Tell Me More

by Janet Mullany

  The two men who stood by the window chatting joined me and Patrick at the large oval table and introduced themselves. They were both youngish, successful-looking and wearing expensive suits.

  Patrick took a chair next to mine and they sat on the opposite side of the large shiny oval table. I didn’t recognize them, but I was fairly sure they hadn’t seen me before. There was nothing lewd in their expressions when they looked at me, but they could have been acting, just as Patrick and I were.

  Patrick took a fat manila folder from his briefcase, a legal pad and a fancy gold pen. He laid them on the table and sat back and waited.

  “If you could hand over the check, Miss Hutchinson, we won’t need to take up any more of your or your attorney’s time,” said Berg. “We have the papers ready for you to sign.”

  “My client will not be handing over a check,” Patrick said.

  “Ms. Hutchinson signed a contract with the Association, Mr. Delaney. It’s pretty clear-cut.”

  “On the contrary, gentlemen, the only clear-cut issue is that Miss Hutchinson has been grossly misled by the Association, lied to on several occasions and signed a contract in good faith that said very little, but which you are now using against her. If anyone should be handing over a check to anyone, I suggest it might be Miss Hutchinson who should be the recipient.” He opened the manila folder and referred to a typed sheet of paper.

  And then he began talking.

  I was impressed. I had to stop myself grinning as he riffed and improvised, calling upon this case or that case, while Berg and Seales became increasingly uneasy. I had no idea what he was talking about but I had the impression he had the right stuff. God, it was sexy.

  Berg and Seales rallied, offering arguments that sounded like gibberish to me, but Patrick considered, discussed and rejected all of them.

  In midsentence he trod rather heavily on my foot and stopped. “Miss Hutchinson? My client needs a glass of water.”

  Seales rushed to the credenza at the side of the room and poured iced water from a pitcher into a heavy crystal glass, handing it to me with a napkin, while Patrick fussed over me, asking if I needed a break. I said I was fine.

  Seales and Berg meanwhile had returned to the window, where Patrick joined them, the three of them talking in low voices. At one point, I had the impression that things were settled, but Patrick brought up another point and they bickered for a little longer.

  “It’s probably not a deal breaker,” Patrick said. “Let me ask my client.”

  He came to my side and said in a whisper that was loud enough to be heard across the room, “I’m afraid they won’t return your initial investment, Miss Hutchinson, but they’ve agreed to drop the demand for ten thousand dollars. Is that acceptable?”

  “I suppose so,” I said as seriously as I could. We were talking about one hundred dollars, after all.

  “We have a deal,” Patrick said, and manly hand-shaking ensued. “Please messenger over copies of the new agreement to me and Miss Hutchinson.” He handed them a very plain cream-colored business card that I suspect he’d run off on a laser printer that morning.

  He helped me from my chair and supported me as we left the conference room, and led me to the reception area. As we left the building he loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt, and by the time his car drew up outside the tie was completely discarded.

  He helped me back into the car and then slapped his hands on the steering wheel. “Free and clear, Jo.”

  “What did you say to them? It sounded like legalese garbage to me.”

  He fastened my seat belt. “It was. It was all about billable hours.”

  “What?”

  “They knew I was prepared to talk them to death and they were losing money. So they caved.”

  “You mean, it wasn’t the brilliance of your legal reasoning?”

  “About five percent, perhaps.”

  “I thought you were brilliant. We should celebrate.”

  “You’re celebrating quite nicely with your painkillers.” He turned his car into the parking lot of the grocery store where I bought peanut butter for the mice. “You need some groceries, things you can prepare and eat one-handed.”

  “Great idea,” I said, my heart sinking. He sounded friendly and affectionate but he was making it clear that he wasn’t going to be around. He pushed the cart in the store and I picked up a few things, but my heart wasn’t in it, and he ended up choosing them for me. I apologized for my lack of interest and blamed it on my broken wrist.

  He drove me home and carried the bags into the house. I sat on the kitchen window seat with Brady on my lap and watched him put things away. Kimberly was due to arrive in half an hour or so and Patrick couldn’t make it clearer that he was anxious to leave.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Okay. Well, not really, but I’ve an hour to go before the next painkiller.” I hesitated. “Remember how in Pride and Prejudice Mr. Bennet goes into shock when he finds out that Darcy has saved the family from ruin? That’s how I feel. Like I can never repay you for what you’ve done.”

  “Oh, yeah. I remember that in the movie. Can you reach this cabinet? You probably shouldn’t be climbing onto chairs.”

  “I have a step stool.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll get my stuff.” I heard him run upstairs and when he came down again he was in jeans and sweater once more, his suit in a bag and his backpack slung over one shoulder. “Say hi to Kimberly from me.”

  I followed him to the front door. “Patrick, what happens next? With you and me? Will anything happen?”

  He opened the door. “I rather think that’s up to you, Jo. You’ll figure it out.” He gave me a quick, friendly kiss on the lips and left. I watched him drive away and wandered back into the house to discover, rather messily, how difficult it was opening containers of yogurt one-handed.

  And then things began happening to take my mind off Patrick.

