Her cell phone rang. What the? Oh, who else? It was her sister Lizzie, the sister who lived seven miles from Gaby up in Housatonic.
“I wake you?” Lizzie asked.
“No, I’m just sitting up reading. You know me, Lizard. Read till I drop.”
“Nerd. Bookworm. I wanted to call earlier, but Mike was feeling good enough to go out to dinner. So we all stuffed ourselves down at Bub’s Barbecue.”
“How’s Mike doing?”
“Same. Good days and bad. Still telling jokes. He’s really a trouper. I admire him.”
“Well, at least you all had a little fun today. That’s good. I admire you.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Lizzie sighed. Then, with enthusiasm, she said, “Anyway, what do you think the story is with Gaby?”
“I think the story is that she’s getting married. To whom—I have no idea. Maybe Tom Hayden?”
“You don’t think she’s telling stories?”
“Mom loves a tease, a good mystery, but no. Anyway, I think it’s great.”
A pause. Claire spoke again.
“I said ‘I think it’s great.’ Don’t you?”
A shorter pause.
“I guess so. I mean, yes. Yes. I think it’s great.”
“What’s the matter, Liz? I need some backstory here.”
“It’s just…I know this is going to sound stupid. I know it’s irrational…but it seems like…I don’t know…I really miss Dad.”
“I hate to say this, Liz. This is tough for me. But do you think it has something to do with the fact that Mike is pretty sick right now?”
Loudly and almost jokingly Lizzie replied, “Well, of course it does, Dr. Phil.”
They both laughed like the good friends and confidantes they’d always been.
“What does Mike think about it?” Claire asked. “The wedding? The mystery groom?”
“He says there’s nothing the Summerhill women can do that would surprise him. Is Hank…somewhat with the program?”
He doesn’t have a fricking clue. “Oh, yeah. Hank’s a worrywart about the weather, but he thinks it will be fun.” Staying in South Carolina and smoking weed until he drops.
Another pause, a chance for Claire to talk her heart out, to spill about Hank the asshole. “So, you guys are good, though?” she asked her sister.
The chance to spill had passed.
“Yeah, we’re good, C. Nothing an extra ten thousand a year wouldn’t make better. But tomorrow I’m headed over to Mom’s house. I’ll get more information out of her. Mom will blab.”
“Forget it. My money’s on Mom,” said Claire. “Gaby wants everybody home for Christmas. And you know what, she’s right. We need to get together. And meet our new dad.”
They said their good-byes. Claire returned to her view of the beach. Why hadn’t she told Lizzie that she wanted to plunge a carving knife through Hank’s heart?
Why? For the same reason Lizzie never complained about having to drive Mike to chemo twice a week or about his being struck by cancer at thirty-six. Why? Because they were Summerhill women. And that’s the way Summerhill women had to be. Strong and tough. Claire and Lizzie and Emily and, of course, the strongest of them all, Gaby.
So who the hell are you marrying, Mom? Why the big secret? Why all the mystery? Claire was betting on Tom Hayden. But maybe it was Jacob Coleman. Jacob was a real cutie.
Chapter 5
EMILY
EMILY SUMMERHILL, Gaby’s youngest and, in many ways, most complicated daughter, had this small, muffled voice inside her head, a voice that said over and over again, “Run, Emily, run.”
It was private code for “Succeed, Emily, succeed.”
Run, Emily, run.
So Emily got into Wellesley. Emily got a 3.94 GPA. Then Emily got into Columbia Law School.
Run, Emily, run.
And Emily made Columbia Law Review and published the forty-page article “Medicaid Fraud: The Conundrum That Defies All Former Legal Precedents.” Alan Dershowitz sent her an e-mail calling it one of the best Review pieces he’d read in years.
Run, Emily, run.
And Emily became a senior associate at Dale, Hardy, Dunwoodie, a law firm responsible for defending major British oil companies against stringent American environmental regulations that weren’t consistently or uniformly enforced.
Run, Emily, run.
And she was certain that this was the year she would be made partner. She was only twenty-nine years old. Partner before thirty was practically unheard of. But Emily felt she was perfectly capable of achieving the unheard-of.
