Hidden Gems

by Carrie Alexander

  She rubbed beneath her collar. Was the burglary still making her jumpy? She should be over that by now. She’d once kneed a man in the balls when he tried to feel her up on the subway, and had then reported to the courthouse to second chair a defendant’s trial without a hair turned.

  A movement caught her eye. A dark-haired man was slipping out the revolving door. No one she recognized, despite the tingling at her neck. She boarded the elevator.

  On the twenty-fourth floor, she was greeted by the perky receptionist who sat behind a monolithic desk of burled walnut and ebony wood. Marissa moved quickly to her office, feeling as if she were running a gauntlet. She’d have to face Paul soon. After her coffee would be preferable.

  She sent no-nonsense smiles and quick nods at those who greeted her. As usual, the mood at the law firm was subdued and serious. The code of behavior and dress was conservative. Marissa had seen Bill Schnitzer frowning at her skirts beneath his bristly walrus mustache.

  As an up-and-comer, Marissa’s office was a nice one. She had a window, a recent reward that had seemed momentous at the time. Her work life was more successful than her private life, but the thing about such achievements was that as soon as she’d accomplished one, she was on to the next. There was never an end. She never felt as satisfied or relaxed as she did hanging out with Jamie.

  Her assistant, Ophelia Jackson, was waiting at her desk with a stack of messages, the open appointment book and a Tootsie Roll pop sticking out of the corner of her mouth. She was trying to quit smoking.

  “Hey, O, didn’t your dentist tell you sugar’s bad for the teeth?” Marissa thought of the rotting breath of the burglar and suppressed a shiver.

  “I should chew vitamins to stem my cravings? Not going to happen, honey.” Ophelia was a forty-ish black woman of rounded proportions and a sassy attitude. She and Marissa shared an interest in fashion and a dedication to rising through the ranks.

  Ophelia looked Marissa over. “Nice shoes, but didn’t I tell you to wear a miniskirt so Paul will recognize what he lost when he decided to play beach-blanket bingo on ya?”

  Marissa flashed the slit.

  Ophelia’s eyes widened. “Ooh. Subtle. I like it.”

  Marissa swung past the desk to her office door, snatching up the messages as she reached for the knob. “I’m going to play this off as discreetly as possible. For now, don’t put through any calls from—”

  She stopped in the doorway. “Paul.”

  He lounged in her chair with his feet up on her desk, smiling as if nothing had happened between them. Ophelia appeared at Marissa’s shoulder, making apologies. “He’s been waiting for fifteen minutes. I can get rid of him if you’ll let me use the staple remover.”

  “It’ll be fine.” I hope. Marissa dumped her bag on one of the empty visitor’s chairs. “Maybe next time.”

  Ophelia crossed her arms, frowning at Paul. “I don’t like him thinking he can get past me any old time. Truth is, I never even tried.”

  Marissa loomed over him, hands on hips. “And I appreciate that, O. If there’s a next time, you have my okay to use any means necessary to keep him out.”

  Paul looked from one peeved woman to the other, then removed his feet from the desk, laughing a bit nervously. “Hey, ladies. Why so touchy? What happens in the Caymans, stays in the Caymans.” He stood and tried to put his arms around Marissa.

  She evaded. “Don’t bother.”

  “I was hoping you’d have cooled off by now. But you’re still the same hot tamale, aren’t you?” He actually thought the canard was a compliment.

  “Yes, and I’m an angry black woman.” Ophelia rolled her eyes at Marissa. Her expression said, I never knew what you saw in this yahoo.

  Neither did Marissa, although the evidence was in front of her eyes. There was no denying that Paul was a handsome devil, with ice-blue eyes and short dark hair combed over his forehead in a careful wave. He was smart, yet deceptively shallow. Before she’d heard his recycled banter a hundred times, he’d seemed mildly amusing.

  He was all flash, no substance. Even as a girl, she’d been attracted to shiny objects, such as the glitzy jewelry at the carnival that turned her skin green. She hadn’t learned her lesson then, either, spending all her piggy-bank savings on games of chance before she’d learned that she couldn’t afford foolish risks.

