I’d call him later on, after I called Simon, probably just about the time they were sitting down to their turkey dinner.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Lauren was trying. She was really, really trying. As I cleaned up the kitchen counters and readied Grace for her afternoon nap, I knew that behind my wife’s beautiful closed lips her white teeth were busy biting down on the tip of her soft tongue over my various venial sins of omission or commission in the kitchen or the nursery.
I could tell that she was grateful for the way I was picking up the domestic load. And I was grateful for her diligent effort at smoothing out the speed bumps that figurative boatloads of Solumedrol had injected into her mood.
While Grace slept, Lauren and I snuck in a quickie. The urge surprised both of us, I think.
An embrace became a kiss became hands beneath shirts became a jog to the bedroom.
It was amazing to me how tentative two married people could be with each other while they were rushing headlong into compressing a familiar, intimate act into an unfamiliar window of time after an extended period of tension. While we were stripping each other naked we were simultaneously sprinting across a field of eggshells. Thankfully, we reached the finish line before the time limit, which, of course, was Grace’s awakening.
In the naked moments after-naked both literally and figuratively-Lauren said, “You know Dennis, right? He’s one of our paralegals.”
“Sure.” Dennis Lopes was happily gay, buff enough to be selected Mr. January on a firefighters’ calendar and, as far as I could tell, solely responsible for the fiscal well-being of Ralph Lauren’s clothing empire. In a field that’s replete with professionals who have more agendas than a cut diamond has facets, Dennis was a hell of a nice guy who said what was on his mind.
Nonetheless, I couldn’t fathom what he was doing making an appearance in our bed at that particular moment.
While I considered the destination of Lauren’s segue, I couldn’t help but notice that her diet of IV steroids was beginning to turn her usually svelte frame more Rubenesque.
“He was walking between the Justice Center and the Court House earlier in the week, and he went down Walnut.”
Dennis was a fitness nut. That he walked, rather than drove, between the two county buildings was no surprise. “He went right past my office,” I said.
“Yes.” She paused. “He was on the opposite sidewalk, and he saw Jim Zebid park his car and walk into your building. He mentioned it to me yesterday.”
Instinctively, I pulled the sheet up to my waist. But I didn’t reply.
She went on, her tone full of caution. “I hope you’re not seeing him for therapy, babe.”
“You do? Why?”
From the way she blinked-she held her eyes closed for a split second too long-I could tell that she had been hoping that Jim had been in the building to see Diane, or even to visit the funny Pakistani man who ran his software empire out of our tiny upstairs, and that she no longer had the luxury of that illusion.
“Jim and I have a history.”
Reflexively, I teased. “Like Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier?”
“What?”
I stopped teasing. “Yes, I know you have a history. I know you’ve beat him up a few times in court. That assault thing at Crossroads comes to mind. The one where his client was claiming self-defense after he threw a hot dog at the counter girl at Orange Julius.”
“That’s not what I mean,” she said softly.
“What do you mean?”
“Lots of things happen at your office that you don’t tell me about. Your work, your patients, right? Confidential things?”
“Of course.”
“Me too. There are lots of things that go on at the Justice Center that I don’t tell you. Things I know because of my position that I shouldn’t, or can’t, share with you. You know that?”
“Yes.”
“Well, one of them involves Jim.” She stood and began to pull on some clothes. “I wish you weren’t seeing him.”
From my earlier reaction, she knew that I was.
“You sound serious.”
She opened her purple eyes wide and forced a sick smile. “I am. I wish you knew what I knew.”
I stood, too, and began to pull on some boxers. While I did, I worked out the choreography to a little two-step that would allow me to tell Lauren something important without telling Lauren anything at all. All I said was “That problem I told you about at my office? With the bug?”
She was in the process of pulling a camisole over her head. “No?” she said into the silk. “He’s not… Don’t tell me he’s…”
Ethically, I couldn’t respond to her question. Practically, we both knew I didn’t have to.
She turned her back to me while she tugged a thick cotton sweater over her head. I admit I was having trouble staying focused on the topic at hand. Steroids or no steroids, I still liked her ass.
“Alan, you need to call Jon Younger. Today, at home.”
Jon Younger was an attorney friend. He handled civil matters. Like, say, malpractice.
I said, “On Thanksgiving?”
She sat on the edge of the bed and began to slide her legs into some fleece tights. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know what Jim might have planned.”
“Planned?”
“Look at me,” she said.
I did.
“Your first appointment with Jim? Was it after the Fourth of July?”
I blinked.
“That’s exactly what I was afraid of.”
Okay, Jim had come to see me for therapy after some confrontation with Lauren in the DA’s office that occurred around Independence Day.
“Lauren, your history with Jim? He has reason to be… I don’t know… angry at you?”
“Call Jon. He knows the background. Give him a heads-up. I’ll feel better.”
From down the hall came the not-so-soothing trill of a tear-laced “Mom Mom Mom.” Grace tended to throw the few words in her repertoire together in unfettered strings, oblivious-or disdainful-of punctuation.
Emily stood at the sound of Grace’s call, and her paw umbrella immediatelyclack-clackedon the wood floors.
Lauren said, “I got Grace.”
I said, “I’ll get some tape. I got Emily.”
Lauren and I and the two dogs all ran into one another in the doorway on the way out of the bedroom. Lauren hugged me and said, “I’m really sorry.”
She took off for the nursery.
The gravitas of Lauren’s alarm about Jim Zebid wasn’t quite registering with me. I didn’t see anything about the mess I was in that couldn’t wait until Monday. Interrupting Jon Younger’s Thanksgiving to warn him that I had a pissed-off patient didn’t make much sense to me at all.
While Lauren played with Grace, I made a different call, to a different attorney. I called Casey Sparrow.
Casey was a criminal defense attorney. She was smart, brazen, and fearless. She had a head of red hair that she’d had no more luck taming than most prosecutors had had taming her.
As I punched in the long string of numbers, I knew that an even longer rope of electron activity would be carrying my voice up thirty-five hundred feet of the Front Range to Casey’s rustic home on the Peak-to-Peak Highway below the Continental Divide.
“Casey? It’s Alan Gregory.”
“Oh, no. Not tonight. Who is it this time? You or Lauren?” Casey had once defended Lauren against murder charges. That chain of events had started with an after-hours call not too unlike this one.
“Don’t worry, neither of us has been arrested. Listen, I’m sorry to call on Thanksgiving, Casey.”
“But?”
“Do you have a minute to gossip with me?”
“Gossip?” Her voice went suddenly girly. I imagined that she curled her legs beneath her and stripped an earring from her ear to get more comfortable with the telephone.