Still, whatever anyone else may have suspected, Tracy and Brendan eventually announced a new date for their nuptials, and of course by then Robyn was managing the disintegration of her own marriage. Seemed like no matter what she started out thinking about, she always wound up at the same place: Curtis.
“I’m not sure all this pasta is the best thing for my waistline,” her mother mused, as she glanced through the menu.
Robyn looked up at her. “This was your choice, Mom. Remember? You said you wanted to come to Olive Garden and so here we are.”
“Don’t take a tone with me. I just thought it might be nice for us to get out of the house, that’s all. I said the first restaurant that popped into my head. Maybe we should have gone to Red Lobster.”
Robyn bit her tongue and perused the choices. Pasta wouldn’t hurt her at least. She’d lost way too much weight, and was starting to look a little less than fashionably thin. Not that she gave much of a thought about her appearance anymore. And anyway, the whole Olive Garden ruse was probably her mother’s way of getting her to eat.
“Where are they going for their honeymoon?”
“What?”
“The couple whose wedding you went to.”
“I don’t know, Mom. Maybe nowhere,” Robyn said, and then added in a mumble. “They have a four-month old.”
“Oh,” her mother said. “How sweet.”
Yes. She was. Before the ceremony, Riley was holding Tracy’s baby girl, Layla. She had Brendan’s mouth but her mother’s burnt sienna hair and eyes that were now gray but would probably morph into the same interesting grayish-green hue that Tracy had. Swarms of other women had converged on the infant so Robyn was able to steal away unnoticed to have the first of what would become a considerable number of glasses of champagne before the evening matured.
“I’m having the shrimp Alfredo penne,” her mother said putting down her menu and shifting in her seat as though relieved to have finally reached a hard-fought decision.
Next to her plate, her latest romance novel lay on its face, the spine cracked. Last Christmas Curtis bought her an e-reader which for some inexplicable reason she no longer used. Robyn wanted to ask where it was, but feared getting a stupid answer, like maybe her mother thought seeing the e-reader would remind her of Curtis and hurt her feelings or something. If that was her concern, she needn’t have worried. There were reminders of Curtis around every corner, it seemed.
“I’ll have the same,” Robyn said, setting aside her own menu.
She had no interest in food, and the only thing she wanted to taste right now was another couple hours of sleep.
“You know, sweetheart, I didn’t really care about coming to Olive Garden . . .” her mother began.
“No kidding,” Robyn said dryly.
“. . . but you come home from work late almost every night, and you eat and lock yourself in your room. You don’t watch television, you don’t call any of your old friends.” Her mother’s face looked genuinely pained. “It’s been long enough, Robyn, it’s time for you to . . .”
Robyn looked up. “It’s been what?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I met Curtis when I was fourteen, was with him since I was sixteen. Sixteen. And now I’m thirty-four. Who’s to say what’s long enough to get over the end of a relationship like that? You?” She should have ended it there, but she didn’t. Lately it seemed like she was angry all the time and no matter how she tried, the anger and vitriol spilled out of her, directed most often at the one person in the world she loved most. Continuing now, though she wished she could stop, she spat out one last dig. “The woman whose most meaningful relationships for the last twenty-five years have been with Nora Roberts and Danielle Steel is telling me . . .”
Seeing the hurt in her mother’s eyes finally shut her up.
“So our circumstances are different,” Her mother’s voice was trembling. “But I was there for all those years too, Robyn. You lost your husband, and there’s no comparison but Curtis was like a son to me, and I lost him too.”
“Is that why you keep bringing him up?” Robyn asked. “Because if you want me to move on, that doesn’t help. Asking if he was at the wedding, if he’s called . . . it doesn’t help.”
“Well then I’m sorry for that.”
“Just stop doing it, Mom. Let me grieve the loss of my marriage and you grieve . . . whatever it is you’re grieving.”
For a moment their eyes met and together they silently conspired not to say what they both knew: that what her mother grieved was far more than the loss of a son-in-law.
