by Arlene James
“A-and after all that nonsense, y-you’re still willing to try to help. I think that deserves a little gratitude.”
He made an impatient gesture and began sliding out of his seat. “Just forget that crap, will you? I don’t need your—” He stopped, closed his eyes and seemed to decide to take a different tack. “I’ll be in touch. Okay?”
“Sure. Great.”
“Okay. Well…” He smoothed his suit coat into place and buttoned it. “Take it easy.”
She watched him turn and walk out, his steps barely restrained. Sighing, she told herself that it had been a very near thing. She’d almost blown it—again. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough, but he’d said he’d be back, and she believed him. Oh, yes, she believed him. If only she didn’t have to lie to him about Barry, if only she could go back to that night in his car with truth between them. But it couldn’t be, and she was courting a broken heart by hoping that it could. And so she was courting a broken heart.
Edward grimaced at his image in the mirror. The small, duskyskinned tailor fluttered around him like an annoying insect, tugging here, checking there. At last, murmuring joyful little sounds of approval, he backed away, turning his head this way and that, as if judging a work of art. Edward swore silently that if the fop kissed the tips of his fingers again in that stupid dramatic gesture of praise, he was going to knock him on his skinny tush. Seeing the look on Edward’s face reflected in the mirror, the effusive haberdasher tempered his enthusiasm, assuming a supercilious air, nose turned up, mouth pursed.
“I believe we are finished. Now about the brown. How would Monday be for the final fitting?”
Edward bounced a glare off the mirror. “No way. We’ve done this three times already. Just send the other two suits by messenger.”
“But Mr. White—”
“I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Edward insisted, stripping an ivoryand-burgundy-striped tie from a knob on the wall and looping it about his neck.
“Very well.” The tailor sighed unhappily. “You may expect them Tuesday. Will there be anything else?”
“Not just now,” Edward muttered, his chin tilted up while he swiftly and expertly knotted his tie. Finished, he backed up a step or two, smoothed a hand down his chest and admitted guiltily that he had never looked better. The summer weight, cream linen suit felt and looked as natural as breathing on him. He hardly recognized that man in the mirror. Had a new haircut, a mustache trim and a few words of wisdom concerning his wardrobe really made all this difference? He no longer looked like a bear freshly awakened from hibernation. Everyone noticed. Friends around town had taken to complimenting him. Some asked if he’d slimmed down, and it irritated him to know that he’d kept himself in shape all these years and not a soul had noticed outside the gym until he’d moved into longer, narrowly tailored suits in monochrome color schemes. Suddenly, women were coming on to him. Even his secretary had taken to batting her eyelashes at him lately, which appalled him in a way he couldn’t quite define and made him grind his teeth together to keep from saying something rude. Worse yet was the way Parker and Kendra carried on about his “new look.” Only they had an inkling that it was due to Laurel’s influence, and the knowing looks they gave each other made him very uncomfortable. He wasn’t uncomfortable enough to go back to his old baggy ways, however. He’d started this as a way to “turn up Laurel sweet,” as Parker had put it, and it had worked out far better than he’d anticipated—too well, perhaps.
The grimacing tailor brought him the jeans and sweatshirt he’d worn in, now neatly hung and bagged. Giving his tie a final straightening, Edward tossed the bag over his arm and left the shop. He was painfully aware of heads turning as he strode down the sidewalk toward his car, painfully aware and secretly, embarrassingly pleased. He felt both vain as a peacock and smugly satisfied. For as long as he could remember, he had been serious, responsible, dull Edward—hard-nosed attorney, lonely guy, the antithesis of good buddy Parker, the movie-star handsome, creative, exciting lady-killer. Edward coveted his solid reputation, but he was beginning to understand that there was more to him than the stolid, plodding lawyer with the closely held temper. Why shouldn’t everyone else understand that, too?
