“Rather a lot, truth be told.” They boarded the elevator, and Victoria hoped it would be the last time she rode away from Pollard’s office. She ran her hand through her hair. “I’m sure he’ll publish some sensational story about all this.”
“No one takes the Star Reporter seriously. Everyone will just assume it’s fabricated. Besides, after Pollard’s through with him, I’m not sure he’ll be publishing anything.”
“Let’s hope.”
“Ma’am?”
She hated it when he called her that.
“Anyone else threatens you or bothers you, I’ll kick their ass.”
She took in his slight frame and narrow shoulders. “You want to make good on that promise, you’d better start working out.”
He shrugged sheepishly. “My gym smells like feet. And burned eggs.”
Victoria smiled. She had grown awfully fond of Wallace, and she thought she might just have a solution for him. “I know this really great gym…”
Chapter Eight
Victoria couldn’t believe it. She blinked once. Twice. Still, the letters engraved on the gold plate in the middle of the door remained. She clenched her jaw and proceeded past the private Harbour Club dressing room to the following one. The one with her name on it.
Of all the fitness joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she thought.
Closing the door to her private room, she wondered how likely it would be that she and Genevieve would work out at the same time. And what Genevieve did for exercise these days. And if the gym had a climbing wall.
It had been two months since Sonya’s cookout—two months of cases, decisions, and trying to prepare for oral arguments in the gay marriage case while trying to forget about the woman who would be delivering them. Victoria stripped, neatly folding each article of clothing and placing it on the countertop before removing the next. She pulled on her racing suit, wondering for the first time how she looked in it. Older, probably. But she was still trim. Diane always said she looked ten years younger than her age, but family was a notoriously unreliable source. Grateful for the terrycloth robe the Club provided, she slipped it on and pulled the door open, simultaneously hoping and fearing that she might see Genevieve on the other side.
She didn’t encounter a soul on her trip through the locker room to the pool. She wasn’t sure if she felt relief or disappointment, but she knew she didn’t want to feel it every time she turned a corner in her gym.
Her laps flew by, and before she was quite ready, she was faced with the prospect of walking through the locker room and past Genevieve’s door again.
Maybe she needed to start swimming with someone so she would have a buffer.
Steeling herself, she exited the pool area through the door marked “ladies locker room.”
The hallway was quiet, and she made it to her private stall without seeing anyone else. She enjoyed a long, hot shower and took her time getting ready, pulling on her clothes in the same order she always did and finishing with earrings, watch, and finally her heels. The December weather was threatening to snow, and she was glad she had decided to wear her long coat.
Her hand was on the door handle when she heard a low rumble indicating that someone had just turned on the shower in the room next door. The sound was soon topped by singing.
Genevieve always sang in the shower, she remembered.
She hurried through the locker room, up the stairs, and out of the club.
* * *
Victoria no longer had to wonder what Genevieve did to stay in shape these days.
On Thursday, after a horrid day of disagreeing with O’Neil, Jamison, and even Alistair Douglas, she decided to lift weights to relieve some stress. She hadn’t lifted weights in years—as Will was always quick to remind her—and had to wander around the huge facility for a while before she found the machines. They were lined up in two long rows. She stood there at a bit of a loss for a moment. There were so many of them. Well, she just needed a pattern, some kind of order to go about things. She decided to do a machine from row A, then a machine from row B, then back to row A. That seemed manageable.
She did twenty reps on the chest press machine, irritated by how hard it was. Weights were supposed to relieve frustration, not make it worse. She crossed the aisle to the shoulder raise machine. From here she could see through the windows of Studio C, where twenty people were in downward dog. Rolling her eyes, she raised the two handles of the machine above her head. Yoga, a sport for hippies, she thought.
Still, some of them looked pretty good in there. One woman in particular. When the pose ended and the class moved into warrior one, Victoria got a full profile view of Genevieve and dropped the weight she had been holding over her head. The sound reverberated through the weight room, and the chief of staff to the majority whip gave her a dirty look.
She debated looking over her shoulder and trying to put the blame on someone else, but only Will ever seemed to fall for that.
Of course Genevieve did yoga. Add it to the list of things she excelled at. Victoria crossed the aisle to the bicep machine. Just count, she told herself. One. Two…eighteen, nineteen, twenty. There. Done.
Congratulating herself, she crossed the aisle again and contorted onto the inner thigh machine. As she squeezed her legs together, she stole another look into the exercise room. The class was in some pose that involved being half upside down, and Genevieve alone among them seemed to be able to balance on her head. There wasn’t a drop of sweat on her. Her muscles weren’t shaking. She might as well have been sleeping, she appeared so relaxed. Jesus, did anything faze her?
Genevieve moved out of the pose gracefully, sliding right into another. She was standing on both hands now, with one leg extended forward and one backward. Her toes were pointed.
Of course she can do the splits while she’s upside down, Victoria thought. It was a view of her that Victoria hadn’t seen in years, but her body had the same reaction now that it did then. Her face flushed and her legs began to shake.
