But this was the first time since college that Casey had been unemployed. She had a trust fund left to her by Meg, but Casey had no intention of touching it. The money was earmarked for land and a home. Somewhere. She was certain there would come a day when she and Nathan would need to escape the rat race and reinvent themselves. If their marriage survived this move.
“If…” she murmured.
It was becoming increasingly obvious that Nathan wasn’t happy. His new workplace was a disappointment, she knew, but he was great with people and would have it whipped into shape in no time. She used to tell people Nathan was a Little-League coach in the making. He could make both parents and players behave themselves. But, this time, he seemed awfully quick to throw in the towel. Last night, he’d told Casey he was considering requesting a few transfers from the home office.
Her first reaction had been one of dismay. Casey knew without being told the list would include Gwyneth Jacobi. A legal shark with lustrous black hair that matched the black spike heels Casey always saw her in. Heels Casey often felt were aimed at her back.
How did one register a protest without looking like an insecure wife? And how did it come about that she was an insecure wife?
Nathan was handsome, polished and refined. He was also honest, reliable, trustworthy and loving. Less so on the loving part lately, but that might be attributed to the circumstances surrounding their infertility. It seemed as if they never made love these days because it felt right. Now they performed according to her biological clock.
But that wasn’t wholly her fault. The doctors said Nathan’s tired sperm was partly to blame, as was a slight tilt to her cervix.
The diagnosis irked Casey. Here she’d wasted all those years taking the pill when she could have had a blast and never worried. “Yeah, right,” she muttered under her breath. Like that would have happened. She was probably the most sexually repressed person she knew. Although that was only a guess, because she was too repressed to talk about her sexuality with any of her women friends—of which she had very few.
But she didn’t need to see a shrink to know that having your father find you in the hayloft with your boyfriend’s hand down your pants wasn’t the best way to experience your first sexual encounter. Especially when your father punishes you by sending you to live with your aunt on the opposite side of the country. “It’s a wonder I’m not frigid.”
“What?” Nathan asked, entering the dining alcove at his usual efficient pace. He pushed aside the San Francisco Chronicle help-wanted ads that she’d been perusing earlier. Even though she’d agreed to take six months off before looking for a job, Casey wasn’t convinced she could handle a life of leisure.
“If you get pregnant in that time, great,” Nathan had said, taking it upon himself to summarize one of their many discussions of the subject. “If not, then we rethink the baby-making agenda. Maybe we weren’t meant to be parents.”
Meant to be. Fighting words, in Casey’s opinion, although she rarely argued with Nathan. She loved him and was confident they shared the same basic values, even if they arrived at the same point by slightly different paths. But Casey refused to blindly accept that certain things in one’s life were preordained. Casey’s first introduction to Fate had been after her mother and baby brother had died. She’d been too young to understand the concept, but the word had haunted her. In her dreams, Fate was an ugly man who chased her, night after night.
Nathan tossed a folded map on top of the newsprint. “I thought you threw these out. Your cell phone has GPS technology. If you’re lost, you can ask it for directions.”
Casey knew that made sense to him—buying a two-hundred-dollar phone to replace a $1.95 map, so she didn’t point out the fact that she was lucky if she remembered to turn the damn thing on. “Some of those maps are from places we’ve been. I plan to scrapbook them some day.”
“Since when did scrapbook become a verb?” he asked, filling his metal travel mug with Peet’s coffee from his French press.
“In the late nineteen-nineties, I think. It’s a big business now. Homemakers throw parties for their friends and sell all sorts of specialty stuff. Like they once did with Mary Kay or Tupperware.”
“Hmm,” he said, obviously tuning out her answer.
Such was the status of their communication. Thank God for e-mail or they’d never know what was going in each other’s lives. Assuming, of course, he read her missives.
“Are you still planning to leave this morning?” he asked, helping himself to the financial section of the Chronicle. His gaze skimmed the want-ads header, but he didn’t ask for an explanation. Another indicator that he wasn’t completely in tune with Casey. There’d been a time when he would have spotted the page and known what was going on in her head.
