Falling for Rain (23 page)

Emily knew Jonathon didn’t for a second think she was going to show up at one of Toronto’s trendiest cocktail bars in baggy jeans and a plaid lumberjack jacket, but she played along. “You’re a remarkably shallow man, Jonathon Pilling-Smith.”

“And you’re a remarkably shallow woman, Emily Alexander.
Which is why we’re absolutely made for each other.
Imagine turning your ancestral home into a golf course.” He was still laughing when he hung up.

Emily replaced the receiver, turned back to her computer, and typed “Jonathon, Downtown Diner, 5:30 pm” in the blank white square on the calendar, even though it was a totally unnecessary exercise. Drinks with Jonathon would last until eight. Then what? Would Jonathon invite her back to his place? She’d say yes of course. Sex with Jonathon would be the first step in exorcising Rain from her mind. She would blot out the memory of their night together by any means necessary.

She went through the calendar again and despaired at all the days there were to get through. The phone rang again, and Lee announced her investment portfolio manager was on the line. Emily took the call and killed the last hour of the day shuffling investments on the advice of the manager. After hanging up, she turned off the computer and grabbed her coat and umbrella from the closet. She gathered her notes from the morning staff meeting and tossed them into her briefcase along with the real estate section from the day’s
Toronto Star
newspaper – props for her date with Jonathon. She couldn’t imagine what they were going to talk about for two and half hours.

Usually Emily was the last to leave the office, but tonight Lee was still at her desk. “I’m meeting a girlfriend for dinner at six,” she explained.
“Thought I’d just do a bit of catch-up until it’s time to meet her.”
Emily wished her a good night and took the elevator down the twenty-one floors to the lobby. Except for the night security man on the desk, the lobby was empty. Everyone was getting a jumpstart on their weekends.
Everyone except Emily, who planned to spend every weekend from here on in working.
Don’t stop ‘til you drop.
It was the only way to keep the bogeyman of memory away.

* * *

Upstairs, Lee finished printing off an invoice to one of their bigger clients. She put it in an envelope and sealed and stamped it. She placed it in her black leather bag next to the slip of paper Ray had given her before he’d left the office. On it he’d written his home phone number and the number of his publisher, handing it to her with a sigh. “I don’t know what you can do, but if you think of anything, here’s how to reach me. I don’t have a cell – I haven’t caught up with the twenty-first century yet.” Thinking that surely some of his appeal was that he didn’t seem part of this century, she’d taken it, wishing she could think of something encouraging
to say
. She’d lied when she told Emily she hadn’t been eavesdropping. She had. She hadn’t heard everything, but she’d heard enough to know that Ray’s case was hopeless. And she’d done her best to lobby on Ray’s behalf, but Emily had just changed the topic until it was Lee’s love life they were talking about.
Typical Emily.

Lee was just putting on her coat when she heard the fax machine beep. Nothing that couldn’t wait until Monday, she thought, but pulled the fax out of the machine anyway. It was from Martin Wright, Barrister and Solicitor, and addressed to Emily.  Lee knew it had something to do with Ray and, ignoring the fact that it was marked confidential, read it. A moment later she set it down on the desk and picked up the phone to cancel her dinner date.

This couldn’t wait until Monday.

She had to find Ray.

C
hapter 9

Emily and Jonathon had been meeting at the Downtown Diner almost every Friday night for the past two years. Even if they had other “dates,” they still made this meeting. They used it to talk shop, discussing not only their joint business but also their own separate projects. They recapped on that week’s work and discussed the next
week’s
as well.

Emily handed her wet coat and umbrella to the manager and headed for their usual table in the window. The jazz pianist at the baby grand in the corner was playing a slow, lush rendition of
I Loves You Porgy
from Gershwin’s
Porgy and Bess
. 

“Any requests tonight?” the pianist asked Emily as she passed the piano.

She paused and listened. It was such a haunting, sweet song. It seemed to Emily that it embodied romantic love, every chord mocking her own misery and cynicism. She shook her hair from her face as if shaking off the music’s hold on her and said, “How about
The Lady is a Tramp
?”

The pianist laughed and without so much as a pause launched into a glib, sprightly version of the Cole Porter standard. The dramatic transition in mood turned a few heads, but they quickly lost interest and returned to their drinks. Emily nodded her approval. This song was an appropriate accompaniment for her evening with Jonathon.

With its wood and leather interior and wealthy young clientele, the Downtown Diner couldn’t get further from the greasy-spoon implications of the word
diner
. To be seen here on a regular basis marked one as trendy, successful, one of the “beautiful people.” It may have been Friday, but in this success-motivated crowd, there was little deviation from the topic of business.

This was a bar that made a point of remembering what their clients liked to drink, and a martini (vodka, extra dry,
straight
-up, with a twist) arrived within moments of Emily taking her seat. She had just taken a sip of the strong drink when she heard a familiar French accent.

Renée was a real estate agent who specialized in renting out the mansions and condos of Toronto’s wealthiest to the many film stars who came to make movies. It was a lucrative business, and Renée was considered one of the best. While Jonathon had stressed Renée’s importance as a business contact, Emily suspected that his interest wasn’t only professional. Over six feet tall in her heels, which she always wore, she was stunning in a glamour magazine way, and Emily felt that she walked through the room as if all eyes were on her, as they often were.