Or maybe her legs were shaking because she was still squeezing them together on the damn weight machine. She had no idea how many reps she had done, but her muscles were so taxed that they had difficulty releasing.
When she dismounted and tried to cross to the outer thigh machine, she almost slid to the floor, a big puddle of disaster.
She made it back across the aisle and revised her workout strategy: machines in row A only. Then a long shower.
* * *
Friday at work involved oral arguments in three cases related to Miranda rights, and Victoria was fairly certain the bench would issue unanimous decisions. It was a better day at work than she’d had in a long time, and at the end of it she probably would have walked out of her chambers with a lighter step, had her egregious mistake on the weight machine the night before not left her with a slight limp. She supposed most single people had more exciting things to do on a Friday night than go to the gym, but she was looking forward to loosening her legs with a swim.
At seven she emerged from her private room in the Harbour Club with goggles, cap, and water bottle in hand, just as Genevieve stepped out of hers. Genevieve wasn’t wearing a robe over her swimsuit. Of course she swam in a two-piece. Victoria’s mouth went dry and her hands trembled slightly. What had she done to deserve this?
They stared at each other for a brief moment before falling into step and proceeding to the pool together. The two far lanes were both unoccupied. They dropped into the water, adjusted their caps and goggles, and began slow, relaxed freestyle strokes at the same time.
Usually Victoria was irritated by swimmers in the next lane matching her stroke for stroke. It inspired her competitive side and she would focus all her energy until she had surged ahead. But she was happy to push off the wall in unison with Genevieve. They maintained an easy pace for twenty laps, when by some unspoken agreement they stopped for a water break.
Water breaks between laps usually brought on a wave of dizziness for Vict
oria, and she closed her eyes for a moment until it passed. When her equilibrium returned, she glanced at her fellow swimmer. They pulled their goggles back on, nodded at each other, and resumed their laps.
Victoria typically stopped at thirty, but the leisurely pace she had been content to maintain with Genevieve had left her with more energy. At forty, they stopped again for water and then swam ten more.
* * *
The second floor of the Harbour Club contained rooms for acupuncture and massages, an exercise studio filled with Pilates machines, and the Club Café. Victoria rarely ate there, but she was famished after swimming for so long. Her hair was still wet, but she’d thrown on a little makeup just in case.
She wouldn’t ask herself in case of what.
The café was largely unoccupied, but she chose a table against the far right wall. She glanced through the menu, decided on an omelet and a glass of chardonnay, and returned the folded menu to its slot at the end of the booth. Peering around the café in search of a waiter, her eyes fell on Genevieve, who was nursing a glass of red wine.
She likewise hadn’t dried her hair, and Victoria could see the path that her hairbrush had taken through her long locks. She wore skinny jeans tucked into knee-high brown riding boots and a loose-fitting red shirt that laced up the front. The shirt was open at the top and she wasn’t wearing a necklace. She didn’t have earrings on either.
Since Genevieve’s graduation from law school, the only view Victoria had had of her was in various law magazine pictures when she’d won important cases, which had been often enough. In all those photos, she wore a suit, tasteful accessories, and the perfect hairstyle. This limited view had given Victoria the impression that Genevieve was completely untouchable—a magazine model, a mythic figure who was always ready for her close-up.
Seeing her fresh from the shower, still slightly flushed from their workout, was wholly unnerving. She looked relaxed, rather than poised for a fight. For the first time in years, Victoria allowed herself to remember that Genevieve was a real person and to ponder what her life was like away from the courtrooms and cameras. What she wore in the privacy of her own house. If she cooked. If she kept houseplants. What she looked like first thing in the morning.
Who she woke up with.
The last thought startled her, and she felt her cheeks go red. She realized she had been staring, but Genevieve didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she was looking back with similar open curiosity.
The waiter came and Victoria placed her order.
She wasn’t sure she would be able to stand this. After the waiter left, she stole one more glance and then headed toward the ladies’ room.
The lighting there was brighter than in the café, and she blinked a few times. What the hell was she doing? Here, away from the distracting yet oddly comforting presence of Genevieve, her hands began to shake. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She studied herself in the mirror, styling her damp hair, mostly because it gave her something to do.
Her stomach growled and she headed back to her table, hoping the service in the café was impossibly fast.
As it turned out, it was, and the waiter was delivering Genevieve’s soup and salad. Victoria had just settled back into her booth when he reemerged from the kitchen with her omelet. She stared at the side plate of toast.
The one time in law school that they had gone to a diner together, Victoria had ordered an omelet. When it arrived accompanied by toast, she’d told Genevieve that she didn’t like toast. Genevieve had laughed at her, saying that toast seemed pretty benign and generally a crowd pleaser. She then confessed that toast was her favorite part of any breakfast meal. Victoria had slid her plate of buttered rye triangles across the table and Genevieve had devoured them all.
Victoria looked up to find Genevieve gazing at her toast as well. Was she lost in the same memory?
Or maybe she was just hungry. Victoria wished she had the courage to send her toast to Genevieve’s table via the waiter. Maybe next time.
