Finger Prints

by Barbara Delinsky

She closed her eyes for an instant. “You’re impossible. Have I told you that before?”

  “Many times,” he said without a shred of remorse.

  She sent him a chiding glance. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him lightly before breaking away. “Go change and then come up. I’m broiling swordfish.”

  “You smell like beer,” he called after her, but the anger was gone from his voice and she relaxed.

  An hour later, she was still relaxed, sitting back in her chair drinking the coffee Ryan had brewed. The table was strewn with dirty plates, which neither of them had the desire to clear.

  “Tell you what,” Ryan began, turning sideways and propping his stockinged feet on the lower rung of her chair. “If I go out to dinner with Sam and his wife, will you come to a dinner with me?”

  “What dinner?”

  “There’s a convention here next week of the National Criminal Defense Attorneys’ Association.”

  “My God, that’s a mouthful.”

  “Wait’ll you hear the rest. There’s a banquet on Friday night.”

  She screwed up her face. “A banquet? As in dressy?”

  “Nah. Trial lawyers don’t know how to dress. “You know that.” They’d already been through Carly’s aversion to lawyers, though she’d made a joke of it and had never elaborated on its cause.

  “I thought I did, until I met you.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, I thank you. But we’re skirting the issue. Will you go?”

  “To the banquet? I don’t know, Ryan. All those lawyers in one room.” She was teasing him, but only half so. Ryan excepted, lawyers still gave her the creeps.

  “It’ll be boring. I can’t argue with you about that. But think of how awful it’ll be for me if I have to go alone.”

  “Do you have to go?”

  The cord in his neck jumped when he grimaced. “I’m speaking.”

  Eyes widening, Carly sat forward. “You’re speaking? How can you do this to me, Ryan?” She knew she could never refuse him, given the circumstances. He knew it too.

  “I agreed to go out with Sam and Ellen,” he reminded her.

  It was the clincher. She was lost. “All right. But on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That except for the time you’re on the podium you stay with me. I won’t be left alone to fend for myself in that crowd.”

  Taking her hand, Ryan swung it gently between their chairs. “What did you ever do before I came along?” he teased.

  “I didn’t go partying with hordes of shifty lawyers, that’s for sure!” she retorted, but her gruffness was mostly for show. “What are you talking on, anyway?”

  His eyes danced. “What every lawyer longs to know—how to make friends and influence people.”

  “You are not,” she scolded, squeezing his hand.

  “Actually, I was planning to speak about ethics and the image of the criminal lawyer.”

  “That I do approve of. A much needed topic of discussion.”

  He tipped his dark head and spied her through half-closed eyes. “Anything else good to say about my profession?”

  “You’re in it.”

  A chuckle reverberated in his throat as he leaned forward and smacked a rewarding kiss on her lips. “All the right answers. Smart lady….”

  With her Creative Writing class over and the mid-morning break under way, Carly returned to her office to change notebooks and found a message on her desk. The sight of the pink slip sent an involuntary chill through her, bringing thought of yesterday and Sam’s call. But this call wasn’t from Sam. It was from Ryan. Lifting the phone, she quickly call him back. This time, when she identified herself to his secretary, she was instantly recognized.

  “Oh, Mrs. Quinn, I’m sorry about what happened last week. I should have put you through. I had no idea—”

  “It’s all right.” Carly smiled, her voice kind. “You had no way of knowing. I just assumed Ryan would realize I was home.”

  “Well, you have my apology anyway. Here, let me put you through to him now. Hold on.”

  Within seconds Ryan was on the line. “Carly! That was quick. I wasn’t sure how soon you’d be able to get back to me.”

  “I’ll have you know that I’m forfeiting coffee and doughnuts to make this call,” she teased.

  “No problem. I’ll stuff you with them all weekend. Listen, since it’s Friday, I thought maybe you could get away a little early and take the subway in to meet me. You can see the office, we can do something fun around here, maybe get some dinner and then drive home together.”