So at precisely 5 a.m., she was on the 6 train hurtling down Lexington Avenue to the Financial District. At five thirty-five, fortified with only a no-foam skim latte, she was at her desk.
Oh, it was early, all right.
But when you worked at Dale, Hardy, one of the toughest law firms in New York, you had to play it tough and fierce yourself. As her first boss had told her, “If you don’t play tough here, we won’t just chew you up and spit you out. We’ll chew you up and then we’ll shit you out.” And that was from one of the nicer bosses, a woman.
Emily took a gulp of her latte, then checked her BlackBerry for the e-mails she had missed during the subway ride downtown.
One in particular jumped out.
Emily, sweets,
I’m assuming your silence since my last video means you’re swamped with work. So I assume that you’re deliriously happy about my marriage news. I’ll also assume that you and Bart will be coming up with sleigh bells on for Christmas. You wouldn’t let your mom down and miss her wedding? See you and Dr. Bart on Christmas, when all will be revealed. I love you. Both of you!
Well, Mom was right about one thing: Emily was definitely swamped. The fact that she billed six hundred dollars per hour for that swamping made it feel more overwhelming, not less. In the next few days her team was trying to land a huge oil monopoly in Edinburgh. She was personally researching a British Petroleum violation of a New Mexican desert preserve. And, finally, she was appearing in the New York Court of Appeals in less than four hours for one of Dale, Hardy’s rare pro bono cases.
She suddenly heard her mother’s voice in her head reciting the Summerhill family motto: “Be a giver, not a taker.” And the thing was, Emily believed in that philosophy. She just wasn’t living it very well.
Emily clicked on the file labeled “Eduardo Lopez.” Lopez was a forty-six-year-old father of four. He was accused of raping a woman in an elevator in the Sara Roosevelt housing project. He’d been convicted and had already served four years in prison. Now, even though there was new DNA evidence, supplied by the Innocence Project, that could probably exonerate him, the state prosecutors were fighting it. Why was that? Because it would embarrass the hell out of their department.
As for fighting? The attorney general’s office had no idea…Wait until they met Emily Summerhill in court.
Run, Emily, run.
Chapter 6
“I AM LIVING WITH human pigs, Señora Summerhill. And murderers. I miss my kids like the sunlight,” Eduardo Lopez told Emily as they held their brief visit in a hallway outside Judge Geraldine DeResta’s courtroom down at 100 Centre Street in Manhattan.
Eduardo, a small, frail man to begin with, seemed smaller and frailer than ever to Emily. The orange jumpsuit he wore made him look like an airless balloon. Three correctional police guarded him, as if this tiny would-be criminal had a shot at escaping, or harming Emily, which made no sense at all.
When they entered the courtroom, Judge DeResta was already seated. Emily knew her as a brusque, no-nonsense sort.
She also knew Assistant District Attorney Michael Petrillo as a fast-talking, street-smart attorney, almost as tenacious as Emily herself. Petrillo’s case was blatantly unjust and unfair, but sometimes that didn’t make a difference in a Manhattan courtroom.
“I’d like to make this as brief as possible,” Judge DeResta began. “Mr. Lopez is here on court visitation from S
ullivan Correctional. Defense counsel claims new DNA evidence to enter in appeal. Please begin, Counselor, and please be concise and to the point.”
Emily, who had dressed down for this occasion in criminal court, unbuttoned her gray cardigan and adjusted her white cotton blouse.
“Your Honor, a lab facility in Stamford, Connecticut, has discovered stored DNA that was taken from a semen stain on the victim’s sweat shorts at the time of the crime. At that time, technology did not allow accurate identification of DNA mixed with perspiration and urine.
“Well, that was then. Current science does allow for such testing. Dr. Arthur Conover is here from NYC Forensics to verify the validity of that statement.”
Judge DeResta, who had spent the last few minutes shuffling papers, said, “I’ll take your word for it, Ms. Summerhill. Go on.”
Emily continued, “For almost three years we have been trying to get the lab, Human Case Genetics, to release their sample. Each time they were about to do it, the DA’s office managed to get a stop-action.”
