Catching Air (14 page)

“Kira’s the one who found the precedent we needed to get the antitrust suit dismissed,” Thomas had added. He might’ve struggled to remember her name, but Thomas had a near-photographic memory of all the major details of every case he’d overseen for the past decade. There was a reason he was the managing partner. Besides, he was the one who’d cut Kira a thousand-dollar bonus check when she’d burst into the office, clutching a printout of her discovery.

It had been Kira’s biggest triumph in her six years at the firm; her research had been directly responsible for saving a client hundreds of thousands of dollars—maybe even millions. She’d used the bonus check to pay off her school loans a bit faster, but only after deducting fifty bucks to buy a bottle of champagne.

“So she’s the hero?” Chris had asked, and Kira had blushed.

“Well, her along with the brilliant name partner who argued on your behalf in court,” Thomas had said. “Brilliant and dashing, I should say.”

They’d laughed—backslapping, hearty, rich-men laughs—while Kira took another sip of her drink and tried to think of something to say.

“It was just luck that I found the precedent so quickly,” she’d blurted. “Usually it takes me a few weeks of research instead of an hour!”

Chris Woods had cocked his head at her, then turned to stare at Thomas, and Kira had instantly realized her mistake: Associates weren’t the only ones who overbilled.

“An hour,” Chris Woods had repeated. He wasn’t laughing any longer.

Kira had frozen, knowing whatever she said would only make things worse. Thomas could’ve billed for a few dozen associates working overtime for a solid week—he probably
had
—and Chris Woods never would have questioned the enormous check he’d had to cut.

“Let’s remember this when you submit your next bill,” Chris Woods had said. “Or perhaps we should renegotiate your last one.”

“Touché!” Thomas had shouted, pretending they were still joking around. He’d steered the client away from her quickly, and she’d known her punishment was coming. It was administered the next morning: a one-year “deferral” before she would be considered for partner. Terms like
team player
and
maturity
were kicked around while Kira’s nails dug into her palms and she fought back tears of anger and humiliation.

Gossip spread through the firm quickly, and everyone had acted like she was contagious—at least for the next few weeks, until another scandal had erupted when a married partner slept with a paralegal. Even her administrative assistant had given Kira’s arm a squeeze and brought her a latte after Thomas finished dressing her down. Which only made Kira feel worse: She was an object of pity, a cautionary tale. The firm’s screwup. The injustice of it still made her breath come faster and her face grow hot. Weren’t lawyers supposed to be agents of truth?

After the Incident, she’d begun to dread going into the firm—or, more accurately, dread it more than usual. She’d tried to quiet the persistent voice that kept asking if this was what she wanted, and instead she drove herself harder and put in even longer hours, determined to earn a second chance. Then Rand had called with his strange, spectacular offer, and for once, his timing was exactly right.

And so, Vermont. Her chance at a new life.

The front door opened, letting in a blast of cold air, and Dawn and Peter appeared on the threshold of the living room.

“How was your walk?” Kira asked, shaking off her dark memories.

“It was good,” Dawn said. “It’s so beautiful here!” She pulled off her gloves and handed them to Peter. “Thanks for these.”

Dawn looked better than she had the previous day, Kira thought. Some color brightened her cheeks, and the circles under her eyes weren’t as prominent.

“Dawn’s going to stay with us again tonight,” Peter was saying. “I’ll rustle up my sleeping bag, and then let’s go check out the space above the garage, okay?”

“Sure,” Kira said, closing her cookbook. “We’ve got an electric lantern in the closet. I’ll bring that, too.”

She got up off the couch and passed by Dawn. “I’m really glad you’re staying,” she said.

She was rewarded with a smile—the first one she’d seen from the young woman.

• • •• • •

In the end Alyssa had done both yoga and meditation, then she and Rand had walked through town together, stopping at Outback Pizza for a cheese-and-pepper pie.

When they’d arrived home, Kira reported that Jessica had just called to announce she and her girlfriends were on their way in. Kira was busy in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on appetizers with Dawn’s help. Tomorrow, she’d find a quiet place to talk to Rand, Alyssa thought. And then she’d take the pregnancy test she’d picked up at a drugstore in town, and they’d view the results together.

