Man at Work

by Elaine Fox

  Hard to believe, Marcy thought, but Aunt Phyl’s party had ended up being the highlight of her day. The moment she left the gathering she felt the weight of all her problems descend on her again.

  Not that they’d ever really left her.

  Truman, she thought almost wistfully. He hadn’t been out of her thoughts all day, though she’d kept pushing him away. While everyone grilled her about being dateless, she’d imagined how it would have felt to arrive at the party with him. How impressed they all would have been. So tall and handsome. So funny and charming. Her mother would adore him. Uncle Bruce would love him too. Even her father would respect him, if he ever turned up.

  What would that feel like? she’d wondered.

  Then she remembered what a lying snake he was. How could he take her to bed—twice!—when he had a girlfriend who came and made him steamship round for dinner? A girlfriend with gorgeous blonde hair and a body that wouldn’t quit. For some reason, Marcy couldn’t get the sight of those three gold bracelets the girl wore from her mind. They looked so…so rich. Marcy didn’t know much about jewelry, but those bracelets had been twenty-four carat, without a doubt. She had such a moneyed look about her, she had to have been the one with the limousine that night.

  Where in the world had he met a girl like that?

  But what did it matter? Maybe it was a good thing, she thought, pulling into her building’s parking garage. Now she knew he was a lying, two-timing jerk, and that was a lot more motivation to stay away from him than the fact that he was her witness.

  She shifted the car into park and swallowed over a lump of self-pity in her throat. He was inappropriate for her, she’d known that before she got involved with him at all. He was just like all those charming losers from her old neighborhood.

  But still, she’d thought they might be building toward something really special. Even if it was wrong.

  By the time she got to the lobby she felt as if she’d been put through the wringer. The events of the day had sustained her, kept her from thinking too much, but now that she was home, alone, she couldn’t stop thinking about last night, and then the girl with the steamship round.

  She was shuffling through the lobby, feeling like an old lady in need of a walker, when Javier called to her.

  “Miss P! Miss P!” He came out from behind his desk and hurried toward her. “A man, he came here looking for you but I tole him you gone out. So he wait, right there.” He pointed to the couch over which the ficus hung. “For like a hour. He only just left little bit ago.”

  “Who was he?” she asked, her heart leaping despite her mind’s injunction not to. But Truman wouldn’t check with Javier, she knew that. She just hoped it wasn’t Guido. “Did he leave a name?”

  “Yes, ma’am, he did. His name Truman Fleming.” He drew the words out slowly, as if he’d been instructed to make sure to get it right. “Yes, that’s it. Troo-man Flemming.”

  13

  Sunday, October 27

  WORD-A-DAY!

  JETTISON: v., to rid oneself of encumbering cargo; as in dumping a companion whose value one might have overestimated

  Marcy sat at her dining-room table and unfolded the yellow legal-sized piece of paper that she had found folded between doorknob and frame last night. In pencil, in a masculine hand, were the words, Woke up and you were gone. Thought it must have been a dream. Followed by a dashing letter T with a period beside it.

  She flattened the paper out in front of her with her hands and studied his writing as if it could tell her more than the words themselves. Slanted and sure, the script was distinctive. Strong, honest. Too bad the man wasn’t.

  So maybe the blonde didn’t tell him she’d come by. Maybe she believed Marcy’s lame I-must-have-the-wrong-apartment excuse. Maybe she was not just a bimbo but a bitch and took credit for the dog food, too.

  Which was unfair—that woman was as much a victim of Tru Fleming as Marcy was—but Marcy didn’t care. Even if the blonde had told, it wasn’t as if Truman would ever admit he was a philandering jerk. He’d just come up with some charming lie that Marcy would be all too tempted to believe.

  No, it was better if he didn’t know that she knew. Then she could just call the whole thing off because of the case and be done with it. She wouldn’t appear jealous and he wouldn’t believe he stood a chance with her. He was off limits to her for more reasons than fidelity, anyway.