  Paul shot the cuffs of his pin-striped shirt. “We have to talk.”

  “We talked. I have no more to say.”

  “Then you can listen.”

  Marissa shooed her hand at him. “Not now. I have work to catch up on.”

  Pointedly, Ophelia held the door open.

  Paul ignored her. “I’ll talk in front of her if I have to.”

  Ophelia snorted at the “her.”

  Marissa sat and paged through the messages. She was trying not to look at Paul and especially Ophelia, who was making faces behind his back. “O won’t mind.”

  Paul dropped heavily into the chair opposite her desk. “You’re so cold.”

  “Two seconds ago, I was a hot tamale.”

  “Don’t be that way, Marissa.”

  Her hackles rose. He’d used an intimate tone, a throatiness that she used to think was sexy. Maybe still did. She was mad that he continued to have an effect on her, involuntary and unwanted though it was.

  “Let’s get this over with then.” She looked at Ophelia, who shrugged and stepped out of the office, closing the door with a quiet click.

  Marissa inhaled. There had been no click with Paul. Only the easy glide of slipping in and out of a relationship that had never gone beyond the superficial during the two months they’d seen each other.

  “I’m sorry,” Paul said, startling her. “I shouldn’t have neglected you on the vacation. I thought you’d understand about work—that was why the firm bought our tickets.”

  “You didn’t tell me the firm was paying our way!”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Obviously not to you.” Furious now, she picked up the current files Ophelia had left on the desk and tapped them against the hard surface, aligning the edges. There was something to be said for order. Neat, clean, efficient. Why couldn’t she have that clarity in every part of her life?

  She thought of Sunday morning with Jamie, snuggled in his lumpy sofa bed with the linens atangle and the newspaper in pieces, spread all around. Tufts of dog hair had collected in the corners. The leash hung off the doorknob. His running shoes sat in the middle of the floor, with the sweatpants that trailed one inside-out leg because he’d stepped out of them when she’d opened the blanket to reveal her nudity.

  Her temperature rose. Cleanliness was not next to sexiness.

  She looked up and Paul’s smile was almost gloating. “I can see you want me back.”

  “Get your eyes checked.”

  “This is it, you know. Last chance.” His cleft chin rose high above his collar. “I don’t grovel for any woman.”

  But he’d come close to it. Not really for her, she thought, unsure of what his true motive had been. “Fine, then,” she said. “Tell me this conversation is as over as the relationship.”

  “What about—”

  “I don’t care what happened on the beach. We were through even before that.”

  “Then you don’t have pictures?”

  Understanding washed over her. “Is that what all of this has been about? You thought I’d pass photos of you and your bimbo around the office, maybe cost you a partnership?”

  Paul was expressionless. His knuckles were white.

  “I’m not vindictive. I only want this to be over.” She waved at him. “Go on. Get out of here. There are no photos.”

  “You said there were.”

  She grinned wryly. “I was being vindictive.”

  Paul seemed relieved as he got up. He shook the tension out of his shoulders, tugged his tie into place. “So we’re through. Too bad. You’re the best looking chick at this firm. We could have made a damn fine team. A powe
r couple.”

  Mr. and Mrs. Shark. She wasn’t even remotely interested.

  “I’ll see you around.” Marissa calmly opened her first file, trying not to show her triumph. She was pleased that he’d given up so easily, if a bit suspicious. “Watch out for Ophelia on the way out. She bites.”

  SKIP SISMAN TRUNDLED his heavy frame into the staff break room at the Village Observer. “Whatcha got for me?” he asked Jamie, having caught sight of him on the way back from lunch. Sisman looked lost without a pastry, like a teenager without an MP3 player. He did have a spot of mustard—or custard—on his tie.

  Jamie put an oversize mug of water into the microwave. “You’re not still after me about doing your research, are you? I won’t. And I thought the story was dead anyway.” The paper had run only the obligatory “the case remains open” follow-up.

  “Nothing much happening.” Sisman huffed. “That’s why we got to lean on the human interest angle.”