  The thought of riding the T sent a ripple of apprehension through her. It always did, though she knew that with so many people around she was probably safer than ever. But the thought of meeting Ryan, at his office no less, was enough to quell her fears. “Oh, Ryan, that sounds great! Wait a minute.” Balancing the phone on her shoulder, she studied her calendar. “I have an appointment with a student at three. I could come in right after that. Say, around four?”

  “Perfect. Do you know how to get here?”

  “Uh, no.”

  He gave her directions, which she jotted down.

  “Sounds easy enough.”

  “It is. We’re on the thirty-fourth floor. The receptionist will be on the lookout for you.”

  A wave of warmth washed over her. “I’m sure I’ll have no problem. See you then?”

  “You bet.” He threw two quick kisses over the line. “Bye-bye.” Then he hung up the phone and sat back in his chair, eminently satisfied.

  He’d been tough on Carly this morning, waking in a mood reminiscent of the bear she’d called him yesterday. They’d run as usual, though the paths were messy and the pace slower and less rhythmic. He’d come into the office brooding, feeling torn and frustrated, realizing that the thing he wanted most in the world was for Carly to be his, totally and forever. There was still one part of her that mystified him, but he was helpless to do anything about it or about the fact that he needed her more with each passing day. Knowing that she would be coming to him this afternoon cheered him immeasurably.

  Carly, too, hung up the phone with a smile on her face. Belatedly she blew an answering kiss toward the phone, then took a deep, satisfied breath. She’d been aware of Ryan’s mood that morning, and hadn’t asked about it simply because she hadn’t wanted to buy trouble. There were some answers she couldn’t give him, and she was torn apart by guilt. She wanted to meet him this afternoon, she had to meet him this afternoon, if for no other reason than to show him how much she cared. Short of confessing her love, it was the best she could do.

  Her student left by three-thirty. Stuffing her bag with books and papers, Carly was into her coat and boots and out the door by three thirty-five. Intending to take a cab into the Square, she had the good fortune to bump into one of the other teachers, who offered her a ride.

  The T wasn’t as crowded as it would have been an hour later. Slipping into a seat, she hugged her bag to her and looked around at her fellow riders. Most of the faces were benign; a few unsettled her. It was to these few that her gaze returned from time to time as her imagination went to work. She was beginning to wish she’d taken a cab after all, when she caught herself and recalled what Sam had said the evening before. It wasn’t right that she should be a prisoner of her fears. She did have a life to lead, and she had every right to lead it in peace. At the moment she was on her way to see Ryan, and it galled her that anything should dampen the excitement she felt.

  Lifting her chin in defiance, she stared at the faces in the transit car. To her surprise, not a one stared back. Most were blank, impassive, enduring the trip as a limbo between here and there. As comfortable as she’d been alone in public for ages, she relaxed.

  By the time the car disgorged itself at Government Center, she was feeling strong, even gutsy. One part of her dared anyone approach her with intent to harm; that part was tired of waiting and had thr
own off the shackles of intimidation. The other part was, very simply, looking forward to seeing Ryan.

  “I am not wearing tights!” Ryan’s voice rang out loud and clear through the cluster of customers at the photographer’s shop. Several heads turned his way in amusement before returning to face similar difficulties.

  Trying to suppress her own grin, Carly coaxed him gently. “You’d look great in tights.” Then she lowered her voice to a near whisper. “I’ve seen you in less.”

  “Yeah,” he whispered gruffly, casting a fast glance at the other customers before dragging Carly into a corner, where she alone could see the flush high on his cheeks, “but this is a public place. A picture is something tangible, with a negative and everything. Think of the possibilities for blackmail.”

  “Come on, Ryan. Romeo and Juliet would be terrific!”

  “That’s fine and dandy for you to say, since you’d be all covered up in some—” he gestured vaguely “—some kind of flowing gown. No. Not Romeo and Juliet.”

  With a sigh, Carly turned her sights on the bevy of other samples that plastered the walls. She could afford to be flexible; her mood was incredibly light.

  From the moment she’d set foot in the hallowed halls of Miller and Cornell, she’d been treated like royalty. Not only had the receptionist indeed known her, but everyone else, from Ryan’s secretary to the copyists and word processors, had greeted her with warm smiles. Ryan had shown her from office to office, introducing her to other lawyers, reacquainting her with people she’d first met on New Year’s Eve. And through it all he was so obviously proud. It endeared him to her all the more.

