Man at Work

by Elaine Fox

  Truman did as he was told, unsure of himself in a way he’d never felt before, though he’d certainly come close in the months he’d spent in Southeast, an outsider there, too. What did one do when one wasn’t comfortable in one’s own life? Was it really so wrong to seek another?

  No, he thought, just to preach about it.

  “She’s such a lovely girl,” Calvin was saying as Truman entered the dining room and sat down. “When you get to know her, Sheila, I know you’ll love her, as I do. She’s made of strong stuff, that one is.”

  “Yes, she must be,” his mother concurred, spreading a napkin across her lap. “Didn’t you say she grew up in a bad neighborhood?”

  Calvin nodded. “Georges Heights, in P.G. County. Her brothers were a rough crowd too. One of them just got out of prison, I believe. I’ll tell you, not many people make it out of that neighborhood, and certainly not with a law degree from Columbia.”

  Truman’s eyes were riveted to Calvin’s face. Marcy grew up in Georges Heights? Land of the midnight murder and drug emporium neighborhood of the year? Jesus, no wonder she didn’t seem all that worried about driving in Southeast.

  “And bright,” Calvin continued. “Well, you must have seen how bright she was, Truman. In court today?”

  Truman nodded, his mind spinning. “She was excellent.”

  Calvin looked as proud as any father might. “Got herself into college when everyone around her was either working at the Gas ’N Go or landing in jail.”

  “Her parents,” Truman asked, “didn’t they help her at all?”

  Calvin came as close to a scoff as someone of his dignified nature could. “Her mother would have, if she could’ve. But she was working two, three jobs, trying to raise those children. From what I gather, her father was never around, and when he was he wasn’t good for much. Spent a lot of time on the couch with a beer in his hand, is how Marcy characterized it.”

  Truman lay his head back and sighed. Ah, God, it explained so much, so much about her.

  He tipped his head back up and asked, “How do you know Marcy?”

  “We volunteer at the same homeless shelter.” Calvin cast a meaningful glance at Tru’s mother that Truman couldn’t interpret. “For years, even after she went away to school, she’d come help on holidays when she was home. Then after law school she got this job and things dropped off quite a bit. I guess like all young lawyers she was working long hours. Still, she managed to get by every now and again and keep up with her old friends.” Calvin smiled, then turned a tender look on Truman’s mother. “And thank God she did, eh?” He reached out to take her hand and squeeze it. “Thank God she did.”

  One week later in Marcy’s office, she reached across her desk and handed Donnie Molloy a check.

  “This is great, this is just great. Planners caved pretty quick after losing to you last week, huh?” Donnie said with a laugh. “Bet old Bob’s already pickin’ out his boat.”

  Marcy smiled. “They were anxious to make a settlement with you, that’s true. They may still appeal the Burton verdict, but settling with you shows some realism on their part. They know they were at fault.”

  “Well, this is great, this is just great,” Donnie said again, shaking his head and looking at the check.

  “Now you can go play that golf course,” Marcy said. “Which one was it?”

  “Avenel!” Donnie said with a grin. “Teein’ off eight A.M. Saturday morning.”

  “This weekend? Good heavens, won’t you be cold?”

  Donnie shook his head. “Naw. Long as it ain’t below freezing outside I love to get out and play. Besides, getting into Avenel’d be impossible for me in the really nice weather. So I been at the putting green every day this week after work. Want to look respectable out there.”

  “Well, good luck. Let me know how it goes,” she said.

  “I sure will!” He left, waving the check at her as he disappeared out the door.

  At least she could make some people happy, she thought, if not herself. She’d been in a quandary about Truman ever since last Thursday. She’d lit into him at the time, but the more she thought about it the more complex it seemed. As she strived to reconcile the working-class Truman Fleming she’d fallen for with the “son of Sheila” she’d admired for daring to see how “the other half” lived, the more she thought she might have been unfair.

  She just wasn’t sure what to do about it.