Besides, this new way of dressing was much easier to organize and sustain. That was the beauty of it. He picked out one color and put it on, then accessorized with whatever came to hand. The sophistication of it was in the cut of the clothing. He’d never realized what a difference that could make. And he had Laurel to thank for it
.
Laurel. When he thought of the coming meeting with her, his stomach cramped and knotted, not because he feared he would be unsuccessful but because he knew he would not. It was getting harder and harder to figure himself out these days. Shaking his head, he hung the bag of clothing over the back seat of his car and got in the front. Distractedly, he started the engine and backed out of the parking space. A glance at his watch told him that he was going to be a few minutes late picking up Laurel. He could only hope that she wouldn’t be put out. Two or three minutes shouldn’t make any difference, but he couldn’t be sure with her.
In fact, all he knew for certain about Laurel was that he had led her on shamefully. She thought he was interested in her romantically. That much had become glaringly apparent over the past week. And now he had to invite her to dinner with friends, just as if they were a normal couple getting to know one another better. She would go, that slightly worshipful gratitude shining in her bright green eyes, and he would know what a sham it was, what a duplicitous, nefarious scheme. But how else could he make a sound decision? It was, after all, for her own good. He had that much figured pretty well.
Either way, he was pledged to use whatever came out of this “evaluation” for her benefit. If Greenlea pronounced her mentally fit, Edward would start building a case in earnest to support that diagnosis and wrest control of her home and inheritance from Kennison and his ape Miller. If the opposite should occur, then Edward intended to see that she got whatever help she needed.
As for the supposed budding romance, he would simply explain that formally taking on her case made a personal relationship unethical. On the other hand, he imagined that refusing her case would dampen her own enthusiasm for the romance. If it did not, well, he’d cross that bridge when he got to it. Meanwhile, he had little option beyond letting her draw her own conclusions. He couldn’t discourage her embarrassingly obvious interest and get her to that damned dinner party at the same time. And so he had arranged to give her a ride home from work this evening.
He didn’t know why he was so nervous or why he felt compelled to turn up again in another new suit. It, of course, had nothing to do with the way her eyes had lit up the last two times he’d gone to the diner, first to apologize and then merely to chat and cement his position. She had told him then about her marriage, and he had heard in her voice the desperation with which she had strived to win the approval and love of her grandmother, her only remaining relative, by marrying the man of her grandmother’s choice. Edward thought over all she had told him as he negotiated traffic, hoping to make up those few lost minutes.
According to her, Bryce had seemed an ally, a kind if not overly demonstrative man with a fondness for elderly people and a great deal of patience. If he had pandered too much to her grandmother’s wishes, he had also demonstrated some ability to talk sense to her and a penchant to defend Laurel against her grandmother’s unreasonableness. In that way, Bryce had seemed a godsend, and she had convinced herself that she was in love with him, though in retrospect she’d had to say that it was a marriage built more on hope than love.
Hope. Edward squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. Wasn’t that what Laurel was living on now, the hope that he would, and could, help her? Well, it was his hope, too. That’s why he was doing this, after all, in order to understand how best to help her. It wouldn’t turn out as it had before. He was not Bryce Miller, and this situation was nothing at all like her marriage. Nothing.
He remembered how she had told him that not long after the wedding Bryce’s supposed kindness had deteriorated into mere tolerance. At the same time, he was gradually becoming not her champion but her grandmother’s. As Virdel Heffington’s health had deteriorated, her attacks against Laurel had become more vitriolic and Laurel’s husband had become colder and colder. He began to criticize her every move, her appearance, her ideas, even the sound of her voice. Worse, every detail of their marriage had apparently been discussed with her grandmother, who openly condemned her and blurted intimate episodes to others.