  First, because I enjoyed the painkillers so much but was getting tired of the nausea, I switched to ibuprofen and found my mind cleared remarkably. I wasn’t unhappy, although I did feel a pang every time I remembered how Patrick had strolled to his car and deposited his suit and backpack in the backseat without a backward glance. He hadn’t been unfriendly or bitter but I was at a loss. I owed him so much and I didn’t know how I could possibly reciprocate. I loved him and I was absolutely certain he loved me back but I didn’t know what to do next.

  My one-hand typing skills were abysmal, so I abandoned email and Facebook and phoned people and discovered what a joy real conversation was again. I called my mom and the Great Abe, and told them I’d broken my wrist and had decided to leave my job at the radio station. I didn’t go into any lurid details, but my mom was shocked and concerned and said all the right sort of things to make me feel better. She offered to pay my fare home for my Christmas visit and I began to look forward to the holidays.

  Then Kimberly invited me to lunch with her and Liz Ferrar, and after we’d caught up, Kimberly dropped her bombshell.

  “I’m leaving the station,” she said. “It’s not so much fun without Bill there and I’ve been there long enough.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  Kimberly and Liz looked at each other and giggled. “I’m gonna fundraise for the shelter,” Kimberly said. “And that’s where you come in.”

  “Me?”

  Liz leaned forward. “I need somebody who understands media and marketing and can work with Kimberly to coordinate those efforts with fundraising, and I hear you’re available.”

  “Yes, I am, but I’m—I was—a classical music radio announcer. It’s not—”

  “Oh, give me a break,” said Kimberly, eating fries from my plate. “You’ve done news. You’ve handled press conferences for the station. The times I’ve seen you take apart press releases and rewrite them—”

  “But I—”

  “Liz, you ever heard someone talk their way out of a job
offer so hard? When it’s being offered to her on a plate? Jo, you email your resume to Liz right away when you get home, you hear? And no excuses about not being able to type. You’re already using that hand a bit now that you’re not wearing the sling.”

  Liz smiled at me. “Jo, I’d love to have you think about it. Maybe you could start when Kimberly does, at the new year? There’s not a lot of money, but you’re already in a nonprofit so you know what it’s like.”

  “I’m overwhelmed,” I said. “I’d love to. Really. It’s a great opportunity. Thank you. Thank you both.”

  “Don’t cry,” Kimberly said. “I don’t think I’ll have any, but what do you want for dessert?”

  When I reached home again I walked barefoot through the house, marveling at how things had turned out better than I could possibly have hoped for. I wasn’t going to starve or lose the house or beg on the streets. I still missed being on air fiercely, but maybe, in a few weeks, I might want to turn the radio on and be able to listen to the music and not just what the announcer did in between the pieces. I went into the apartment above the garage—Patrick’s apartment—and appreciated anew what a great space it was. I remembered, without bitterness, what fun Hugh and I had had when we worked on it. And the first time Patrick and I had kissed properly here.

  I should put word out that I was looking for a tenant. Soon.

  I was lucky. I had wonderful friends, a loving family, the prospect of interesting work for a good cause and a great place to live.

  The sun streamed through the windows, creating bright warm rectangles on the carpet, the sort of places that Brady liked to stretch out in and sleep in for hours. I moved into the sunlight and removed my sweater. I thought again about Patrick kissing me, making me come here for the first time, and lay on the carpet, enjoying the stretch and strength of my body, the return to wholeness I could feel in my wrist and knee.

  Brady had the right idea. I took off my jeans and saw I was wearing the battered Christmas panties that I’d worn, or, more accurately hadn’t worn, the first time I’d met Patrick. And then, since my socks were gray, dismal things that were probably about as old as the panties, I slid them off. My T-shirt came off, too. I wasn’t wearing a bra, because the cast and my lack of manual dexterity made it too awkward.

  I stretched out and reached for my cell phone in my jeans pocket.

  “Call Patrick,” I said, and lifted my hips to remove the panties. I laid the phone down next to my ear on the carpet.

  He picked up his phone. “Hi, Jo.”

  “What are you up to?” I said, mentally kicking myself for not telling him I was naked first thing.

  “Oh, not much. Look, I’m sorry I left like that. It’s that I enjoyed being a jerk in a suit and I needed to think things over. I’m doing some legal work for Liz now, for a pittance. It’s a beginning. So, actually, yes, I’m up to quite a lot.”

  “Oh, that’s great. It’s so nice to hear your voice.” I considered telling him I’d be working for Liz, too, but then we’d never get to the point.

  “It’s nice to hear you, too. How are you? How’s the wrist?”

  “I’m great. Are you alone?”

  “Well, yeah.” He sounded puzzled.

  “I’m in your apartment. I’m lying in a sunny patch.”

  “Like Brady does.”

  “Yes.” I took a deep breath. “What are you wearing, Patrick?”

  “What? Jeans and stuff. Why?”

  “Patrick,” I said, lowering my voice to a sultry growl, “what are you wearing?”

  “Oh.” Now he understood.

  “I’m naked,” I said.

  And I heard a sound that filled my heart with relief and love and joy—the metallic sound of a zipper going down.

  He said, “Tell me more.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Lucienne Diver, Susan Swinwood, Emily Ohanjanians, and writing friends far and near.

  TELL ME MORE

  ISBN: 978-1-4592-0898-8

  Copyright © 2011 by Janet Mullany

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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