by Fiona Zedde
“Yes.” Rille’s eyes caught hers between the chiaroscuro curls.
Sara bit the inside of her cheek. Waited.
Rille spoke before Sara’s teeth broke flesh. “He called and asked me to dinner, but I declined. He’s not who I’m interested in.”
Sara nodded once. “I’m sure he was disappointed, but he’ll get past it.” She picked up her calendar. “Now, about that appointment for next week.”
After they found dates that would work for them, Sara called up Clarissa Wilson’s attorney. While Rille sat and listened silently to the telephone conversation, Sara and the gruff-voiced attorney settled on a date to meet for the following Thursday.
“Wonderful, I’ll see you and your client in my office then, Mark.”
“Sounds good, Sara. See you Thursday.”
She hung up the phone. “That’s done.”
Rille grinned. “Great!” Then at Sara’s cautioning look, she toned it down to a smile. “But I won’t celebrate yet.”
Sara nodded and slid her notepad in the desk drawer. Although she couldn’t say it to Rille yet, this was almost over. She waited for a feeling of relief, but it never came. Damn.
Rille picked up her purse. Slid her datebook inside. “Even though we haven’t won yet, can I talk you into having drinks with me tonight?”
“No. You can’t.”
“Not even to catch up on old times?”
Sara felt her fingers twitch again. “Especially not to catch up on old times.”
“What are you afraid of?” Rille’s clear green gaze was quiet. Penetrating.
Not you. “What we have between us here and now is a working relationship. Don’t try to make this something it’s not. Don’t bring up the past. Don’t force me to drop your case, because if you keep pushing me, I will.”
Rille’s eyebrows went up. Her lips pursed tight. “All right. I think you’ve made things very clear.” She rose to her feet. “Thank you, Ms. Chambers, for all you’ve done. I look forward to concluding our business.”
After Rille left, Sara sank into her chair and turned to drown her thoughts in the city skyline. She hadn’t lied to Rille. It wasn’t Rille who frightened her. Sara was afraid of herself. Even after eight years and over a dozen other lovers, most of them better lovers, her reaction to Rille was still powerful.
The longer Rille sat across from her—shifting in the chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs, the rough voice an undeniable aural caress while flashes of arrogance transformed the curve of her lips—the deeper Sara fell. It was more than memories of the past. More even than the resurrection of feelings she hadn’t felt before or since Vreeland. It was because she felt Rille moving into that empty space creating itself inside Sara over the past few years. Because of that, she knew she was in trouble.
*
“Now is it okay for me to celebrate?”
Rille smiled at Sara from across the conference room table, a wicked grin fanning small lines from the corners of her eyes.
“I think so,” Sara conceded, sliding her files into her briefcase.
She looked up again at the complainant’s lawyer, Mark Reynolds, an old classmate of hers. He tipped his imaginary hat to Sara then turned to escort the unhappy young woman from the room, his hand firm on the small of her back. Clarissa Wilson was even prettier in person, tall and fleshy with a shaved head and big gold circles dangling from ears shaped like question marks. Throughout the meeting, her eyes kept moving restlessly over Rille as if searching for the thing Rille had promised but never delivered. It was obvious she was devastated by the outcome of her relationship with Rille.
Clarissa had decided to settle the suit without going to court, letting her grudge go for what amounted to an apology from Rille and a piddling amount of money that Rille’s family gladly paid.
“You were absolutely brilliant,” Rille said. “Thank you for everything.”
“Don’t thank me, pay the firm. Lloyd’s been angling after your family’s business. But I’m sure you know that.”
“I do.”
“The firm is a good one. The Thompsons could do a lot worse.”
“I’ll let Mummy know that.” Rille picked up her purse from where it lay on the table then stepped close to shake Sara’s hand. “Thank you again. I appreciate that you gave this your best.” Her touch was cool and firm.
“I wouldn’t have given anything else.”
