Beautiful Illusions (6 page)

The second I opened the door, he spun around where he was downstairs. He smiled wanly. “Hey, beautiful,” he said without his usual enthusiasm. Encouraged, I made my way downstairs, and he was already coming up the stairs, so we met halfway.

Putting his arm around me, he said “I hope you slept well.”

“Yes, yes, I did. Thank you very much for letting me stay.”

“Well, I couldn’t let you drive after all that wine.”

“Excellent wine. You have very good taste.”

“Well, that was a particularly good year because it was so dry that year
.” He smiled. “Global warming is actually a good thing for vintners.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. The drier it is, the better the crop.”

“Huh?”

“Well, when there’s too much moisture, the leaves tend to get moldy, and the grapes don’t grow as well. The sugar also gets more concentrated in dry weather.”

“Learn something new everyday!”

Surreptitiously, I looked at his face for any sign of the emotional turmoil that he was apparently going through. He did look a little wan, a little less engaged, a little more distracted. But he was hiding it well. I felt mixed emotions about that.
If he could hide his emotions about this, what else would he be good at hiding in the future?

I waited for him to say anything about t
he conversations this morning. He had to know that there was at least a chance that I heard something, although I hoped it was not in his mind that I heard as much as I did.

“Um, let me fix you some breakfast.” Well, “fix” wasn’t quite the term, as he had a cheese strata already in the oven,
which was now coming out and cooling.

“Did you prepare that la
st night?” I knew that stratas are usually an overnight thing, but I didn’t recall him making anything last night.

“Yeah. After you went to bed, I got this ready. I wanted to make something nice for you for breakfast. And, for the record, I am impressed that you know about cheese stratas.”

“Well, I am not a total food philistine,” I said with mock indignation.

“Never thought you were.” He was distracted - he apparently thought I was being serious when I acted offended.

He sliced up the cheese strata, then garnished it with some berries and cream. “Bloody Mary or Virgin Mary?” he asked.

“Bloody, please.”

He smiled at that. “My kind of woman. Now, shoo, go meet me on the terrace.”

I went out the sliding glass door that opened into his backyard. The “backyard,” w
as more of a palatial terrace. The back patio was paved in lightly colored stone, overlooking an in-ground Olympic-sized swimming pool. A 10-person hot tub gurgled just above the pool. The hot tub was also built in-ground. I made my way to his dining table, which also sat 10, and was situated under a canopy. Just beyond the pool and hot tub, I could see roses, daisies, geraniums mandavillas, and a gazebo. There was also a fully-stocked wet bar outside, underneath a little Tiki hut, right by the pool.

Ryan appeared, bearing a tray with his plate and mine, and two Bloody Marys. I felt a little weird sitting at such a large table.

“Love, would you rather sit by the pool?”

I looked towards the pool, noticing that there was a smaller table with an umbrella attached. “Sure, but let me help you with the food and everything.”

“No, I got it. Just meet me there.”

I went down the steps to the table by the pool, Ryan right behind me.

Sitting down to eat, I bit into my strata. “Oh, I’m in heaven! Where did you learn to cook?”

“Here and there. I picked up a little all my life.”

I felt glad that he didn’t tell me the clichéd “My nanny taught me to cook.” Or something like that.

I took a deep breath, wondering if he would say anything at all about the unfolding drama. To my surprise, he did.

“Uh, my ex-wife called this morning.”

I tried for the right expression. Not exactl
y surprised, but not like I knew something, either.
I hope I get this right.
“Oh?”

He smiled. “So, I um, I have to go somewhere this morning.”

I sat silently, waiting to see if there was more.

“I, um, am, um, um, um, uh, s-s-s-seei
ng my therapist this morning.” He looked at me, his face taking on the puppy dog expression I saw on our first date.
It’s almost as if he’s afraid of losing me for telling that he’s seeing a therapist.

“Hey, not a problem. I got things to do anyhow.”
What these “things” were, I didn’t really know. Probably get caught up on my DVR.

“Yes, yes.” He stared at his glass
pensively and said little else.

I wasn’t quite sure what to say to any of this.
I hope I get better at this over time. Hell, I hope I hear from him again.
Then I remembered in a flash that he apparently had a date that night with somebody that he apparently had strong feelings for, judging by the tone of the conversation. I tried not to jump to conclusions, though. It might be an innocent thing – maybe Nick is his sister? Anyhow, I hardly had exclusive rights to him. I barely knew him. So, I decided not to ask about Nick. Besides, I couldn’t ask about Nick without giving away that my nosy ass heard everything he said to his ex-wife.

The breakfast was soon finished. Not being quite sure how to play this - if I stay, am I intruding? If I go, does he think that I’m scared off by the therapist thing
and am no longer interested? - I opted for eating and running. “Hey, thanks for everything. You’re an amazing cook. I hate to eat and run.”

“Yes, yes,
” he said, sounding miserable. “Um, let me show you out.” I looked at him quizzically, suddenly remembering that I didn’t have my car there. I wondered if that occurred to him as well. In a split second, it did. “Oh, shit. Uh, hold on a second.” He went into the other room with his iPhone. He came back in a few minutes. “I’m terribly sorry. I just called my driver. He’ll be here in about five minutes.”

Jeeves is dr
iving me home? NOT a good sign.
I sighed inwardly.
I knew this was too good to be true.

Daniel, his driver, was there in five minutes, driving a Cadillac Escalade, just as Ryan had promised. Patting my head a little before I got into the car, he said “Thanks, Iris. I had a very nice time.”

