Blame it on Paris

by Lise McClendon

  She shut her eyes, picturing Tom’s face at the start, his wide, appealing smile, his blue eyes. How he’d turned his charm on her— turned it up so hot she got burned.

  “How old is this person?” Annie asked.

  “Around twenty-three.”

  “Then it wasn’t while you were married,” Stasia said with relief. “It had to be long before.”

  They chattered about the exact years Francie and Tom were together and came to Stasia’s conclusion: Tom’s son must have been born long before they were a couple. So why did Tom mention her in these letters?

  “How are you mentioned?” Elise asked.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen the letters yet. Dewey’s meeting me for lunch tomorrow in New Haven. He’s bringing them.”

  “That should be interesting,” Annie said.

  “Call us,” Stasia said.

  “Yes,” Elise said. “No matter what you decide about the stoner.”

  The traffic on Friday afternoon lived up to every expectation. Francie was late getting to the New Haven bistro Dewey Framingham had picked out, a once-hip place that had seen better days. It wasn’t far from campus. The skim of dirt and sawdust on the floor didn’t give her a good feeling as she pushed open the scuffed door and looked around. The fact that all the tables were full, and a low roar emanated from happy diners made her feel better.

  Across the room an arm was waving. Dewey hadn’t described himself so she’d told him the color of her coat— pink. She made her way toward the table of the waving arm and discovered Dewey, a tall, chunky young man with dark, wavy hair, wearing a loose tie, a striped shirt, and khakis. A sports jacket and a ratty down coat hung on the back of his chair. He had an open face, the kind people trusted with their money, and smiled at her as he rose to pull out her chair.

  “Sorry I’m late, Dewey.”

  His name suited him, an old-fashioned nickname. He had pink cheeks and downturned eyes. He probably came from old money, with that Yale degree and all. He made her feel comfortable and recommended the hamburgers. Francie noticed truffle fries, thought of France, and ordered them. They fell onto their Cokes as if thirst was rampant.

  Francie kept her impatience in check, smoothing her napkin on her lap, smiling around the room, eating her burger— or as much of it as she could stomach. The fries did not disappoint. The burger was tasty but enormous. Dewey had a healthy appetite but then he was over six feet tall and looked like he rarely missed a meal. Finally, their plates cleared, Dewey extracted a small manila envelope from his sports jacket.

  “Here they are,” he said, pushing them over. “I don’t know if I should let you keep them, but for sure Reece won’t mind if you read them. Especially the ones mentioning you.”

  Francie peeked inside the envelope. “Are they all from Tom?” There looked like about ten letters, on thin blue stationery.

  “Plus one from Reece in prison.” Dewey shrugged. “I hope you can help him. He must feel so alone over there, everybody speaking French and all.”

  “Tell me about him,” Francie said, pulling out the packet of letters. “How far back do these go?”

  “A couple years before Tom died. Reece’s a good guy. We were buds at prep— bros, you know? We took a bunch of the same classes. We were an odd pair but we had a lot in common back then. Then we went to different colleges so I didn’t see him much.” Dewey’s eyes turned even sadder. “And, like I said, he was kind of a stoner. That kinda took over. He never finished college. He kept getting kicked out. Partied a lot. His parents were always on his case.”

  He looked up sheepishly. “I always thought if his parents had been more supportive, you know, like, understanding? Then he might have done well in school. He was good in chemistry and math— and even French, you know? For awhile.”

  Francie frowned at the packet tied with a bit of brown string. Or, he was just a party boy and his parents were right about cutting him off. But Tom hadn’t obviously.

  She tried to remember the last time she saw her ex-husband. Had it been at that wedding, the one where she couldn’t figure out why she was invited until she remembered the groom was one of Tom’s groomsmen at their wedding? Possibly. It was one of those full-on twinkly drunken-reception-at-a-fancy-country-club affairs. Crowds of strangers. And Tom. He looked worn-down that night, weathered, older. He told her he had quit flying and was a flight instructor. He looked baffled about that. He had been sweet though, and twirled her around the dance floor a couple times.