“I guess so,” she said, walking to the counter where she’d left an electric kettle on simmer. A small cloud of steam unfurled beneath the glossy white cabinets. The countertop was one-inch-square black-and-white tile that matched the pattern on the floor, although the squares underfoot were larger. Casey hated the decor—she’d have chosen one or the other, but not both. The combination made it feel like she was cooking in a funhouse. “Are you absolutely sure this is a good idea?”
“Yes,” he said decisively.
Nathan’s ability to make decisions without second-guessing himself was one of the things she admired most about him. It was an asset in the courtroom, as well as in life. Casey was much less confident, although she went to great lengths not to let people know it.
“I could go next week, instead…when we’re more settled.”
“Everything will still be here when you get back,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. The hallway was half the width it should have been thanks to the stacked cubes of corrugated cardboard. “Believe me, I won’t have time to look at a single box. This is neat compared to my office. Did I tell you I fired two people yesterday?”
She stopped pouring boiling water into her French press, which was identical to Nathan’s except it was filled with herbal tea since her fertility doctor had suggested she give up caffeine.
The brew wasn’t nearly as rich and aromatic—or flavorful—as coffee, but it dulled her craving for a hot beverage in the morning. And since the blend was made especially for her by an herbalist in Boston, she drank it faithfully.
“No,” she said. “I believe that must have slipped your mind. Being small and inconsequential and all.”
He ignored her facetious tone. “One of them was our HR person. I swear, the woman hired all her college cronies and never had a bad thing to say about anyone.”
“Maybe they were all perfect until you came along.”
“Sure. Right. Even the guy who lost fifteen settlements—including five pro-bono cases that should have been shoo-ins?”
“How do you know they should have been shoo-ins? You couldn’t possibly have read all fifteen transcripts since you got here.”
He stood up and reached for his jacket. “I didn’t. I couriered the files to Gwyneth. She reviewed them and e-mailed a breakdown.”
Casey turned back to her tea so he wouldn’t see the sneer that curled her lip.
“I’m thinking about getting a dog,” Casey said without intending to.
“No.”
She pivoted on the heel of her slipper. She’d over-slept—again. She didn’t know why jet lag affected her more than it did her husband, but her new sleep pattern seemed to consist of tossing and turning until three then awaking too bleary-eyed to get up when her husband did. “I beg your pardon,” she said, facing him. “Our deal was kids and animals once we left the city.”
Nathan gave her a look she called his “How could anyone as stupid as you still remember to breathe?” look. He seldom turned it on her, but Nathan wasn’t a patient man and this move had sucked up what little tolerance he had. He walked to the bow window to pull back the sheer curtain that the former tenants had left behind. “Blocks and blocks of apartments. Thousands of cars s
pewing noxious exhaust fumes. Even more thousands of people—rapists, child molesters, carjackers living around every corner. This is still a city, Casey. Only the zip code has changed.”
“That isn’t fair and you know it. But I refuse to discuss this issue when I’m in my robe and you’re in a suit.”
“You opened the subject.”
“Without expecting a verbal onslaught by a lawyer dressed for work. Go. I’m not prepared to do battle.” She tried to keep her tone light. There had been too much heavy talk between them lately—or rather, too much skirting of heavy talk. “I won’t be here when you return, you know.”
“Coward,” he said with a hint of the old humor and charm that had won her heart.
“Ha,” she countered, waving the spoon she’d just picked up. “Anyone who is brave enough to face down my misogynistic father can’t be labeled a coward.”
“Quit casting aspersions on my father-in-law. Red is misguided. Misunderstood. The product of a generation that didn’t know women were strong warriors who only pretended to give men power.”
She stabbed the half a grapefruit Nathan had left in a bowl on the counter. Thoughtful or too lazy to put it away? How shrewish to even think that. “Well, as long as you agree with me, then we’re okay.”
“Call me when you get over the Altamont. Mom says the traffic through Pleasanton is truly hideous.”
