The Bequest

by Nancy Boyarsky

  There were a dozen photographers waiting. The two women got out and walked determinedly toward the building’s main entrance. Nicole took Stephanie’s arm to steer her through the paparazzi. As they walked, Nicole was ready to repeat her line about contacting her lawyer. But no one was asking her questions. They were much more interested in Stephanie. One said, “What’s your name, sweetheart?” Another wanted to know, “What’s your connection with Nicole?” The third wondered if Stephanie, who was a good deal taller than her sister and more substantial in build, was her bodyguard.

  “You’ve got that right,” Stephanie said. “Leave us alone or I’ll beat the crap out of you,” The photographers laughed, and Stephanie laughed with them.

  “Steph!” Nicole warned, unlocking the door to the building’s lobby and pulling her sister inside. “I told you not to talk to them! They’re taking video and recording your voice. Now you’re going to hear yourself saying that on the XHN.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Stephanie laughed. “My friends will be thrilled they know a celebrity.”

  The two of them worked as a team, packing up Nicole’s things for what she guessed would be four or five days. Nicole was in the bathroom, getting her toothbrush and other toiletries, when she happened to glance at the window and saw a face looking in at her. It was a paparazzi holding a camera. Her mouth fell open in surprise. How in the hell had he gotten up there? Her condo was on the second floor, and there were no trees outside. She quickly pulled down the shade. Then she hurried to the spare bedroom and, without turning on the light, peered outside. The man was standing on the top of the six-foot cinderblock wall that ran behind the building. He was assisted by someone else, standing in the alley. She could see the pair of hands holding onto the man’s ankles. Deprived of his view inside, he was in the wobbly process of getting down.

  She checked to see how Stephanie was doing. “I’ve got my makeup,” she said. “I’ll get some outfits for work and my sweats. Why don’t you pack some underwear and a nightie?” By the time Nicole and her sister left the building, another dozen photographers had joined the original group. The two women walked toward the car, Nicole carrying her suitcase. The men shot pictures and demanded to know where Nicole thought she was going and if she was “skipping town.” This time she didn’t bother to answer.

  Driving away, the two women watched in amazement as yet another photographer arrived on a motorcycle and sped after them for several blocks—at what seemed to be great peril—trying to position himself between their car and the one in the adjacent lane so he could get a photo of Nicole in the passenger seat.

  “Holy crap,” Stephanie said. “That guy’s going to get himself killed!”

  “These people are excitement junkies,” Nicole said. “They actually enjoy risking their lives like this. You know, protecting the public’s right to know.”

  They both laughed. By now the paparazzi was far behind them.

  As soon as they got back to Stephanie’s, Nicole began to spruce up for her meeting—she refused to think of it as a date—with Josh Mulhern. She looked through the clothes she’d brought to Stephanie’s. Her choices were between several skirts and blouses, as well as a flower-sprigged dress and a fitted navy number she’d bought in London but hadn’t yet had a chance to wear. Nicole held the flowered dress up to herself and looked in the mirror. This would do. She pulled off the skirt and blouse she’d been wearing and hung them up. Getting out Stephanie’s iron, she gave the dress a quick once over, then put it on. She carefully reapplied her makeup. Still not satisfied, she borrowed her sister’s hot rollers to put more bounce in her hair.

  She was late arriving at the wine bar. Looking around, she saw him in a corner booth and waved. He smiled and waved back. As soon as she sat down, she decided to get the whole thing out on the table. No pretending she was unattached and that her life wasn’t a mess.

  “This is just a drink and conversation,” she said. “I want you to understand that.”

  He smiled, putting his hands up in mock surrender. “OK, OK,” he said. “What exactly have I done?”

  “I want to be sure you know a couple of things about me. No elephants in the room.”

  He stopped smiling and leaned forward on his elbows, chin resting on his hands. “Shoot.”

  “First of all, I’m in a relationship. I should have told you when you called.”

