“I’ll bet. I mean. What? What did you say?” The music got quite a bit louder all of a sudden.
“I said I’m in what could be some real trouble. There’s a letter from Immigration in my mail today. My parents—”
“Oh, babe. Sorry! Hey, ‘Eye of the Tiger’ just came on. If I go now, I can catch it. I can always get in an extra whole set with this music. I’ll call you back.”
His phone clicked off.
Nice. What made her think Chad, accountant, would have any knowledge of what she should do about a problem with ICE? Unless it was icing his sore muscles from his time at Maxx Impact lately, he wasn’t going to know anything. Still, she would have liked the support and the shoulder to cry on.
Piper hugged her knees to her chest, a sudden chill catching her bare legs.
They said most new restaurants failed within a year, but was it usually because the sole chef got mistakenly deported?
Because…mistake—this had to be a mistake. For sure. She was a U.S. citizen. She’d been here in this very neighborhood, basically, since she was five. She went to elementary school, high school, University of Texas and culinary schools. If she’d been anything other than the average American girl, somehow she would have noticed along the way.
A quick calculation told her it was the middle of the night outside Hamilton, New Zealand. Good. Then there was a chance Mom and Dad were home. She dialed their number.
No answer.
Curses. She left message, her voice a little shaky.
“Mom? Dad? It’s Piper. Did you, by chance, take all my documents with you to New Zealand? Birth certificate, Social Security card, that kind of stuff? I’m, uh, in a bind.” Beep.
And then silence.
∞∞∞
“Travis. It took you long enough.” Fuller Eisenhower stood up and gave Zach the two-hand shake. “I heard you had an interview with Crockett himself this morning. Graced you with an audience, did he?” An audience, like a meeting with royalty or the Pope. Exactly.
Eisenhower motioned for Zach to sit down, which he did in a leather wingback chair decorated with the nailhead style that showed up in nearly all the CBH furniture.
“What are you working on today, Eisenhower? Still slaving away over the Bingham v. Kempton case?” Zach had been working at CBH for six years. Eisenhower had been mucking around with that single case for at least half that time. How they didn’t kick him off payroll was a mystery to Zach. Oh, but then he remembered, the Bingham component of the case was a relative of one of the partners. Still, Eisenhower put in a minimum number of hours and brought in zero dollars to the coffers, from what Zach could tell, which was why he didn’t mind talking to the guy about the promotion.
Eisenhower wasn’t in competition for it.
“Actually, Bingham v. Kempton has a court date.”
“Seriously? When?” This was a shock.
“Soon. A few days, in fact.”
“You worried about that?”
“Should I be?”
Zach didn’t know how to answer that. He had a hard time picturing Fuller Eisenhower impressing judge, jury or even client in court, what with his generally unkempt appearance: the ratty clothes with sweat stains, the comb-over hairstyle not because he was balding but because Eisenhower was either too lazy or too distracted to go get it cut.
“Don’t answer that. I’ll be fine. How hard can it be? So, tell me how it went with Crockett. You get the partnership or not?” Eisenhower sipped something from a steaming mug. “Oh, I get it. You’re waiting a day to let it sink in.”
Zach did a quick read of Eisenhower’s face. Clearly the guy knew the outcome already and was just cat-and-mousing him.
“Do you think it was my suit? The fact I used to ride a motorcycle? The fact I don’t own a two-story brick colonial house in the Dominion neighborhood?”
Eisenhower never broke poker face.
“So you were passed over.”
“As you were fully aware.” Zach crossed his leg over his knee and leaned back with folded arms. “Out with it, Eisenhower. What am I missing? Because you and I both know it’s not my win-loss record. Am I just still too much of a young upstart? They’re wanting to go with someone who has more age?”
That scenario would be a comfort, although cold. If he thought he could just wait out the requisite time passage, with an idea of how long that would be, Zach could bide his time with patience. Probably. However, something inside told him there was a deeper issue.
With a slurped sip of his steaming cup, Eisenhower studied Zach’s face, measuring him. After a bit, he set down the mug.
