To Have Vs. To Hold

by MJ Rodgers

  Every day for the past week Fred had watched while Dwight looked for Tiffany only to then go sit at a table for one.

  But today Dwight had a daring look in his eyes. Fred saw the clerk take a deep breath, make sure his hold on his tray was firm and then walk directly toward Tiffany.

  “Tiffany, hi. Remember me?”

  Fred felt sorry for Dwight. Both the guy’s tray and voice were rattling.

  “Nope,” Tiffany said.

  “We were introduced your first day. I’m Dwight Errent. Can I sit down?”

  “I guess.” Not exactly an enthusiastic invitation.

  Dwight set his tray on the table and slipped onto the chair next to Tiffany. “So, how do you like the job so far?” Dwight began. Thankfully the tray had stopped rattling at least.

  “It’s okay, I guess.”

  “Something wrong, Tiffany?”

  “The cases are so boring here. My sister is a court reporter in L.A. She says it’s always full of action down there. She’s been telling me I should move in with her.”

  “There’s a really interesting case that will be in our courts soon, Tiffany,” Dwight said fast, way too fast.

  Fred wondered if Dwight was blowing smoke or if there was something to this.

  Tiffany put down her drink. She leaned a little toward Dwight. “What’s this interesting case about?”

  Obviously Dwight was enjoying the way Tiffany was leaning toward him. Fred could also tell the young man probably realized his chance with his dream girl had come and he was only going to get this one shot.

  Fred had anticipated Dwight’s nervous scrutiny of the area. He had picked up a discarded newspaper on his luncheon table and had it completely shielding his face at the precise instant that Dwight looked in his direction.

  One of the things that Fred had learned in his fifteen years of covering the court beat was that if people didn’t see your face, they rather had a tendency to overlook the rest of you.

  “All right, Tiffany,” Dwight said, “but you have to swear to me that you won’t talk about this.”

  “Come on. You can trust me.”

  Dwight’s voice lowered. “You heard about that attorney’s wife and her lover who were found in that old car wreck?”

  “Well, yeah. It’s been all over the news. It was that real good-looking attorney’s wife. Adam Justice, right?”

  “Wrong.”

  “But, Dwight, I’m sure they said it was Justice’s wife. They ran his picture and mentioned the Justice Inc. law firm.”

  “Only it turns out that the woman used a false name when she married Justice, so they never were married at all.”

  “They weren’t? Oh, wow. Did he know?”

  “Not until he discovered her real birth certificate and a secret will under the name of Patrice Feldon.”

  Tiffany’s words were expelled in an excited whisper. “A secret will?”

  “And it gets even better.”

  Dwight paused. For effect, Fred realized. He was a far cry from the rattler who had approached the table only a few moments before.

  “What?” Tiffany prompted.

  “Patrice Feldon, the woman who was never really Adam Justice’s wife, has left an estate worth more than thirty million dollars. It’s all in stock in some pharmaceutical company.”

  Fred nearly dropped his newspaper.

  “Thirty million dollars. Wow. Who gets it?”

  “You’ll have to wait until the case gets heard.”

  “You can’t do this to me, Dwight. I have to know. Please?”

  Fred kept his newspaper at his nose, listening intently to hear if Tiffany could weasel any more information out of the court clerk. Unfortunately for Fred, Dwight Errent had revealed all he was going to.

  Still, Fred knew he had enough for a start. He’d just make a couple of calls to verify a few facts.

  His producer was going to be very happy.

  Of course, Fred was pretty sure Adam Justice wasn’t going to be too thrilled.

  “TIME TO UP THE ANTE, Mr. Justice,” Mr. Kline said.

  Adam turned to his personal trainer—who had the body of a mud wrestler, a face like a frog and a head as bald as a bowling ball—and watched him add another twenty-five pounds to his barbell.

  “Why the extra weight?” Adam asked.