  When was that? Five years ago, at least.

  “Did you meet Tom?” she asked.

  “Nope. But Reece got together with him at least once while we roomed together.” He touched his napkin to his lips. “I see somebody I should talk to. I’m going to let you look through the letters on your own. Okay?”

  She smiled as he rose, winding through tables to greet somebody. It was kind of him to leave her alone and she quickly slipped the letters out of the string, one by one, smoothing them, glancing through them. There was Tom’s tortured handwriting, messy and hard to read. Her eye caught ‘father’ and ‘son’ and the usual pleasantries. How were they related exactly? Who was Reece’s mother? Harlan and Claudia must have adopted him, she figured. Tom mentioned a mother several times, but no name.

  There wasn’t time to read Tom’s chicken scratches and mull over hidden meanings. She had to get back to the office. She smoothed out the small, blue sheets of paper and quickly snapped photos of them with her phone. The loud diners surrounding her didn’t blink an eye. Everybody photographed their food these days— why not letters?

  She was staring at the last one, a plain white sheet, stained and wrinkled, from Reece in prison, when Dewey returned to the table.

  “He sounds desperate, doesn’t he?” Dewey said, grimacing. “Poor guy.”

  The letter from prison did sound bad. Reece had small but legible handwriting. Conditions were cramped. He was in a cell with a Tunisian and a Moroccan, neither of whom understood his French and fought with him and stole from him. He had no lawyer, no visitors, no communication with authorities. It was like he’d been thrown into solitary confinement, only somehow worse.

  “How can this be?” Francie wondered aloud. “No one is going to see him, no public defender or whatever they have?”

  “I don’t know,” Dewey said. “I guess not. Do you know a French lawyer?”

  She shook her head. “Maybe. I can try.” Dewey’s face lit up. Before he could exclaim his thanks she put her hand on his arm. “But wait, tell me. Who is Reece’s mother?”

  He frowned. “Claudia? She’s a good person. Not super warm but she always made me feel welcome there. I think she’s a nurse, or something. No, maybe she’s in sales. Anyway she and Reece argued a lot, especially after the divorce.”

  “I mean his biological mother. Did he find her too? With the DNA thing.”

  He looked confused. “Claudia is his biological mother.”

  Francie sucked in a breath. “Oh, I— I just assumed he was adopted.”

  Well, of course. Tom had an affair with a married woman. That would be just like him. That son of a bitch.

  Dewey took the packet of letters and put the string back around them. “I guess he liked kids, huh.”

  She blinked, coming back from her anger. “Why do you say that?”

  “That one letter.” He rifled through them and pulled one out. “I put this sticker on them for you. Did I forget to tell you?” He pointed to a small blue circular sticker on the back of one sheet. “That means you’re mentioned.” He opened it up and scanned down the sheet. He flipped it over. “Here it is.” He read it aloud.

  ‘My ex-wife, Francie Bennett, would have made a great mother, even if she doesn’t know it. She’s a high-powered lawyer so she doesn’t have time but I would have loved to have kids.’

  Dewey looked up. “That’s how I knew to contact you.”

  Francie stared across the table at nothing. The weight of the failure of her marriage, a
ll the betrayals and regrets, the lost time and squandered opportunities, all the energy and emotion wasted, pushed down on her shoulders. Sometimes she wished she’d never met Tom Ramey. He felt like nothing but heartache.

  She shivered and tried to shake it off. Ten years had passed since the divorce. She hadn’t let herself wallow in should-have-beens or could-have-beens for years. Why had Tom had all those affairs? Had she not loved him enough? Why did he drink? Why couldn’t she save him? Why did anything happen in this crazy world?

  Because it did. That was all. Because it happened and there was no changing it now. Somehow that didn’t help the lump of regret in her chest.

  Dewey’s voice was soft: “Did you ever have kids?”

  She blinked, coming back to the bistro. “Thank you for letting me see the letters. I wonder if I should keep the one from Reece. If I’m going to help him find a lawyer.”

