Zack gave her a sharp look. “So what’s the gossip?”
“Just that Sage left very suddenly. People were surprised. You must know what happened, Zack.”
“Part of it,” he said. “Sage and I were working late one night and she came onto me.”
“When was this?” I said.
Zack squeezed his eyes shut in concentration. “I don’t know – late January, early February. We were working on the Lance Retzlaff case. We’d been talking to witnesses all day and were looking through the interview notes. Sage kept moving closer to me. I ignored it, then she reached down and started rubbing my penis.”
“How come you didn’t tell me?” I said.
“Because, as I explained to Sage, I was a happily married man and I wanted it to stay that way.”
“And that was the end of it?” I said.
“No,” Zack said. “Sage unzipped my fly and reached in. She was quick – I’ll give her that.”
Margot sputtered with laughter. “Sorry, Zack,” she said. “It’s just the image of you as the innocent maiden being ravished is pretty hard to swallow.”
Zack scowled at her. “It wasn’t funny at the time. If it hadn’t been for the delivery man …”
“The delivery man?” I said. Now I was laughing, too. “Where did the delivery man come from?”
“God knows,” Zack said. “He just wandered in, so I zipped up, told him he had the wrong office, put on my coat, and came home to you.”
“And you never told me about your incredible adventure,” I said.
“You were asleep, and Sage was gone the next week, so it was no longer relevant. Are you angry?”
“Of course not,” I said. “But I am grateful to that delivery man.”
Margot and I had both smeared our mascara laughing, so we excused ourselves to go to the ladies’ room. Whatever your purpose, the women’s bathroom at Magoo’s is worth
a visit. The mirrors are surrounded with lights like the makeup mirrors in old movies and the walls are covered with photographs of movie stars of the 1950s and 1960s posing with Mr. Magoo, the cranky, myopic, W.C. Fields–like cartoon character who gave the restaurant its name.
As Margot and I stood in front of adjacent mirrors repairing our makeup, I was struck by the new softness in her face. She was clearly a happy woman. Remembering her tenderness with Declan, I said, “You’re going to be a good mother.”
Margot flushed and ran her hand over her stomach. “Am I showing?”
“No. I just meant …” I turned towards her. “You
are
pregnant. Congratulations!”
“I’m over the moon. So is Leland.” Margot’s eyes were swimming. She dabbed at them and made a face of mock horror. “Hormones. What happens if I start blubbering in court?”
“The jury will melt,” I said. I put my arms around her. “How far along are you?”
“Three months. It’s going to be a Christmas baby!” She stood sideways and narrowed her eyes critically at her reflection. “I can’t wait till I have a baby bump.”
“Your breasts are already a little fuller, but you’ve always had nice breasts.”
“I like your breasts, too,” Margot said. She laughed her wonderful dirty laugh. “Be sure to tell Zack about this little womanly exchange. It’ll keep him awake all night.”
When Margot and I got back to our table, Leland was there and he seemed preoccupied.
Margot looked at him carefully. “Problems?” she asked.
Leland nodded. “One problem, and it’s solved – at least I hope so. That was Sage Mackenzie.”
“Ah, the woman of the hour,” Margot said.
“I’m glad she was around tonight. Apparently, some goon showed up at Louise’s. He told Louise she’d promised him ‘a couple of grand’ if he’d put a scare into somebody. The goon was there to get instructions and money. Louise had no idea what he was talking about. She must have made the arrangements when she was drunk and then lost it all in a blackout. Luckily Sage showed up and handled the situation.”
“What did Sage do?” Zack asked.
“She gave the man some money for his trouble and he left. Sage says she’s sure Louise won’t remember any of this in the morning, but she thought I should know.” Leland tried a smile. “And now I do. End of story.”
Margot touched Leland’s cheek with her hand. “Let’s hope,” she said.
After Leland, Margot, and Declan left to go back to the city, I took the dogs for a short walk on the beach and Zack returned some phone calls. Then we both went to Taylor’s room to say goodnight. At fourteen, she was past the age for tucking in, but she continued to welcome a hug and a moment together at the end of the day, and so did we. That night, she was in bed with her cats, reading Pablo Neruda’s
Odes to Common Things
, a collection celebrating tomatoes, chairs, cats, wine, bread, and other objects that bring beauty to our everyday lives that I’d given her for her birthday the previous November.