“During the commute,” Casey qualified. “I’ll be fine. If anything goes amiss, I’ll ask the car to call you. I’ve seen the commercials. These cars do everything for you but steer.”
“I’m sure it’s not quite that simple, but you’ll be fine. You just haven’t been behind the wheel for a while, and Californians take their driving seriously. I don’t want them to run you over.”
He walked to her and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. Casey closed her eyes and leaned in for something longer, but he’d already moved on, collecting his briefcase.
He looked so damn handsome. And single, she thought for one impossible moment. Oh, god, no. Let it be my overactive imagination.
I won’t worry if he says, “I love you.” But he didn’t. He didn’t even pause to wish her a safe trip or give her a smile. He was already deep into work mode, switching the rest of his life to another channel.
Casey locked the door behind him. As Nathan said, this was still a city. Last night, she’d watched a man urinating on a light pole, like a dog—except he didn’t lift his leg. Casey wasn’t looking forward to seeing her father, but she was anxious for a little fresh air and countryside. She hadn’t been home to Willow Creek in far too long.
And if a zillion turkeys were soon going to be her neighbors, she’d better get there and breathe the clean air fast, she thought with a naughty grin. Her father might not be amused, but somehow Casey couldn’t help thinking that Red’s battle with fowl was too ironic for words. She just hoped he’d resigned himself to the reality of the fact that, although she’d give him a few legal pointers, she wasn’t going to lead his troops into battle. Casey had given up fighting with her father—even on the same team—years ago.
NATHAN KEPT HIS PACE brisk for the first six blocks, but then—in typical San Francisco style—the street started a vertical climb. His breath turned hot and his legs began to quiver.
He’d promised himself this new move would include daily exercise, which is why he was walking to the office. He’d always done his best to include a workout in his routine, but over the years the demands of his profession had eaten away at his resolve. Now, his knees creaked and his chest was heaving as if he’d run a marathon. He had run in marathons in college, so he knew the feeling that came from pushing his body beyond the point of giving up.
Nathan prided himself on never giving up. Which probably explained why he felt so conflicted about his marriage. He loved his wife, dammit. But this past year had been difficult. Adversarial. He and Casey seemed constantly on the opposite sides of the bargaining table. Every issue—right down to where to eat at night—had become a power play. He’d started communicating with her by e-mail just because he couldn’t muster the energy it took to argue. Or, worse, be supportive.
Ever since they’d found out their third IVF procedure had failed to take, Casey had seemed unnaturally needy. His ebullient, savvy wife had been humbled by the process. After each medical appointment, her pride and self-confidence dimmed like a hundred-watt bulb during one of California’s infamous brownouts. And as much as Nathan wanted to be supportive and understanding, he wanted his old life back even more.
He knew that was selfish, unfeeling and downright callous, but his self-esteem had taken a bruising, too. What man likes to learn that his sperm was made up of sluggish swimmers? He’d vowed after the last go-around that he would never again let his spermatozoa be put on trial without adequate counsel.
Fortunately, Casey’s doctor had agreed they needed to take a break. “Step back from the plate and regroup,” he’d said. “I’m wondering if this imminent move hasn’t played a part in some subconscious sabotage.”
Nathan hated the man. No matter how carefully each member of the reproductive team couched the words or hinted at excuses, the failure of Casey to conceive still came down to one thing: Nathan couldn’t get his wife pregnant. He couldn’t perform one simple act of procreation. And his ego was smarting every bit as much as Casey’s.
They’d licked their emotional wounds in silence and embraced a new plan. “I’m not crazy about moving to San Francisco—it’s way too close to you-know-where,” Casey had said. “But maybe a change of venue will do us both good.”
Unlike Nathan who’d always intended to return to his home state someday, which was why he’d taken both the California and Massachusetts State bar exams right out of college, Casey thought of herself as an east-coast girl. Even after learning of Nathan’s transfer, she’d made no effort to get temporary privileges in California.
