by Gerry O'Hara
Tosha bounced onto Christie’s lap and nuzzled her.
“Dearest Tosha, thanks for the sympathy.” She gently rubbed her cat’s head and Tosha purred in return.
Christie realized that she might never see Margo and the baby again. Her connection with them was tenuous at best without Cash. How could she crowd into their life when it was awkward to be in the same room with their best friend? She had to respect their loyalty. It wouldn’t be right to force them to choose. She was now an outsider, and that hurt. She wanted to see baby Emily grow up. That was what godparents did. And she wanted a child of her own. Now where did that come from? she wondered. Breaking off with Cash wasn’t going to be the end of the world. Someday she would marry and have children. But she didn’t want just anybody’s children, she wanted Cash’s.
She gently nudged Tosha aside, stood and walked to the window. She propped her elbows on the sill and looked out into the waking light. Across the way the windows of an old Victorian glowed like copper in the golden sunrise. San Francisco was waking up. She loved the energy and beauty of the city: Golden Gate Park, the theater, museums, beaches—the list was endless. And yet…and yet…she would give it all up to mend the rift between her and Cash. But it wasn’t in the cards. She turned and hugged herself in a protective, insular gesture. Empty arms, broken heart.
She tried to cast off her depression by thinking of her work schedule. After all, she had a thriving business. Maybe her clients’ problems would help her forget, for just a little while, her own. Boarding a cable car, she grumbled quietly at the increase in the fare. Still, it was cheaper than parking fees and parking tickets.
When she’d first started working with Tom, she had driven to work every day, but that had resulted in a purse full of citations. The street spaces had time limits, and although she tried to remember to move her car periodically, it never failed that the parking gestapo caught up with her.
Christie studied the passengers sitting across from her—anything to keep her mind occupied, no space for lingering on personal issues. A well-dressed career-type woman clutched a large, leather, tote-like briefcase. The tote appeared new and expensive, probably purchased as a symbol of success, hoped for or achieved. In contrast, next to her a young man in baggy basketball shorts had earphones plugged into his ears, and his head nodded in tune to whatever hip-hop he was hearing. Each in their own way appeared to face the start of the day with a measure of pleasure. She hoped she would soon be able to do the same. Surely she deserved that.
Arriving at the office, she was surprised to see that Tom was not at his desk. He must be in the field, she thought. Without the mindless coffee-and-doughnut chatter they usually indulged in at nine o’clock, she would not easily keep thoughts of Cash at bay. She checked for telephone messages and other notes, but her desk was clear, quite a change from the pressure-cooker days when the Farley case absorbed all her energy.
She rested her head on one hand and tapped a pen on the desk with the other. Where would she start? In truth, she did not have any cases on the calendar. Calls had come in and appointments had been made, but today was free. It was a good time for catch-up, she thought. She could tackle the paperwork that nagged at her, which she routinely avoided. Procrastination was not her style, except when it came to mundane filing and account ledgers. If business continued to increase, she would consider sharing Tom’s bookkeeper.
She tugged the Chronicle from her tote bag. She pulled the rubber band off and laid the paper across her desk. She scanned her favorite sections; buried at the bottom of local news was a brief article that she almost missed. “San Francisco attorney pleads client guilty,” the headline read. “In a turnaround move, T. Cash McCullough pleaded his client guilty of arson and aggravated assault.” Reading the rest of the article, Christie was shocked that Cash had accepted a plea bargain from the district attorney. “A second client, who had been a person of interest, is no longer being investigated,” the article concluded.
What had caused Cash to change direction with the kid, she wondered. What evidence had convinced him to abandon a not-guilty plea?
Sharon poked her head in the door. “I’m making a pot of coffee, would you like a cup?”
“That would be great. I wouldn’t mind a little company while I drink it, if you’re not too busy.”
Sharon appeared startled at the request. Christie rarely took the time for a coffee klatch with her. “Unless you’d rather not.”