  “That’s the penalty for missing your session this afternoon. When your muscles hurt tomorrow, it will be a reminder not to let anything interfere with the maintenance of your health in the future. Remember, without your health, that fancy law practice of yours will mean nothing. Now give me eight of them. Slowly. Feel the burn.”

  Adam lifted the barbell without comment. When it came to physical fitness, he and Mr. Kline had an understanding. Mr. Kline spoke and Adam listened.

  Adam’s parents had first hired Mr. Kline as their personal trainer. When Adam’s parents had retired to Hawaii and left him the law firm, they had also left him Mr. Kline.

  Most days Adam couldn’t decide which of his parents’ legacies proved the more demanding.

  In all the years that they had been together, he and Mr. Kline had never addressed each other any way but formally. Mr. Kline had insisted on the formality. He told Adam it was because he wanted him and all his clients to understand that maintaining health was a serious business.

  Adam was not uncomfortable with Mr. Kline’s formality-it fit easily with his own. And he took exercising seriously, just as he took everything seriously. It was another legacy from his parents. They lived by a motto that he had adopted at a very young age: You Do Something Right, Or You Don’t Do It At All.

  It had been a long time since Adam had missed a midday weight session. The only reason he had today was that he had given Whitney West his word that he would drive her to her car. He knew that he could have paid her taxi fare, and she would undoubtedly have considered his word kept. And handling it that simply would have served his conscience.

  But he hadn’t done that. He had deliberately prolonged being in her company today. And the reason was simple. He had wanted to be with her.

  He was very used to women responding to him in undisguised invitation or distinct discomfort. Whitney West, however, refused to be either impressed or repressed by him. She seemed amused at his restraint and intent on challenging his control at every opportunity.

  She was a bright, beautiful, desirable woman and she had ignored everything about him that reflected his masculinity. No woman had ever done that to him before.

  He had read A.J.’s preliminary report on her. She and her law partner, Jack Novak, had been on the law review together in school and had been graduated at the top of their class. Both could have had their pick of some excellent associate positions at major Seattle firms. Today they could be commanding enviable salaries and probably even be on the fast track to partner.

  Yet they had chosen to go into practice together on a shoestring in what was clearly a less-than-prosperous neighborhood. Their consistent wins in court proved they had what it took. But they handled mostly small cases and poor clients.

  Still, Whitney West was satisfied and happy with what she was doing. Adam saw that very clearly today. What’s more, he’d liked seeing it.

  She wasn’t married, and lived alone In a small house with a big mortgage on the east side of town. A.J. had found out that much personal background.

  Adam knew the kind of women to avoid—those who were just playing at careers and who considered their real career to be finding a husband. Whitney was not that kind of woman. She had gone out and made her own life and was living it-with confidence and with pride.

  That fullness of spirit and personality drew him as strongly as her beauty. But it was her refusal to respond to him that challenged everything about him that was male.

  Naturally he had no intention of getting into anything heavy with her. He wasn’t a man who repeated his mistakes.

  But they would be working together on the Feldon estate. And as long as it didn’t inte
rfere with getting the job done, he saw no problem with accepting the challenge she had issued and proving to her that the man in him could not be ignored.

  “That’s enough, Mr. Justice,” Mr. Kline said.

  “I thought you said eight?”

  “You just did twelve. Something bugging you tonight, Mr. Justice?”

  “I’m…preoccupied.”

  “Get your focus back, Mr. Justice. You’re too experienced to forget that if an exercise is to have true value, it has to involve both body and mind.”

  Mr. Kline was right, of course. Adam mustn’t let thoughts of Whitney West distract him. He would have to be careful to handle this harmless flirtation with her just right.

  Adam’s cell phone rang. He laid the barbell down and picked it up, answering with his name.

  “Mr. Justice, it’s Sarah at the answering service. I just got a call from Fred Dykstra of ‘Channel 5 News.’ He suggested you watch his court-beat segment coming up in a few minutes. He also mentioned he’d be by the phone for the following half hour should you have any comment you’d like to make.”