  So she had to talk to him, but not now, she thought. Besides, she couldn’t call him and she wasn’t ever going to drop by his apartment again. She’d just wait until he popped up in her world, as he always did eventually, then lay it all on the line.

  Now she was going to go to work. It was Sunday, sure, but she had a lot to do. It was not because she felt like being childish and avoiding Truman. Honest.

  But Truman didn’t try again. He’d left her the note on an impulse. An impulse driven by the fact that Heather the Cook lived just a couple of blocks away and he’d felt obliged to drop her off. Okay, maybe more than a couple, but in the same neighborhood, anyway. The same general area. So he’d been drawn to Marcy’s door like a moth to a flame. With similar results likely, he’d thought morosely.

  Then, when she wasn’t home, he’d waited. For what? he’d asked himself time and again. He wasn’t sure. He’d just wanted to see her again. Because when he was with her, he thought things like this could work and she’s not like anyone I’ve ever known before.

  Now he wasn’t sure what he should do next.

  Because she left so quickly this morning, the enduring question remained. Did she regret sleeping with him because of the case, or did she regret compromising her standards?

  It seemed he would never know. It was now nearly one week later—one week!—and she hadn’t gotten back to him. Even after that nice note he’d left her.

  To his mortification, it appeared she was dumping him.

  This was not hard to understand. She was an expensive girl, and for all she knew he was broke. Naturally she’d be as practical as every other woman with an expensive wardrobe and a penchant for nice cars, and she’d decide he wasn’t her type.

  His disappointment in her was profound.

  Which was why it surprised even him that when he saw her on Friday during his lunch hour—and hers, apparently—walking down K Street toward Vie de France for lunch, he rushed to catch up to her.

  “Call me crazy, but I didn’t think you were the love-’em-and-leave-’em type, Miss P,” he said, drawing next to her and matching her stride for stride.

  She looked up at him, startled, and stopped in her tracks. People behind them on the crowded sidewalk stopped short, looked annoyed, and edged around them.

  “What do you mean?” she asked, giving him one of her direct looks.

  “I mean, I thought I’d hear from you after last week. Did you get my note?” he asked, suddenly realizing it could well have fallen off the door. That would explain everything.

  But she smiled politely and said, “Yes, I did. Thanks. And Javier told me you waited for me. I’m sorry. I had plans that night.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. The girl was emotionless. What was the matter with her?

  “And you didn’t think some kind of…I don’t know…response to all that was appropriate?”

  She shrugged. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

  He was being blown off! He’d let his guard down and now he was paying for it. She was every bit as pretentious as he’d feared. More so, even.

  “I’ve been really busy, Truman.” She moved toward the plate-glass window they stood in front of to get out of the way of pedestrians.

  Truman stepped next to her, feeling more foolish with every passing minute. “It’s been almost a week. You didn’t have a moment in all that time?”

  “A moment?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “To do what? Call you up?”

  “Well, hey, I’m sorry I don’t have a phone, but—”

  “But nothing, Truman. Don’t go climbing up on that h
igh horse again. Besides, I remember your going a week without talking to me quite comfortably the last time we, uh, got together like that. What’s the problem now?”

  “The problem is—” he began, but she cut him off.

  “You know what? Never mind. Because the fact is this isn’t going to work out between us and we both know it. Why drag it out? Why say a whole bunch of stuff we don’t mean?”

  He looked at her, stunned. Not that he hadn’t expected it, but he hadn’t expected her to be so…so heartless about it.

  “Listen,” she said, her expression all business. “Burton v. Planners is heating up, so it’s probably a good thing we ran into each other. We’re going to have to get together soon to prep you for depositions.”

  “I can’t believe you’re so…you’re acting so…”

  “What?” She cocked her head and looked at him knowingly.

  And was that a trace of amusement he saw in her eyes? He hoped not. He really, really hoped not.

  “Last Friday, I thought…Jesus. I thought you were different. How can you be so…?”

  “So practical?” she asked.

  Aha! So there it was.