Laurel had begun to think of ending her marriage even before her grandmother’s death, but she had stupidly sought counsel from Kennison, who had assured her that Bryce loved her, that only his great compassion for Virdel’s physical suffering due to debilitating arthritis, diabetes and vascular disease caused him to side with the old woman and humor her. Kennison had pleaded with Laurel to bide her time, to wait. He convinced her that she could not know the strengths or weaknesses of her marriage until her grandmother’s influence was removed and she and Bryce had some time alone together. To Laurel, that sounded horribly like waiting for her grandmother’s death, but Kennison promised to encourage Bryce to find other work. Bryce had agreed to look for other employment, but Laurel eventually realized that he had no intention of leaving Virdel’s case. Still, she had stayed, for Bryce’s much younger sister, Avon, had come to live with them and Laurel had apparently felt some responsibility toward the girl.
By the time Virdel Heffington had succumbed to her physical ailments, Laurel had known in her heart that her marriage was a mistake that could only be rectified by divorce, but she had wanted to give Bryce every opportunity to change her mind. She had suggested counseling for the two of them. Bryce had laughed in her face, presented her with her grandmother’s will and informed her that their marriage would continue on his terms or she would find herself homeless and penniless. Shortly thereafter, eighteen-year-old Avon Miller had moved away, Laurel had filed for divorce and Bryce had made good on his threat. Laurel had spent almost the last two years desperately trying to convince one attorney after another to help her wrest control of her inheritance from her exhusband.
Edward had only her word that she had not proposed marriage to any other lawyer as a means by which to secure his fees, and that bothered him. He didn’t want to take her case, see it go public and learn then that half of his contemporaries were laughing at him. Ultimately, all any attorney had to recommend him was his professional reputation, and Edward felt justified in protecting his. He had risked that reputation once by revealing his complicity in the Sugarmans’ marriage of convenience during the custody fight for baby Darla. He had suffered no professional repercussions from that, but he’d endured the teasing of his contemporaries for months afterward. He didn’t want to go through that again. If, therefore, he was being overly cautious in this case, he felt that was understandable. If this secret evaluation of Laurel was to his benefit as well as to hers, that wasn’t so bad, was it?
He was honest enough to realize that he was justifying what he was about to do, and on the heels of that honesty came a deep, soul-shaking guilt that so distracted him, he almost ran a red light. Slamming on the brakes, he told himself aloud just what he thought of himself. And then he told himself silently that he couldn’t go through with it. Immediately relief swamped him. He tightened both hands on the steering wheel and pulled a deep breath. All right, no dinner party. So what was his next step, then?
The first option seemed to be to refuse the case, but then he thought about how disappointed Laurel would be and how inadequate her living conditions were and he rejected that notion. Besides, that would mean that Abelard Kennison had won again. Okay, so refusing the case outright wasn’t an option. What did that leave? Simply put, he could just take the case as it stood now and hope for the best. He already had an investigator looking for Dr. Eugene Iverson, Laurel’s psychiatrist back in her teens. If he could find him, surely he could persuade Iverson to testify on Laurel’s behalf. Surely he could counter the incidents Kennison was bound to cite in order to prove a history of incompetence on her part. But what if Iverson refused to testify? What if Laurel’s version of events was not quite correct? What if Iverson was dead or something? Worse, what if Iverson could only testify that Laurel’s state of mind had been as scattered and incompetent at Kennison alleged? No, he had to know. One way or another, he had to know for certain with what he was dealing.
So he would have to ask—insist—that Laurel go in for formal psychiatric evaluation. Yes, that was by far the better way. If it should upset her—and he had little hope that it wouldn’t—well, it was still for the best. Wasn’t it? His mind sent him a sudden picture of Laurel with her face ravaged by disillusionment, tears standing in her vibrant eyes, her lower lip trembling with the prelude to a sob.
He recoiled physically. Damn and blast! How could he put her through that? No matter how he phrased it, she was-going to take it as a condemnation. If only so much evidence hadn’t piled up against her. He went over it all again mentally.
