They walked in that direction, and a few minutes later were cruising through the West End in Tom’s Mercedes.
“How are things going with Jason?” Woody asked, knowing that the judge’s son was a constant source of worry.
“Fifteen is a hellish age,” the other man said gloomily. “If it weren’t for those season tickets you gave us, I doubt I’d ever see the boy. Thank God at least we’ve got hockey in common.” He glanced toward Woody. “Maureen wanted me to ask if you’d come by for dinner. Jason, though he’d never admit to anything as uncool as hero
worship, is dying to meet you. Maureen too. She says you sound more interesting than most of my colleagues.”
“Don’t know about that.”
“She says all that lawyers and judges talk about is law, and it gets boring.”
“Well, I sure wouldn’t be doing that.”
The judge stopped at a light. “You didn’t finish high school, right?” There was no judgment in his voice.
“No, just grade eleven.”
“You got drafted into the NHL when you were what? Seventeen?”
“Yup.” It had been his ticket out—away from small-town Manitoba, his abusive dad, his guilt and anger that he couldn’t get his mom to leave his dad. “Never was fond of schoolwork. Hell, if a guy can make millions a year without putting himself through the agony of schooling, I figure he’d be a fool not to go for it.”
Tom’s expression was serious. “It’s not many who can do that, though.” He pulled away from the light. “Jason wants to drop out of school and play in a band, but I doubt he and his group have what it takes to be successful. The talent, discipline, drive. Connections. Luck.” He pulled the Mercedes into a parking spot on Alberni Street, two or three blocks up from Denman.
Woody nodded. “Takes all of that if you’re going to get ahead without an education. It’s not something I’d recommend for many folks.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d come for dinner and have a man-to-man with Jason.” Tom flashed a grin. “Bring Georgia.”
Yeah, right. “Don’t think that’s gonna happen, but dinner sounds good. When the playoffs are over.”
“It’s a date.”
They climbed out of the car and Woody studied the heritage house that had been converted to a restaurant called Le Gavroche. He’d never been there before.
Tom led the way in the front door, where a distinguished man rushed forward enthusiastically. “Judge, how good to see you. We weren’t expecting you tonight.”
“A spur-of-the-moment decision. I hope you have room for us?”
Woody got the impression this place would always have room for his friend. He trailed the other two up the stairs to a medium-sized restaurant with windows at the far end. He could see why a husband and wife might favor this spot for an intimate dinner, particularly if they got the window table currently occupied by an attractive couple.
How about that? The woman was Viv Andrews, in bright turquoise and purple tonight, sitting across from a sleek, dark-haired guy in a suit.
Viv glanced up, mouthed, “Woody!” and beckoned him over with a vivid smile and a curled finger.
“And I figured you might be safe from fans here,” Tom murmured, following him.
“She’s a business acquaintance,” Woody said. Then, as they reached the window table, “Hey, there, Viv. This is a surprise.”
“Hi, Woody. Woody Hanrahan, this is my friend Jeremy Grant.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Woody shook his hand. “And this is Tom Westin.”
“Tom Westin?” Grant said. “Judge Tom Westin?”
“The same,” Tom said easily, also shaking Grant’s hand.
“I thought so. Saw you on the news a month or two back, when you were handling that drug conspiracy trial.”
“Yes, that was a mess,” Tom said. “And everyone knew that whichever way I decided, it would be appealed. Now it’s the Court of Appeal’s problem.”
Viv tugged gently at Woody’s sleeve. “Nice shirt.”
He was about to tell her it wasn’t his, but then a devil made him say, “Zegna,” making sure he pronounced it exactly as Tom had.
“Very nice,” she repeated, studying him from head to toe in an appraisal that made him wish he was in his own loose jeans and a jersey.
“We’ll let you get on with your meal,” Woody said, and he and Tom walked over to the table they’d been assigned.
Once seated, Tom said, “Want that beer, or shall we go with a bottle of wine?”
Georgia had said that different drinks were appropriate for different occasions. Taking his cue from Tom, he said, “Let’s have wine. Your pick.”
While Tom deliberated over the wine list, Woody studied the food menu. Lots of French words, but there were English translations. Still, if he was going to use Tom as his role model, he should probably order the same thing. Unless the judge chose something gross like sweetbreads, which Woody knew damned well did not refer to the dessert tray.