  He scoffed elaborately. “Girls like you, you’re always practical when it comes to guys like me, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve already explained to you, Truman. You’re my witness. It’s extremely unethical for me to be involved with one of my witnesses.”

  “It’s not that unethical,” he said dismissively. “I’m a fact witness, not your client.”

  She stood there shaking her head until he looked at her again. “Like you have any idea what’s unethical and what isn’t.”

  He paused, wondering if she meant that in the legal sense, or as broadly as it sounded. “I know more than you think I do. I’ve got a pretty sure feeling you’re blowing me off because of something other than the case. And I think we both know what that is.”

  She looked at him stonily.

  “All right.” He threw up his hands. “Fine. You win. You know where to find me.” He turned and started walking away, fury bubbling from every pore. He thought she would have at least couched it all in some sweet talk about how it just wasn’t right, how her feelings were true but she just couldn’t justify…something so it wasn’t just wham-bam-thank-you-sir.

  Truman couldn’t believe how incensed he felt. She was shallow, that was what got him. He’d been telling himself for weeks now she was probably shallow, but he’d never believed it until this minute.

  This minute, when she’d thrown him out like last week’s news.

  The following Tuesday, Marcy knew just what she had to wear for the firm’s party. Her best suit, cream-colored merino wool, with ivory pumps and a tortoiseshell barrette holding her hair in a short, neat ponytail. She put on her best understated gold jewelry from Tiffany’s, her Gucci watch, and a gold pearl ring she’d bought at an estate sale two years before to celebrate her first raise.

  She had to look successful, she thought with a slow exhale, examining the ensemble. Not to impress the clients so much as her boss.

  Dress for success, she’d heard him say on more than one occasion when complimented on a tie or pair of cufflinks. God knew Win Downey spared no expense on his wardrobe.

  She took one last look at her makeup in her rearview mirror, then got out of the car and locked it. Her heels echoed in the parking garage as she walked to the elevator.

  She was nervous—not so much for herself, as for Calvin. He’d been cool as a cucumber when she’d visited him last night. The food was ready, they’d rented a truck to get it to the party. And he’d hired enough servers and assistants to make the whole evening run smoothly. He was definitely a professional, Marcy thought. She didn’t know what she was worried about.

  Walking into the party, she wished Trish had been able to ride with her. Trish had brought a date—the infamous Palmer Roe, forgiven, apparently, for the tube-top incident—so Marcy was left to go solo. Despite the fact that she knew most of the people who worked at the firm, she always hated walking into a party alone. Especially one like this, where everyone noticed what you wore and with whom you arrived.

  She really should have gotten a date. Her mind flicked briefly to Truman, then shuddered away. That was all she needed, a crush on a man with no ambition and even less character.

  She made her way over to the punch table, waving to the guy from the copy room and eyeing the efficient collection of white-coated servers working the room. Calvin really did have it under control, she thought with a smile.

  “Hey,” a soft voice said as its owner goosed her from behind. “Lookin’ good,” Trish said, grinning, as Marcy turned, taking a glass of punch from the server at the same time.

  Marcy smiled at her friend, who looked like a million bucks in a classic gray Armani suit. In one hand she held a glass of champagne, looking so natural and at ease Marcy thought she was probably born with a glass of Cristal in her hand.

  “Lookin’ good yourself,” she said, glancing behind Trish for a glimpse of the infamous Mr. Roe. “Where’s your date? Don’t tell me he stood you up.” She grinned. No guy in his right mind would stand up Trish Hamilton.

  Trish gave a wry look. “Don’t I wish. It would save me from myself. But no, he’s here. He just went to the men’s room.”

  “Be sure to introduce me. I’m dying of curiosity.”

  “Sure, that’ll be a treat. I haven’t been able to introduce him to anyone all night. Turns out Palmer knows more people here than I do. The man’s a tireless socializer.”

  “He’s probably trying to impress you,” Marcy said, wondering what that would be like.