She had asked him to marry her within a quarter hour of laying eyes on him—and the old him, at that. She’d married before in order to win her grandmother’s approval when any sane person would have realized the futility of that. She was a former debutante from a well-known, socially prominent family whose new best friend was a former stripper past her heydey. She lived in a cheap apartment furnished with clothing and shoes after having grown up in the lap of luxury. She’d once faked a kidnapping, been confined to hospitals and sanitariums and eloped with the first man to pay her the least attention. She’d built a romance out of a couple harmless kisses and an apology. And then there was that scene at The Blue Plate…and that slap…and the family history…. He knew what he was going to do, what he’d intended to do all along.
He pulled up in the diner parking lot to find Laurel waiting on him out front. A smile split her pretty face, and she waved enthusiastically. Why had he thought she’d be upset with him just for being a few minutes late? He smiled back, feeling oddly lightened and leaned over to open the passenger door for her. She jumped in and grabbed her seat belt.
“Hi!”
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I had to stop by the tailor’s and pick up a new suit of clothes, and it just took longer than I figured”
She had already scoped out the cream-colored linen and abandoned her seat belt to twist up onto one knee and finger his lapel. “Wow! Man, you are taking this new look to the limit I love the tie!” She sank back into place, looking him over appreciatively. “You’ve really developed some style. Heck, I’d say you’ve got this thing down cold.” Her smile became flirtatious. “I think I must have the best-looking lawyer in Texas.”
He felt absurdly pleased with the compliment. “Aw, shucks, ma’am. I owe it all to a funny little snob of a tailor and my own personal fashion consultant.”
She laughed with unrestrained delight, and he caught himself winking at her. Grinning like an idiot, he backed out and moved once more into the stream of traffic. For the moment, he just wanted to enjoy her company. Why were all his other acquaintances, with the exception of the Sugarmans, of course, so deadly dull?
They drove in companionable silence for some time before Laurel broke it by saying, “It’s sweet of you to do this.”
“No problem.”
“The bus takes over an hour, so it’s like getting an extra fortyfive minutes for myself.”
“You need a car of your own,” he said, “and a different job.”
She smiled wanly. “I’ll have those things when I get control of my own inheritance. Plus, I’ll have my home back.”
He didn’t say anything to that. What could he say when she was so obviously counting on him to help her achieve those things? When they pulled into the apartment complex, she sent him a nervous glance and said, “You don’t have to come up.”
He parked the car and k
illed the engine, saying, “I need to talk to you about something.”
He looked around him. The sun had set. Soon it would be getting dark. The last time they’d sat together out here in the dark, he’d gotten his face slapped. He reached for the door handle. “I’ll, um, walk you up.”
She opened her mouth to do the polite thing, no doubt wanting to tell him that it wouldn’t be necessary, but he let her know that he wasn’t going to be put off, by getting out of the car and coming around to her side to open the door for her. She gave him a rather lame smile as he assisted her. Was she thinking about that night, too? He put his hands into his pockets and strolled toward the building, giving her plenty of time to fall in beside him. She twisted her hands together nervously, and he felt a pang of guilt, but he made himself walk on. He had to settle this.
They started up the stairs. He noticed that she glanced almost longingly at a door on the ground floor, but before he could even wonder what that might mean, the door opened and a pleasantfaced Mexican woman in her mid-thirties appeared, baby Barry on her hip, small brown faces appearing from behind her legs and hips.
“Laurel, you are home early tonight!”
Laurel halted, shot an enigmatic look at Edward and started back down the way they’d come. “Hello, Mrs. Martinez, children.”
Barry reached out for her as she drew near, and she eagerly lifted him out of Mrs. Martinez’s arms. “Hello, sunshine. How are you, hmm?”
“He certainly knows and likes you,” Edward said, coming to stand at her side.
“But of course, he knows—” Mrs. Martinez began, but Laurel cut her off.
“Oh, I’m sorry! How rude of me not to introduce you,” she said. “Edward, this is Libby Martinez. She’s Barry’s baby-sitter. Mrs. Martinez, this is Edward White, my, er, attorney.”
Libby Martinez nodded pleasantly. Edward extended his hand, and she placed hers in it for a friendly shake. “Nice to meet you.”