Tom chose an appetizer salad and rack of lamb cooked rare.
Relieved, Woody said, “The same for me, please.”
Carefully, he watched as Tom tasted the red wine and approved it. When Woody sipped from his own glass, he said, “That’s nice.” It didn’t have the refreshing, almost-sour edge of beer, but it wasn’t sweet either. It was interesting on his tongue, with lots of flavors that came together well. He picked up the bottle and studied the label.
“I chose French because we’re eating French food, and hearty to stand up to the lamb,” Tom said. “Glad you like it.”
“I’m trying to learn more about wine,” Woody said. “Tell me some of your favorites, and why you like them.”
Tom seemed happy to oblige, and Woody concentrated, looking for mental hooks to remember at least a tiny portion of what Tom said. He did pick up some of the lingo, about bouquet, nose, hints of vanilla, oak, blackberry, smooth finish.
He realized Tom was studying him with amused curiosity. “All right, my friend,” Tom said, “who are you trying to impress? Georgia?”
Woody gave a wry chuckle. “Yeah, but not in the way you’re thinking.” He fiddled with his wineglass. “This is confidential, right?” He had total trust in Tom.
“Of course.”
Woody told him about the VitalSport endorsement, omitting only his reasons for doing it. When he finished, Tom gave a low whistle. “You’re going to be even more famous.”
“Yeah, I’m not keen on that part.” Or any part except the money.
“You must have a hell of a good reason for doing it.”
Woody heard the curiosity in his voice. He should have anticipated it. Tom was a perceptive man. Not sure how to respond, Woody was glad when the waiter served their salads.
Tom glanced at his plate, thanked the waiter, but didn’t pick up his fork. Instead, he returned his gaze to Woody’s face, looking interested and concerned.
Woody muttered, “It’s embarrassing.”
Tom picked up the smaller of the two forks and separated a couple of leaves of lettuce. “Sometimes it helps to talk, but don’t feel pressured.” He chewed the mouthful slowly.
Woody ate his own first bite of salad, then sighed. “I’m still steaming, and I’m mad at myself for being such a fool.” Suddenly, he really did need to talk. He told Tom about how he’d trusted Martin, and how his agent had lost all the money Woody’d made in a career that spanned more than a decade.
When he was finished, Tom said, “Shit.”
Woody raised his eyebrows. The judge never swore.
“That’s fraud. I hope you reported him to the police.”
“If it wasn’t for Martin, I’d never have become a hockey player. I owe him for that.” He explained how it was his boyhood friend’s
dad who’d taken the kids to the rink, then to practices and games. He’d even forked out some of his own money for equipment. “He was more of a dad to me than my own was; that’s for sure.”
“But he betrayed your trust.”
Fathers did that. Woody should’ve known better. “Guess it was dumb of me to trust him.”
“It’s always wise to keep an eye on people, but this man gave you every reason to trust him.” Tom sighed. “Sounds as if he’s a gambling addict.”
“Yeah. Seems he got into it after his wife died a couple years ago. Anyhow, I told him I wouldn’t turn him in if he joined Gamblers Anonymous and sticks with it.” One day, maybe he’d return Martin’s call and see how things were going. One day. After he’d paid for his mom’s treatments, paid the back taxes he owed, and got over being royally pissed.
“You’re generous.”
Woody shrugged. “Bet you’d do the same thing.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed as he thought for a long moment. “Maybe. People screw up. They deserve another chance.”
He picked up his fork again, and Woody realized neither of them had eaten for at least ten minutes. The same thing had happened when he’d had lunch with Georgia.
Woody chewed on a mouthful of salad, feeling pretty good. He was glad he’d told Tom. Nothing had been solved, but one person in the world knew, and was on his side.
“Have you hired a new agent?” Tom asked.
“Not yet. It’s hard to trust someone else.”
“Until you do, let me know if I can help with anything.”
“Thanks.” Too bad he hadn’t asked Tom to read the VitalSport contract before he signed it. Woody might not have been stuck modeling gonch.
In companionable silence the two men polished off their salads.
Two racks of lamb appeared as if by magic and again Woody studied Tom for behavior cues.
Tom sliced one of the chops off the rack, cut a bite, and raised it to his mouth.
Woody did the same.
“Tell me more about Georgia,” Tom said. “How do you know her?”
“She’s in charge of the marketing campaign.”
