Risking Ruin (10 page)

Her room was still
her
room.  It wasn’t a shrine to her as much as it was a way for the parents of an only child to keep that child close.  The Pepto Bismol pink walls she’d painted in high school were lined with cork bulletin boards.  Pictures of Marisa and friends, some of whose names she could barely recall, were tacked up along with concert and movie ticket stubs, intricately folded notes that had been dropped into her locker, and ribbons from cross country meets.  She felt completely peaceful and secure in this room in her parents’ house and fell quickly asleep on her big brass bed.

Marisa awoke drowsily from her deep sleep.   It was fully daytime outside.  She stumbled blearily down the stairs in search of hot brown caffeine.  When she reached the kitchen, her dad thrust a full mug at her and boomed loudly, “Well, good morning, Sunshine!   You would have made a terrible farmer.  I’ve been up with the chickens and it’s nearly ten o’clock.”

Marisa’s brain shifted quickly into drive.  “I cannot believe it is ten o’clock.  I always sleep so well at home.”

“Your mom went off to church.   She was hoping you’d be awake in time to go to the late service with her.  Missed her by about ten minutes.  Coincidence?,” joked her dad.   “Sit down at the table.  I’ve already sorted through
The Commercial Appeal
, and it is all in that pile.   I’ll have some pancakes up for you in a jiffy.  Your mom left some batter and instructions that I feed you.”

Marisa sat at the kitchen table in her black yoga pants and grey tank top.  She sipped her coffee and casually looked through the thick Sunday paper.  By the time she was done with the news and business sections, she was on her second cup of milky coffee.

“Hey, don’t touch the funnies yet,” said her dad, sliding a plate of blueberry pancakes at her.  “You know that’s my one rule.  I get the funnies first.”

“Fine, here are your precious comics.  Give me the life and real estate sections,” said Marisa as she shoved a large forkful of pancakes into her mouth.   Marisa and her dad each held out the sections, eyed each other, and quickly snatched the papers from the others’ hand in an approximation of a hostage exchange.  Marisa giggled.  A lazy Sunday morning with her dad was just what she needed to take her mind off of her quickly approaching dinner date.

Marisa sipped her coffee and flipped casually through the life section.  Gardening tips on why it was too late in the year to prune camellias; a review of a new doughnut shop in Midtown; the wedding announcements.  Each article had little relevance for her life, but she enjoyed the escape nonetheless.  Then her languorous mood ended sharply.    She’d come to the people and parties page, and there, staring back at her in black and white, was Trip at some benefit the last Saturday at the Botanic Gardens.  Two pretty women flanked his sides.  Both looked to be in their mid-twenties with impeccably coiffed hair, abundant makeup, and zero cleavage.  The photo looked like an outtake from a Brooks Brothers’ catalog shoot.

“Something interesting?,” said her dad, interrupting her wandering thoughts that were filled with jealousy and lust.

“Ah, not really.  The Brannon family’s son has come home to Memphis and just started handling all of their litigation.  He made the party page for attending some charity fundraiser at the Botanic Gardens.   I wasn’t expecting to see a client while dressed like this,” said Marisa, gesturing to her pajamas and trying to turn her interest into a joke.

Marisa’s father snatched the paper out of her hands.   “Let me see.  Ah,” he said, giving Marisa an apprising look.  “Would this be the same client who needs tending to that requires you to leave us in a few hours?”

Marisa almost fell off her chair.

“You really need to work on your poker face when it comes to men, sweetie,” continued her dad.  “Between you and me, I’m kind of glad you ditched Ryan.  He just wasn’t that interesting, and unless the conversation was about golf, he had nothing to say.   I’ll only say this on the subject.  Don’t get your mother’s hopes up too much.”

“Can I have the comics now?,” was the only reply Marisa could muster.  She was so thankful her mother was at church.  Otherwise, she would have had to expertly dodge a barrage of questions that, if answered honestly, would have been very awkward for everyone.

Chapter Seventeen

Marisa admired herself with a critical eye in front of the full-length mirror in her bathroom.  She twirled slightly, trying to take in all angles.  The diaphanous off-white dress was printed with painterly brush strokes in bold colors.  The several layers of fabric needed to provide opacity overlapped to create a depth of color and substance that a single piece of fabric lacked.   Erica had fished it out of a crowded rack at Anthropologie and begged Marisa to try it on.

Marisa was concerned about the plunging neckline, but Erica assured her that it wouldn’t be too much:  “You are going on a date, for Christ’s sake.  You are supposed to look delicious.”  Erica had won and styled the dress with a thin gold leather belt that wrapped several times around Marisa’s waist and Marisa’s trusty gold strappy flat sandals.  Finished with a delicate gold charm hanging on a thin chain that rested on her sternum and the chunky lapis bracelet from Trip, Marisa was confident that Erica had nailed it.  She looked gorgeous and nothing like the placidly demure twenty-something debutantes who normally accompanied Trip.  She let her hair fall loose and unfinished around her shoulders.