  “Sure!” Dewey pulled out the last letter, the only one with an envelope, and handed it to her. “So you’ll do it? You’ll get him out of prison?”

  “Let’s take it one step at a time. No promises, Dewey. Oh, can you send me a photo of him?”

  “Sure. His Facebook page is still up.”

  She fished out a business card from her purse. “You’ve talked to his parents about this?”

  “I talked to his mother. She said she was washing her hands of him. I don’t know what happened. Pretty sad when your own mother won’t help you.”

  “She knows he’s in prison?”

  He nodded. “She got a letter too.” Dewey leaned toward her, his young, earnest, peach-fuzz face deadly serious. “I really hope you can help him, Miss Bennett.”

  Five

  Francie checked her watch: nearly three. The law firm was quiet, the usual for Friday afternoon when the partners ducked out for golf or cocktails. She threw off her coat and sat down at her desk, furiously checking her mail as her assistant stepped into the doorway.

  “Yes?” Francie liked Alice but the sight of her usually meant some new workload. What would it be today? New case, a break-room row, interview requests? She tossed the unimportant mail into a pile and looked up.

  Alice’s credentials as a legal assistant were above par. She could be a paralegal if she wanted. If only she dressed a little more professionally, instead of costume-y gingham dresses and torn goth tops. Today her tights had gaping holes and her skirt was a weird tie-dye thing. Her blond hair had a streak of pink through it. Not unattractive but— she was going to have to talk to Alice about office attire. No way around it. But not today.

  Alice wrung her hands then shook them out. Her young face looked worried. “What is it, Alice?”

  “Um, Miss McFall wants to talk to you. Pronto, she said.”

  “Pronto?” Francie had to smile. Her mentor, Brenda McFall, had never used that term before.

  Alice shrugged. “She’s waiting. I guess she has some thing soon, a meeting or a— something.” She stepped backwards and vanished down the hall.

  Francie took a few minutes to go through her email and her in-box for pressing business. Nothing from Brenda so she could wait. Finally Francie closed down her computer and walked to her mentor’s office. The door was shut.

  Brenda called out for her to come in when she knocked. “You wanted to see me?” Francie asked, breezing in. Brenda sat straight-backed behind her desk. She told Francie to shut the door and motioned for her to sit down.

  “What’s up?” Something was up. Francie felt a niggling itch of anxiety.

  Brenda folded her hands on the blotter. “There’s been a complaint filed. By Greg Leonard.”

  “Against who?”

  “Against you, Francie.”

  She paused, keeping her face neutral. “What about?”

  “He says you are unfair and condescending.”

  Then Francie couldn’t stop herself. She frowned, fiercely she knew, and rolled her eyes. “He’s immature, Brenda. Always asking for favors and special attention. Every day it’s some new complaint. His chicken pot pies melted in the freezer. Someone stole his best pens. His African violet was hideously sabotaged.”

  Brenda nodded solemnly. She had dyed black hair, piled high on her head. She was in her late sixties but still holding back the tide, as they say, with only a few crow’s feet around the eyes. She took off her half glasses and sighed.

  “There’s more. He says he asked you for a raise and you implied he would have to work for it. In, you know, a personal way.”

  Francie froze. “What?”

  “Let me just read it.” Brenda picked up a sheet of paper. “‘I have been working at Ward & Bailee long enough to be, at minimum, under consideration for a promotion. I consistently get good reports from clients and other lawyers but have been denied even a suggestion of a referral for promotion from Ms. Bennett. She often answers my concerns in an unfair and condescending manner. Instead of replying to my request for a promotion she implied I would need to do some ‘personal work’ for her if I wanted a raise. That is, I would have to offer sexual favors to her in exchange for a promotion.’”

  Francie felt the blood rush up her neck to her cheeks. “What the—?”

  Brenda’s mouth twisted to one side. “This is serious, Francie.”

