Cash laughed. “I’ll bet you have an answer for everything. I should have warned you, I’m not one for frills. A four-wheel drive is suited to the desert and mountain driving that I do.”
“My car is ten years old, so this is a step up for me.”
He smiled and his tanned face looked younger and less lined than before. Score one point for me, Christie thought.
At the hotel an attendant took charge of the SUV and Christie and Cash hurried through the lobby.
Christie scanned the elegantly appointed dining room. “Are we late?” she asked. “Almost everyone is seated. Or do they skip the cocktail hour at these functions?”
“No. I make it a point not to arrive early. Nothing much is accomplished before dinner. People haven’t had time to unwind from the day’s work; they’re uptight and not too receptive to listening to someone else’s viewpoint. After a pleasurable meal, they’re relaxed and in a good mood. That’s the time to strike.”
“Can’t you simply enjoy a round of pleasant conversation before dinner? I don’t mean to sound judgmental, but analyzing your associates seems manipulative.”
“I’m sorry you see it that way, but time is my most valuable commodity. Besides”—he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“I’m not good at small talk.”
“I don’t think I believe that.”
Cash grinned, and then took Christie’s arm and led her to the dais.
“How do we rate seats at the head table?” she asked.
“I’m the guest speaker.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would it have made a difference?”
“No…well, yes. When you called, you made it sound like a spur-of-the-moment invitation. And that line about saving you from boredom?”
“I confess—guilty as charged. Your beauty drove me to unconscionable lengths to get a date.”
“Well, put that way, what can I say?” But she did wonder. She could not believe that he had to resort to a last-minute date.
He had timed their arrival so precisely that, almost on cue, the rest of the guests sat down and a horde of waiters began racing between tables, rattling plates as they served the first course.
Christie became engaged in conversation with the dinner guest on her left, a pleasant older man who specialized in corporate law. He told her his passion was racehorses, and that he owned four of them. When he wasn’t involved in a major case, he breezed his favorite horse around the workout track. “It’s exhilarating to fly like the wind,” he told her.
In her periphery, Christie saw that the woman sitting on Cash’s right had engaged him in a one-sided conversation. She was chattering nonstop. It was amusing to see that he had so little control over the discussion—a first for him, she guessed. When the woman finally wound down, Cash turned to Christie. She tried to conceal a smile that was tugging at her lips.
“Don’t you dare laugh,” he whispered. Then, changing to a normal tone, he asked about the Parker case. “Is there room for doubt concerning Elliot’s letter?”
“Not really. Both documents were written by the same person. I imagine the main reason the letter was in question was because in the broker’s letter the words tended to ‘float’ instead of being in a straight line, as in Margo’s letter. But everything else matched. The floating can be interpreted as an indication that Elliot is not totally in touch or comfortable with his current life situation.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I briefly studied how to analyze a person’s character and personality through his or her handwriting. It’s amazing what you can learn about people from their handwriting.”
“This was a college course?” She heard doubt in his voice.
“No, I took private lessons. One morning I caught a TV talk show, and the guest speaker was a graphoanalyst. Her expertise was called upon when employers were interviewing applicants for upper-level positions. She said that through handwriting analysis she could determine characteristics that were beneficial or detrimental to a prospective employee’s career path. Risk taking, how well-adjusted the individual was, and the propensity toward orderly work skills were a few of the characteristics she dug out of writing samples. I was fascinated, so I spent the summer taking classes from her.
“When the fall semester began, I didn’t pursue the subject, because it would have taken too much time away from my other studies. I don’t go on record with character or personality judgments, but I’m willing to stick my neck out on this one. The unruly writing line fits an easily identifiable profile point. Other aspects of a person’s handwriting are not as obvious. My expertise is limited.”
“Quite a step up from reading palms.”
“I know that some people think handwriting analysis is a bunch of hocus-pocus, but my teacher claimed she was on target with most of her appraisals. It was an intriguing course and melded well with my profession, even though the skill is only for my personal knowledge. In Elliot Parker’s case, it explains the discrepancy in the writing.”
“Margo was ambivalent about the broker’s letter. I think she wanted it to be from her dad, because then she would at least know that he was all right. You know how it is with pregnant women.”
Christie raised her eyebrows. “No, I don’t know.”
Cash glanced at her and smiled. “Sensitive. They’re sensitive. At least that’s what my sister Patty told me. She has two children, so she knows firsthand.” He smiled. “Cute kids, Sara and Melissa,” he added.
So he had a sister and two nieces. He had mentioned his sister with affection. Were they close? She had begun to believe he lived an insular life, his career being foremost. Now she knew differently. What else did he keep hidden?
Not that she expected him to lay his personal life out for scrutiny. They were, after all, only business associates, and she had no right to pry. No one completely opens themself up to another person, anyway. There were private spaces in her own life that she did not share: hurts, disappointments, yearnings, bumps along the way in her quest to reach recognition in her field.
During college she had been driven to get the best marks, to study with the experts whenever the opportunity occurred, and there had been little time for a social life. Then she’d met Matt. He was a criminal justice major, too, and was considering law school. They spoke the same language: law and its ramifications. Many evenings were spent discussing the latest media cases and analyzing police reports.
Soon she was falling in love. Then one night they fought about her enrollment in the special course in Washington. Ten weeks was too long to be away, he told her. She was leaving him in the lurch. Didn’t she care about their relationship?
Of course she cared. But what she would learn in DC would place her among the elite in her field. She didn’t want to merely be good at her profession; she wanted to be the best.
“I’ll bet you don’t know anyone outside of your class who has ever heard of a questioned document examiner,” he’d said. “You’re not going to be part of the legal community; you’re going to be hidden away in the back room of a bank, checking signatures, stuck in a dead-end job.”
The next day he tried to apologize, but the hurt was too deep. Christie realized that he had meant every word, and was only sorry that he had verbalized his opinion.
A few weeks later, she was off to DC. The course was exciting, the classes were intense, and Matt, well, Matt was history. His defection was six years ago and it still remained a thorny issue.
“You’re so quiet. What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing, nothing that would interest you.”
He leaned closer. “On the contrary, everything about you interests me.”