“You’re on the right trail, bloodhound. Follow it.”
Speaking of patience, Zach didn’t have patience for this cageyness.
“Oh, come on. If you know, and I suspect strongly that you do, just spill it. If I trade this in,” he yanked his silk necktie up and wagged it, “for a bowtie, am I suddenly part of the brotherhood?” He had no use for bowties, as anyone his age sporting one looked hipster and trying too hard. He doubted that was the message CBH would want a power-lawyer to project, but if that was the missing piece of the puzzle, he’d host a tie-burning party at his apartment tonight, steel barrel and all.
“Let me start with a bowtie is not your answer.” Eisenhower chuckled, straightening his own bowtie.
“Fine. Because even though everyone else here wears tweed jackets and smokes a tobacco pipe, I look like a hobo in that persona, and my client base would all head for Hill Country.”
“San Antonio is Hill Country.”
“You get my meaning.” Zach forced a laugh to keep the tone light, and then waited, and soon, his patience paid off. Fuller Eisenhower placed both palms on his walnut desk.
“You probably deserve to know.”
Finally.
“And remember—you didn’t hear this from me.”
“Of course not.” Zach gave his lawyer-client privilege smile of you can trust me. “In fact, we’ll assume I didn’t hear anything at all.”
“You’re a smart one, Travis. Very smart.” Eisenhower tapped his temple. “That’s why they’re dying to promote you and bring you in, but they can’t. It’s against the firm’s unwritten policy.”
The only unwritten policy Zach knew of was the one where they tried to promote partners whose last names reflected Texas Alamo royalty, a la Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, Sam Houston. Sometimes Zach thought it was far too on-the-nose for the general public, but the people of San Antonio loved their Texas Republic history, and they ate it up, coming through the doors in droves for their legal help.
“What—because my last name has Texas Alamo royalty written on it? Come on. Even though everyone knows William ‘Buck’ Travis was there leading the troops defending the Alamo, ‘Victory or death,’ all that, my family didn’t migrate to Texas until the 1950s.” That was a hundred-plus years after the fated last stand.
“Well, that Travis name is part of the reason they want to promote you. They’d like to add you to the nameplate. Some of the partners only get listed in vinyl on the glass of the front door, but you’d be on the marquis from day one.”
The marquis! That just boggled Zach’s mind.
“Wow. I figured the only ones on the marquis would ever be the original founders.”
“At least you come by your last name naturally. Dirty little secret, the original Houston wasn’t even named Houston until forty-eight years ago. Before that he was Guy Vanderhoffen, and he only changed it for the firm’s name’s sake.”
“You’re not serious.” Shock rattled through him. “That is a dirty secret. So in truth, I actually have a leg up by virtue of my last name? So why am I still getting shot down?”
Eisenhower’s mouth took a grim line.
“Here’s the rub. You’re missing one key ingredient in the CBH Partner Formula.”
“A Volvo? A giant four-wheel-drive truck with dual tires on the back?” Over the years, Zach had socked away enough in his savings account
to buy several new vehicles, but money wasn’t why he wanted the promotion. “I’ll head to the dealership. I’m there.”
“Oh, what you need isn’t anything you and a loan officer could make a deal on—unless your loan officer is hot and single.”
Zach felt the rumblings of what Eisenhower would say next, and he braced himself.
“A wife.”
Zach half-laughed. How could they require such a thing, even in unwritten policies? Surely that equaled discrimination on some level, perhaps many levels. No wonder Eisenhower had been so secretive—if it was even true, which Zach doubted.
“You’re not serious.” Zach did want a wife—someday, sure. But on his own schedule, once he had some other, seriously pressing things squared away that he’d already delayed far too long. His mind flashed to a storage unit and charred metal that cried out for attention for the best reason Zach could imagine.
“Serious as a five-thousand-point tumble in the market.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe, but it’s the currency you’re missing. And if you want to be considered when Crockett clocks out of the firm, you’d better be prepared with a lovely Mrs. Travis.”
