Silver Serenade

by Gerry O'Hara

  Her living room was cozy, furnished casually and comfortably in blue and yellow, her favorite colors. She walked to the fireplace and switched on the gas log to chase away the early-spring evening’s chill. After checking the cat’s dish, she put the teakettle on the stove and waited for its shrill whistle.

  A few minutes later, she brewed a cup of peppermint tea and returned to the living room. Tosha danced in front of her until Christie sat down and spread a blue afghan that her mother had crocheted across her lap. The cat jumped up and snuggled into the ripples of wool.

  Warm and content, Christie was planning to feast on leftover Chinese takeout. Before she had a chance to retrieve and microwave the carton, the phone rang. She lifted the receiver and Cash’s voice boomed across the line. Startled by the sound, Tosha scurried off her lap.

  Thinking Cash had called about the Parker documents, she said, “I told you I would have the report to your office tomorrow morning, Cash. I can tell you now, though, that I’m ninety-nine percent sure the request sent to the broker is genuine.”

  “Hmm. Hal isn’t going to like that. But that isn’t why I called. I need a favor. I have to attend a bar association meeting tonight. One of those obligatory dinners with a boring speaker. I thought if you would accompany me, I might not fall asleep in my soup.”

  “I don’t think I can be ready on such short notice.”

  “If you’re worried about what to wear, it’s definitely not black tie. And it will be an opportunity for you to make some business contacts. How about it? Can I pick you up at seven?”

  Christie sensed that it would be useless to protest. Besides, a few new contacts would be good for business. She gave him her address.

  She slid the afghan from her lap, folded it, and placed it on the back of the couch. She stood and stretched, shaking her hands over her head in an attempt to loosen the muscles that had suddenly bunched tightly across her shoulders. She tried to blame the physical tension on a busy day at work, but knew that wasn’t true.

  A brisk shower drove away a portion of her nervousness. An evening out with Cash! What had she been thinking to have accepted the invitation? Business dinner or not, the thought of being with him left her frazzled. He kept intruding on her thoughts, and she could not shake the attraction that drew her to him in a far from businesslike way.

  She slipped on a soft blue knit dress that invariably boosted her self-confidence and stepped into strappy black heels, a splurge that her friend Kathleen had talked her into. She checked her reflection in the mirror and was satisfied with her appearance. Her honey-colored hair had not resisted the urgings of the hot brush and fell in soft waves. The dress accented her slender five-foot-four frame, and the color complemented her azure eyes. Glancing at her watch, she was relieved to see that she had twenty minutes to compose herself before Cash arrived.

  Five minutes later the doorbell rang. He was early; she had underestimated his vibrant energy and impatience. A momentary sense of panic engulfed her and she fought to slow her racing heartbeat. She tried to convince herself that her reaction was ridiculous. She was a mature woman capable of dining with an associate. But why did it feel as though a swarm of butterflies was fluttering in her stomach?

  She opened the door and Cash walked into the apartment, somehow filling it with his presence. He looked handsome in a slate-gray suit accented by a frost-colored shirt and contrasting dark-blue tie. Christie realized that no matter what she tried to tell herself, this was not going to be a simple business dinner. Cash’s glance assessed the apartment, observing Christie’s preference for country oak. A large oil painting of two children on a park swing created a focal point in the room.

  He switched his attention to Christie, his gaze touching and appraising every inch of her body. She had the dizzying feeling that she was on the witness stand and was about to say something outrageous and discredit herself.

  “Do I pass?” she asked curtly, annoyed that he could make her uncomfortable.

  “If I were handing out grades, you would get an A for your excellent taste in decorating.” He moved a step closer. “And you would definitely go to the head of the class for the way you look.”

  “You look rather nice yourself,” she said.

  He met her words with apparent nonchalance and Christie perceived that he was accustomed to compliments and took it in stride.

  Tosha appeared to be appraising Cash. She wasn’t accustomed to having men invade her domain. Finally, she turned away, and with her tail straight in the air, the tip fluttering slightly, she haughtily padded into the bedroom.

  “I don’t think your cat likes me.”

  “Tosha doesn’t warm up to strangers too quickly.”

  “I hope I won’t be a stranger for long,” he said.

  She wondered how much truth was in his words.

  Once they were outside, Christie looked up and down the street for his car, but no expensive vehicles were parked at the curb.

  “Here we are.” Cash took her elbow and swung open the door of a gunmetal-gray SUV. “Surprised?” he asked, his mouth curving into a crooked grin.

  “I’ll admit I expected a flashy sports car. You know, something bearing the name of a trendy town in Italy or a fast racecourse in France.”

  Cash slid behind the wheel and turned to face her. “Does an SUV tarnish my image?”

  “Not at all. A vehicle named after a town in the Old West goes with your cowboy boots.”

  Cash laughed. “I’ll bet you have an answer for everything. I should have warned you, I’m not one for frills. A four-wheel drive is suited to the desert and mountain driving that I do.”

  “My car is ten years old, so this is a step up for me.”

  He smiled and his tanned face looked younger and less lined than before. Score one point for me, Christie thought.