As Rille turned and headed out the door, Sara tried to hide her amazement at how differently Rille had acted from the last time they met. Throughout the meeting, she’d been perfectly professional. No innuendoes, no offer to go for drinks, dancing, or otherwise. Disappointment was too strong a word for what Sara felt. But it was close.
Behind her closed office door, she relaxed with a glass of coconut water and a casual glance through her calendar. It was barely eleven o’clock. She didn’t have another appointment until her three o’clock court date with one of her less interesting clients, an accountant yoked in on fraud charges.
Sara looked up from the calendar as someone knocked on her door. “Come in.”
A burst of yellow entered first. Roses. Then Anthea’s smiling face. “Look what the delivery guy just dropped off for you.”
“Ah…” Sara wrinkled her brow. “For me? Are you sure?”
“Unless there’s another Sara Chambers in the office I don’t know about.” The assistant arranged the flowers in their clear vase on the small bistro table near the window. “There’s an envelope.” Anthea plucked it out of the nest of roses and gave it to Sara, then stood back, smiling, waiting for her to open it.
Sara waved the white envelope under her nose, smelling nothing but roses. She looked at Anthea with a wry twist of her mouth. “If it’s anything good, I’ll let you know.”
Anthea didn’t hide her disappointment. She turned, dignified once again, and walked out of Sara’s office, closing the door behind her. Sara chuckled. Of anyone in the office, only Anthea dared to tease her. Sometimes it was nice.
The card inside the envelope was thick and plain.
“For a job well done,” it said, signed with Rille’s flowing signature. Also in the envelope, two tickets to something called Dinner & Jazz Under the Stars scheduled for nearly two weeks from that night. Sara glanced over at the flowers, bursting with vitality even as they slowly died in their little glass prison. Yellow roses, she’d read somewhere, could be a symbol of happiness. Or deceit.
She tucked the tickets and card back into the envelope. Dropped it face down in her desk drawer. It was still there when she turned off the lights that evening, closed the door, and walked down the darkened corridor heading home for a long weekend of rest.
*
Sara leaned against the railing, the crystal and amber lights of her adopted city spread out before her. Standing seventy stories above Atlanta, it was easy to fool herself into believing that despite the hushed conversations taking place behind her, she stood alone on the terrace of the glass covered restaurant on top of one of the tallest buildings in the city, and that the jazz quartet on the stage played only for her pleasure. Sara closed her eyes.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
Rille’s low words tapped her lightly on the shoulder.
“Up until about a couple of hours ago, I wasn’t sure either.” Sara straightened and turned around.
Rille stood close enough to pinch. Hair pulled up into a simple knot this time, diamond earrings and a tiny bag in her hand. A fitted white cocktail dress with a bow at its high waist made Rille’s skin glow under the lights.
Behind her, the rest of the restaurant lay spread out like a glass enclosed fairy tale complete with glittering princes and queens. The band wove its sultry sounds throughout the room, while waiters promenaded between tables with their trays of sumptuous foods and drinks.
“Whatever the reason you came out, I’m glad. Now that I’m not your client anymore, I wanted to enjoy your company without you thinking too hard about it.”<
br />
“It would be foolish not to think around you.”
Rille chuckled. “Do you have a table yet?”
“Yes, actually. We got one as soon as we came.”
“We?”
“Of course. You did give me two tickets.” Sara smiled in the face of Rille’s discomfort. “Was I supposed to save one for you?”
Rille’s gaze skittered away. “No. No. Obviously, I got in on my own.”
But the second ticket had been a decoy. An expensive distraction meant for Sara to think that Rille expected her to take someone else. It was rare enough to catch Rille off her game that Sara relished it, feeling warmth in her chest long after her smile faded. A dark-suited figure coming from the sliding glass doors to the patio where she stood caught her eye.
“Oh, good. Here’s my date now.” She waved.
Rille turned around, checking out the other women in the spacious restaurant, most of them wreathed in diamonds and laughter, looking as if they belonged here at the glass covered oasis in the sky. The tall man with salt and pepper hair obviously caught her by surprise.
