by Kathryn Shay
Which was only right. She was his student, and he needed professional distance from her. The fact that he noticed those deeper-than-midnight dark eyes, the high cheekbones and her patrician features had no bearing on things.
Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he picked up his satchel and walked out of the room, too, a bit disturbed by his thoughts.
* * *
The January night was cold but dry. Mariella tried hard to concentrate on her driving, but thoughts of Dr. Dubois intruded. He was a kind, considerate man...and wildly attractive. She didn’t want to notice his broad shoulders and his long lean body or how much she liked chestnut-colored hair.
Her phone buzzed, and all thoughts of the man fled. The car caller ID revealed it was Mamá. Mari hoped nothing was wrong for her to call at 4:00 a.m. in Casarina. “Ciao, Mamá.”
“Cara figlia. Nothing is wrong. Your father had to get up and fly out for a meeting and I arose with him.”
“I’m glad nothing’s wrong.”
“How are you? I know classes started today. Which one did you have today?”
“Ethics and Lawyers Seminar.”
She heard a chuckle. “I could make a droll comment on that.”
“The professor started the class with seven sarcastic jokes on the board about lawyers.”
“Interesting. Was anyone insulted?”
“No one dared show it if they were. He kept giving information about the course and telling us we could drop out any time if we didn’t agree with what he planned to do.”
“Seriously?”
“Since fifty people put in for the lottery to take the class, I’m not surprised.”
“Who is teaching it?”
“Jordan Dubois. He’s from France and he’s won a Pulitzer Prize for his book on ethics.”
“I’ve heard of him in the news. But Dubois sounds familiar from somewhere else.”
“His daughter Yvette and Lilliana have become fast friends in the after-school program at Georgetown. She probably talked about the girl when we were home. They’ve been asking for an overnight for months. Now they’re insisting.”
Nothing on her mother’s end.
“I know it would be unprofessional, but the girls don’t care.”
Renata said, “Like you did not.”
“Excuse me?”
“Remember when you became friends with Louisa Cortello?”
“I forgot about that. Her father was a journalist and wrote some scathing editorials about Papá.”
“And you two wanted to spend more time together. Have overnights.”
“You let us.”
“We had no choice. There is no fury like an adolescent girl,” Mamá said with humor in her voice as she altered the well-known phrase.
“I remember. Our girls are a bit younger, but that applies. I’m glad to hear all this because I broke down and Yvette is coming for the weekend.”
“Well, enjoy her, cara. When we see her, Louisa still asks about you.”
“I can’t remember if her father and Papá changed because of us.”
“No, not a bit. But they respected each other.”
“Mamá, did you have one of your feelings about us? That one of us was troubled?”
“Actually, no. Perhaps my mother’s radar is my subconscious working. Did I help?”
“Very much. Grazie.”
“Sei la benvenuta. Sleep well.”
“I will. I love you Mamá.”
“Ti amo.”
When they disconnected, Mariella felt much better. Mamá always did that for her. She hoped that was the kind of relationship she and her own daughter were forging, too.
Chapter 2
With Lilliana in bed asleep, Mariella booted up her computer at the oak desk in the corner of the living room by the stairway. The faint odor of grilled cheese and tomato soup, at her daughter’s request, lingered from dinner and was surprisingly comforting. They rarely had anything like that at the palace. From the window off to the side of her desk, the snow fell in big fat flakes outside, making the yard a pleasant winter scene.
She sat staring at the screen, thinking of Dr. Dubois’s assignment.
A two-page paper, written on some ethical issue you feel strongly about. The topic doesn’t have to be a legal one. And only write it once. No editing or revising. Write from the heart. You can even tell personal stories, but know you’ll read them aloud in class.
He’d been amused when the students grumbled, his sea-blue eyes showing his mirth, his full mouth turning up a bit at the corners.
So, what should she write about? What was an ethical concern of hers? Infidelity was the first thing that came to mind. For personal reasons. Very personal. While she was pregnant with Lilliana, Arturo, her beloved husband, had a one- night stand with a waitress at the restaurant he ran with his parents. Mari was in her ninth month and they’d stopped having sex. She never found out about the peccadillo until six months after Lilliana was born. He’d confessed because he was plagued by guilt. By then, they’d only been married a year, but they’d been betrothed since they were thirteen and had fallen in love soon after that. He contended since he’d never been with anyone else, he wanted one fling before the child was born.
Crushed, Mari had packed her bags and gone back to the palace to live. It took him six months to convince her he was sorry. And for her to admit that during those months before the baby was born, she’d been a real bitch. The pregnancy, which happened pre-marriage, had been unplanned and she was not happy about it. Tearfully, they’d reunited, but had only another six months together before a stove at the restaurant blew up in his face. He’d died five days later. And still, to this day, she’d regretted the fact that she’d wasted those precious months when they could have been together.
She drummed her fingers on the desk. What would make the writing of it easier? She smiled. Sometimes the imp inside her rose up without warning. No one expected she had a mischievous side, so they were always surprised when it surfaced. Instead of typing the paper in English, she clicked into French software. That might please Dr. Dubois. Might make him laugh.