  At the hotel an attendant took charge of the SUV and Christie and Cash hurried through the lobby.

  Christie scanned the elegantly appointed dining room. “Are we late?” she asked. “Almost everyone is seated. Or do they skip the cocktail hour at these functions?”

  “No. I make it a point not to arrive early. Nothing much is accomplished before dinner. People haven’t had time to unwind from the day’s work; they’re uptight and not too receptive to listening to someone else’s viewpoint. After a pleasurable meal, they’re relaxed and in a good mood. That’s the time to strike.”

  “Can’t you simply enjoy a round of pleasant conversation before dinner? I don’t mean to sound judgmental, but analyzing your associates seems manipulative.”

  “I’m sorry you see it that way, but time is my most valuable commodity. Besides”—he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“I’m not good at small talk.”

  “I don’t think I believe that.”

  Cash grinned, and then took Christie’s arm and led her to the dais.

  “How do we rate seats at the head table?” she asked.

  “I’m the guest speaker.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  “No…well, yes. When you called, you made it sound like a spur-of-the-moment invitation. And that line about saving you from boredom?”

  “I confess—guilty as charged. Your beauty drove me to unconscionable lengths to get a date.”

  “Well, put that way, what can I say?” But she did wonder. She could not believe that he had to resort to a last-minute date.

  He had timed their arrival so precisely that, almost on cue, the rest of the guests sat down and a horde of waiters began racing between tables, rattling plates as they served the first course.

  Christie became engaged in conversation with the dinner guest on her left, a pleasant older man who specialized in corporate law. He told her his passion was racehorses, and that he owned four of them. When he wasn’t involved in a major case, he breezed his favorite horse around the workout track. “It’s exhilarating to fly like the wind,” he told her.


  In her periphery, Christie saw that the woman sitting on Cash’s right had engaged him in a one-sided conversation. She was chattering nonstop. It was amusing to see that he had so little control over the discussion—a first for him, she guessed. When the woman finally wound down, Cash turned to Christie. She tried to conceal a smile that was tugging at her lips.

  “Don’t you dare laugh,” he whispered. Then, changing to a normal tone, he asked about the Parker case. “Is there room for doubt concerning Elliot’s letter?”

  “Not really. Both documents were written by the same person. I imagine the main reason the letter was in question was because in the broker’s letter the words tended to ‘float’ instead of being in a straight line, as in Margo’s letter. But everything else matched. The floating can be interpreted as an indication that Elliot is not totally in touch or comfortable with his current life situation.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I briefly studied how to analyze a person’s character and personality through his or her handwriting. It’s amazing what you can learn about people from their handwriting.”

  “This was a college course?” She heard doubt in his voice.

  “No, I took private lessons. One morning I caught a TV talk show, and the guest speaker was a graphoanalyst. Her expertise was called upon when employers were interviewing applicants for upper-level positions. She said that through handwriting analysis she could determine characteristics that were beneficial or detrimental to a prospective employee’s career path. Risk taking, how well-adjusted the individual was, and the propensity toward orderly work skills were a few of the characteristics she dug out of writing samples. I was fascinated, so I spent the summer taking classes from her.

  “When the fall semester began, I didn’t pursue the subject, because it would have taken too much time away from my other studies. I don’t go on record with character or personality judgments, but I’m willing to stick my neck out on this one. The unruly writing line fits an easily identifiable profile point. Other aspects of a person’s handwriting are not as obvious. My expertise is limited.”

  “Quite a step up from reading palms.”

  “I know that some people think handwriting analysis is a bunch of hocus-pocus, but my teacher claimed she was on target with most of her appraisals. It was an intriguing course and melded well with my profession, even though the skill is only for my personal knowledge. In Elliot Parker’s case, it explains the discrepancy in the writing.”

  “Margo was ambivalent about the broker’s letter. I think she wanted it to be from her dad, because then she would at least know that he was all right. You know how it is with pregnant women.”

  Christie raised her eyebrows. “No, I don’t know.”

  Cash glanced at her and smiled. “Sensitive. They’re sensitive. At least that’s what my sister Patty told me. She has two children, so she knows firsthand.” He smiled. “Cute kids, Sara and Melissa,” he added.

  So he had a sister and two nieces. He had mentioned his sister with affection. Were they close? She had begun to believe he lived an insular life, his career being foremost. Now she knew differently. What else did he keep hidden?

  Not that she expected him to lay his personal life out for scrutiny. They were, after all, only business associates, and she had no right to pry. No one completely opens themself up to another person, anyway. There were private spaces in her own life that she did not share: hurts, disappointments, yearnings, bumps along the way in her quest to reach recognition in her field.

  During college she had been driven to get the best marks, to study with the experts whenever the opportunity occurred, and there had been little time for a social life. Then she’d met Matt. He was a criminal justice major, too, and was considering law school. They spoke the same language: law and its ramifications. Many evenings were spent discussing the latest media cases and analyzing police reports.

  Soon she was falling in love. Then one night they fought about her enrollment in the special course in Washington. Ten weeks was too long to be away, he told her. She was leaving him in the lurch. Didn’t she care about their relationship?