  “Are you engaged?”

  She shook her head.

  “Living together?”

  “No,” she said.

  “So, where’s this guy at the moment?”

  “In England. He lives in England.”

  “Huh,” Josh said.

  “What?” she said. From his tone, she got the feeling he didn’t think it was much of a relationship.

  “Nothing,” he shrugged. “So, what’s the other thing you want me to know?”

  “I’m in the middle of a—what should I call it?—media blitz.”

  “I know,” he said. “I looked you up. It was a bit of a shock to see all those tabloid stories. I can’t imagine how that makes you feel.”

  “Ah,” she said. “Would you have brought this up if I hadn’t?”

  “Probably. Look, can I get you something to drink? It seems to be self service here tonight.” He gestured around him. There were just a few couples in the mostly empty bar. No waitress in sight.

  She told him she’d like a glass of chardonnay, and he went off to get it.

  What now? she thought. She wanted to know more about Josh. True, she was curious about everyone she met. But with this guy it was more intense. She was attracted to him, and Reinhardt was pretty much out of the picture. She’d stopped trying to reach him, reasoning that she’d already left plenty of messages; that was enough. Even if he called and begged her forgiveness, she was done. He was too much of an enigma for a long-term relationship. Yet, for reasons she couldn’t explain, she was feeling guilty about meeting this new guy for a drink. That was ridiculous, right? She wasn’t going to sleep with him—was she? She lingered on that thought until she realized Josh was back, handing her a glass of wine.

  Once he was seated, she asked him about himself, and he told her pretty much what she already knew. He also said that, since he’d started his architectural practice in the middle of the Great Recession, business had been slow. He’d gotten a loan from his father and bought a derelict house, fixed it up, sold it, and bought another. Now he had three rental houses in addition to the one he lived in. He’d loved doing that, but had no time for it now that his practice had picked up. As far as his personal life, he said, “I’m not presently involved with anyone. I had a bad breakup a little over a year ago, and I’m just coming out of it.”

  She thought of the woman, Eleanor a.k.a. Elle, who’d been living with him the previous year. She must be the relationship he was talking about.

  He put his hand on hers and said, “But what’s happening with you? I mean, this is pretty nasty publicity. How are you dealing with it?”

  “I hate it,” she said. “I can’t wait for it to be over.”

  He asked her about Robert’s murder. She told him the basic details. It had all been in the paper.

  “Was he a close friend?”

  “Not really,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “Look, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss it. I came out tonight so I wouldn’t have to think about it.”

  “Sure. Sorry.”

  They were both quiet, and she began to think perhaps the evening had been a mistake. Maybe she should call it a night.

  “Read any good books lately?” he said.

  “I wish,” she said.

  They both laughed, and her mood lightened. The conversation turned to books they’d both enjoyed. She was surprised by the similarity in their taste. She’d never met a guy who read the same books she did. He even liked the Victorians—Dickens, Trollop, Thackeray—who were her special favorites. They chattered on amiably like old friends, discussing movies, plays, the
news, politics.

  All at once she noticed they were the only people left in the bar. She looked at her watch. It was almost midnight.

  “Oh, my god,” she said. “I’ve have work tomorrow.”

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” he said, getting up.

  It wasn’t far. She was parked about a half block from the bar. But it was a side street, and the lights in nearby businesses were off. She was glad for his company.

  When they reached her car, he walked around to the driver’s side with her. She unlocked the door, pulled it open, and turned to say goodnight when he leaned in and lightly brushed his lips against hers. Meeting no resistance, he pulled her toward him and kissed her. After a few seconds’ hesitation, she found herself kissing him back. Finally, she gently pushed him away.

  “I’ve got to go,” she said. She got in the car, closed the door, and lowered the window.

  “Can I see you again?” he said.

  She nodded. “I have to get on the other side of this whole ugly episode before––” she paused, not quite knowing what to say, then added, “before we get together again.”