Her fingers tapped away on the keyboard:
Infidelity is not only an ethical issue, it’s a psychological, social and highly personal thing...
When she finished, she sat back, loosened the knots in her neck with several shoulder shrugs, then checked the clock on her phone. The two pages had taken only an hour to write. She even felt a bit better getting all that out, as only her parents knew about the separation. They’d told her sisters Arturo had come to the palace with her because they needed help with the baby. But now, writing about her feelings must have been cathartic, even though she hadn’t directly included her personal experience.
She wondered what Dr. Dubois would think of the issue? She wondered if he’d ever been unfaithful to Yvette’s mother. She wondered why he was in the U.S. without her. Lillianna had said her mama lived on the French Riviera. That’s all Mari knew.
She pressed print and stood to go to bed. It was none of her business what had happened in her teacher’s life. She wasn’t a snooper, nor did she like when people snooped into her private matters.
* * *
Jordan awoke with a start. Looking around wildly, his hands bunched in the sheets, he tried to get his bearings. Was it Yvette? Had she cried out? Then he realized his cell phone, muffled some under the pillow on his bed, was ringing. He fished blindly for it. “Allo.”
“Hello, mon amour. Did I wake you?”
Damn it to hell. “Yes, you woke me, Elise. It’s five a.m. here.”
“I just went out.”
“Of course you did.”
“Don’t be cranky, Jordan.” She pronounced his name Jor-dán.
Sleep vanishing, he asked, “What do you want?”
“The strangest thing happened.” Her teasing voice took on an edge. “I went to get money at the casino and the machine said I had no balance.”
He sat back against the
padded headboard. “Money was transferred to your account on Monday, as usual.”
“I’m afraid I had some bad luck earlier in the week. And I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the amount. I want it doubled.”
Jordan had family money. He had scads of book earnings that were regularly coming in. Still, he said, “No.”
Silence. Then, “Ah, well you know I’m missing Yvette.” Her voice dropped lower and took on a sinister tone. “Perhaps I’ll call my avocat tomorrow and see about bringing her to Monaco on a permanent basis.”
He gripped the phone. Counted to ten. Drew in a breath. He suppressed the emotion so much, his chest hurt with it. And did what he usually did with this impossible woman. “All right, whatever you want. I’ll make the arrangements for your blackmail tomorrow.”
“Why, whatever do you mean?”
When he said nothing, she hung up.
Jordan lay back down and closed his eyes, thinking about how he’d fucked up his family situation. Beginning with his marriage to Elise Bisset. God, he hated the mistakes he’d made. He’d been paying for them all his adult life.
Stop it! He told himself. You have Yvette. You have a career you love. You’ve had success. Don’t be ungrateful.
For a while, he stared out the window and at the tree there, laden with snow. The moon was still up, and it was almost full. Then he checked the bedside clock and decided he might as well rise for the day. Once in the kitchen, he found Yvette already awake and at the table. Her braided hair was messy, and she wore pink fleece pajamas with unicorns on them. “Bonjour, papa.”
“Bonjour, ma petite trésor. You’re up early.”
“I’m so excited about going to Lilliana’s house. I packed.”
“You do remember that’s not until tomorrow.”
“Yes, Papa. But I wanted to be ready.”
He kissed her head on his way to the coffee pot. He’d set it up last night, and Yvette had taken to turning it on for him if she rose first. The strong brew filled the air. “Thank you for thinking of me.”
She scraped the chair back, got up and crossed to him. Hugged him around the waist. “I’m so happy you’re letting me go to Mari’s house.”
He didn’t tell her he wasn’t the stumbling block. Life was. Mariella Moretti was. He only said, “De rien.”
As he sipped his coffee and his daughter ate Cheerios, he wondered what Ms. Moretti had written about for this week’s assignment. She had more self-confidence in class than he expected her to have. She was so delicate, in build and stature. But she’d volunteered in discussion frequently. And showed amusement at the asshole Walker, even dared to contradict him. He liked having her in class.
And he was thinking about her again. Banishing her from his thoughts, he sat down at the table with his daughter. “Let’s go over our day. Maybe we’ll have dinner out tonight.”
“Anything, Papa.”
She couldn’t be more different from her mother. And she was worth every penny he’d had to pay the selfish bitch to keep her.
* * *
Barclay Williamson read his paper. “To me, the biggest ethical consideration in schools is curve grading. We shouldn’t be compared to others. It’s unethical to make judgments on our work by comparing it to classmates. Georgetown has several classes that grade on curves...”
Anna Carrington was next. “How can anyone write about anything but governmental lack of ethics? James Manwaring campaigned on ejecting all cheaters and liars and pilferers out of government. Yet our Congress...”
Ahmad Bashir read his paper. “Prejudice against Muslims is abhorrent. Blaming them for every terrorist attack is unfair. Personal bias is unethical...”