“I’d enjoy a time-out. Coffee should be ready in a few minutes.”
Christie realized that the invitation had been a delaying tactic. Subconsciously she was concerned that thoughts of Cash would insinuate into any unfilled space in her mind. The Chronicle story brought a torrent of questions, and no answers.
When Sharon returned with the coffee, she had a small brown bag with her. “I packed a piece of cake with my lunch. Baked it myself, a Bundt cake from a mix. Would you like to share?”
The cake Sharon withdrew from the bag was dark chocolate, and it looked sinfully rich. “I would love a piece,” Christie said. “Why not start the day with decadence?”
Sharon smiled. “I agree. My best friend’s motto has always been that you should start a meal with dessert, that way if anything happens to you before the end of the meal you won’t have missed out on the best part.”
“Good thinking,” Christie said.
She held her coffee mug between her hands and gazed into the dark brew. Her thoughts had already wandered to Cash. What was he doing right now? Was he thinking about their time together in Arizona?
“You seem lost,” Sharon said.
“Am I that transparent?”
“Not to an outsider, but you aren’t usually so quiet. What’s going on? Or am I out of place to ask?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Yes?” Sharon prodded.
“You know I was seeing Cash McCullough, the attorney.” Sharon nodded. “Well, I’m not seeing him anymore.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Or are you glad that you’ve broken up?”
Christie ignored the question. “We had a blowup because I gave him advice based on an analysis of a client’s handwriting. He was furious, and I reacted in kind. End of story.”
“It can’t be the end if you care for each other.”
Christie was silent. How could she answer?
“Surely you can make up.”
“I…I don’t know if I want to make up. I don’t know if I can live with the knowledge that Cash represents people that are a threat to society.”
“Someone has to represent them.”
“Yes, someone does.” But did it have to be the man she loved?
“You have to draw a line between his work and your relationship. If he treats you well, that’s what counts.”
“Maybe. But I think it’s too late to change anything.”
“It’s never too late. Talk to him.”
Sharon took her empty coffee mug and returned to her desk, leaving Christie alone in her office. Talk to him—the words echoed in her mind. Margo had said the same thing. Talk to him. Why did they make it sound so easy, when it wasn’t?
The Chronicle article seemed to indicate that he had reconsidered her warning, perhaps admitting to himself, at least, that he’d been wrong. Margo had insisted that one of them had to take the first step, and that it would be a smart move if she was the one. If she didn’t she might regret it for the rest of her life. But if she allowed his treatment of her to stand, it could set the course for their relationship. He had to respect her or she would lose an important part of herself.
She hadn’t become angry because he dismissed her advice; what had infuriated her was the way he had done it. Could she overlook that? If he had exhibited remorse for his treatment of her, she’d have forgiven him on the spot. Or maybe she would have simmered for a while and then given him a second chance. Now, too much time had passed, and the emotional distance had widened.
Sharon had been emphatic in pointing out that th
e important consideration was how Cash treated her personally. Until the argument he had been thoughtful and caring. He used his time and money to help others: the pro bono cases, the housekeeper’s nephew’s education, his devotion to family and friends, the way he was there for her when Tosha took ill. These were outstanding traits. She had jumped on him about the kid, had focused on his unsavory, possibly dangerous clients, while forgetting all the good he did for the community and beyond. He had trampled upon her feelings, but was that enough reason to cast aside his compassionate, loving ways?
She faced a huge dilemma: whether to go to Cash or stand fast. Her future depended on the decision.
Sunlight flooded her office. She needed to get some air. She had no plan of action, but a walk would give her time to think. She stood up and yanked her jacket from the coatrack. As she moved around the desk, she shoved an arm into one sleeve and struggled with the other. Passing through the front office, she slung her purse over her shoulder and grabbed the doorknob. “I’ll be gone for the rest of the day, Sharon,” she said as she was halfway out the door. “Hold down the fort.”