Wait, next time? What on earth was she thinking? “Next time” was going to be in the Supreme Court. The following Tuesday was oral arguments.
She ate her omelet, paid her bill, and left.
– PART IV –
Genevieve
Chapter One
Genevieve adjusted her necklace in the mirror, noting how her dark hair fell in perfect layers to her shoulders. Jamie had insisted on sending a stylist to her condo that morning to prepare her for the press conference on the courthouse steps after oral arguments. Nic had called Jamie a fruit who cared more about appearance than substance. Jamie said that if only Nic could argue cases in a biker bar, maybe she would win some. Genevieve called them both pains in her ass, but she couldn’t deny that the stylist had been good.
She took a step back from the mirror and evaluated her appearance. Her blue eyes sparkled, accented by grey eye shadow and liner. A light application of lipstick gave her lips a slight sheen. She looked good. She knew it. And she was about to walk into a place where it couldn’t matter less what she looked like.
She squared her shoulders, grabbed her briefcase and trench coat from the counter, and exited the Supreme Court bathroom.
The courtroom was abuzz with nervous energy coming from both spectators and lawyers. Nic and Jamie were already seated next to their clients, who were flashing each other nervous smiles. Nic’s ankle rested on her opposite knee and her foot wiggled back and forth as she flipped through her notes. Jamie was biting his perfectly manicured nails.
Genevieve heard her name whispered throughout the room and knew her entrance hadn’t gone unnoticed. She exhaled and strode down the center aisle, her heels sinking into the plush carpet with every step. Selecting the vacant chair between Jamie and Nic, she set her briefcase down and pulled out her folio, water bottle, and pen.
“So what do you think they’ll all be wearing?” Jamie whispered to Nic, leaning across Genevieve’s lap. While she appreciated his attempt to dissipate the anxiety, she wasn’t in the mood for tasteless banter.
“I think a better question might be: What are they all wearing underneath?” Nic said.
Jamie wrinkled his nose. “I don’t want to know.”
Nic smirked. “I do. Willoughby looks like she works out.”
Genevieve cleared her throat.
“I don’t think you’re her type,” Jamie whispered.
“You don’t really buy that bull that she’s straight, do you?”
“Not at all. I just imagine it would take a high-class dame to sweep Willoughby off her feet.” His eyes ran up and down Nic’s suit. “And you buy off the men’s rack at Sears. You should have had a stylist this morning, too.”
“Oh, you volunteering? I heard you tried out for a role on Queer Eye and were rejected because your pants were so tight everyone could see the stick up your ass.”
“Enough!” Genevieve hissed. “I don’t care if they all have the Constitution stitched on their underwear. If you two don’t shut up—”
The arrival of the justices interrupted her, and she was grateful for the pomp surrounding their entrance. While everyone’s attention was directed elsewhere, she subtly wiped her damp hands down the side of her suit, licked her dry lips, and reminded herself to breathe. She was a solid litigator. She had done this before. And not a single person in that courtroom would think she had any doubts about her case or her performance.
The Marshall of the Court called the room to order, and the justices took their time getting settled into their chairs. Most of the lawyers did the same, but Genevieve sat immediately. In the shower that morning, she had decided that she would feel more comfortable looking anywhere but at Tori, but when she glanced up, she knew she would struggle to look anywhere else. It was like gravity. Tori looked positively regal in her robe and scarf, and in that moment, it struck Genevieve exactly what it was she was fighting for.
The kind of security and belonging that came with federal recognition of marriage was more than
just tax benefits and the right to make decisions on behalf of a partner. Equality was intangible, but the lack of it was not. Worry lines framed Tori’s eyes and mouth, and it was clear that the stress of this case was exacting a heavy toll on her. Genevieve studied those hazel eyes, so intelligent, so weary, so lonely. She longed for a day when Tori wouldn’t feel compelled to hide because of judgment and condescension from her government. Worried about the extent to which Tori had internalized homophobia, Genevieve wondered if that day would ever come.
She watched as Tori flipped open the folio her clerks had placed in front of her chair. Both women simultaneously reached for a bottle of water. They broke the seal with identical gestures and met each other’s eyes before drinking. Genevieve caught the faintest of smiles, so fleeting she might have imagined it. Before she could return the gesture, Tori had turned away.
The seating of the justices was determined by seniority. Chief Justice Kellen O’Neil sat in the middle. The seat to his right was reserved for the longest-serving member of the court, and there Alistair Douglas jotted down some notes. Jason Blankenstein, as the second in seniority, sat to the left of O’Neil whispering to him. Seating continued based on seniority, alternating sides. McKinzie, as the third most recent appointee to the court, was seated next to Tori. He leaned over to whisper something in her ear, and Tori smiled. The smile didn’t reach her eyes, but it still made Genevieve melt. It made no sense to her, this world that said it was okay for Tori to smile when a colleague made a joke—a colleague that she guessed Tori didn’t even particularly like—but somehow wrong for her to give Genevieve the kind of smile that might promise love and hope, the kind of expression they used to share in private before it all fell apart.
Barring Complications Page 13