“Rille, this is my father, Neville Chambers.” Her father, debonair in his dark blazer, open necked white shirt, and slacks, smiled and clasped Rille’s hand. “Daddy, this is Rille Thompson, an old friend of mine from college.”
“Good evening, sir.” Rille’s discomfort gave way to a glow of real pleasure.
“My dear.” His Jamaican accent enveloped the few words in melody. “Always good to meet the people in my Sara’s life. I don’t get to see too many of you since I’m down in Florida and she seems set on making a life up here.”
“Daddy!” Sara squeezed his elbow.
He grinned down at her. “Shall I escort you ladies to the table or leave you to your private conversation?”
“Our table, please.” Rille said. “I can talk to Sara anytime.”
She threw a smirk over her shoulder and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, maneuvering Sara to take his other arm. They made their way back into the restaurant and to their table. He pulled out each of their seats before taking his own.
“In my retirement, I’ve been reading up on the role of a gentleman in America.” He winked at Rille as he arranged his napkin over his lap. “It’s a complex business, but I’ll enjoy fumbling my way through it during this visit.”
A waiter materialized at their small table. “Would you care for anything?” he asked.
Startled at the abrupt appearance, Sara blinked up at him in surprise. But Rille didn’t miss a beat.
“Oh, yes,” she said with one of her laughing looks, and grabbed the menu.
They ordered their entrees and agreed on a bottle of white wine to share. Sara, mindful of her low tolerance to alcohol, urged the waiter to keep the water carafe full even though she might be the only one drinking from it.
When the waiter left, Rille continued as if there had been no interruption.
“You don’t look old enough to be retired, Mr. Chambers.”
“Call me Neville. When Sara was in college, you girls could ‘Mr. Chambers’ me all day long. These days my vanity needs the help.”
Rille laughed, a thrilling, full-bodied sound that attracted the attention of people nearby. “Neville it is then.”
Two weeks before when Sara’s father had accepted her invitation to come to Atlanta for a few days, she was so surprised that she nearly forgot to be happy. Had it been that easy all these years? Just ask and he would come? In Tampa, he didn’t maintain much of a social life, only preferred to stay at home with his garden, and his wife who’d decided against retiring and continued to work at the seafood factory. He’d never been to Atlanta before, and Sara wanted to make sure he relaxed and had a good time on his visit.
Rille’s invitation had lain in her desk up until that afternoon when her father asked about Atlanta’s famous nightlife. When she mentioned the concert, his eyes lit up. He didn’t even complain about shopping for the new coat and slacks before they had to rush back to the condo for a shower and change of clothes.
“This is a nice place,” he said. “The music isn’t bad. They could use a steel drum in that band, but not everything can be perfect.” He flashed Rille a smile. “And the view of the skyline is impressive.”
“I’m glad you like it, Daddy.” I’m glad you came.
They shared a warm look.
This was his first night in Atlanta after having arrived that afternoon. Sara took the day off to pick him up from the airport and take him out to a long and leisurely lunch. Once back at her condo they’d talked around things, only touching on the biggest issue on both their minds. But he would be with her for a week. They had time.
“So how long have you been in town, Neville?” Rille asked. “Has Sara been showing you a good time?”
“I just got in today, my dear. I don’t want to wear out my experience in this grand city too soon.”
“Never that. There’s much more to see in Atlanta than most could imagine. I was born here and still haven’t exhausted its possibilities.”
“I’m surprised at that,” Sara murmured, sipping her water. “In school, I remember you getting bored very easily.”
Rille glanced at her. “Back then I was a child. Now I have a renewed appreciation for things I’d put aside.”
