around her. She’d paused to play briefly with the dog, scratching her belly and promising to find her a home, or even a way to take the pup herself, as soon as she could.

  Then, closing the door carefully behind her, she’d stepped out of the apartment and into the crisp morning air. She hadn’t felt bad then. Just confused. And maybe even a little bit excited. But as the day wore on she felt progressively worse.

  Guilty. Unsure. Afraid.

  Marcy lifted her head from her hand, suddenly remembering Truman had left his truck near the bar. She glanced again at the phone. The message light was flashing, but then it always flashed.

  He’d probably found a way to get it by now, she told herself. But she wasn’t convinced.

  “Hey stranger,” Trish said from the doorway.

  Marcy jumped in her seat. “Oh, Trish. God, I don’t know where my mind was.”

  Trish laughed. “Sorry to surprise you like that. Everything okay?”

  Marcy exhaled heavily, wondering if she should confide the problem to Trish. She could really use some perspective right about now.

  “Tell you the truth, I don’t know.”

  Trish entered the office and closed the door behind her. “What’s wrong? Something I can help with? I’ve got that damn brief to write, but hell, it can wait. It’s been waiting a week already.”

  “It’s…it’s this Burton case,” Marcy said hesitantly. She knew she could trust Trish not to say anything, but could she trust her not to gloat? Good-naturedly, of course, but Marcy never liked I-told-you-so’s. Then again, who did?

  Trish leaned forward. “Run into a snag?”

  Marcy met her gaze frankly. “No. Ran into a construction worker.”

  It took Trish a minute, then she broke into a laugh. “No way!” She laid her hands on the sides of her head. “You…? You…? Oh my God, don’t tell me you went out with him.”

  Marcy nodded, keeping her eyes on Trish. “But that’s not the worst of it.”

  “No. Did you sleep with him?” she hissed in a dramatic whisper, eyes wide.

  “Twice.” Marcy closed her eyes. “I was afraid I’d regret telling you.”

  Trish chuckled one last time, then sobered. “I’m sorry. I’m just…Well gosh, I’m just really surprised. You were so adamant. You seemed so sure he wasn’t for you. I guess you found some common ground, huh?”

  “Too much.” Marcy shook her head, thinking how long and hard she’d worked to get away from the world of half-smokes and pool halls.

  “Well, is it that bad? Was he awful in bed or what?”

  “No.” Marcy laughed wryly. “Definitely no, unfortunately, or the problem would be solved.” She thought of Truman’s self-deprecating laughter when she beat him at pool the last time and thought, No, even if the sex was bad, she’d still be in trouble. There was just something about him…something that made her want to be near him.

  Trish’s brows lowered. “And what’s the problem? Exactly?”

  Marcy gaped at her. “He’s a witness. For my case. For the most important case of my career so far. It’s extremely unethical, don’t you think, for me to be sleeping with one of my witnesses?”

  Trish leaned back and crossed her legs. “I guess. So you guys agree to wait for the trial to be over and then jump each other. I mean, so what? It’s not like he’s the murderer in a criminal trial or anything. Though I could kind of see the excitement in that…” she added speculatively.

  “Really?” Marcy couldn’t see anything exciting about sleeping with a murderer. A construction worker, on the other hand…

  Trish pushed her blond-highlighted locks away from her face. “Oh yeah. Danger’s always exciting, don’t you think? But we’re talking about you now. Maybe it’s the danger of getting caught that’s attracting you. Him being off limits makes him something of the forbidden fruit, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, yeah, but that’s not what I’m attracted to. Believe me, the idea of getting caught is not at all exciting to me.” She paused thoughtfully. “It’s just that he’s so good-looking. And funny. And really easy to talk to…” She remembered him mentioning his desire to move to a small town. Did he think she was easy to talk to too?

  “Sounds pretty good,” Trish said. “Sounds to me like someone’s seriously smitten.”

  Marcy put a hand over her eyes. “I’m not smitten, Trish, I’m insane. Well, okay, maybe I am smitten. But he’s so not right for me.”

  “No?” Trish’s brows rose.

  Marcy looked at her. “No, and what’s more, he’s off limits. Ever since I met this guy I’ve been worried to death about what Win would think of my, uh, lustful thoughts.” She laughed dryly.

  “Forget Win. What do you think about them? If you really like this guy, just remember the trial’s temporary. True love isn’t.”

  Marcy scoffed. “True love.”

  Trish smiled knowingly.

  Marcy paused. “So you don’t think it’s a huge deal that I slept with one of my witnesses?” She asked, coming back around to the real issue, like a child hoping to be told it’s really okay, everyone does it.