Judge DeResta looked at Petrillo directly.
“Is that true, Mr. Petrillo?”
“Your Honor, we respectfully petitioned the court, and they agreed that the State v. Lopez case was closed and that, furthermore, Human Case Genetics was not a New York–approved facility for DNA storage.”
Emily clamped her tongue between her teeth. It was a trick Gaby had taught her so that every single thought she had didn’t come spilling out of her mouth.
“But Human Case Genetics was approved at the time of the alleged crime,” Emily finally said.
Petrillo’s face was already bright red. He’d come here to tussle, to fight dirty, to win whatever the cost.
“Not ‘alleged,’ Ms. Summerhill. Mr. Lopez was found guilty!”
Emily went on as if he hadn’t even spoken. “Mr. Lopez has given a new sample of his DNA. Under the supervision of Dr. Conover, a comparison has been made between that sample and the sample from the victim’s sweat shorts.”
Judge DeResta spoke in her characteristic singsong manner.
“And they don’t match.”
“No, Your Honor.” Emily looked over at Eduardo. His chin was down. His eyes were filled with tears. He was the embodiment of anxiety.
“Mr. Petrillo, do you agree with this conclusion?”
“No, I do not, Your Honor,” Petrillo said as he stood up.
“Why am I not surprised?” Judge DeResta said, again in that singsong manner of hers. Emily couldn’t tell whether the judge was becoming angry with her, Petrillo, or both of them. Or what it would mean for her client, her innocent client.
“Your Honor, Eduardo Lopez was positively identified by the victim. Both in a mug book and a lineup. He was present at the Sara Roosevelt houses that evening, drinking and gambling…”
Emily interrupted. “Mr. Lopez was playing poker, yes, and he drank one beer.”
“In any event,” Petrillo said, “the jury found him guilty within an hour of being assigned deliberation.”
“Objection. Amount of time of deliberation is irrelevant,” said Emily.
“Sustained—and you can sit down, Mr. Petrillo.”
Petrillo sat.
“And you can stand up, Mr. Lopez,” Judge DeResta said, almost in the same breath.
Eduardo looked at Emily. He was frightened to death. Together they stood at the shoddy black plastic table. Judge DeResta shook her head wearily. She ran her right hand through her short gray hair.
“Mr. Lopez,” Judge DeResta said, “on behalf of the State of New York, I want to apologize for the injustice of your fifty-one months of incarceration.”
Eduardo looked confused. Emily took his hand. The judge continued.
“The evidence your attorney presented today exonerates you of this crime. Prosecution counsel has introduced a note of skepticism that is both unreasonable and unjustified. In fact, I’m going to discuss this matter with my clerk, because it actually could be an illegal interference with judicial protocol.”
Petrillo looked down at his folded hands. He knew better than to interrupt now.
“There is little doubt in my mind,” the judge went on, “that the jury would have come to a different conclusion had today’s DNA testing methods been available to the court. Mr. Lopez, you are free to go.”
Emily turned to him and said quietly, “You’re free, Eduardo.”
Eduardo wept, and his wife, in the back row, yelled “Gracias a Dios!” His kids ran up to hug him.
The only one happier than Eduardo was Emily. To her astonishment, she felt her hands shake and her eyes fill with tears. Eduardo embraced her, and then, it seemed, she was hugged and kissed by every aunt, uncle, niece, nephew, son, and daughter in Eduardo’s family. She wanted to jump up and punch the air. And maybe include Judge DeResta in the group hug.
Until she felt a vibration in the pocket of her sweater.
Dammit.
Emily clicked on her BlackBerry. The first text message was from her boss, Daniel Wycliffe Church, “Cliff” to his friends, senior partner at her firm. She read the message, which was short and to the point:
Where the shit are you? We’ve got real work to do here.
Run, Emily. Run.
Chapter 7
RUN, RUN, RUN!
Most senior offices at the law firm of Dale, Hardy had few or no personal mementos on display—no photos of adorable children or attractive spouses, no tennis trophies, golfing plaques, or crazy-crayoned drawings with “I Love You, Daddy” on them. Nothing communicated the fact that these people had private lives, probably because they didn’t.