Then their waitress was there, smiling in the bright, false chain-restaurant way and asking whether they were ready to order.
“Yes,” they both said in unison.
For the rest of the meal there was very little conversation as they both listened to the voices of all the other happy families at neighboring tables.
3
Sitting at the curb in front of her mother’s modest townhouse, the black Maybach Landaulet looked misplaced. As they pulled up Robyn almost forgot to open the garage door before driving in. Craning her neck, she shifted the gear into park and watched as three men from the neighborhood walked by, leaning down to see who might be inside the impressive luxury vehicle. But the windows were tinted to prevent the curious from detecting who the passenger might be. Robyn knew who the passenger was, or thought she did until the driver’s side door opened and Chris Scaife emerged.
No passenger then, just the driver. Wearing sweatpants, a white t-shirt and tennis shoes, he gave a terse nod to the neighborhood hang-abouts and walked purposefully toward the townhouse, ignoring their now-gaping mouths because of course, they all knew who he was.
“Who is that?” her mother asked. “Friend of yours?”
“He’s the one who was sick last night,” Robyn said, watching Chris make his way closer.
They were still sitting in the car. Her mother because she was too nosy to simply go inside before finding out what was going on, and Robyn because she was trying to figure out how Chris had found her. Just as he was about to enter the garage, Robyn opened the car door and her mother followed suit. Standing on either side of Robyn’s Honda, they greeted him at the same time.
Chris nodded at her mother and gave her the Chris Scaife approximation of a smile.
Robyn’s mother walked toward him, extending a hand. Chris took it.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Carolyn, Robyn’s mother. You are . . ?”
“Chris. Good to meet you.”
Robyn had read in some magazine article about him that he habitually didn’t use his last name, impatient with the fuss that was invariably made when people realized who he was. Still, if someone didn’t want a fuss, it defied common sense that they should ride around in a vehicle that had a base price of almost a half a million dollars.
“Would you like to come in, Chris?” her mother asked while Robyn stared speechless at them both. “We’re just getting back from supper.”
“Thank you,” he said. “I’d like that.”
Robyn blinked, awaking from her stupor. “Your car,” she said.
Chris gave something closer to a smile. “I’m sure it’ll be okay,” he said. And that was the first time he seemed to even notice she was there.
Then he was following her mother into the house as the garage door slowly slid shut, thrusting them all into darkness for a moment.
Robyn looked down at her attire as she trailed behind them. Wearing her favorite well-worn jeans, a white t-shirt, long black cardigan, and a thin headband holding back her short bangs, she likely looked like someone who’d run out to the grocery store to pick up a carton of milk, rather than a person returning from “supper.”
But what difference did it make? In all likelihood, Chris had stopped by to thank her for helping him out the night before and would be gone soon enough, leaving her to suffer through her mother’s aimless chatter about her Sunday evening television shows.
He was already seated when Robyn made it to the living room, looking every bit as incongruous on her mother’s settee as his luxury car had at the curb on the quiet suburban street. He was tall. Robyn noticed this only because of the way his knees seemed to rise all the way to his chest on the low-lying seat. And he had big feet. Thirteens, she would guess. Curtis had small feet for a man of his height—only a size ten—so Robyn tended to notice things like that.
“Robyn tells me you weren’t feeling too well last evening,” her mother said.
She’d taken a seat on one of the armchairs opposite the sofa and was leaned forward, interested and alert. Apart from Curtis, there probably hadn’t been too many “gentleman callers” in this living room over the past several years.
“I wasn’t,” Chris acknowledged. “Much better now though.” He glanced in Robyn’s direction.
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked. With both him and her mother seated, she felt awkward and needed a mission.
“No, I’m fine,” he said looking at her. His eyes held hers for a few moments, as though he was taking her in, for the first time paying attention to what she looked like, assessing her.
Robyn shifted, uncomfortable under his stare.