“I was just thinking about the sock paintings,” Taylor said. “They were in the family room, so I guess they’re gone.”
The sock paintings were a Neruda-inspired sly response to a private joke between Taylor and me. Taylor believed that socks, like air, belonged to everyone, and she was an unrepentant and chronic borrower of mine. Her Christmas
present to me the previous year had been two rectangular canvases: on one, she had copied out Neruda’s “Ode to a Sock” in English; on the other, she had written out the poem in Spanish. The margins of both canvases were decorated with whimsical drawings of socks that she and I had jointly known. With a pang, I realized that the paintings had been in the family room and had almost certainly been destroyed by the explosion.
“We’ll know more tomorrow,” Zack said. “But, Taylor, you’re here. You’ll make new paintings.”
“They won’t be the same,” Taylor said. “Because I’m not the same.” There was no anger or self-pity in her voice. She spoke with the same cool detachment her mother exhibited when she confronted an unpalatable truth. “I’ve been thinking about this. When I painted those socks for the first time, I was so excited. I felt like the person who invented socks. But now I’ll just be making art about socks that have already been painted. The newness won’t be there any more.” Her dark eyes moved slowly from Zack to me and back to Zack again. “Nothing stays the same,” she said.
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Zack said.
Taylor smiled her mother’s smile, broad and generous but always tempered by a tiny flicker of mockery that played across her lips. “It’s not necessarily good either,” she said.
After Zack and I got into bed, like many busy couples, we checked our messages. News about the explosion had spread, so my e-mail was full of notes from friends expressing sympathy and offering whatever help we might need. I answered the notes, put down my BlackBerry, and plumped up my pillow. “Ready for lights out?” I said.
“Not quite.” Zack took off his glasses and lay them on his bedside table. “Jo, when we were at Magoo’s, I didn’t tell the whole story about what happened with Sage.”
My stomach clenched as I tried to summon Sage’s image.
All that came to mind was a flash of red hair as untameable as wildfire. “Was there more between you two?” I said.
“God, no,” Zack said. “One encounter was more than enough. But the week after that incident Sage attacked Norine, and we fired her.”
“Attacked? You mean physically?” I said. “I can’t imagine that. Norine’s such a good person.”
“Agreed, but apparently Norine did something Sage didn’t like and Sage blew up. In addition to using some ugly language, Sage grabbed Norine’s arm and twisted it.”
“What had Norine done?”
“Nothing. You know how short of space Falconer Shreve is. The room Sage was using for an office had been a dumping ground for old Rolodexes, files, and agendas. Norine had it cleaned out. When Sage accused her of stealing, Norine asked her what was missing, but Sage wouldn’t say. Anyway, that was that. We had a quick partners’ meeting and decided that Sage had to go. We agreed to support her story that she wanted to open her own office, but we made certain she left the office immediately.”
“How did Sage get connected with Louise Hunter?”
“That was my idea. Louise never quite understood that the retainer Leland paid me to take care of her legal affairs didn’t include being on-call 24/7. As you well know, Louise was a lot of work, and to be honest, I felt sorry for Sage. I’ve lost my temper a few thousand times, but I’ve never been fired. I figured that Leland’s money would give Sage a cushion until she got her practice going.”
“You’re a good guy,” I said. We turned off the lights and I moved in close. “Hey, I forgot to tell you the big news. Margot’s pregnant. The baby’s due in December.”
“That’s nice,” Zack said. “Really nice. And great timing. The office is usually quiet over the holidays, so Margot won’t have to miss much work.”
“I’m sure that was her first consideration,” I said.
“You’re mocking me,” Zack said. “But I’m bulletproof. How come Margot told you first?”
“It was just a miscommunication. Anyway, that doesn’t matter, but Margot did want me to tell you that when I said she had lovely breasts, she told me she’d always admired my breasts, too. And then we kissed.”
“Seriously?”
“Think about it,” I said.
“Oh, I will,” Zack said. “I’ll be awake all night thinking about it.”