  Adam thanked Sarah and disconnected the phone, trying to keep his sense of foreboding at bay.

  “Mr. Kline, may I use the television in your office to watch a news report?”

  “It’s time for your next eight, Mr. Justice. I suggest you get one of your minions to tape the show for you.”

  “This is not something that can be delegated.”

  “Neither can your health.”

  Adam faced Mr. Kline squarely. He said nothing, but he knew his body English was clear. After a moment Mr. Kline shrugged and stepped back.

  “You’ll have to use the knobs on the front of the set to turn it on. I don’t believe in using remote controls.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kline. I will be back.”

  “And when you get back, Mr. Justice, there will be another fifty pounds on this barbell.”

  WHITNEY SAT at the kitchen table with her favorite meal in front of her. The carton called it a light and healthy stuffed turkey breast with sliced apples in raisin sauce. She called it a quick and no-hassle way to eat on a hot summer evening.

  She took a bite and sighed in appreciation. It was yummy.

  Jack always said that the worst part of being single was eating alone. But Whitney disagreed. Here she sat deliciously cool in just a T-shirt and panties, not having to worry if her thighs looked fat, eating exactly what she wanted, getting all the breeze from the fan, in full control of the TV remote.

  Ah, pure heaven.

  And afterward there was chocolate-cheesecake ice cream-a whole pint of it. All hers.

  She could even eat it right out of the container. A fork and a spoon would be the extent of her dinner cleanup.

  Yep, when it came to a quiet meal at home after a full day at the office, this single stuff wasn’t bad at all.

  “And now it’s time for the courthouse beat with Fred Dykstra,” the anchorman on the TV news said. “What do you have for us tonight, Fred?”

  Fred Dykstra’s familiar carrot-colored mop flashed on the screen. Whitney had seen the commentator once down at the courthouse while he was attempting to get a quote from a man who had tned to ride a horse into the building to protest a raise in parking fees.

  Whitney couldn’t remember much about the would-be cowboy, but she remembered how easily Dykstra had positioned himself in just the right spot to get his quote. Even the obnoxious, pushy newspeople hadn’t been able to compete.

  Of course, Dykstra’s courthouse spot was more gossipy than real news. But it was generally entertaining. Whitney leaned back in her chair with her TV dinner on her lap and gave it her attention.

  “Tonight I have an exclusive for you. An interesting new development has come to light following the mysterious deaths of Patrice Justice and Peter Danner, the couple whose bodies were discovered last week, apparently the victims of a fatal automobile crash seven years ago.”

  Whitney shot forward so fast she spilled raisin sauce on her thigh. She quickly dabbed her paper napkin at the spill, not taking her eyes off the TV screen.

  “As you may recall from the news accounts of this story, Patrice Justice was the wife of Adam Justice, the senior partner at the small, prestigious Seattle law firm of Justice Inc.

  “Or at least Adam Justice thought she was his wife. She wrote her name as Patrice Anne Waring on their marriage license when they wed eight years ago. But now her real birth certificate has been discovered, which proves that Patrice Waring Justice was really Patrice Feldon and she and Justice were never married at all.

  “Why did she pretend to marry Justice? That’s the mystery, folks. And not the only one that this woman’s death has suddenly brought to life. It seems that Patrice Feldon has left an estate worth thirty million dollars. Yes, you heard me right. Thirty million.

  “What’s more, the estate is made up entirely of stock in a pharmaceutical company. Interesting, isn’t it?

  “I for one would like to know who this mysterious lady was and where she got all that stock that adds up to so much money. I rather think Adam Justice is probably wondering about that tonight, too.

  “Well, that’s your juicy tidbit from Fred Dykstra. Tune in tomorrow for more from behind the scenes on the courthouse beat.”

  Whitney punched the Mute button and sat back in shock as she digested Dykstra’s report. How could he have gotten that information?

  Her mind was still buzzing when the phone on the counter pealed suddenly. Whitney picked it up and said hello.

  “This is Adam Justice,” he announced calmly, coldly.