  “I’m a good listener,” he said. “I can even offer a shoulder to cry on.”

  “Maybe so, but remember what Nelson Algren said: ‘Never go out with a woman whose troubles are worse than your own.’”

  “Um, I don’t think you’ve got the quote quite right,” he said. “What he said was: ‘Never play cards with a man called Doc. Never eat at a place called Mom’s. Never sleep with a woman whose troubles are worse than your own.’”

  They smiled at each other for a long moment.

  Then Nicole said, “Look, I’ll call you when I—when my life gets back to normal.”

  She put her key in the ignition to start the car, but he said, “Wait! You don’t have my number.” He pulled out his card and handed it to her.

  Eight

  When Nicole got to work the next day, the scene in front of the building was relatively quiet, with only a few paparazzi keeping watch. There had been no new stories about Robert, although the tabloids managed to build an article on the somewhat tenuous news peg that there were no new developments in the case. To her, it appeared to be a lame attempt to keep the story alive and run Robert’s photo yet another day.

  She was still jet-lagged, her fatigue compounded by the late evening with Josh. She couldn’t remember ever being so grateful that it was Friday.

  The day was a busy one, and not in a good way. She completed the paperwork on the performance reviews and, by late morning, began delivering these evaluations to the staff. It was a yearly unpleasantness, dreaded by everyone, especially Nicole. Staff members came in one by one, and she had to explain what they were doing wrong or what they could do better, or in several happier cases, how well they were doing. Raises depended on these ratings, and she’d taken a lot of time to look at each employee’s work and be fair, even generous, in her assessments. But there were always slackers, those whose work was below par, and others who she thought must have “job suicide” with work so spectacularly bad that it appeared they were determined to get fired and collect unemployment.

  She’d told Breanna to hold her calls while she was conferring with each person, but to take a message from Josh Mulhern or put him through if she was free. Breanna raised her eyebrows. “Not a word,” Nicole warned. Breanna made a motion of zipping her lips, and they both smiled.

  From her glass cubicle, she watched the usual parade of clients making their way to conference rooms to meet with their attorneys. The billing rates at a firm like this ran close to $1,000 an hour for a lawyer’s time—$700 for a paralegal. While most of the work was for big corporations, some cases involved family law—prenuptial agreements, the subsequent divorces, negotiations over the settlement of property, and renewed fights over the initial prenups. It was a perpetual-motion machine. Obviously, in order to employ a top-drawer firm for these matters, the clients were either executives of corporate clients or the superrich. More often than not, the husband was a good deal older than the wife.

  Once in a while, a husband or wife would call on the firm’s services to investigate a spouse he or she suspected of infidelity. These investigations were usually conducted by an outside firm, since Robert was always quick to hand them off. It had seemed to Nicole that he felt these cases were beneath him. He was a cynic about marriage and refused on principle to be party to such stupidity. But now, given his unwanted interest in her, and the age disparity between them, she wondered if it might have been something else.

  The firm’s other non-corporate work involved estate issues, wills, trusts, inheritances, and the like. Such cases were often filed by heirs who objected to whatever had been left to them, or—to be precise—what had not been left to them. Many of these litigants had been trust-fund babies, had never had to work for a living, and never would. Still, they seemed in such bad need of more wealth that they were willing to spend what—over the years—amounted to hundreds of thousands of dollars fighting for money that had been left to someone else. In the offices of Bascomb, Rice, Smith & Di Angelo and their $1,000-an-hour fees, billable hours could add up quickly. In Nicole’s view, the whole exercise was a ridiculous waste of time and money. An estate could be depleted before the case was settled, which was exactly what had happened in Dickens’s Bleak House with the case of Jarndyce and Jarndyce.

  On her way to Stephanie’s that night, Nicole detoured west to check on her condo. The front of the building was deserted, and she felt safe enough to stop and pick up her mail.