CHAPTER
7
If a couple spends twenty-seven years planning a wedding, it seems especially fitting that the event is perfect in every way. Ed and Barry’s wedding was everything they had hoped it would be. The skies were blue, the sun was bright, the air was warm, and there was just enough breeze to make flower heads nod and ornamental grasses rustle.
Half an hour before the ceremony, Ed met me in the lobby. He was carrying two florist boxes and wearing a summer tuxedo the colour of latte froth, a white shirt, a cream vest, and a striped cream and white Windsor tie.
Until that day, I had never seen Ed in a suit. In his day-to-day life, he favoured shirts custom-made to hide his girth. He had dozens of them in different shades and materials.
“You look sensational,” I said.
“So do you,” he said. “Did Zack like the dress?”
“He loved it. From now on, you’re in charge of my wardrobe.”
Knowing that I would be a reluctant fashionista, Ed had scouted the Internet until he came up with a shimmering
silvery-lilac silk sheath, closely fitted and sleeveless with a plunging neckline that revealed discrete but noticeable cleavage.
When I’d tried the dress on, I’d been dubious. It was flattering but expensive and very revealing. “I don’t know about this,” I said as we stood in front of the mirror.
But Ed’s mirrored self was beaming. “Trust me,” he said. “Gay men know these things.”
Now, however, his brow furrowed with concern. “How are you doing, Jo?”
“Fine,” I said. “Really. Seeing the house was grim, but it could have been worse. When Zack came home after court on Thursday, he suggested we go to the lake that night. He’d lost his case and he was tired, so I said we should just wait and go in the morning. Zack knows how much I love being at the lake, and he insisted.”
Ed shuddered. “Coincidences like that make you believe in fate.”
“They do,” I said. “But the only fate we should be thinking about today is yours and Barry’s. You were born to be together. This is going to be a beautiful day. Now let me have a look at the bouquets.”
Ed handed me the smaller of the boxes. “Yours, madam.” The bouquet inside was simple and elegant – a duplicate of the one I’d carried when Zack and I were married: a mix of pale green and cream cymbidium, their stems braided with ribbons into a handle. “Acceptable?” Ed asked.
“Perfect,” I said.
“Good. Now here is mine.” Ed removed the lid of the larger box. The bouquet inside was exquisite: cymbidium, gardenias, peonies, and roses – all white – their stems braided with white ribbon. Ed took it in his hands. “You’re sure about this?”
“I’m sure,” I said. “You look exactly the way a man in love should look.”
“In that case,” Ed said. “Let’s find Barry.”
The ceremony was conducted by a judge named Penney Murphy, an attractive woman with spiky red hair and an affable manner. Judge Murphy spoke of how Ed and Barry gave themselves freely and generously and of how we as a community of friends and family were present to celebrate and support the married couple. She was plainspoken, but her words were heartfelt. When I saw Barry’s eyes as he gazed at Ed holding his spectacular bouquet, I felt a catch in my throat and hoped that the mascara I’d paid far too much for truly was waterproof.
Taylor, who had always held a special place in Ed and Barry’s lives, read a passage from the Song of Solomon. Barry’s nephew read Paul’s meditation on love from 1 Corinthians. As their vows, Barry and Ed together recited Sir Philip Sidney’s sixteenth-century poem “The Bargain.”
My true love hath my heart, and I have his
,
By just exchange one for another given;
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss
,
There never was a better bargain driven
.
My true love hath my heart, and I have his
.
His heart in me keeps him and me in one
,
My heart in him his thoughts and sense guides;
He loves my heart for once it was his own
,
I cherish his because in me it bides;
My true love hath my heart, and I have his
.
After Ed and Barry exchanged rings, Judge Murphy said that she was honoured to join together two men whose
commitment to each other had never wavered in twenty-seven years. When she pronounced Ed and Barry legally married, an oriole – an infrequent visitor to our city – flew over the newlyweds. Ed and Barry noticed the bird simultaneously and smiled at the omen, and at each other. Then the string quartet began playing the old Broadway tune “Mr. Wonderful” and a new phase of Ed and Barry’s life together began.