  From the office, they had walked to a nearby art gallery where Ryan had seen a painting he wanted her opinion on for his apartment. She had loved it. He bought it, plus a small bronze statue of a pair of lovers, which Carly had thought to be nearly obscene. But she hadn’t argued then, any more than she was about to argue now.

  The photographer’s shop specializing in novelty portraits was in the lower level of the Quincy Market. It was Carly who had peered down through its door and then had been drawn back after browsing through several other shops. She didn’t have a picture of Ryan. She couldn’t think of one she would rather have more than of the two of them dressed in period costume as lovers from another time.

  “How about Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn,” Ryan suggested. “I’d do fine with the beard.”

  “But you’d need too much stuffing and you’d still have to wear tights. Besides—” she grimaced “—he had Anne beheaded. Ahh.” The grimace yielded to a romantic smile. “Rhett and Scarlett.”

  Ryan shook his head. “He didn’t give a damn. I do. Look. Tarzan and Jane. Now there’s a costume.”

  “It’s nothing!”

  He grinned. “I know.”

  “Ryan, don’t be crude. I won’t be Jane. Tarzan was always taking off on vines, leaving her behind to fend for herself in the jungle.” Her gaze shifted. “That’s a cute one.” She pointed, a bright smile on her face. “You’d make a great Raggedy Andy.”

  “To your Ann? Come on, babe. Those two are made of rags. They couldn’t make it—”

  “Shh. Okay. Forget Raggedy Ann and Andy.” Her arm was linked with his, their hands clasped in his pocket. Carly tugged him farther down the row of sample photos. “George and Martha Washington?”

  “D-u-l-l. How about Antony and Cleopatra?”

  “I hate asps.”

  “Ling Ling and Hsing Hsing?” The glance they exchanged was mutually dismissive. “Whoa, who’s that?” Ryan asked. “Ma Barker and her boys?”

  “That’s for families. Besides, we have only one boy here and I refuse to play his mother. Ever.”

  They looked further, suggesting and rejecting several more in turn. Then, simultaneously, they saw the one they wanted. Carly looked at it, tipped her head, leaned closer. Ryan stared in fascination, growing more reckless by the minute.

  “That’s it,” he murmured in her ear, never once taking his eyes from the photograph. “Us against the world. I love it!”

  So did Carly. Outrageous. Infamous. Dramatic and daring. What did it matter that they had died so violently? Lovers under fire, they died together.

  She nodded and grinned, feeling reckless as Ryan. “Bonnie and Clyde. Let’s do it!”

  “What a treat!” Sheila exclaimed. “I usually have to walk home. Not that I mind it; the exercise is great. It can be awful in lousy weather, though. Come to think of it—” she frowned, forgetting for the moment that she was supposed to be bright and appealing, which implied uncomplaining “—the weather’s been progressively lousy since I got here.”

  Greg negotiated a left from Park to Beacon with ease. “You picked the wrong season to arrive.”

  “I’ll say. I think it’s been rainy or cold from day one, not to mention this latest. I don’t understand it. We had much more snow in Chicago, but things didn’t seem to stay so messy so long.”

  “Bostonians don’t handle snow very well. It used to be worse, though. A real political issue.”

  “Oh?”

  “Certain neighborhoods were up in arms, claiming that others received preferential treatment when it came to plowing.”

  “Was it true?”

  “Yup.”

  “But it isn’t anymore?”

  “Oh, it is. It’s just that the uproar has died down.” With a crooked grin, he said, “You’re new. One of the first things to learn about Massachusetts politics is that it’s totally political. A little pull goes a long way.”

  “As in getting jobs?” she teased.

  “Right. Mind you—” he held up a hand “—I took the civil-service exam and was more than qualified for the position. But a few well-placed phone calls didn’t hurt. Had strings not been pulled for me, they would have been pulled for someone else.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, you happen to live in the right area. Any number of pols live on Beacon Hill. Your streets may be narrow, but they’re usually well plowed.” At her pointing finger, he made a right. “Did you have any trouble getting your car out?”