Sharon smiled a sort of knowing smile. She undoubtedly assumed that Christie was going to act on her advice. If only it was that easy.
She walked to the elevator and pushed the button for the lobby. She watched the indicator light slowly move upward. The elevator stopped at the third floor, the fifth, the sixth. Her office was on the tenth and she was becoming impatient. Finally, the arrow above the door blinked red and a bell jangled. The doors slid open, and Christie waited while two men in business suits walked out, their conversation steady as they crossed the tiles. She stepped inside and pushed the button. The ride down was agonizingly slow; the elevator stopped at almost every floor. The car filled, and with each start and stop she was bumped by one of the passengers.
The elevator finally reached the lobby and the door slowly slid open. The push was on as bodies crushed against one another, eager to be first out of the car. Christie held back, not wanting to be caught up in the stampede. She took a step forward, then froze. Like an apparition, Cash stood, shoulders above the others waiting to enter the elevator.
Shock registered on his face. Or was it disdain, she wondered. She hit the button to close the doors. She knew it was a cowardly thing to do, but Cash looked formidable. The doors began to slide together, blocking her view. The waiting passengers shouted, outraged at her action. She hit the button for the tenth floor. The doors were only inches apart when she saw Cash’s hands grip the edges. The doors reversed and slid open. Cash stepped onto the elevator and the doors closed behind him.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. Her knees felt weak; she leaned against the wall for support. She wanted to get off at the next floor, flee the elevator, and put distance between them.
“I’ve been miserable ever since we had that fight. I miss you.”
Did she dare tell him how she felt? That she had missed him, too? Was it that easy? “I read that the kid took a plea bargain.” What an inane thing to say, she thought. I’m chattering. I’ve got to stop.
“Yes,” he replied. “I took your advice. I thought it through, and realized that you would not have said what you did unless you were quite positive.”
“You could have told me,” she said.
“I was on my way to do that right now. When the elevator doors opened and I saw you standing there, I thought it was my imagination.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry for what I said. Shall we start all over?”
“Start all over? I’d rather begin where we left off, except for our disagreement, of course. We were doing all right, don’t you think?”
“More than all right.” Cash pulled her away from the wall and swept her into his arms. His mouth came down on hers. She felt as though she was spiraling out of the universe. Her heart beat fast and she became light-headed.
“I love you, Christie. I don’t want you to walk out of my life again.”
“I love you, too.” She twisted her fingers into his hair and pulled his face back to hers. As the kiss deepened, the elevator came to a halt and the door swished open. Christie’s ears were assaulted with applause. She opened her eyes and looked over Cash’s shoulder at half a dozen smiling people. They were like a theater audience, applauding, rendering a standing ovation at a happy ending to a play. Although this was real life, Christie knew that happily-ever-after endings could come true.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank Ellen Mickelsen, former publisher of Avalon Books, and Lia Brown, former editor, for their belief in Silver Serenade. A thank you also to copy editor Sara Brady, whose suggestions made my book stronger. Thanks go to BFF Jackie Cathcart for providing a detailed description of San Francisco’s spectacular Cliff House; her luncheon experience became Christie’s. Last, but not least: I am grateful for my grandson Sean Ferraro taking me on a virtual hike to Big Sur’s gorge; and for my readers…I know you’re out there.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by Kathleen Ferraro
Gerry O’Hara is a charter member of Romance Writers of America and has taught writing for publication seminars at Bay Area community colleges. She has penned several contemporary romance novels, including Emerald Sky and Race Against Love, and has also contributed articles relating to travel, adventure, and camping to publications such as Trailer Travel, Trailer Life, and California Camper. For over two decades she has taught writing to residents of a Silicon Valley retirement community, and in 2009 they honored her with the first annual Sunny View Volunteer of the Year Award. She and her husband divide their time between Monterey Bay and Lake Tahoe. In addition to enjoying the nature and scenery of both locales, O’Hara’s hobbies include photography, reading, crafting, and spending time with family.