  “Wait— you believe that little—?” Brenda’s frown stopped her. “Sorry, I know you know his parents— but he is not working out. I never should have hired him. He’s a lazy little liar.”

  Brenda stiffened. “I don’t know about that. But it doesn’t matter whether he’s right or you’re right. It’s always he said/she said in these situations. What I believe is immaterial. It can’t be ignored.”

  Francie jumped up and walked to the window, crossing her arms protectively across her chest. “When did whatever this was supposedly take place?”

  “He is vague on the details.”

  “I bet he is.” She turned back to her mentor. “What will you do?”

  “I have to take it to Human Resources. There’s a strict procedure for sexual harassment claims, as you know.”

  Francie spun back to the window, watching the gray clouds gather and the sleet begin to fall. An apt metaphor for her situation.

  The words “sexual harassment” hung in the air. As the new assistant managing partner, she had re-written the guidelines herself last fall, strengthening them, outlining the steps that must be taken if an accusation is made. Ironic now, she would find out how well she’d done. She’d been so careful to put in safeguards for accusers. Had she put in anything to save the careers of managers falsely accused? That remained to be seen. She’d never imagined herself as being accused, or any woman actually. It happened, she was sure, but was rare enough that she hadn’t thought about it while writing the guidelines. It was men who took advantage, who groped and made unwelcome advances. What had she done? Refused to have a drink with him?

  She closed her eyes, trying to remember what the guidelines said about the accused. Was there a hearing? Did they have to prove they hadn’t said— or done— something? Her stomach clenched. That would be difficult. It was next to impossible to prove something didn’t happen. Every lawyer knew that.

  She turned back. “When will you submit it? Today?”

  Brenda gave her a pitying look that made Francie’s skin crawl. “Oh, I think it can wait until Monday, don’t you?”

  Francie couldn’t sleep that night. She methodically went through every encounter with Greg Leonard she could dredge up in her memory, filing away any possible misunderstandings or flirtations for follow-up. What did she ever do to Greg Leonard? Well, she was a bit short with him, more than once. He seemed to invite that with his weaselly attitude. He was a simpering tool. But had she actually said something that could be construed as asking for sexual favors? Ugh. She certainly wasn’t attracted to him, she knew that for a fact. She’d never flirted with him, not consciously.

  No, Greg was getting back at her for something. For refusing to go for a drink? That couldn’t be the iss
ue. It must be the promotion, or lack thereof. Had he asked for a promotion? She couldn’t remember. He asked for a lot of things, like a better break-room fridge, more vacation days, and more fascinating cases.

  Then she remembered a case they worked on together, about four months before. It was fairly standard, a contract dispute between a doctor and the hospital that employed him. She’d asked Greg to do the background work on the contract, to follow up with the doctor, to dig up some past decisions. He had gone overboard, working all weekend, finding dozens of similar cases and producing reams of documents. When she had gently told him— she had been gentle, hadn’t she— that he needed to focus, to cull his giant pile of cases to ones that would specifically help the doctor, he’d acted hurt and angry. He’d yelled at her. Told her to go to hell, that he’d been working his ass off, for her.

  By Monday morning though the whole thing had blown over. Greg was back to normal and Francie had forgotten about the incident, writing it off to fatigue. But Greg may not have written off. He may have been harboring resentment all this time.

  Did he have a significant other? Francie wracked her brain into the night, trying to remember everything she could about him. She searched his social media pages, finding very little except that he was a graduate of Swarthmore and her own law school. Like most lawyers he was nearly invisible on the internet.

  As dawn broke she fell into a fitful sleep, wondering what the hell would happen next. When she woke a couple hours later her dream lingered. She was in law school, back where she pictured Greg Leonard scribbling away in the front row, all eager eyes and sweaty armpits. But it wasn’t Greg in her dream, it was her own time in law school. With her boyfriend, Dylan, a classmate.

  Then they were in bed together, she and Dylan in his narrow single bed in the chilly sleeping porch in the apartment where he roomed with three other students. He was stroking her hair and humming artlessly.