"You could have been killed?" her mother asked, shaken.
Vicki felt stunned at her mother's pain, which appeared as unexpectedly as a tornado in the middle of Broad Street. She must have been tense the whole day, her anxiety an undercurrent to the quotidian tasks of answering e-mail, taking phone calls, and attending closings. They had probably fought about it on the way home.
"Victoria, I simply don't understand you anymore." Her mother's light eyes glistened. "How can you do that? How can you? It's as if you intentionally want to hurt us."
"Mom, that's crazy, it's not intentional-"
"I beg to differ," her father interrupted. His skin flushed so brightly she hoped he'd taken his Pravachol. Seville seemed far away, but the dog wasn't. "At this point, isn't it intentional?
To persist when you know how we feel?"
"Dad, it's not about you."
"No, it's about you. Because you, for some reason, want to hurt us, when we have given you everything. You even make much less than you could earn with us and you've no equity! You're not even building toward anything!" Her father stiffened, struggling to keep a civil tongue. "You know, if we owned a family farm, you would take it on, no questions asked. But we own a family law firm, and you refuse. You feel justified in refusing. And to add insult to injury, it's not that you don't want to practice law, which perhaps I could understand. No, it's that you don't want to practice our kind of law. That's like saying, I'll grow alfalfa for my family, but not corn!"
"It's different from-"
"No, it isn't! You're a lawyer, Victoria, and you know about foreseeable consequences. If you can foresee the consequences, you are charged with intending them, are you not?"
"Yes, but-"
"So it's foreseeable that our firm, without anyone to leave it to, will simply be"-her father was so angry, he was at a loss for words, which was as angry as he ever got-"defunct. The Allegretti firm will simply cease to exist. And you know this and you persist nonetheless, so you are charged with intending that consequence. And why? Because it's not your kind of law!"
"Dad, can we seriously be having this argument again?" Vicki asked, finally getting angry. "I should have a choice, don't you think?"
"Not when you have an obligation! To us, to me and your mother! And not when it can get you killed! If a choice is what you want, then you have it! And if you want to live like a pauper, then do!" Her father rose and gestured to her mother. "Look! Look at what you're doing to her!"
Vicki looked. Her mother's glossy head bent slightly over her plate and her lips, their gloss finally worn off, pursed in pain. She was trying not to cry.
"Mom, I'm sorry, don't cry," Vicki said, feeling a tug, not for the first time. Morty was dead, and now her mother was upset. It had all gone to hell in a handbasket. She didn't want to quit. She didn't think they were right. But she was so very tired. Suddenly the phone in the kitchen started ringing.
"I'll get that." Her father rose and went into the other room, leaving them in miserable silence. Vicki knew that her mother was listening to the phone, to hear if it was a client; like most self-employed people, they worked around the clock. The two women sat in suspended animation until her father returned, his bearing erect, his features emotionless.
"The phone's for you, Victoria," he said.
"Me?" She rose stiffly, with a dog attached to her toe, which was when it struck Vicki that maybe her parents were herding her, in their own way. Biting her to keep her close. She knew that they loved her, and she loved them, too, despite their best efforts to the contrary.
"Be right back," she said, wondering who was on the phone.
SIXTEEN
"Vick, why is a black guy answering your cell? Are you cheating on me?" Dan. "I can't talk now." "What up? You said you'd call, and when you didn't, I called your cell. What happened?" "It's a long story." Vicki could hear stone silence from the dining room. At least her mother wasn't crying. "I e-mailed you, too. Didn't you check your BlackBerry?" "I didn't have a chance." "Why does he have your phone? He doesn't even know who you are. Did you get into trouble?" "We'll talk about it later." "That means yes. Are you okay?" "Fine." "You don't sound fine. You sound upset." I am upset. "I'm fine." "Are you staying overnight at your parents'?" "Are you insane?" Dan laughed. "When will you be home?" "An hour." "Want me to come over? Mariella's on call."
"No thanks."
"Then call me, no matter how late. I want to talk to you. I don't like the way you sound. You're worrying me lately, with Morty and all."
"Okay," Vicki said, touched. The man could read her like a book. "Gotta go."
"No matter how late, call me."
"Okay."
"Swear?"
"Swear."
"Okay, good-bye, sweetie."
She hung up, warm inside. Dan was truly worried about her. And he didn't bite.
Vicki got back to her house around ten o'clock, where she ignored her bills, mail, e-mail, and phone messages, and tiredly headed straight for the phone in her bedroom, shedding her coat on the way upstairs, dropping her purse, and kicking off her wounded shoe. She couldn't wait to call Dan and tell him what had happened on Cater Street. He could help her sort it out. He'd been an AUSA so long, he'd have good ideas. Should they bust Mrs. Bristow's dealer? Should they get her into rehab? And Vicki wanted to work on some theories with him, about Shayla Jackson and Bristow.
She flicked on the lamplight beside her bed, slid out of her suit jacket and blouse, then slithered out of pantyhose and her skirt, feeling better once she was home. She loved her bedroom. She had painted the walls a bright cobalt blue last year, by herself, and she had a big TV/DVD player on a white metal stand affixed to the wall. Her dresser, next to the closet, was a pine four-drawer she'd bought secondhand, and the room was neat, clean, and comfy. She undressed, slipped into an old Harvard T-shirt, and tucked herself under her puffy white comforter while she called Dan.
"Hello?" a woman answered, confusing Vicki for a second.
Of course, it was Mariella. She recognized the slight British inflection. Then Vicki heard masculine laughter in the background. Dan.
"Mariella, oh, hi. It's Vicki."
"Vicki, hey, you caught us at a bad time. A very bad time." There was more laughter, and Vicki realized that Mariella and Dan were in bed together. Dan was laughing, then Mariella started laughing. "No! No! Daniel, no tickling! Daniel!"
Vicki felt a wave of shame, then didn't know why. What was she ashamed of? That she was dying to talk to a married man? Yes, for starters. That he was at this moment making love to his wife? Yes, that too. That she would have traded beds in a minute? A trifecta!
"Daniel! Don't tickle!"
"Mariella, sorry, I should go," Vicki said, but Dan's deep voice came on the line, breathless.
"Vick, talk to you in the morning! Duty calls!"
She was about to say good-bye, but Dan had already hung up.
It left Vicki in her blue bedroom, alone except for the silence. She sat still for a minute, propped up by her pillows, trying to process what had just happened. Mariella must have taken a break and come home; she did that sometimes, at weird hours. Dan would have been delighted to see his wife, as he was for every drop of time she threw his way, as an afterthought or no.
He adores her, you idiot. Right now they're making love, five blocks away. GIVE IT UP, LOSER! YOU NEED A VIDEO?