“I’ll know when it’s right to get back into the game,” she’d said, waving away Nathan’s suggestion that it didn’t hurt to be prepared.
To Nathan, this complacence proved something he’d always known. Casey might have one of the sharpest legal minds he’d ever encountered, but her heart wasn’t in the practice of law. Never had been. That was why she’d accepted a job with a low-paying national land conservancy instead of joining him at Silver, Reisbecht and Lane. Not that he was complaining. He and Casey were too competitive to work side-by-side.
Besides, he often bragged that while he played the corporate game, she was his civic conscience. Still, when his sperm had come under fire, he’d been tempted to point a finger and say, “You try working eighty billable hours a week while juggling three high-profile cases and see what happens to your reproductive system.”
Fortunately, Nathan had learned a long time ago when to keep his mouth shut. He’d watched his parents spar with words far too often as a child and had done his best to keep his arguments confined to court, where the rules were clear and a judge would intercede before the barbs got too vicious.
Nathan stopped a block from his building. He tried not to look too obvious as he lifted his arms to let the brisk breeze air-dry some of his perspiration. This isn’t going to work, he decided, glancing at his watch. He couldn’t spend his day in close quarters with this disorganized, uninspired group when he wasn’t at his best. Nor could the boss show up late when he expected his employees to be at the legal grindstone promptly at eight.
Maybe he’d join a gym. If Casey wound up helping her father with his legal matters, she would probably spend time in the Valley.
Nathan hadn’t paid much attention to Red’s battle—something about an abundance of turkey manure polluting the water table and befouling the air.
Taking a deep breath, Nathan righted his shoulders and set off again. He was knee-deep in shit of a different kind and he couldn’t shovel it all alone. He needed to hire some new blood. Or get an infusion from a known source.
A tingle he would have preferred no
t to feel made its way through his abdomen. Yesterday, after a particularly frustrating meeting with his staff, he’d impulsively fired off an e-mail to Gwyneth Jacobi. “Have you ever thought of working in San Francisco?”
He tightened his grip on his briefcase. Gwyn was a friend, a comrade-in-arms. He liked her mind and respected her work ethic. Wasn’t it natural that he’d want a team player like her working for him?
Nathan was saved from lying to himself when one of the men who had been up for his job joined him in the elevator. The man whose name Nathan couldn’t remember made eye contact with him and mumbled a gruff, “Good morning.”
Nathan nodded in greeting, then pushed the button for the twenty-fifth floor. A trickle of sweat escaped from his sideburn, but Nathan snubbed it out with his thumb.
“You walked to work?” the man asked, obviously surprised.
“Yes. My wife needed the car. Her father lives in the Central Valley and she’s headed over there to see him.”
“Where in the Valley? I’m from Visalia originally,” the man said.
Nathan, who was trying desperately to remember the fellow’s name, mumbled, “A ranch near Chowchilla, which is—”
“I know where it is. In fact, I’m handling a potential complaint against one of our largest clients, GroWell Ag, Inc. They’re planning on building a new operation on some land they bought, but now the locals are crying, NIMBY.”
Eric. Eric Mathers. That was his name. Stanford grad. Underutilized.
“NIMBY?” Nathan repeated. He knew the term, of course, but a sudden sense of dread made his thought processes freeze.
“Not in my backyard,” Eric clarified. “GroWell’s land clearly has an ag-exclusive land-use designation, but the neighbors are claiming foul,” he said with a wink. “Pun fully intended, of course.”
Nathan’s mouth went dry. “Come again?”
The elevator door opened. Eric, who was probably fifteen years older than Nathan and twenty pounds heavier, stepped out and waited for Nathan to exit. As they started toward the double doors with the elegant gold lettering, he explained, “The fowl in this case is turkeys. GroWell is one of the largest turkey farming operations on the west coast. They’ve had to battle for every single new setup, but they always win.” He paused with one hand straight-armed on the wooden push bar. “I always win for them.”
A Baby on the Way Page 3