  When she got back to the car, she gave into an impulse and called Josh. He picked up after one ring. “Really?” he said. “Things back to normal already?”

  “I wouldn’t say they’re normal,” she said. “But nothing bad happened today, so I decided to call you.”

  “It’s 6:00,” he said. “Can you meet me for dinner?”

  “I have to stop at my sister’s apartment in West Hollywood first. I’ve been staying there since my condo became paparazzi central. But I could probably meet you at 8:00.”

  “How about the Café Marie. It’s just off Ventura near Laurel Canyon,” he said. “Does that work for you, or do you want me to come over the hill to West Hollywood?”

  It was clear they were negotiating over what might happen after dinner. If they met in West Hollywood, they couldn’t go to her sister’s. “Café Marie is fine,” she said. “I’ll see you at 8:00.”

  Nicole put her foot to the accelerator and made it to Stephanie’s in record time so she could shower and freshen up before driving out to the valley. At the same time, she kept asking herself what she thought she was doing. It was as if she’d lost control and some kind of possession had taken hold of her.

  She pulled her new navy dress from the closet, held it up to herself, and looked in the mirror. It had a scooped neckline, just short of daring, and was fitted to the hip, where it flared into soft folds. The dress was flattering—no doubt about it. She decided it would be fine to wear to dinner. She selected fresh underwear, grabbed a towel from the linen closet, and went into the bathroom. Before she closed the door, she told her sister that she was going to shower.

  “OK, but I’m next,” said Steph. “Remember: I’ve got a date, too.”

  “This isn’t a date,” Nicole corrected her. “It’s just dinner.”

  She took her shower and had just slipped into her bra and bikini panties—a matched set in sheer black lace—when Steph knocked. “Can I use the shower now?” she said.

  Nicole opened the door. Steph had her change of clothes over her arm—jeans and a hoodie. No use dressing up for Mr. Dreadlocks. Usually, Nicole had observed, they just retired to Stephanie’s room, from which sounds of noisy sex would soon emanate.

  “Huh,” said Stephanie, taking note of Nicole’s lingerie. “I guess this Josh guy is pretty hot.”

  “Stop that,” Nicole said, playfully punching her sister in the arm. “He’s never going to see me in this.
Besides, you’re the one who packed my undies. Remember? And this is what you packed.”

  Nicole arrived at the restaurant first, a pretty little French bistro. The hostess had Josh’s reservation and seated her in a booth at the back. Nicole ordered a glass of wine. She sat uneasily for what seemed like a long time, constantly checking her watch. All kinds of things were going through her mind, especially the idea of being stood up. Again.

  Then there he was, beaming at her and handing her a single, perfect red rose. “Sorry I was late. I got stuck at the office.”

  She felt herself flush. “No worries,” she said. “I’ve already eaten. I was just waiting for the check.”

  He laughed and sat down, then put up his hand to get the waitress’s attention. “Come on,” he said. “I wasn’t that late.”

  “Fifteen whole minutes,” she said. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you about women with more troubles than your own.”

  “I consider myself warned,” he said. “Next time I’ll call if I’m going to be even a minute late.”

  Looking into her eyes, he reached out and took her hand. Her hand tingled; another tingling started at the inside soles of her feet and was working its way upward. Unbelievable, she thought, I hardly know this guy and look what he’s doing to me.

  The waitress arrived and had to clear her throat to get their attention. Josh ordered a drink, and they both studied the menu.

  They ordered—a steak for him and glazed salmon for her—and chatted about their day, the latest news, schools they’d gone to, their first romances. By the time they ordered coffee and a single molten chocolate cake to share, they’d both scooted to the center of the booth and were sitting close together. She was all too aware of the warmth of his thigh against hers.

  Josh told her about his breakup. “We were engaged and starting to plan the wedding when she told me she’d met someone else. I found out later that she’d been seeing him for some time. I was ready to settle down and start a family, and I thought she wanted the same thing.”