  He’d already made it clear he wanted nothing more to do with her. He’d moved out of his apartment and quit his job without a word to her about where he was going or what he was doing. So she couldn’t tell him she forgave him for lying to her, only to hear him say he couldn’t forgive her for being a materialistic snob, could she?

  Marcy sighed and sat back at her desk. There was nothing she could do. She just had to hope that he was doing the kind of thinking she was and realizing that she wasn’t just looking for a guy with money. She was looking for him.

  Reginald opened the door to the study and said, “Palmer Roe is here to see you, sir.”

  Truman looked up from the ledger at which he’d been staring sightlessly. “Palmer? Great, send him in.”

  By all means, he thought, send anyone in. All he was doing was sitting behind the desk brooding, as he had been since last Thursday. Thinking about Marcy was about to drive him crazy. He went back and forth and round and round, trying to figure out exactly what it all meant and what to do about it.

  If he tried to explain it to her, would she understand what he’d been trying to do? If he apologized for sermonizing about being poor, or knowing how the real world lived, would she believe that he really did understand how misguided his “experiment” had been? Would she ever believe that his heart had been in the right place?

  And if she did, could he ever accept that she did so because she wanted him in spite of, and not because of, the fact that he had money?

  Maybe he should be accepting the fact that she’d told him off and probably never wanted to see him again, he thought. She was, after all, not the pampered rich girl he’d always assumed. Maybe she’d never been all that interested in him. Maybe she’d just been doing a little experimenting herself.

  He didn’t know. He just didn’t know.

  Palmer entered the room with a hand outstretched. “There he is, the intrepid traveler. Boldly going where no Harvard graduate has gone before. How are you, Truman?”

  Truman took his hand and smiled. “I’m all right. How are you, Palmer? Still hitting the links?” He motioned for Palmer to sit.

  Palmer laughed and took the red leather chair across from Truman. “Like a champ. Just parred Avenel this weekend, first time.”

  “No kidding. You know you’re addicted when you play golf in December. Addicted or insane.”

  Palmer shrugged. “Hey, it hit fifty. It was a nice day.”

  “Sounds like you’ve really gotten good.”

  “It helps if you can spend seven days a week at it. My golf game improves in direct proportion to my portfolio.” He grinned.

  “Don’t tell me you slow down when the market falls.” Truman gave him a mock look of skepticism.

  “Oh hell no. I just don’t feel as confident. Anyway, I didn’t come here to regale you with tales of my golf or investment prowess, though golf does enter into my tale.”

  Truman raised a brow. “You’ve got a tale? Does this have anything to do with the fair Trish Hamilton?” Truman was amazed to find even mentioning Marcy’s friend caused him some pain.

  Palmer didn’t look surprised that Truman knew about Trish. “In a way, in fact, it does. Or rather, with your mutual friend.”

  Truman stopped breathing momentarily. “Marcy.”

  “The very one. You see, I was playing golf this weekend with a gentleman named Donnie Molloy.”

  “Donnie Molloy? You played golf with Donnie Molloy? Where on earth were you playing?”

  “Avenel, believe it or not. Seems Donnie just got a handsome settlement from P
lanners Building and Design, thanks to one Marcy…something I can’t pronounce.”

  “Paglinowski.”

  Palmer grinned. “I had a feeling you’d know. In any case, Donnie also had another fellow to thank, the guy who’d put him in touch with Miss…ah…”

  “Paglinowski,” Truman said again, wishing Palmer would get to the point.

  “Thank you. But it seemed the guy had recently disappeared. One thing led to another in this conversation, and before long your name came up. ‘Well, I just happen to know that fellow,’ I told Mr. Molloy.” He paused to display an incredulous look that Truman didn’t share. “Why, the poor man was positively overjoyed. Turns out he also had something he wanted to give you, in addition to his thanks. And so…” With a small flourish, Palmer reached into his inside breast pocket and pulled out an envelope.

  Truman leaned forward. “What is it?”

  Palmer flipped it over and back, looking at it. “I believe it’s a letter. One he’s had in his possession for a couple of weeks now.”