Her mother cleared her throat and stood. “Anyway, I’ll leave you two to talk,” she said. “Nice to meet you Chris. And I’m glad you feel better.”
“Thank you,” he said, his eyes still on Robyn.
When they were alone, he indicated the armchair her mother had just vacated, as though it was his living room and she was the guest.
Robyn sat and smiled at him, assuming her most self-assured manner. “You don’t look any worse for the wear,” she said.
“Looks can be deceiving,” Chris said.
“Oh. I’m sorry. Are you still . . ?”
“Just a slight headache,” he said talking over the remainder of her question. “Nothing to scream about.”
They were both silent for a few moments, then Chris stood. He walked about the living room, looking at the pictures on the mantel, leaning to take in the one of Robyn at her college graduation. Next to it was one of her and Curtis at the very same graduation. They’d graduated from Fordham University the same year, and by then were inseparable. If Chris recognized Curtis, whom he’d met on several occasions, he didn’t say.
From the pictures on the mantel, he moved to the bookshelf where some of Robyn’s favorites had made their new home among her mother’s more sentimental choices, Maeve Binchy, Nicholas Sparks and the like. Chris reached in and pulled out a book, turning it over to read the cover and then replacing it.
Robyn wanted to ask him why he had come since he didn’t seem particularly inclined to throw himself at her feet and thank her. Not that she would have expected that from Chris Scaife. Over the years, their interactions had been cordial, but brief. She’d never gotten the impression he ever really, truly noticed her. She was the kind of acquaintance he might see someplace out of context and walk by without realizing who she was. He’d almost done just that last night at the wedding.
“I should thank you,” he said finally, without turning to look at her.
Robyn waited and when he said nothing further, she laughed. “You should thank me, or you are thanking me?”
He turned away from the bookcase.
“I am thanking you,” he said.
Robyn studied his face. That had been difficult for him to say that.
Chris Scaife had a reputation for being one of the most challenging, but self-sufficient of men. Rumor had it he micromanaged his staff to death, and that he, by turns, attracted and then scared off some of the best talent in his business. The only reason he was still on top was that at the end of the day, he did most of it himself anyway. Just about any decision of consequence at his companies was made by him personally. Given that, it was probably no surprise he got migraines.
“Outside in the car, I have a bottle of wine for you,” he said. “It’s a George Henri Jayer Grand Cru Echezeaux Flagey Cote de Nuit.”
Robyn tried not to smile. To hear flawless French pronunciation pass Chris Scaife’s lips was priceless.
She shrugged. “I don’t know what that is,” she admitted.
“It’s a red wine,” he said. “Very good.”
“And expensive, I bet?”
This time, Chris shrugged.
“How expensive?” Robyn pressed.
“That’s not a very polite question to ask about a gift,” he said looking her in the eye.
Combativeness. Competition. Confrontation. This was what she expected from Chris Scaife. For some reason, it didn’t bother her. She might even like it. It roused something in her, long dormant—her own appetite for competition and combat. It was what made her a Moot Court champion in law school.
Robyn stared at him, waiting for him to decide whether to answer her question.
“Depending on the year, it can be as much as five thousand and change a bottle,” he said finally.
Robyn let out a low whistle. “And the year you brought me?”
“It’s a 1993. About three thousand.”
Robyn smiled at him, shaking her head. “What on earth would I do with a three-thousand dollar bottle of wine?”
“You’d drink it,” Chris said with a perfectly straight face.
Robyn smiled even wider and shook her head again. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary. I only . . .”
“It’s yours.”
If she wasn’t mistaken, he sounded insulted, peeved even. His eyes were slightly squinted and Robyn realized he was tense, agitated even, at her refusal. So, Chris Scaife didn’t like feeling indebted to anyone. The entire conversation felt like playing poker, neither of them willing to tip their hand.
“Thank you, then,” she said after a few moments. “I appreciate it.”
Chris nodded, apparently pleased that his debt was about to be adequately satisfied. “Do you? It doesn’t seem like you appreciate it.”