Renée bent over and kissed Emily on both cheeks before holding her at arm’s length and observing her critically. Emily had the absurd thought that Renée was going to ask her if she’d washed behind her ears.  “You’ve done something with your hair,” she said, wrinkling her perfect nose. “It’s
very
weekend-in-the-country.” She pulled herself up to her full height. “But that’s where you’ve been, isn’t it? Jonathon told me you had a little run-in with some environmentalists. It’s just as well you didn’t take them on. They can be bloody persistent and give you some very bad press, especially when they’re defending cute little furry animals like otters.”

Otters?
Emily wondered. What kind of ridiculous story had Jonathon told this woman? No doubt this was a way for Jonathon to save face. It would have been too embarrassing for him to admit she had simply given the farm away and he had lost his deal.

Just then Jonathon appeared.  “What are you two talking about?” Jonathon asked after he’d kissed both women on the cheek and taken a seat opposite Emily. A waiter placed a glass of white wine in front of him.

“Renée was just telling me about the otters and the environmentalists,” Emily said.

“Ah,” said Jonathon without missing a beat. “Then you told her it sorted itself out in the end.”

“No,” she said, taking a sip of a martini. She’d like to see Jonathon get out of this one. “I thought I’d leave that up to you. Tell Renée what happened, Jonathon.”

Emily could almost see the wheels turning in Jonathon’s head as he took a sip of his wine. He put his glass back on the table. “Well, it turns out there were no otters in the lake, only rats. Not the brightest bunch of environmentalists.”

It was the first time Emily had ever seen Renée at a loss for words. She looked puzzled for a moment. “Well, that’s good. All’s well that ends well. Enjoy your evening,” she said finally before rejoining her table.

“Good god, Jonathon,” said Emily as she watched Renée glide across the room. “You actually told her the farm deal wasn’t going through because of otters.”

He laughed.
“A little white lie.
But you didn’t have to put me on the spot like that.”

“You deserved it, you jerk,” she said, only half-joking.

“Hey, take it easy, I’m not looking for a barroom brawl. That’s your first drink, isn’t it?”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to get drunk and embarrass you.”

“Good,” he said as Emily ordered a second drink from a passing waiter. On second thought, maybe she
would
get drunk. She felt miserable and out of place and was already sorry she’d suggested this meeting.

“I’m glad to see you remembered how to dress,” he said, scrutinizing her closely. “I’m not sure I like your hair though. It looks like you’ve been running for the bus or something.”

“Thanks. Whatever happened to simple compliments like:
Wow, you look great!
”

“Strictly pick-up lines.
I’d be doing you a disservice if I wasn’t completely honest with you.”

“Then you expect me to be completely honest in return?” Emily knew Jonathon’s weakness for flattery.

There was a moment of hesitation before he answered. “Of course I do.”

Emily was suddenly possessed by the desire to throw her drink at him. She could already picture the look of shock distorting his controlled features while his expensive suit soaked up vodka. Yes, it would be fun to see Jonathon lose his cool in the middle of this restaurant full of people he liked to impress. Well, maybe not totally fun. She’d have to contend with his fury.

She studied Jonathon over her glass. She knew a lot of women found him attractive, but she wasn’t one of them. She’d seen too much of his nasty pettiness to be attracted to him. An image of Rain flashed through her head.
Warm, loving.
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to remember that it was all a lie. In the end, he was worse than Jonathon, who at least was an honest jerk….

“Well? Are you going to be honest?” Jonathon asked.

“You know you’re perfect,” she said distractedly.

“You’re getting a little slow. I expected something wittier.” The waiter placed Emily's new drink on the table. “I’ve got an idea. Since you’re so bent on getting drunk, how about we go to my place? I’ll make a pitcher full of martinis, and we’ll drink it the hot tub. And then when you’re good and drunk, we’ll have sex on the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace. Only I don’t have a bearskin, so we’ll have to improvise.”

A wave of revulsion washed over Emily. How was she ever going to go through with this?

“What about your client? Isn’t he coming?” she asked. She didn’t want to picture herself with Jonathon on a bearskin rug or anywhere else. Maybe she'd claim to have a headache.

“No.
Just my lawyer.
He’s got the agreement between you and I to sign, which makes us partners in this venture, and the offer from the client, which includes shares in the resort and of course a membership.”

“You worked this out pretty quickly.”

“I never stopped working on it. I knew you’d come to see the light.”

“Then why tell Renée the otter story?”

“Ah, we all have our low points.
Even me.”

The waiter placed two more drinks on the table and removed their empty glasses. Emily immediately took a sip. In half an hour it would all be over. Rain would have to be out in a month. What would happen to the cabin? Would they tear it down? With a flash of how much pain this would cause Rain, Emily tried to feel good about what she was doing. She took another sip and forced herself to think of what he had done.
He killed your mother
, she told herself firmly.
You’ll never forgive him for that. He doesn’t deserve the farm. This will be justice for what he did to you and your mother.
This was closure. This is what she wanted.

Then why did she feel so awful? She flipped open her cell to check for messages, but there was no rescue there, and so she turned it off and put it back in her purse.

* * *

The fax still in hand, Lee phoned Rain’s home number. The answering machine picked up after the third ring. She tried again and got the answering machine a second time. Of course he wouldn’t be there – he hadn’t had time to get home if that was where he was even headed. Next she tried the publisher’s number. Again she got voicemail. Damn. If only he had a cell. She couldn’t help but think this would be the moment for him to catch up with the twenty-first century.