“That’s a lot harder than it sounds at face value.” Older people were forever pressuring younger men and women into finding a relationship. Maybe matchmaking was an inborn tendency, but he encountered it everywhere from his parents and aunts to the lady at the grocery store who stopped him and said I know the nicest girl. She’s single. You should meet. As if singleness itself was the main prerequisite to compatibility.
“Don’t I know that fact.” Fuller ran a hand through his too-long hair. “I’m pushing forty and no prospects.”
Zach didn’t respond with the suggestion that Fuller might not be too bad of a catch if he actually took an interest in personal hygiene now and then.
“Crockett, Bowie, and Houston has an image to project. It’s not young, hotshot lawyers with bachelor status rolling through town with their posse.”
Posse. Ha. As if Zach had time for hanging out with a posse—let alone a wife. Wives took time and needed nurturing and emotional attention, which also equaled time.
And time was the one premium Zach craved most, and—again—why he needed the partnership.
It was the age old conundrum: How can I get experience without a job, but how can I get a job without experience? Except now the nouns were switched to wife and partnership, all with the time-element mixed in.
“It’s not going to happen.”
Eisenhower raised a shoulder an inch and said, “Test it.”
At that phrase, Zach momentarily fossilized.
Test it? Test it. Just how…? His mind swam. Anger at this notion that one precise thing kept him from his career goals stirred together and mixed with a grudging fear that he couldn’t make it happen. His latest fool attempts at finding someone to even date, let alone marry, had been flaming disasters—Kinsey being case in point from less than twenty-four hours ago.
“One woman stands between you and your advancement here.” Eisenhower challenged him to a stare down. “I guarantee it.”
Zach clenched his jaw.
“Test it? Okay, fine. Maybe I will.”
“You’ll see.” Eisenhower sent him a dismissal nod, but as Zach turned to go, he said, “Remember, Travis. You’re smart. Really smart. Smart enough to know that if this topic ever gets raised, I’ll deny this conversation ever happened.”
Zach didn’t look back at him.
“And can I also suggest something else? Immediate action.”
“Immediate?” Zach gave a mirthless chuckle.
“Rumors are circulating,” Eisenhower said. “One partner, not saying who, just purchased a huge estate in South America. Rumor has it his wife is shipping her furniture down there. If that’s true, a partnership slot could be opening up. Soon.”
At this, Zach halted in his tracks. He turned back to face Eisenhower, his blood running icy cold at the two terrifying words: last chance.
“You don’t mean Crockett.”
Eisenhower raised just one eyebrow, lacing his fingers over his stomach, and looked at the ceiling.
“If I had more gumption, I might just go after it myself.”
Zach’s eyes narrowed. No way in Hades would Eisenhower beat him to that punch, even if he’d been here twice as long as Zach.
Wife. Pronto.
Got it.
But not Kinsey.
∞∞∞
“Yes, my name is Piper Quinn.” She balanced the phone between her shoulder and ear as she sliced another pound of mushrooms to sautée in Du Jour’s kitchen. “I’m calling again about my Social Security status? Yes, I’ll hold.”
The eternal on-hold pattern replayed itself for the second hour, while time suctioned away from her morning. If she’d been able to resolve this situation on-line, she would have in a heartbeat, but the listed response time for any email was six weeks, and according to the Immigration and Naturalization Service letter Piper had exactly thirty days to prove she was in compliance with the murky, incomprehensible, utterly mistaken law.
Six weeks landed her in illegal alien jail—or…what? Where would she go?
She could not go to New Zealand. Not with what her parents’ lifestyle had become by going there.
She slammed a knife blade down onto the cutting board. Why should she have to prove anything?
After another entire replay of “The Flight of the Bumblebee” as hold music, she clicked off and shoved it in her apron pocket with a bark of frustration and shoved her mushrooms into the frying pan. They sizzled when they hit the hot oil, and the sound soothed Piper’s nerves to a small degree. Not enough to calm her down entirely, but cooking was her escape place, and it helped, especially when the earthy, meaty scent of the cooking mushrooms hit her nose and filled her head. These were going to be delicious in the crêpes.