  “We aren’t leaning on anything but the countertop. I’ve got other work to do.”

  “So help me out with the basics. I can massage them into a story.”

  “I don’t embellish facts.”

  Sisman flexed his sausage fingers. “I said massage, man.”

  The microwave beeped. Jamie rummaged through the cupboard for dried soup mix. “What’s it matter to you? Aunt Dena’s not coming through with the goods?”

  “I told you, nothing’s happening. You’d think a few of the pieces would have been fenced or pawned by now, right? But I got zilch.”

  Jamie shook the empty box. Raided again. He flattened the carton and made a rebound shot into the waste can. “What about the suspects?”

  Sisman hitched up his belt. “Info’s dried up.”

  “No impending arrests?”

  “Aunt—the cops figure the thief’s lying low.”

  Jamie took the hot water from the microwave and popped in a little tub of macaroni and cheese labeled in Magic Marker: Alice S. Do Not Eat!!!

  As soon as the timer beeped, he grabbed the food and a plastic fork. “Good luck with your story.”

  “I’m running down a list of possible prime suspects,” Sisman called after him, “but you gotta help. You’re the culture guy!”

  “Sorry. I have my own stuff that I’ve been avoiding.” The Guys and Dolls passes remained unused.

  Jamie worked his way back to his desk, forking up the cheesy noodles. Tasted like home, when he’d foraged the cupboards on school-day afternoons. Marissa would scowl. She despised processed food.

  He picked up the phone to call her, then put it down. Not a good idea to interrupt Marissa when she was in work mode, even for the scoop on the return of Paul Beckwith. He didn’t know why he was concerned. There was no doubt in his mind that she was through with Paul.

  So it had to be the same old doubt—that he would go the way of Paul and all the other exes.

  The fork snapped between his fingers. He tossed it away, muttering, “For chrissake. Quit being such a girl.”

  Enough was enough. He was out of patience.

  Marissa responded to challenges. From now on, instead of taking it easy, he was taking charge. If he had to, he’d make her love him.

  How to do that was anyone’s guess.

  “WORK GO OKAY, babe?”

  Marissa had returned to the kitchen after letting Jamie in through the Fort Knox barricade. “Don’t you mean, how was the encounter with Paul?”

  Jamie halted in the doorway. “Did you see him?”

  “He was waiting in my office when I got there.”

  “Oh.” Jamie dumped a plastic bag of ginger root onto the counter. He’d picked it up on the way home, at her request. Taking charge didn’t have to preclude all domestic responsibilities.

  Marissa was cooking. With her long hours, she didn’t often take the time to prepare meals during the week. But she’d told him of her fond memories of being in the kitchen with her mother and sister, singing pop songs while they chopped and mixed and fried. Apparently there was a lot of chopping and mixing and frying to be done for a family of six with many intrusive but endearing relatives.

  While his own family had lacked some of that togetherness, he’d had enough of a taste that he liked to think how he and Marissa could make their own traditions. Sunday dinners in a city apartment. Just the two of them. Or maybe family time, when there were children.

  Shit. He was going girly again. Turning into the kind of sentimental fool that Marissa disdained.

  “Paul’s nothing to be bothered with.” She picked up a bunch of cilantro, slapped the leafy herb on the cutting board and ran the knife through it. “It was the same story as when he called from the islands. He pretended to want me back, but all he really cared about was covering his ass with the partners.”

  Jamie dipped a finger into a lime puree. “Are you sure he won’t make trouble for you?”

  “That’s always a possibility. But he’d be a fool to fuss when that would reflect on him, too. He has to know I wouldn’t go down without a fight.”

  She sounded brave, but he could tell that she was worried. The partners were a conservative bunch and the competition for promotion was rabid. A messy office romance would be a giant black mark on their records.

  Jamie touched her elbow. “It’ll be okay. You’re a killer. The partners love you.”

  “Killer,” she repeated doubtfully.

  He found that interesting. A week ago she’d have relished the description.

  Marissa slammed the knife on a clove of garlic. “I’m not going soft!”