Now she had an hour to kill before Trip arrived. 
Geesh!  I even painted my toe nails.  What else am I supposed to do for the next hour?  I can’t go out anywhere this dressed up by myself and I certainly don’t want to change.  Bravo, it is. 
Marisa sat on her sofa and tried to focus on the television.

When her phone dinged with a simple text:
Outside
, Marisa was fully engrossed in her own mind.  She wasn’t even sure what show was on the TV and she didn’t care.   Over the course of the previous hour, she’d talked herself into and out of the date multiple times.  She’d considered feigning a head cold or a client emergency.  She’d considered chugging a glass of wine to calm down.  She’d even considered spending some time with her vibrator in bed to take the edge off her lust, but nixed that plan because she didn’t want to have to get dressed again.  
Yea!  The hour is up!  He’s here!
, thought Marisa, bounding off the sofa as the caterpillars in her stomach emerged from their chrysalises.

Marisa’s head was drowning, not swimming, in a swirl of confusion when the elevator arrived in the lobby.  She walked outside and saw Trip standing by his silver convertible.  Her mind focused exclusively on him and she felt her body liquefy at the idea of being near him.

He was heartbreakingly handsome.  The setting sun glinted off of his blonde hair, turning him golden.  He was wearing a casual checked button-down shirt tucked into neat olive trousers secured with a red webbed belt.   His shirt sleeves were rolled up, showcasing his muscular forearms.  He stepped a deck shoe-clad and sockless foot toward her and went in for a hug.

“Marisa, you look lovely,” he said, enveloping her in his arms.   He took both of her hands and looked at the bracelet on her wrist.  He smiled.   “You hungry?”

“Sure.  Let’s go,” answered Marisa.   Not dropping her left hand, he opened the car door for her.  “Thank you,” she replied.  “Very gentlemanly of you.”

“Bitsy wouldn’t have me treating you poorly,” said Trip, as he closed the door.

Bitsy?  As in his mother?  It’s nice to meet a guy who likes his parents, but did please say that he didn’t tell them about our “date”!  Dear God, if he did that, I won’t ever be able to face Jimmy Brannon again
.

Trip’s door opened, and he joined her inside the car.  As they cruised north toward the restaurant, Marisa was too nervous to talk.  She let Trip carry the conversation and he talked happily about his long Sunday bike ride in Mississippi.

When they arrived at the restaurant, a lone valet took the car from them. 
He got a valet for tonight?  I know parking can be a pain, but I do have two working feet. 
Trip opened the door to the darkened restaurant.    Ray LaMontagne’s passionate yet gentle voice and guitar swirled around them. 
Is it a coincidence that I like Ray LaMontagne, or I am overthinking? I’m overthinking.  It goes with the vibe of this place.  I’ve never been here before when it was empty and so quiet that I could hear the music.
The bar and tables were littered with candles in assorted repurposed glass jars.  The wrought iron chandelier that hung over the back corner back booth was not only lit with candles, but dripping with ivy, zinnia, and Queen Anne’s lace.  It looked like a fairy garden.  The table itself was finished in thrown pottery plates and hand-blown glasses.   Marisa had always found Pig and Barley charming, but tonight it felt like magic. 
Wow.  Just wow
, Marisa first thought to herself and then whispered the words out loud.

“I’m glad you like it,” replied Trip, gesturing for her to slide into the banquette.   LaMontagne’s songs continued.

“Did you know that Ray LaMontagne is one of my favorite musicians?,” asked Marisa.  Trip smiled. 

“I had a hunch when I noticed the framed autographed concert poster in your kitchen.  If he’s only one of your favorites, do you have a tattoo of Jeff Buckley you’d like to show me?”

Marisa swatted his upper arm.  “You know I do not.  I’ve been a Ray LaMontange fan since I saw him play in Charlottesville during law school.” 
So, the music was chosen for me.

Trip reached for the pewter bucket and pulled out an iced bottle of wine.  “Pinot Gris?” 

“Yes, please,” said Marisa, edging the base of her wine glass toward Trip.

Trip poured her a generous glass and then poured himself a modest one.  “This is the only bottle we’re opening tonight,” he announced. 

Marisa was perplexed and cocked her head toward him.   “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.  One bottle.  And if you’re a good girl, then I might treat you to some bourbon in your pecan pie.”  Marisa’s face opened, and she laughed softly.  “I haven’t told you the best part yet.  Since we’re the only ones here, feel free to lick the plate this time.”  Marisa had no response other than to laugh more loudly and stick out her tongue at Trip.  She was slightly embarrassed that her enjoyment of the pie at the country club had caught Trip’s attention, but didn’t care.  Trip’s affection removed all self-consciousness.