  “Well, it’s not a great idea, but it’s not the end of the world, either.” Trish gave her a pitying smile. “Jeez, the way you look you’d think you’d just made some kind of career-ending mistake. So you slept with the guy once or twice. Big deal. Call the relationship off till the trial’s over. Then you can date him and nobody can say anything.”

  But Marcy didn’t feel better. Even after Trish left and they’d agreed that she should go to his place this evening to tell him they’d have to cool it until the trial was over, she still felt the unsettling weight of dread in the pit of her stomach.

  It was then she realized that it wasn’t so much Truman’s status as her witness that bothered her—though that did bother her to no small degree—it was more the fact that he was a construction worker. A poor, working-class guy who drank Budweiser and played pool in his time off, who couldn’t afford a phone and ate Dinty Moore beef stew every night
for dinner. A guy leading a duct-tape style of life with no apparent aspirations to change it.

  In short, a guy who would end up inebriated on the couch for the rest of his life, just like her father.

  It was shallow, it was superficial, it was pathetically psychological as well as snobby and selfish. But God, it was scary. He was scary. He came from, was thoroughly ensconced in, and would probably never get out of the world she’d worked her whole adult life to escape.

  She may have gone to bed with Tru Fleming, but she’d woken up with Johnny Calabresi, the bad boy of Georges Heights who’d gotten her best friend pregnant.

  Marcy pulled up in front of Tru’s apartment and slowly put the car in park. Her hands were shaking, her pulse was racing, her breath was shallow, and her stomach behaved as if she’d eaten something very bad.

  She still hadn’t decided what to say to him, but was anxious to see him again just the same.

  She sat for a moment, reliving the moment they had come together in that kiss by her car. She’d felt as if she were possessed, as if an unseen force had pushed her toward him, as if he’d become some essential substance that, once tasted, her body could no longer do without.

  That feeling had carried her from the pool hall to the car to Tru’s apartment and all the way through until the moment she woke up this morning. That’s when it had hit her.

  She was in deep—too deep—to treat this casually. Not only did she have to figure out what she wanted, and what to do about it, but she had to find out what Truman felt. Was this a game to him? Had she misinterpreted the look in his eyes last night? Read into it what she wanted to see instead of what was really there? Or did he feel about her as strongly as she did him?

  The sun was low in the sky, casting long gray shadows across the hard-packed dirt of the front “yard.” She gazed at the window to his living room. Was he there? Was he thinking of her?

  Was he worried about what they were doing?

  She frowned. She couldn’t imagine Truman worried. But then it wasn’t as if his career were hanging in the balance here.

  She bit her lip and stared at his window. He hadn’t called her today. She’d checked her messages and he hadn’t left one, not even to say he’d left his truck at the bar. He hadn’t called last time, either, so maybe it didn’t mean anything.

  Or maybe it did.

  Opening the car door, Marcy glanced around for his truck but didn’t see it. Maybe he wasn’t home. Her hopes somehow rose and sank at the same time. Chances were the truck was still over by Pockets Pool Hall. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly six thirty in the evening. Surely he’d be here warming up his Dinty Moore.

  She walked to the trunk and opened it, leaned in, and grabbed the bag of dog food she’d picked up. The good kind this time.

  Like the condemned man walking the plank, Marcy moved slowly toward the apartment house door.

  The first thing she noticed when she entered the hall was the smell of roasting meat. Her mouth watered. Usually the hall smelled of some odd kind of spice, something used in Mexican or Indian cooking, but this smell was pure steamship round.

  She tried to calm her jumping nerves and knocked on Truman’s door.

  After several long seconds and no answer, Marcy leaned closer to the door. The smell, it seemed, was emanating from Tru’s apartment. Must have been a roast in one of those grocery bags, she thought briefly, before knocking again.

  There was noise upstairs, somebody’s radio played loudly, and the sound of children laughing came from the apartment across the hall. If Truman was in the kitchen cooking, chances were he couldn’t hear her knock.

  After wiping her palm down the side of her pants, she reached for the doorknob. It turned easily in her hand. Was he crazy? This neighborhood was awful. Why wasn’t his door locked? She pushed it open.

  She could hear the clattering of pots and pans from the kitchen. She stepped into the living room, closing the door softly behind her.

  Folly did not appear, so Marcy immediately glanced at the bedroom door. It was closed. She pressed her lips together. Did he keep her locked up all the time?

  She shifted the dog food in her arms, then decided to set it down by the couch. A slight humming came from the kitchen.

  Marcy hesitated. The sound was barely audible but the humming didn’t sound like Truman. It didn’t sound like any man, in fact.

  She walked slowly back toward the kitchen. Rounding the corner to the doorway, Marcy stopped short at the sight before her. A thin, gorgeous blonde woman in tailored black pants and a white shirt leaned over the open door to the oven. On her wrist were several thick gold bracelets.