  “Of course not.” So he wasn’t the only one?

  “Sorry. Thinking out loud.” She cleared her throat. “Speaking of the partners, I have a command performance with them this week. A dinner party at Mr. Coffman’s house on Friday. Only a few of the associates were invited.”

  “Will Paul be there?”

  “I’m sure. But stop worrying about him. He’s inconsequential.”

  “I’m not worried. It’s just that…” Jamie gave up with a shake of his head, then had to brush back his hair. His doubts remained about Paul, but he intended to take care of them his own way.

  “You need a haircut.” She’d always admired the way his long dark lashes framed his bedroom eyes. “But I like you this way. Kind of shaggy and unkempt. Makes me feel better about my imperfections.”

  “You have imperfections?”

  “You’re asking that of a woman who serially dates Mr. Wrong and keeps two years of fashion magazines stacked in the fireplace?” She looked around for something else to chop up for the ceviche, but she was finished. “About the dinner party.”

  “Yes?”

  “Want to come?”

  “Who, me?”

  “Don’t be a dork.”

  “I’d better get a haircut.”

  She ruffled his already-ruffled hair. “You’re handsome the way you are.”

  “Tell you what, I’ll go if you’ll come with me to a play I have to review. It’s off-off Broadway, a kooky revival of Guys and Dolls. We can go to the Saturday matinee so our evening isn’t ruined.”

  “That’s a fine way for an objective critic to talk.”

  He smiled sheepishly.

  “It’s a deal,” she said.

  Jamie ran upstairs to take Sally out. He came back in jeans and they finished making dinner.

  When they were ready to eat, he uncorked the wine, she cleared the table of junk mail, proud of herself when she tipped three-fourths of it into the trash can. Her good plates came out, colorful Fiestaware, with goblets for the wine and woven reed place mats.

  Jamie entered the small dining area with the wine bottle in one hand and a dish of olives in the other. When he reached to kiss her, his lips stretched open and she saw he held an olive between his teeth. She bit into it and they chewed and swallowed and kissed and laughed.

  They were still at the table, lingering over the last bites of the yellow fin ceviche, when a sound at the d
oor made Jamie leap out of his chair.

  “Who is it?” he barked.

  A key slid into the lock. The knob wiggled back and forth. “Hey, what’s with the door?”

  “It’s Shandi.” Marissa looked down at the bread knife in her hand. She dropped it onto the cutting board. “This is ridiculous. I’m jumpier than Harry.”

  Jamie let Shandi in. “Some people knock first.”

  “Sure, cutie.” She barged past him, wearing a gaping sleeveless basketball jersey over a tube top and jean shorts. Her hair was standing on end, scooped off her face by a bandanna, and there was a new hole in her ear, stuck through with a dangling skeleton key that dragged down her lobe. “I came by to pick up my things.” She plucked an olive from the dish. “Hiya, Mari. You changed the locks? Should I take that personally?”

  “There was a break-in.”

  “That sucks.” Shandi sat. “Can I have this?” she asked, taking the platter of tuna. She shoveled a bite into her mouth with her fingers. “What is it, sushi? Did they nip my stuff?”

  “Nothing was stolen.”

  “Cool.”

  “What happened to you?” Jamie asked. “Where’ve you been?”

  “Here and there.” She shrugged. “Out and about. Uptown and down low.”

  “There was a break-in, Shandi,” Marissa said, leaning forward over the table. “I was assaulted.”

  Shandi stopped chewing. “You mean—”

  “I came home, the thief was still here and grabbed me, but I got away.”

  “Did you tell anyone the apartment had been empty?” Jamie demanded.

  Shandi frowned. “I don’t think so, but…” She shrugged. “I say a lot of things to a lot of people.”

  “What about Marissa’s belongings? Did you ‘borrow’ something of hers? Maybe something she brought back from vacation?”

  “Nope.” Shandi ran a tongue over her teeth. “Who put you in charge? Am I under arrest or what?”

  “No, of course not,” Marissa said. “It’s just that there have been some strange happenings around here lately, and we thought you might be able to help.”