“Piper? You all right?” Mitzi peeked her head in through the door from the bistro’s business office into the kitchen. One of her coils of red hair had escaped her top ponytail and dangled between her eyes. “I thought I heard some swearing.”
“Pseudo swears. None of the hard stuff. I’m saving those for later.”
“Gotcha.” Mitzi nodded, her escaped red curl bobbing, and then she disappeared again.
Piper didn’t want to burden her with personal details. Not today. She’d seemed more uptight than usual lately, and sometimes Piper worried the stress of managing Du Jour was getting heavy.
At least she didn’t have to cook, too. Yet.
The aroma of sautéeing mushrooms filled the air. Maybe she should add onions to the next batch. Everyone liked sautéed onions, maybe even that witch who’d been here yesterday with the luscious Zach the Lawyer.
Her phone rang, and she lost her grip on the fry pan, nearly spilling the meaty button mushrooms onto the countertop.
“Darling!”
“Mom? You’ve been ignoring my calls.”
“Oh, we had that convention, you know.”
“Right. Your hobbit convention.” Maybe they’d catch the pan-Pacific sarcasm. Probably not. “How was it?”
“Internationally attended. Top notch stuff. Blindingly magnificent. Your eyes would have popped out of your head, believe me.” Mom went on about the top talent from the hobbit sphere she’d met at the convention, and Piper assembled fifteen crêpes with mushroom and gruyere filling in the meantime.
“That’s great, Mom.”
“I’m here too, sweets!” Dad’s voice chimed in, all jolly, as they both always were after one of their meet and greets. “Hope you’re still popping along there in Texas. We miss that strong sunshine, you know.”
“Still popping, yeah, but I’m having a bit of a tight spot, too. I got a letter from the government telling me I need some documentation. It’s important. There are consequences hanging over me unless I get it all turned in.” She tried not to get too emotional. Mitzi might be listening. “You t
ook all your important paperwork with you when you moved to Hamilton, right?”
Please say they knew where it was. Please.
“Oh, honey. How many times do we have to tell you? We’re not in Hamilton. We’re in a suburb in the hills between Hamilton and Tauranga.”
“Yes, I know. It’s called Hobbit Households.” Piper’s patience thinned. “The papers, Dad? I’m afraid they’re pretty important.”
Vital. She had to have them. Without them, she was so shot out of luck, and—
“Paperwork? Oh, we shredded all that before we left. Couldn’t go lugging that heavy stuff onboard a 747, now could we?” He broke into laughter that tore up Piper’s nerves like a cheese grater. “Traveling light from here on out. All that stuff would never fit in our condo here now.”
Condo. So that’s what they were calling it. Piper had seen photos of the fiberglass pods shaped like white, stucco-covered eggs, all linked together with tunnel-like hallways.
“You shredded it. Everything.” Piper set her skillet on the counter and plunked her back against the refrigerator.
“Of course.” Mom echoed Dad’s statement. “Why? Is there something you need?”
“Just my birth certificate. An original. Please tell me you have that.”
There was a deadly silence on the other end of the line, and Piper thought maybe she’d been cut off.
“Hello? Are you still with me?”
“Uh, we’re here,” her dad said, but he sounded nervous.
“What is it? Come on, Dad. Tell me you didn’t shred all that, too?” Please. Chopping up old Outback Steakhouse receipts into a bazillion pieces was one thing, but birth records and such was another entirely. “Please?” Her voice came out small and thin.
No response came.
“Dad.”
After another long pause, her dad said in a dry voice, “Didn’t you know, sweets? You were born in New Zealand. Christchurch. St. Bridget’s Hospital on May the fifteenth at nine-twelve a.m. Cold morning, the snow was threatening. We had to bundle you in a little sheepskin. We’ve told you that, dear.”
Illegally Wedded Page 3