  Of course she cared. But what she would learn in DC would place her among the elite in her field. She didn’t want to merely be good at her profession; she wanted to be the best.

  “I’ll bet you don’t know anyone outside of your class who has ever heard of a questioned document examiner,” he’d said. “You’re not going to be part of the legal community; you’re going to be hidden away in the back room of a bank, checking signatures, stuck in a dead-end job.”

  The next day he tried to apologize, but the hurt was too deep. Christie realized that he had meant every word, and was only sorry that he had verbalized his opinion.

  A few weeks later, she was off to DC. The course was exciting, the classes were intense, and Matt, well, Matt was history. His defection was six years ago and it still remained a thorny issue.

  “You’re so quiet. What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing, nothing that would interest you.”

  He leaned closer. “On the contrary, everything about you interests me.”

  This was definitely not business conversation. Business conversation wouldn’t make her flesh tingle, or cause a rush of warmth to spread through her body.

  “I’ll tell you what. If we leave right after my talk, we can have a nightcap at my place.”

  Christie was momentarily speechless. “What about those contacts we were going to make?”

  “Just a tiny drink?” Cash pressed thumb and forefinger together to emphasize his words.

  “I have to be up early to type the report on Elliot Parker’s handwriting.”

  Cash tilted his head and his boyish grin teased her. She felt her resolve slipping. What harm could there be in accepting a nightcap?

  CHAPTER TWO

  They left the hotel and drove across the Golden Gate Bridge into Sausalito. Christie’s curiosity was piqued when Cash turned the SUV into a parking lot along the wharf. A grin appeared on his face.

  “Did I mention that I live on a sailboat? I hope you don’t get seasick.”

  “A surprise a minute,” Christie said as she unbuckled her seat belt.

  Ankle-high lights splashed a yellow glow across the weathered dock. The only sound accompanying their footsteps on the rough wooden planks was the rhythmic heaving of boats rocking in time to the waves. A distant motorboat skimmed across the slate-gray water; the blur of its running lights resembled a shooting star.

  They stopped at the last slip. Moonlight etched silver shadows across a large sailboat with the name Serenade painted across the bow. It didn’t take a seaman’s knowledge to appreciate the forty-two-foot sloop’s trim lines.

  The lazily moving boat did not appear to offer firm footing, and Christie was hesitant about going on board. The ease with which Cash bridged the space between boat and dock did not alter her anxiety.

  “Don’t be frightened. Slip off your shoes and give them to me.” Christie removed the heels and stood, uncertainly, in her stocking feet. Cash stashed her shoes and reached for her hands. He held them in a firm grip while she hopped onto the boat’s deck. She landed against him and he smoothed the hair away from her face and tipped her chin upward. Looking into his eyes was like being zapped by a live wire—being too close could be lethal. She slipped her hands out of his grasp, planted her palms against his chest, and eased away.

  She became aware of the intensity of his gaze, and the hair at the nape of her neck rose as though brushed with static electricity. Her breath caught in her throat and she was engulfed with apprehension. It had been naive to accept an invitation for a nightcap.

  Cash wrapped an arm around her waist to guide her along the deck. Although he was assisting her in maintaining her physical balance, he threw her emotions off-kilter.

  Entering the salon, he switched on a table lamp, illuminating a comfortable room outfitted in tweed, oak, and brass. He walked to a sm
all Swedish fireplace and turned on the gas logs. The golden flames danced in the grate and cast flickering shadows on the teak walls. He put a CD on the stereo and the salon was filled with the soothing sounds of Kenny G.

  “Wine?” he asked.

  “Vintage wine, mood music, the sea, and firelight. Quite a love nest.”

  “You forgot the most important element: a beautiful woman.”

  Her heartbeat accelerated. “Almost sounds like a prelude to making a pass.”

  “Would you object?

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Whatever you say.” Cash handed her a glass of wine. “I don’t want to ruin the evening by overstepping the boundaries. Sit down and tell me about yourself. What made you decide to become a document examiner?”

  “I was intrigued by a case in the news about a woman who was instrumental in uncovering a major fraud scheme. She was a questioned document examiner, and without her expertise, a dozen grandmotherly ladies would have been robbed of their life savings. I could not get the case out of my mind and I realized that I wanted to follow the same career path. This sounds corny, but I wanted to make a difference. And being able to authenticate or dispute a document’s validity gave me that opportunity.” She took a sip of wine. “Now it’s my turn to ask a question: Why do you live on a boat? Surely you can afford a house or condo in the city.”

  “I’m on a hectic schedule, and I admit to being a workaholic. I start early and finish late. My only source of relaxation is sailing. Water is my element and living on a boat provides instant access to the sea.”

  Christie could visualize him standing on the deck, clad in short trunks, his tanned, muscled body glistening with a diamond spray of water. It was a disconcerting picture.

  She put down her wineglass and stood up. “I’d better be on my way or I might be tempted to play hooky tomorrow.” She hoped she had achieved a light enough tone. She did not want Cash to sense the effect he had on her.