  Marcy gasped and the girl jumped, dropping the baster she’d held into the oven.

  “Sorry!” Marcy said automatically.

  “It’s all right,” the girl said, but she was frantically trying to pluck the plastic baster out of the oven before it melted.

  “I—I must have the wrong…” Marcy backed out of the kitchen.

  “It’s okay,” she heard the girl say—then gasp and swear lightly as if she’d burned herself.

  Marcy continued backing into the living room. And she thought she’d felt sick before.

  Rather than risk having any sort of conversation with this woman who could only be Truman’s girlfriend—who else would feel comfortable enough to prepare such an elaborate meal in someone else’s apartment, especially when that someone else wasn’t even home?—she turned and ran for the door.

  Slamming first out of the apartment, then out of the front hall, Marcy bee-lined for her car. She started it up, threw it into gear, floored it, and peeled down the street, one hand at her throat and her eyes wide with shock.

  12

  Saturday, October 26

  WORD-A-DAY!

  BONUS WORD

  WRITHE: v., to coil or wrench as from agony or struggle; to be left twisting, as it were, in the wind

  Truman trudged wearily up the sidewalk to his apartment. He’d just walked, jogged, and hitchhiked over to Southwest to get his truck—a journey that had seemed far shorter last night with an engine and a great deal of anticipation on his side.

  Today, however, that anticipation had turned to dread.

  Last night had been amazing. More than amazing, it had been earth moving. He’d thought it couldn’t get any better after the first time, but Marcy—unpredictable as always—had surprised him. She proved once again that she was more passionate than he ever would have dreamed from seeing her in those lawyer suits of hers. And she’d brought out something in him that he didn’t even recognize, a kind of protective craving—a desire both to have her and to guard her from the rest of the world.

  Last night he’d felt that only he could see her clearly, could know her thoughts and feelings, could say the things that would make her smile. Only he should be the one to touch her, feel her strength and softness, counter her desires with his own.

  Which was disastrous. Because today she’d left before he’d awakened. That was never a good sign.

  He’d expected it, of course. He just hadn’t expected to mind it so much.

  He tried to tell himself it was a good thing. That he couldn’t feel that way about a girl like her. But he didn’t really buy it.

  She was, after all, so different. She gave him hope that she wasn’t the type to just play around with a blue-collar guy but was perhaps willing to accept him just as he was right now. Because after all he’d done to get here, to give up luxury and affluence and the hypocrisy and superficiality that went with it, the last thing Truman needed was to go back to that mindset through a woman.

  Even if the woman was beautiful, and smart, and witty, and a damn good lawyer, from what he could see.

  Truman was lost in his thoughts until he reached his apartment door, which was standing slightly ajar. From inside he thought he heard movement.

  He paused, listening. There was nothing to steal, nothing even remotely tempting.

  He pushed the doo
r open with one finger and peered in. Folly was nowhere to be seen, and she normally rushed the door and pounced on him the moment he walked in. From the kitchen came the noise, along with the amazing scent of real food being prepared.

  His first thought was Marcy. Or rather: Marcy! He couldn’t help the way his insides gave a little leap of hope that she’d come back.

  He suddenly wished he had some flowers to sweep out from behind his back as he surprised her in the kitchen. An apology for underestimating her. Maybe waking up in a nearly vacant apartment in Southeast with a recently unemployed construction worker hadn’t scared her permanently back to her condo in Dupont Circle.

  Maybe she wasn’t as mercenary as he feared she might be.

  He stole quietly across the living room, rounded the corner into the kitchen and stopped dead. At the same time a woman with long blonde hair and a knockout body turned from the oven with a steaming juicy roast in a deep roasting pan in her oven-mitted hands.

  Who in God’s name was she?

  That wasn’t his pan either, or his roast.

  Quickly he glanced back down the hall to the living room. Yep, same sheet-covered, duct-taped sofa, same sagging armchair, bag of Eukanuba dog food by the couch. It was his apartment all right.

  He looked back into the kitchen and said, “I’m sorry…” with a helpless expression.

  She gave him a shy glance and said, “Hi,” in a high, soft voice.

  “Do I know you?” He glanced at all the ingredients littering the counters. Spices and herbs, vegetables and broths, a long loaf of French bread and an open bottle of wine.

  “My name’s Heather. I’m a surprise, from your mother.”

  He cleared his throat. “Excuse me?”

  She laughed softly and her cheeks flushed just the palest shade of pink. “And you’re Truman, right? Truman Fleming?”

  Words rushed his brain but he couldn’t pick the right ones out fast enough. “You’re from—you’re a—my mother sent you?”