  Truman frowned and held his hand out impatiently.

  “A letter,” Palmer added, “from Marcy…uh…”

  “Paglinowski,” Truman finished, leaning forward and snatching the envelope from him.

  Palmer leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hands together. “Yes,” he murmured as Truman ripped the envelope open. “I thought you might be interested.”

  Truman looked up before pulling the single sheet from the envelope. “You didn’t read it, did you?”

  Palmer looked insulted. “Of course not.” He paused, then smiled slyly. “But I do happen to know what it says. Trish, you know. She encouraged me to give it to you. And if you want my opinion—”

  “I don’t, really.” He unfolded the paper and saw neat, feminine handwriting. Dear Truman…

  “I believe I may give it to you anyway,” he mused. “You’d be a fool not to find her, Fleming. Marcy, that is. She’s a great girl, much better than you deserve.”

  Truman looked back up at him. “I think you’re probably right about that.”

  “Of course I am. It’s a gift I have, knowing women. Good luck, Tru,” Palmer added seriously, rising from his seat. “I’ll leave you to it. Give me a call sometime.”

  “I will.”

  “Oh, and I gave Donnie Molloy your phone number. He’s going to call and invite you for dinner. Steak, he says, because you should have a stake in his winnings from Planners.”

  Truman laughed. “Sounds good. I’ll call you soon, Palmer.”

  Truman waited until Palmer had closed the door behind him before unfolding Marcy’s letter once again. Dear Truman, it began. And it was dated December 9, days before she found out the truth about him.

  I almost don’t know where to begin, we’ve been at such cross purposes for so long. So perhaps I should begin with my apology. I believe, now that I am thinking clearly, that trusting you with my most sincere and abject regret for being a selfish, self-righteous, materialistic snob could not be a mistake. You are, I have come to learn over the last couple of months, a man of the most admirable character and integrity.

  Please believe me when I tell you that I realize now I could not have been more wrong about you. Though it may have sounded like it the other night at the party, I do not believe that everyone should be chasing the almighty dollar, as I seem to do. If I had properly explained to you the reasons I do this then I am sure that you, as a compassionate person, would have understood. But I did not explain them properly and for that I am sorry, too.

  But my biggest regret is that I made you feel as if you weren’t good enough for me. Truman, that is as far from the truth as could be. If anything, you are too good for me. Too honest. Too courageous. Too true to yourself. I am ashamed of how I have acted around you.

  If you find that you can accept my apology, Truman, do you think you could also find it in your heart to give me another chance? While my apology is sincere, whether or not you find yourself still interested in me, my feelings for you, so clear and acute these last weeks, demand that I ask. Is there any hope that we might renew our friendship?

  But here I find that friendship is not the right word. Because the truth is I have fallen in love with you. And I hope with all my heart that you can forgive me, and perhaps find a place for me in your life.

  Regretfully and affectionately yours,

  Marcy

  20

  Tuesday, December 24

  WORD-A-DAY!

  THEURGY: n., the art of compelling fate to perform a miracle; as when something is so right and two people want it so badly that the universe can say nothing but yes

  It was Christmas Eve when Marcy cast a final critical glance around the empty living room of her former apartment.

  Good-bye, white carpet, she thought. And good riddance.

  Good-bye, white walls and chrome fixtures. Good-bye, high rent and low security. Good-bye, impersonal neighbors and incompetent elevators.

  Good-bye, too, she thought with a rueful smile, to the stuck-up Marcy P. who used to live here. I won’t miss you.

  She turned and walked down the silent hallway to the elevator. Trish was waiting in the lobby for her, having spent the day helping her clean the apartment. She’d taken the box of cleaning supplies out to the car while Marcy took a final look around.

  The day before, a moving company had taken the rest of her things to a storage facility. She’d be staying with Trish until she found a house for herself somewhere.

  She wanted a place she could have a dog, though she’d decided not to take Folly from Truman unless he really didn’t want her. Which she knew he did. He loved that dog, and because of that she would never take her from him.