She unloaded the dishwasher and closed the door of the machine. “What else can I do?” she asked Kira.

“I think it’s under control,” Kira said. “Maybe just take drink orders when the girls arrive? Would you mind?”

“I think my years of waitressing prepared me well for that,” Alyssa joked just as the doorbell rang. She hurried to open it, and a half dozen young women piled into the house.

“Brrrr!” Jessica said, surprising Alyssa with a hug. “It’s freezing out!” She wore what looked like a handmade bridal veil, and she smelled like alcohol—which probably explained the hug.

“Welcome!” Alyssa said. “Come on in, everyone!”

“I swear my nipples just froze and fell off and clinked against the pavement,” drawled one of the women, who had an accent. Maybe South Carolina, Alyssa thought. The girl could’ve been
Miss
South Carolina, she was so pretty, with her wavy, honey-colored hair and toothpaste-ad smile. Her friends shrieked with laughter.

Kira collected the women’s coats to hang in the hall closet. “Get near the fire,” she urged. “It’s warmer there.”

There was a flurry of introductions—Alyssa knew she’d never remember the names—and Jessica’s five friends showed off their matching long-sleeved white shirts with the words
The Bachelorettes!
written in a dark cursive. Jessica’s shirt was identical except for the wording:
He Put a Ring on It!

“Love the shirts!” Alyssa said. The women all seemed so young—a tangle of slim limbs and glossy hair and giggles. Had she ever been that young? she wondered.

“Hey, ladies,” Rand said as he came downstairs and entered the living room. Jessica flung herself at him and gave him a much longer hug than she’d bestowed on Alyssa.

“Rand!” she squealed. “He’s the guy I told you about—the guitar player,” she explained to her friends.

“Are you going to serenade us?” one of the woman asked.

“Maybe,” Rand said, his expression turning grave. “But first there’s a problem.”

“And what is that?” asked Miss South Carolina, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“None of you are holding drinks!” Rand said, and the girls erupted in laughter again. “We’ve got wine, we’ve got hot buttered rum, and I can put together just about any other kind of cocktail you want.”

“You can?” said Miss South Carolina, putting a hand on her slim hip. She was the leader of the group, the outspoken one who made things happen, Alyssa thought. “How about a Nutty Irishman to warm us up?”

“We’ve got plenty of Baileys and Frangelico,” Rand said. “I’m on it. A round of six, with tequila shots to start?”

A whoop went up from the girls, and he disappeared into the kitchen.

“He’s hot,” someone whispered, and another woman made a low, appreciative noise in her throat.

“You know what I want to do?” Jessica asked. “Get in that hot tub!”

“Oooh!” one of her friends squealed. “But isn’t it too cold?”

“It’s called a
hot
tub for a reason.”

“Drinks first,” Miss South Carolina said. “Priorities, ladies. Then we can get in the hot tub or go into town and hit a bar or do whatever our bride’s little heart desires.”

“Are there any bags in the car? I can get them and put them upstairs for you,” Peter said, and one of the girls handed over her keys.

Rand was coming back into the room with the tray of tequila shots and a shaker of salt and cut-up lemons, and Jessica was asking if anyone could put on some music, and Alyssa could see the long night stretching out ahead of them: drinks, a late dinner, barhopping, the hot tub, more drinks . . .

Just the thought of it was exhausting. She hid her yawn with her hand as she walked over to the couch and collapsed onto it. Her body ached for her soft sheets and fluffy comforter . . . The fire was crackling and glasses were clinking and the room was very warm . . . Her eyelids felt so heavy . . .

“May your wedding night be like a kitchen table: four legs and no drawers!” Miss South Carolina was shouting.

Alyssa’s eyes popped open and she looked around. Had she really nodded off, right here in the living room? Exhaustion weighed down her limbs like stones, and she could barely force herself to stand up.

She picked up the empty shot glasses and carried them into the kitchen so she’d have an excuse to leave. She slipped back out and walked down the hallway toward her bedroom, chased by another gale of laughter. She was so exhausted she fell into bed without even changing her clothes or turning out the light. She managed to pull the comforter up over herself, and within moments, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When she awoke, she felt disoriented. She blinked in the semidarkness until her eyes adjusted and she saw Rand fumbling for something on the dresser.