That’s it? Not even a fake promise to call? Not even a half-hearted “I’ll see you later?”
I nodded my head.
Bastard.
I immediately banished that thought .
No, not a bastard. A nice guy who is dealing with a nasty problem that I can’t even begin to fathom. Well, maybe he is a bastard, if this Nick person is his girlfriend. Estranged girlfriend? Sister? Woman he wants as a girlfriend? 

Smiling, I waved.

But he already had his back turned and was walking into the house.

Sitting in the back of the Escalade, I willed Daniel not to be a chatty driver. I coul
dn’t deal with that right now. I bit my lip, willing myself not to cry.
Daniel will no doubt report it if I cry, so keep calm.
Then I thought
ha, Daniel won’t report anything. Ryan won’t ask, because he won’t care. Daniel has probably seen it all anyhow.

Thankfully, Daniel was the stoic sort, not even trying to make small talk
.

Once inside my apartment, I
let loose a torrent of tears. I had no idea why I was crying. I barely knew the guy. Except that I actually had known him my entire life. That is, I had known the idea of him all my life – the seemingly perfect guy. Dare I say – Prince Charming? So, I was upset, because I assumed that I wouldn’t be seeing him anymore.

I decided to take a walk to my mailbox, which was centrally located in the middle of the apartment complex. I hated getting my mail, but I needed to take a walk and get some fresh air. Stepping out onto my stoop, I looked at the sky, which was now threatening rain. I sighed, knowing that I didn’t have an umbrella – all my umbrellas end
ed up getting left somewhere, so I usually just got drenched like a puppy. I hurriedly made my way to the clubhouse, where the mailbox was, hoping that I wouldn’t get caught in a torrential downpour. A loud crack of thunder, followed by a lightning that lit up the sky, told me that I didn’t have much time.

I got to the mailbox, and opened it.

“Oh, for the love of god. Not again!” I said, as I peered inside and saw only a little yellow note. The note informed me that my box had gotten too full, so everything would be waiting for me at the post office. This had happened way too many times – I had an awful habit of not checking my mailbox for weeks at a time. Nothing ever came in the mail that was important, I reasoned. But it was still a pain in the ass to have to make the special trip to the time-sucking vortex known as the post office, and wait in line while the one or two postmasters take an eternity with each and every one of the fifty customers. I briefly considered just never getting the mail, but decided that was unwise. You never know – the one time you decide to completely blow off the mail is the one time that you will miss something really important.

And, of course, the threatening sky chose to dump on me at just that moment. It wasn’t just any rain, but it was a cloudburst. The wind whipped up to about 70 MPH, and, all at once, I was completely saturated. I trudged home, not even hurrying to get out of the downpour.

It was like that all that week. Dragging myself to work, trying not to snap at clients, barking at opposing counsel, writing ever nastier letters to them.

“Your client better get her ass off that couch and stop sponging off my client,” read one letter
.

“Tell your client to get off the crack and bong hits and take care of the kid, or we are going to get a modification agreement faster than you than you can read this” read another
.

I was on an “ass” kick, in that I was loving that word. I wanted to use it is some fashion in every letter I wrote. I refrained myself when writing my
motions to the judge, however. But even these motions were more aggressive than usual, although not quite as blunt as the letters to opposing counsel.

And one client, in part
icular, sent me into Defcon 1. He showed up to plead for a DWI, and, when he arrived at the courthouse, the smell of alcohol on his breath nearly knocked me over. It was fresh alcohol, too, because it actually smelled like vodka, as opposed to smelling slightly sweet, which is what vodka smells like on a person's breath after a period of time.

“What the fuck?” I asked him. The alcohol was not only strong on his breath, but his eyes were bloodshot. He looked a mess.

“What?” he asked.

“Oh, no you didn't. I know that you didn't booze it up before seeing the judge about your DWI charge.”

“I’m going to jail,” he slurred. “I wanted to have one last hurrah with my friends.”

“What did I say that made you think you were going to jail today? I told you that you’re gonna get probation.” I was apoplectic. “Well, probably not now. That judge will take one look at you and one smell of you, and throw you in the clink for sure. And that would serve you goddamned right.” I shook my head. “You aren't paying me enough for this bullshit. You couldn't pay me enough for this bullshit.”

Then I looked around. The guy was there by himself. “Where’s your ride?” I demanded.

“Uh, I couldn't find a ride.”

“Then where’s your bus pass?”

He looked at the floor and said nothing.

I was stunned. “Oh.my.god. You drove drunk to the courthouse to answer your drunk driving charge?”

He hung his head and continued to say nothing.

“Well, fuck this noise. I’m withdrawing from your case.”

“What? You can't do that!”

“Oh, can't I? Where’s the rest of the money you promised me?”

“I’ll send it to you when I get paid.”

“Bullshit. I’m withdrawing.”

When the judge called my client's name, about an hour and a half into the docket, I stood up before him.

“I request a move to withdraw your honor.”

“Why is that, counselor?”

“Rule one violation, your honor.” Every attorney knows the rule number one for clients – always pay your attorney. Bastard paid me $250, owed me another $1,000, then drove drunk to the courthouse.
You can't make this shit up. Nobody would ever believe me if I told them.

“Motion granted.” Turning to my client, he said “Now, young man, your new court date is August 20
th
. You must have new counsel by then. Do you understand?”

My client nodded mutely.

“Oh, and another thing. If you show up in my courtroom drunk again, I’ll have your case transferred to the state for prosecution. That’d mean that you wouldn’t be facing probation or possible jail time, but prison time. The big house. Do you understand?”

My client nodded.

“I didn't hear your reply.”