“As for the one bottle rule, I’m serious about that.  I’d like to get to know you.  I don’t want to be some guy you drunkenly fall into bed with.  Not that I’m complaining,” he said.  She swatted him again and let her hand rest on his arm for a second.

“Now, how about we eat.”

“Who is cooking?  I haven’t seen a soul since we walked in,” inquired Marisa.

“The chef is in.  He’s going to take good care of us.”

“I have no doubt,” said Marisa, nursing her glass of wine and settling into the age-worn pillows behind her.  She felt Trip relax, too, and he shifted closer to her on the banquette.

“Don’t go away.  I’ll be right back,” he said.  He slid around the banquette and exited the other side.  Marisa let her eyes wander to the candles and flowers suspended above her head.  She wished she could replicate the chandelier in her bedroom secret garden.  As she savored the peacefulness of the moment, Trip arrived back at the table.

“Mademoiselle,” he said with a slight bow.  “I will be serving you this evening.  To start, we have an
amuse bouche
of spicy strawberry jam, created in our kitchen from local strawberries, served over a dollop of Alabama goat cheese and perched on a crostini.”

Marisa laughed with wonder at Trip’s silliness.  “Even if the
bouche
is not amused, the rest of me certainly is.”

“Excellent,” said Trip, setting two tiny plates on the table.

Dinner passed in good cheer.  Trip periodically scurried off to the kitchen and returned with an overly florid description of the food that they then proceeded to enjoy.   Around the fourth plate, he confessed that the chef was feeding him the lines, which he was repeating word for word.  “As long as he keeps feeding us, I don’t care what lines he feeds you,” remarked Marisa, delighting in every morsel of the
pappardelle with lamb ragù
and draining the last of the Pinot Gris.

The next arrival from the kitchen was accompanied by a dramatic pause.  “I got no description for you.  This isn’t from our kitchen, and I don’t know where the ingredients come from, but you liked it so much, I couldn’t deny you.”

Trip set down two plates, each containing a pecan pie tartlet, garnished on the side with real whipped cream and two raspberries.  “It’s the pie from the Club.   I ordered a half dozen tartlets and you can take the box home.” He lowered himself back into the banquette, closer to Marisa than he had been all evening.

“Trip, you are too much,” said Marisa shaking her head.  She was surprised at his ability to so easily morph into the joyful boy who had run back and forth from the kitchen.  “The pie is delicious, but I don’t need pie in my house.  It’s just me.”

“Ah, that’s the thing,” said Trip with a mischievous and lascivious smile.  “You never know when you might want to invite someone, say a neighbor, or even a business acquaintance, over for a coffee one evening and need something to pair with that coffee.”

Marisa laughed again.  “Seriously, what am I going to do with you?”

Trip pushed back from the table and howled with laughter.  “Did you really just tee that up for me?”

Marisa reddened and took a bite of her tartlet, pausing to relish the bouquet of bourbon that wafted towards her nose.  “Yup,” she nodded in appreciation for both the dessert and Trip’s company.   “I’ll admit you’ve got me off my game.”

Trip moved his face towards hers and was a centimeter away from kissing her.  Even though every bit of her body and half of her mind screamed “yes,” she leaned away and sighed.

“Here’s the thing.  You’re a client.  Well, not you personally, but Branco is a client, and for my purposes, you are now my primary contact at Branco.  You passed the bar just like I did.  You know lawyers aren’t supposed to get involved with their clients.”

“So, that’s what this hesitancy is about,” said Trip.  “I just thought if we were discreet in our professional lives it would be okay.  It’s my family’s company, so I’m not leaving it.  I can’t leave it and I won’t.  I’m also not going to have you stop being our labor and employment lawyer because I’d like to see more of you.  How do we fix it?,” asked Trip, placing his deep blue eyes on her brown ones.   His forthrightness nearly broke Marisa’s heart.   “Like anything else, is this waivable?,” he continued when Marisa failed to hand him a ready  answer.   “Being the client, can I just give you permission to date me, and once I’ve given you permission, then it’s okay?”

Marisa shifted back and forth on her hip bones, placing her hands underneath her body in case they ignored her orders and reached to touch him.   She looked out across the empty restaurant and recalled the research she’d done on her laptop one evening while half-listening to Jamie Oliver drone on about mezzalunas and other kitchen gadgets.  “Here’s the thing, it is wavaiable in certain situations.  But, you can’t waive it because the law assumes that I, as your super awesome and persuasive attorney,” she half-joked, attempting to lighten the mood, “made you agree to say it’s okay.”

Trip’s back stiffened and he no longer curved around Marisa.   “So, if I understand what you’re saying,” Trip said, the humor utterly drained from his voice, “I need to get my
dad’s
permission to date you?”

“Not quite.  It needs to be written.  To see each other, we need Jimmy to give us a permission slip.”