  As if that deep, chilling voice could belong to anyone else.

  “No, Adam, it wasn’t me,” Whitney spoke quickly, sitting straight up as though she were coming to attention. “And I’m convinced it wasn’t you. God knows not even physical torture would have dragged confidential information out of you about this case, to Dykstra or anyone else. So, who was it?”

  Whitney waited through what seemed like a very long pause for Adam Justice.

  “Speculation at this point would be nonproductive, Ms. West.”

  “Which, I suppose, translates to mean you have no idea, either,” Whitney said, leaning back in her chair. “And please, Adam, drop the ‘Ms. West.’ I’m innocent, remember?”

  “What’s on your calendar tomorrow?”

  “Just a few routine items. Jack Novak, my partner, can handle them if necessary. Why? What do you have in mind?”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven-fifteen.”

  “To go where?”

  “To start seeing these beneficiaries Patrice has named and advise them of her bequest before that, too, appears on the news.”

  “Do you think it will?”

  “If Dykstra had known the beneficiaries, I’ve no doubt he would have revealed them. Whoever his source is either doesn’t know who the beneficiaries are or is holding back on that information. Still, Dykstra won’t be the only one on this now. After tonight the regular newspeople will be pursuing everyone and every lead associated with the subject.”

  Whitney exhaled a long breath. “Yes, you’re right, of course. I’m pleased that you trust me enough to include me in these interviews with the beneficiaries, especially knowing that we could end up adversaries on this matter.”

  “This is not about trust, Ms. West. This is about professional ethics. I intend to conduct this discovery in an aboveboard manner. I expect you to do the same.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Justice,” Whitney said with a burst of exaggerated formality.

  “You find my words amusing, Ms. West?”

  “No, but I find their delivery reminiscent of the Sermon on the Mount,” Whitney said smiling from ear to ear.

  “Thank you.”

  “It wasn’t a compliment.”

  “I know.”

  Whitney chuckled. “Look, Adam, I can understand your concern that we try to reach the beneficiaries first, but seven-fifteen is a little early for me. Can
you make it eight?”

  “At eight o’clock you and I will be in Commissioner Snowe’s chambers, assuring her that Dykstra did not get his information from us.”

  “Yes, I suppose that would be a prudent move. She’s going to be really ticked about this getting out. You must be pretty ticked yourself. By the way, if you ever want to yell or anything, I can lend a sympathetic ear—as long as you’re not yelling at me, of course.”

  “I never yell at anyone,” Adam said in his all-too-formal tone.

  Whitney was more than tickled at the polished delivery of that disclaimer. “Someday you’re going to have to tell me how you do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Say what you do with such absolute conviction. If you have a pen and paper handy, I’ll give you my address.” ‘“That is not necessary. I have it.” “You have it? How could you? It’s unlisted.”

  Whitney came forward suddenly in her chair. “Wait a minute. So is my home telephone number. How did you get it?”

  “I’m resourceful. I shall be at your door tomorrow morning at seven-fifteen. Good night, Whitney.”

  He hung up before Whitney had a chance to respond. Still, she smiled as she replaced the receiver on the base. She recognized the “I’m resourceful” line as the same answer she had given him that morning when he asked her how she knew about the funeral.

  Adam Justice did listen, all right. And he definitely had a droll sense of humor, which delighted her. She was beginning to suspect he might even have a whole set of other emotions hiding behind that cool, impassive face and maddeningly proper tone.

  And that rather delighted her, too.

  “DO YOU THINK Commissioner Snowe believed us, Adam?”

  Adam took his eyes off the road momentarily to look over at Whitney. She was wearing a lemon-colored cotton dress today with a long, full skirt, a short fitted jacket and her hair flowing soft around her shoulders. It didn’t follow the current styles, but fitted her casual business style and natural warmth.

  Adam reluctantly returned his eyes to the road. “What Commissioner Snowe believes is irrelevant, Whitney. We know we were telling the truth. That is what matters.”