Mariella Moretti’s paper said, “This has nothing to do with the law. It isn’t even about the Ten Commandments. It’s personal and private and can ruin you and your family’s lives. Marital infidelity may not be illegal, but it’s against common decency...”
Jordan listened to all the students read, and by the end of the two hours, he had pretty solid insight into each of them. And some of the papers shocked him. Like the boy who’d sat at the end of the horseshoe in front of him and hadn’t said a word. His scathing commentary on governmental ethics belied his quiet demeanor. One other less-vocal student had also written passionately. An interesting phenomenon came in the fact that two of the students who’d dominated the first class discussion wrote on superficial topics.
And then there was Mariella Moretti. He wondered
briefly if she could possibly know things about him, then dismissed that. Could infidelity have happened to her? She was hardly old enough for that, though he knew from Yvette her husband had died when Lilliana was a year old, so she must have been a young bride. And why the hell would anyone cheat on her? Maybe she was the cheater, though he doubted that.
When the last student finished, he addressed the class. “Good job to those of you who went deep and argued passionately. Some of you who took no risks might consider broadening your minds. We have a few minutes. On the back of your papers answer the two questions on the whiteboard. Whose paper did you agree with most and why? Whose paper did you disagree with most and why.
“When you’re finished, hand them into me, and you can leave for the night.”
Two students left immediately. Three more left after five minutes. Mariella followed them, and he nodded to her. She nodded back.
He picked up her paper and laughed out loud. The remaining students were startled. Hell, he needed to be more circumspect, but the fact that she wrote in his native language was funny and heartwarming at the same time. She was full of surprises.
* * *
Mariella arrived at Dr. Dubois’s office for her independent study at four p.m. on Thursday. She knocked on the ajar door, heard, “Come in,” and stepped inside. The room smelled like something very male—aftershave or cologne. It was subtle but...sexy, she guessed.
“Boungiorno, Ms. Moretti.”
“Bonjour, Dr. Dubois.”
“Sit down at the table.” Picking up his coffee cup, he offered to get her some espresso.
She wrinkled her nose.
“What?”
“I’m afraid I’m spoiled. Mamá sends us all the rich, dark beans from Casarina to make our coffee.”
“You are spoiled then. But we have some good espresso in France, and I need coffee at work. Would you like to try a cup?”
“All right.”
When he sat down adjacent to her, she asked, “Do you find it boring? Teaching here?”
“Not at all.” Staring into her eyes he said, “I find my students invigorating. Especially those who write in French.” A very male grin. “I enjoyed your paper immensely. Thank you for taking the extra time with it. I only need coffee because I’m hooked on caffeine.”
“As far as vices go, that’s the most harmless.”
“Why is it you’re fluent in French?”
“I liked language growing up, and was always looking up words in foreign languages. Because of that, my parents brought in tutors for three other languages. I was able to speak in Italian, of course, but also French, Spanish and German by the time I was seventeen.”
“An impressive accomplishment. You are a very interesting woman.” He cleared his throat. He held up her paper. “The topic was heavy.”
“Aren’t most ethic subjects heavy?”
“Not all the writers in the class thought so.”
“I agree. But some wrote meaty papers.”
“So,” he said more professionally, “tell me what interests you most about French Law. We’ll guide your independent work in those directions.” He winked at her. “I can even pick out some books.”
“Students are rigid here, probably in any law school. They like routine; they need the security of knowing exactly what they are to do.”
“Is that true for you?”
She gave him a sideways glance. “I used to need security very much. I’ve grown out of that. I find it...invigor
ating to get challenging and interesting assignments.”
“Ah, well, a return compliment.” He bowed his head.
“But to answer your question, I’m interested in Commercial Law, Anti-Discrimination Law, Family Law and Environmental Law. I could go on but that’s a lot, I know, for one two-credit independent study.”
“We have sixteen weeks together. We can either touch on each subject, or do a deeper study into a few. Three maybe.”
“The deeper study. I took several commercial law classes in undergrad and my first two years in law school. How about Anti-Discrimination Law and Environmental Law for my father, and Family Law for me.”
“I’m confused.”
“I’m going back...home after this semester to work with him.”
“And I go back to France, then, too.”
“Then we should make the most of our time together.”
His eyes darkened to almost navy. Mari wondered why. Then the mood shifted, and he took up the pen and legal pad on the table. “Let’s break things down some today.”
“Personally, I’m interested in family laws of different countries.”
His face paled a bit. She wondered why. But since he picked right up on her suggestion, she didn’t ask.
* * *
“God bless you two.” Raven’s comment came with a hint of exasperation. She referred to the bursts of noise coming from the living room of Brie’s house, accompanied by occasional thuds and some godawful rock music.
“What?” Mariella asked. “You don’t like the sound of children having fun?”
“What are they doing?” Raven asked, ignoring the question.
“Believe it or not, they’re playing the old Twister game we insisted Papá find for us. Dante bought it for his niece and nephew because it had been a favorite of his.”