  “He’s exhausting me. Oh God, look at what Kendall’s wearing.”

  Kendall Scott was a new associate just out of school, famous in the firm for wearing sexy little dresses to work that were more suited to evening wear.

  Marcy had more than once thought about gently saying something to her—nearly every lawyer in the place made fun of her—but the girl always acted so snotty and superior she had finally given up.

  “It looks like a spiderweb.” Marcy squinted across the room. “Oh my God. Is it…? Tell me it’s not see-through.”

  They giggled softly together and continued to look around the room, exchanging little bits of gossip and commenting on who was with whom. Marcy and Trish each plucked a snow pea–wrapped shrimp off a server’s passing plate, then a bit of sate, a crab puff, and stuffed mushrooms.

  “The food is fantastic,” Trish said through a mouthful of mushroom. “This is your friend who made this?”

  Marcy nodded. “Calvin Deeds. Used to own Bella Luna.”

  “Sweet Lord in heaven,” Trish said, snaring another crab puff from a passing waiter. “This is so much better than last year’s.”

  Marcy smiled. This party could really make Calvin. “Listen, do me a favor, Trish. If anyone comments on the food to you, be sure to mention Calvin’s name. This could be a great first step to his getting back on his feet.”

  “Absolutely,” Trish said. “I guess I’d better find Palmer, make sure he hasn’t gotten lost.” She laughed cynically. “As if he’d ever be lost at a party.”

  “Let me know when you find him. Remember I want to meet him,” Marcy said.

  “You will,” Trish promised.

  The two parted and Marcy made a point of mingling with people, mentioning the food, and dropping Calvin’s name whenever anyone complimented it.

  As the party wound down, Marcy was a little bothered that she hadn’t had a chance to talk to Win at all. She’d seen him here and there, but he was always with a group of people. She hadn’t gotten a chance to speak to him alone for the better part of a week, which always made her nervous—as if she were afraid he would forget about her and her career would go down the tubes.

  She was just putting down her glass and thinking she should go when she saw Calvin, dapper in a black tuxedo she’d rented for him, talking to a beautiful, well-dressed older woma
n by the windows. Deciding to tell him what rave reviews his food was getting, Marcy headed in their direction.

  He and the woman were talking animatedly when Marcy approached.

  “Marcy!” Calvin greeted, with the most unfettered smile she’d seen on his face in months. “Come and meet this charming lady. Marcy, this is Sheila.”

  “Hello,” Marcy smiled.

  The silver-haired woman smiled back warmly. She smelled like Joy and looked so elegant she could have been hosting this party in the ballroom of a grand English country house, instead of being just a guest in the offices of a K Street law firm.

  “How do you do, dear? Aren’t you looking smart?” She held out her right hand and Marcy took it, noting as she did that on the woman’s finger was the biggest diamond Marcy had ever seen. “I love your suit. Is that Versace?”

  “Thank you. Yes, it is.” Marcy looked down at her suit self-consciously, surprised by the compliment. “You really know your designers.” She blushed and amended, “Obviously,” with a vague motion toward the woman’s perfectly tailored dress. “I mean, not that I know what you’re—but you look so nice too, you obviously know good clothes.”

  Shut up, Marcy! Just shut up! she thought, hoping the woman was nobody important, because she sure was making an ass of herself.

  She turned quickly to Calvin. “Calvin, I came over to tell you what raves the foo—”

  “Did I mention,” Calvin interrupted so abruptly that Marcy blushed further. Had she said something wrong again? “That Sheila is planning a trip to Italy this month?”

  “Oh.” Marcy glanced back at the woman named Sheila, who was still looking pleasant despite Marcy’s social clumsiness. “Well, Calvin knows Italy well.”

  The least she could do was try to make Calvin look good. Why did this woman make her so nervous?

  “Well, not planning, really,” Sheila said. “Just toying with the idea. For Thanksgiving, you know. Do something different. I’ve always loved Tuscany, and if you’re going to spend a holiday eating, there is no better place to do it than Italy.”