The food arrived then, knocking whatever Sara was going to say back down her throat. With a flourish, like a magician debuting his greatest trick, their tuxedoed waiter placed the steaming plates on the table. Sara’s pan-seared salmon with a pomegranate glaze and a sprinkle of black sesame seeds. For Rille, garlic sautéed scallops arranged with a perfect hillock of lobster mashed potatoes. And her father’s braised short ribs with baby carrots and tiny onions masquerading as pearls.
“Gorgeous!” Rille breathed, reaching for her fork even before the waiter drifted away.
Sara had to agree. Her father reached for her hand and they quietly began to say grace, forcing Rille, who already had a piece of scallop in her mouth, to drop her fork and join in. The succulent food sweetened their tongues too much for conversation. Instead of talking, they ate, content to listen to the tinkling melody of the piano climbing and falling in perfect harmony with the velvet voice of the woman dressed in a fitted tuxedo and tails. With her thick black hair moving like a live thing around her face and shoulders, the singer moved gracefully among her band mates on the small stage. Her red, red lips pursed as she crooned a song about delicious heartbreak, seeming to make love to the 1940s style chrome microphone.
As she ate, Sara’s eyes flitted between Rille and the woman on stage. Something told her that Rille was performing too, trying to make a good impression with Sara and with her father. There was no point; soon they would be out of each other’s lives again. A sudden sadness at the thought caught Sara by surprise. She looked away from her and focused on the food before her.
When dinner was little more than smears on the white plates, conversation resumed and Rille became a glimmering butterfly again. If nothing else, Sara mused, Rille was fun to watch.
“Do you mind if I ask your daughter to dance, Neville?”
Sara put her wine glass down. “Ah…”
“Not at all,” Sara’s father said, surprising her.
Swift heat came into her face when he squeezed her hand.
“It would be good to see my Sara have a little fun,” he continued. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled.
They’d never directly addressed the issue of Sara’s sexuality. From what she gathered the one and only time it came up in conversation, he’d always known about her preference for women. And supported her in a way that her mother never had.
Rille held out her hand. “Will you do me the honor?”
She kept Sara’s hand in hers all the way to the dance floor, ignoring the looks they attracted.
“You know that people are staring,” Sara murmured as Rille held her close for the band’s rendition of Johnny Hartman’s “Easy Living
.”
“Stop caring so much what they think. Relax.” Her hand settled on the small of Sara’s back. Lightly. Respectfully.
They moved in perfect rhythm with each other among the sprinkling of other dancers. Cheek to cheek. Rille’s subtly spiced perfume—ginger?—distracting Sara’s nose. This was a new experience for her, being out with someone so…out. What if her father had no idea that she was gay? What if she wasn’t comfortable holding a woman this close in public?
“You’re very presumptuous,” she said without heat.
“Isn’t that what you liked about me in college?”
Ah. Had she been that obvious as a school girl? She laughed at her teenaged self. Poor Sara. So easy to read.
“College was a long time ago,” she said.
“That we already established.” Rille twirled her and pulled her back in. “You’re not as cold as you pretend, Sara. Not at all.”
“Why can’t I be?”
“Because in my arms, you burn.” Rille’s breath touched her neck. “I remember.”
Sara released a sigh. “Leave the past behind, Rille. We’re both different women. We have different lives now.”
“Absolutely correct. But I’d still like to get to know you better. I’m no longer your client so that excuse is out the window.”
As the song ended, Sara pulled her hand free of Rille’s and turned to walk back to the table and her father. But he wasn’t where they left him.
She spun around. “I wonder where—”
“Relax, he’s at the bar.” Rille gestured to where her father sat talking with the bartender and another man. A barely touched whiskey sat in front of him.
“After all this cosmopolitan exposure, I wonder if your father will be able to go back to a normal life in Tampa?” Rille’s words, gently teasing, surprised a smile out of Sara.
“Daddy is adaptable. I think he’ll do fine.”
“I think you’re right about that.” Rille sat at the table, then, after a slight hesitation, picked up the drink menu. Within moments, a waiter appeared.
“Very prompt service,” Rille said, approval lighting her voice.