“Sorry,” he said when he saw that she was awake. “Jessica and the girls want to hit up some bars in town and they’re too drunk to drive, especially with the roads so slippery. So I’m going to take them.”

“Oh.” Alyssa rubbed her eyes and looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. It was only nine-thirty, but it felt so much later. “Are Peter and Kira going, too?”

“No, they’re staying here,” Rand said. “They’re hanging out with Dawn.”

“We could call the girls a cab,” Alyssa began.

“It’s no big deal,” Rand said. “There’s a band at the Pickle Barrel I want to check out.”

Maybe she should go, too, Alyssa thought. But her bed was so comfy . . . and she wouldn’t even be able to have a single drink since she might be pregnant, she suddenly remembered. The thought of the cold outside and blaring music and crowds held no appeal.

“Do you want me to come?” she asked Rand. “I’m really tired, but . . .”

“Nah, you get some rest,” he said. He came over and kissed her on the lips, and she thought she tasted tequila. Had he done a shot with the women?

He’s hot,
one of them whispered in her mind.

“Just . . . be careful, okay?” Alyssa said. “Don’t drink much if you’re the designated driver.”

“Sure,” Rand said.

She didn’t have any reason to feel insecure, Alyssa reminded herself. Rand was a very social guy. And yes, the women were young and beautiful, but they were also drunk, and he could be saving them all from an accident or lawsuit or worse . . . Really, it was a good thing he was going along.

She saw him slip out the door, his shoulders broad in his maroon sweater, a baseball cap atop his dark hair, and for a moment she was seized with regret. She really should get up, and splash water on her face, and follow him out to the car . . .

She sighed and rolled over, and within a minute, she’d succumbed to a deep, hard sleep again. She never even heard Rand come back in.

• • •

Dawn lay in her borrowed sleeping bag in the small room above the garage, lost in the memory of the time a few years earlier when she’d been in another empty space, not much bigger than this one.

She was twenty-two years old and she was moving out of her parents’ Brooklyn apartment into a studio in Manhattan. By the end of the day, her single bed and IKEA dresser and standing lamp were in place, and her mother had filled Dawn’s miniature refrigerator with neat stacks of glass containers of food: sour zurek soup and pierogi dumplings stuffed with mushrooms and cabbage rolls smothered in tomato sauce. And Dawn’s favorite: paczki, the Polish donuts with sweet cheese and strawberry filling.

That weekend, Dawn had invited her parents to dinner. She’d wanted to cook a special meal, something representing their adopted country, so she’d baked a meat loaf and set a card table with a lacy cloth that had belonged to her grandmother. She’d lit a candle, and poured a California red, and they’d toasted to her first apartment.

“Your own place,” her father had said, looking around with pride. He’d grown up in a family with five brothers, and they’d all shared one bedroom. “Stinking feet and snoring,” he’d joked. “Dat was the worst part.”

Dawn was the embodiment of their dreams: a physical vindication of their decision to come to America. They’d given up so much—leaving behind family and friends and the security of the known—and though their lives hadn’t been easy, they’d been determined to pave a better path for future generations, to give Dawn and their grandchildren opportunities that weren’t available in their poor, small country. They’d made no secret of the fact that they wanted Dawn to get married and have lots of children.

“Maybe five?” her mother had suggested. “Or six.” She’d had an emergency hysterectomy after Dawn’s birth, which stole away her own dreams of a large family. Dawn was her last hope.

“Maybe,” Dawn had told her mother, laughing. “But only if their grandma and grandpa babysit all the time!”

She’d brought out the strawberry shortcake she’d bought from a bakery—it was the most American-seeming dessert she could think of—and cut them each a generous slice, and then they’d all had another glass of wine.

Dawn loved being around her parents and had never understood why other kids seemed to view theirs as annoyances. Only once, in elementary school, had Dawn felt ashamed when her father came to pick her up at school. A horrible boy had mocked his accent before Dawn and her father were out of earshot. Dawn’s father didn’t react—maybe he was used to it—but Dawn had flushed a deep red, wishing her father hadn’t come, that he’d just stayed in the car and tooted his horn. Even in that moment, she’d despised herself for her thoughts.