Cliff Church did things a little differently. On his desk was a large mahogany-framed photo of a stunning blond wife and three equally photogenic blond sons. Cliff also had framed photographs of himself salmon fishing in Vancouver, fly-fishing in Idaho, surf fishing in Bali.
There was no image of him posing with a United States president, but there was a photo of Cliff and his wife at a restaurant table in Los Angeles with Reese Witherspoon and Jake Gyllenhaal. Cliff was smiling with satisfaction. The other three were roaring with laughter. What a hilarious joke Cliff must have told.
“Listen, I don’t mean to knock your pro bono shit,” Cliff was saying. “It’s great PR and terrific chicken soup for the soul. But you and I should be reading every fucking thing about those Jap automakers we’re having dinner with tonight.”
Emily sank farther down into the ridiculously soft cushions on Cliff’s sofa. She was pretty sure that Cliff had selected those cushions because they gave him the chance to study the legs of every woman who sat there, including herself.
Emily responded with unconcealed irritation. “I have already read every fucking thing about those…those gentlemen from Nissan we’re having dinner with tonight. And I’ve read it all three times.”
“Then I guess we’ll be in fine shape,” Cliff said. His smile was seductive. “Oh, and don’t worry. I won’t use words like ‘Japs’ or ‘fucking’ tonight. As you know, I can turn my political-correctness button on in a second.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know you can do that. You went to Andover and Harvard.”
“I’ll swing by your place about seven. It’ll give us plenty of time to get to the restaurant. Did your gal make a rez at Momofuku like I suggested?” Cliff asked.
“No. I thought about it, and I figured we shouldn’t try to out-Japanese the Japanese. We’re going to Smith and Wollensky—oysters, thick steaks, and plenty of scotch.”
“You are one smart lady,” he said. “All wise-guy cynicism aside, I mean that, Em.”
“Yes, I am,” Emily said, anxious to get out of Cliff’s office.
She was angry about two things. First, Cliff’s sexist attitude. And second, the fact that she found him attractive. Gaby would have been so, so disappointed.
Which reminded her—what kind of man had won Gaby’s heart?
Chapter 8
EMILY, AS WAS OFTEN the case, tur
ned out to be right. Smith & Wollensky was an excellent choice for the men from Nissan and their potential lawyers.
“So happy not to eat sushi and sushi and sushi. Excellent beef is delicious alternative,” one of the prospective clients said as she and Cliff helped three of them into a waiting London TownCar.
“Well, we’re happy you enjoyed it. We did too,” Emily said. “I’m also happy that Cliff-san decided to take you to a steakhouse.” She distinctly heard Cliff whisper, “Asshole.”
“We will be in contact tomorrow,” said the same Japanese gentleman, and then, as Emily bowed from the neck and Cliff waved, the car took off.
“We got it!” Cliff shouted. “We fucking got it!”
“You really think so?” Emily said. As always, she was amazed by her boss’s confidence and swagger. In a way, it was impressive.
“I know we did,” Cliff said. “When you started in on the environmental restrictions for carbon compounds versus full-electric cars, they thought you were the senior senator from Michigan. For a minute there, so did I.”
“I read the material three times,” she said, and could feel herself blush.
She noticed that she and Cliff were walking east on Forty-ninth Street, toward the United Nations building. Not good.
“Let’s stop at the Beekman Hotel. Celebration drink,” he said.
“Let’s wait till we get the business, Cliff.”
“We’ve got it. C’mon. Don’t jinx us, Em. One drink. Call it a pre-celebration.”
“Maybe you’ve forgotten. I have an apartment, here in the city. I have a husband. I’ve got a life beyond Dale, Hardy.”
He stopped walking. So Emily stopped too.
“No, you don’t,” he said with a grin. “You absolutely do not.”
“What are you talking about, Cliff?”
“You don’t have another life. Dale, Hardy is your life. The firm is your husband. The firm is your life. You spend eighty percent of your time there. You work like an animal. You don’t have another life, Emily.”
The Christmas Wedding Page 2