  The day before, when the movers were taking her furniture, she’d actually smiled when she was told the freight elevator was broken, so she’d have to use one of the regular ones and go through the lobby. She was remembering Truman and the night they’d gone out for half-smokes. She half hoped she’d see the man they’d encountered in the elevator that night. He’d gotten so upset about seeing Truman in the lobby elevator, she’d have loved to hear what he had to say about six sweaty moving men and an eight-foot sofabed.

  She was also thinking about leaving Downey, Finley & Salem. She’d learned a lot there, and since the Burton v. Planners trial it seemed opportunity at the firm was hers for the taking. But she’d found herself thinking more and more about what Truman had said about small towns. Maybe she’d look for a house in a little town that needed a lawyer. A place where she could do some good and yet lead a simpler, saner life. A place where maybe she wouldn’t worry so much about what people thought of her, and whether she drove the right car and wore the right clothes.

  As she descended in the elevator, Christmas music tinkling through the round speaker in the ceiling, she thought with trepidation about what she was about to do next. Not the moving. No, that decision, while swift and spontaneous, was so right she didn’t feel a moment’s hesitation.

  No, what she was unsure of was her plan to go to Truman’s mother’s house and, hopefully, speak to Truman. She wanted to tell him why she was the way she was. That she wasn’t really snobby and materialistic, that she wasn’t even the spoiled trust-fund kid he seemed to think she was. As clichéd as it seemed, she was just a twenty-eight-year-old woman still reacting to the deprivations of her childhood.

  Not that she wanted to go into much detail. She wasn’t interested in handing him a sob story about her upbringing. Apart from it being humiliating, she would feel like she was making excuses.

  No, what she needed to do was go to him with her heart in her hands and hope for the best.

  So that was her plan.

  The elevator doors opened and she found Trish sitting on a sofa in the lobby.

  “Ready?” Trish asked, looking up from the Town & Country magazine the building subscribed to.

  “All set,” she said, taking a deep breath and expelling it.

  They ha
d both parked on the street because Marcy had turned in her passkey to the garage. They walked out into the cold December air in front of her building.

  Traffic was light, so the sound of an extremely loud motorcycle or a car that had lost its muffler was especially obtrusive on the otherwise calm city street. Marcy winced against the volume and looked down the street.

  “Jeez, buddy, get a muffler!” Trish complained over the sound.

  But Marcy was nailed to the spot. A truck, the exact kind, color, and decibel level as Truman’s old one, pulled into the loading zone in front of them. Out the passenger side window was the head of a black dog with a happily grinning face.

  “Oh my,” she heard Trish say beside her. “He’s nice-looking, isn’t he?”

  “It’s Truman,” Marcy said through bloodless lips.

  “That’s Truman?” Trish said. “Lord, girl, you know how to pick ’em.”

  “Trish, what am I going to say to him? I—what if—but—”

  Trish laid a hand on her arm. “Tell him just what you were planning to say to him at his mother’s.”

  “But I thought I’d have the ride over there to plan!”

  “You’ll do fine,” Trish said. “I’m going to go. I’ll leave the door open, but I won’t be worried if you don’t show up.” She grinned wickedly as Marcy, in a panic, watched her go.

  Truman got out the driver’s side door and came around the hood. He smiled quickly at Marcy but looked away to open the passenger door, clip a leash on Folly, and let her jump out of the truck.

  Marcy squatted as the dog raced over to her, grabbing Folly’s body as she leapt into her arms. Folly’s tail whipped back and forth so fast it took her whole body with it, and her tongue lapped at Marcy’s chin and cheeks.

  Marcy felt a lump grow in her throat. She stood and faced Truman.

  “You don’t have to give her to me,” she said, preemptively. “I know you want to keep her.”

  “But she really belongs to you,” he said, his voice low and delicious against her eardrums. “We both know I’d have never gotten her out of that kennel Lang locked her in.”