“What’s she like? Pretty? Smart?”
“Smart, businesslike. Pretty’s not the right word. Striking. Creamy skin, fiery red hair. Eyes like amber ale with little sparkles in them. Long, slender neck.” He remembered stroking the length of that neck, down to the delicate collarbones. He’d never realized that a neck could be such a turn-on.
“Nice. But you’re not dating her?”
“She’s not that impressed by me.”
The judge raised his eyebrows. “I had the impression women threw themselves at you.”
Woody shrugged. “Some do.”
“So Georgia is a challenge.”
“Nah, I’m not interested.” He had been, but he could recognize a lost cause. Woody sliced into his lamb again.
“That’s not what I’m hearing.”
“I’m not gonna force myself on a woman who isn’t interested.”
“Of course not. But you just said you weren’t interested anyhow.”
“Oh, hell, you’re tying me up in knots. Bet you were a damned good lawyer.”
“I was. Damned good. Good enough not to let you get away with changing the subject that way.” Tom rested his elbows on the table, interlocked his fingers, and leaned his chin on them. “Let’s see. You’re not interested, and Georgia’s not interested. Have I got it right?”
“Yeah.”
Tom’s eyes twinkled. “Then why are we spending so much time talking about her?”
Woody snorted. “I’m not. That’s your doing. You’ve been married so long that you’re desperate for any hint of sex.”
“Shows you don’t know the first thing about my marriage.”
Wrangling cheerfully, they finished their dinners. Woody could see that there was something to be said for Georgia and Tom’s slow and easy approach to dining. He really tasted his food, and he and Tom got in some good conversation.
Woody made his first glass of wine last, and let the waiter refill the glass halfway, then stopped him. The judge did the same. When the waiter had gone, Woody said, “Great wine, but I’m taking it easy on the booze these days.” That one bender had reminded him of a lesson he’d learned years ago.
Tom nodded. “And I have court tomorrow.”
After dinner, they split the bill. Then, feeling more mellow than he had in days, Woody turned down Tom’s offer of a ride. He’d walk home, ice his shoulder, and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow, Georgia and her team had a busy day scheduled for him. Clothes fittings, and God knew what else. He wasn’t looking forward to it one bit.
He definitely wasn’t looking forward to seeing Georgia. A guy could take only so much rejection.
If there was a tingle of anticipation in his body, it was about something else entirely. He wasn’t sure what, but definitely not Georgia.
Woody was scheduled to come in at ten thirty on Tuesday. Georgia’s boss, Billy, had asked her, Viv, and Terry to meet before that and brief him on the campaign.
“How’s our hockey star shaping up?” Billy asked.
“We’re working on him,” Georgia said. “The good news is that he learns quickly.” The bad news was that he frustrated and aroused her. “Today we’re tackling hair, wardrobe, and deportment.”
“Interestingly,” Viv said, “I saw Woody last night at Le Gavroche and he looked great. And your first deportment lesson has borne fruit. He behaved perfectly.”
“He was out for dinner?” And at a rather classy French restaurant. Not that she gave a damn, of course. Not in a personal sense, anyhow. “He obviously doesn’t intend to get our approval of his dates.” And so much for him saying that he didn’t date during the playoffs. It had just been another of his lines.
“Oh, we’d approve this one.”
She tried not to grind her teeth. Of course she wasn’t jealous. “Really?”
“Judge Westin of the B.C. Supreme Court.”
“He’s dating a judge?”
Viv’s eyes gleamed. “Judge
Tom
Westin. They’re friends.”
“Really?” How ridiculous to feel relieved that his companion hadn’t been a woman. “Woody’s table manners were all right?”
“Excellent.”
“Hmm.” Had he been having her on at lunch, or was he really that quick a learner? She’d suggested he find a role model to mimic, and who better than a distinguished judge? “Well, good for him.” She actually felt a little proud.
“He was wearing a Zegna shirt,” Viv said.
“A what?”
“Ermenegildo Zegna,” she said, while Terry nodded. “Honestly, George, you’re as hopeless as Woody.”
How was she supposed to know about designer clothing for men? Anthony certainly hadn’t been into that kind of thing.
Georgia turned to Billy. “Have you had a chance to read the game plan I e-mailed you?”
He lifted a sheaf of papers. “Yes, but don’t we usually call them ‘strategic plans’?”