“No, I do,” Robyn said hastily. “And if I was rude before, I’m . . .”
“Chris gave her a small smile. “I left it in the car,” he said. “Lemme go get it.”
And that was when Robyn knew he’d won their little battle of wills. By apologizing, she’d ceded her precarious hold on the upper hand. Now, it was she who was indebted to him, for overlooking her frightful lack of manners.
“I’ll come with you,” Robyn said, still unsettled by the sudden tipping of the balance in his favor. “So you don’t have to come all the way back in.”
“You kicking me out?” he asked, one of those inscrutable smiles on his face again.
“No. Of course not. I just thought . . . your mission had been accomplished so you’d want to hit the road.”
“You do that a lot?” he asked.
“What?”
“Think for the people around you.”
Robyn sighed. “I know you’re fully capable of thinking for yourself,” she said, feeling suddenly tired of their little game.
Outside at the curb, Chris unlocked his car and reached into the passenger side, retrieving a bottle. Before he shut the door, Robyn glimpsed the plush, almost palatial interior. She’d never seen a car this expensive up close before and wondered for a moment what it might be like to ride in one. She would want to go very, very fast, with the windows open, one hand out the window so she could feel the wind streaming like water between her fingers.
Chris’ and her hands brushed as she took the bottle. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone.
“I’m going to give someone in my legal department your number,” he said, pressing some buttons and beginning to type something.
“Oh, no, that’s . . .”
He looked up at her and stopped his typing. “So you want to keep working for the . . . ‘small insurance claims outfit’ you told me about last night?” he asked baldly.
Robyn swallowed. “No, but . . . you don’t have to give me a job jus
t because I . . .”
Chris’ stare was hard. “I never give anything to anyone who hasn’t earned it,” he said. “All I’m doing is giving my general counsel your number. The rest is up to the two of you.”
Still, Robyn hesitated, not knowing how to respond.
“Or you could move to Atlanta and look for something there,” Chris said. “Explore your options. Like you said.”
Robyn recited her number and he typed it into his phone. Then, without another word, he opened the door on the driver’s side and got in. With one foot on the curb, he started the engine and appeared poised to drive off without so much as a goodbye. Then he paused and looked at her one last time.
“Tell your mother it was very nice to meet her,” he said.
And with that, he did shut the door and drive off, leaving Robyn standing at the curb with her three-thousand dollar bottle of red wine.
4
“Ms. Crandall. Please. Come on in.”
Robyn stood and took a deep breath, grasping the extended hand of the man before her in a firm shake. With salt-and-pepper hair and a friendly visage similar to Mr. Rogers from that old television show, he looked nothing like what she expected for Chris Scaife’s general counsel. Presiding over the legal affairs of a multi-million dollar corporation, Robyn expected someone who looked more cutthroat, like Chris himself. She knew his name from legal circles, of course, but Frank Casey appeared to be a man whose blood pressure would never be elevated, not even with an exacting and notoriously irascible boss like the President/CEO of Scaife Enterprises.
Following him down the hall, Robyn noted the conservatism of the office décor. It might well have been any number of other well-appointed law firms she’d seen over her the course of her career, which shouldn’t have been a surprise since Chris had famously recruited Frank Casey from his already lucrative position as a partner at one of New York’s most successful practices.
Legal Times had written a lengthy piece about the move, and it was hinted that Chris was paying Casey a hefty six-figure salary. Rumor-mongers had decried the move as a career-killer. Frank Casey was leaving his cushy and prestigious position to take on the gritty world of entertainment, with recording artists who seemed to be perpetually in trouble with the law, and the high-rolling executives who lived lives straight out of the raunchy music videos they bankrolled? Sheer madness was what people said. Taking in the art, Berber carpets and weighty furniture, Robyn didn’t doubt for a second that Chris had made the move well worth the risk. All the doubters, if they could see Frank Casey’s digs, would very likely doubt no more.
Afterwards Page 3