  “Oh, no. A good shovel, scraper and brush did wonders.” She laughed, a high nasal chuckle that sounded good-natured enough. “Not to mention elbow grease. Oops. Hold on a minute. There’s the market. Would you mind pulling over for a second so I can run in and get same shallots?”

  Braking at the corner, he raised both brows. “Shallots? Sounds complex.”

  “Complex? Me?” She sent him her most captivating smile and slid out of the car. Several moments later she returned with a large brown bag in the crook of her arm.

  “All that is shallots?” he asked. She laughed again, and he decided that the sound of mischief and allure made her nasal voice not all that bad.

  “I guess I needed a couple of other things too,” she explained sheepishly. “And while we’re on the subject, I’d better warn you that my apartment is nothing fancy. I mean, I contemplated renting a suite for the evening at the Meriden just for the sheer luxury of the surroundings, but I wanted to cook and they wouldn’t let me near their kitchen. Somehow I don’t think they would have appreciated my checking in with Tupperware for luggage.”

  Greg couldn’t help but laugh. For whatever her faults, the woman was entertaining. “No, I don’t think they would.” Starting the car again, he drove on. Two blocks later, Sheila pointed to a parking space.

  “Why don’t you take that one. My place is only six doors up. We won’t find anything nearer.”

  Greg neatly maneuvered into the space, then came around to take the bag from Sheila and help her out. He was pleased that she waited for him; many of the women he knew were more aggressive in their liberation, making a point of helping themselves from the seat of a car. Not that there appeared to be anything old-fashioned about Sheila. But the touch was nice. It made him feel masculine.

  Gently holding her arm to guide her over occasional patches of ice on the sidewalk, Greg looked down at her. “Where do you park your car? Around
here?”

  She tossed her chin forward. “Over there.”

  “Which one?”

  “The burgundy one. In front of the white Rabbits?”

  “The Mazda?” His eyes widened and he quickened his pace for a better look. “Not bad, Montgomery. Not bad at all.” Dropping her arm, he leaned low to peer inside the darkened window. Then he straightened and ran his free hand along the sleek front curve of the car. “It looks new.”

  “It is.”

  He shot her a glance. “Did you drive it east?”

  “Uh-uh. I bought it here.”

  His gaze returned to the car for a final covetous once-over. “Ve-ry clas-sy.”

  She dipped her head, a pleased smile on her lips. “Thank you, sir.” Then she slipped her arm through his. “But if you stand and stare at my car much longer those shallots are going to freeze. Where will our Shrimp á la Turque—” the words were given a distinctly foreign treatment by her tongue “—be then?” With a gentle tug on his arm, they were on their way once more.

  Moments later, Sheila pushed open the door of her apartment, flipped on the lights and turned to ease the bag from Greg’s arms. “Please. Make yourself comfortable.” She ran down the few stairs, leaving him alone on the landing overlooking her all-inclusive single room. “I’ll put these away and then get us a drink. What’ll it be?” she called over her shoulder. “Scotch? Bourbon?”

  “Scotch is fine.” Draping his coat on the rack just inside the door, he propped his elbows on the wrought-iron railing and studied the apartment. Though small, it wasn’t bad, he mused. Vaguely U-shaped, it had the open kitchen in which Sheila now puttered as its principal area. In the right arm of the U stood a simple wood table and chairs. At the U’s base were a wicker love seat and two matching chairs. In its left arm, quite surprisingly, given the usual choice of a sofa bed for a studio apartment, was a double bed, tucked against the wall but very much a part of the room.

  As Sheila had said, there was nothing fancy about the apartment. Its style was eclectic, the furniture second-hand. What held the whole together, though, was the predominance of cherry red. It stood out in a cloth draped over the table and in similar fabric gathered on a rod across the single high window. It lay on the floor in the form of a throw rug beneath the wicker works, whose cushions matched. It was broadcast from the two framed rock posters above the nonworking fireplace, which held a slightly withered poinsettia. And most obviously, it covered the bed in sheets, quilt, lacy pillow covers and dust ruffles.