She asked herself: When would she feel that sizzle with Steve again?
When it snows again in Miami?
Then, an even more depressing thought: Had her first impression of Steve been correct? That he was just wrong for her. That any relationship with him would be a ludicrous mistake. From the start Victoria knew she shared little in common with Steve. She was country club, Chardonnay, and pate. He was tavern, burgers, and beer. She had book smarts, winning awards, making law review. He had street smarts, passing the Bar after three tries. Maybe their different backgrounds and talents combined to make them better lawyers and more complete people. That was Steve's pitch, anyway. And true enough, they had a magnificent synergy, as long as they didn't exhaust each other sparring on the way to the courthouse.
Complicating her analysis, enter Junior Griffin, swimming back into her life. Whatever she now felt for Junior was surely wrapped in the mists of nostalgia, a dangerous and misleading emotion. She vowed to keep the relationship with Junior strictly professional. She hadn't kissed another man since that first night with Steve, and she wasn't about to now. She would get through this case, then reevaluate everything. Her professional life. Her personal life. Hell, even her hairstyle.
She shot a look at Steve. He was on the cell phone with Cece Santiago, their assistant. Setting up a deposition in his father's Florida Bar lawsuit. So typical. Plunging ahead even though his father had ordered him to drop the case. Not listening, always thinking he knew more than anyone else.
She glanced out the windshield and said: "You missed the turn."
He clicked off the phone. "I'm taking Card Sound Road."
"It's longer that way," Bobby piped up from the backseat.
"Few minutes, is all."
"So why go that way?" Victoria asked.
"I want to stop at Alabama Jack's. Stretch my legs. Get a brewski."
Brewski, she thought. Like some college frat boy.
"You didn't even ask me," she scolded.
"You don't like beer."
He was either playing dumb or was truly clueless, she thought. "You just plowed ahead. Unilaterally changed the itinerary."
"What's the big deal? We're not visiting the great museums of Europe. We're driving home from the Keys."
"Just typical you," she said.
"Hold on, Vic. Listen to this." He turned up the volume. On the radio, a local talk-show host named Billy Wahoo was interviewing Willis Rask.
"Sheriff, what can you tell us about the homicide investigation of that fellow from Washington?"
"Unless you're on the Grand Jury, Billy, that's none of your beeswax."
"C'mon now, Sheriff. You can tell our listeners if that multimillionaire Harold Griffin is an interesting person."
"You mean a person of interest, Billy?"
"Whatever."
"Gotta go now. Couple deer stuck in traffic on the Seven Mile Bridge."
"That was enlightening." Steve punched a button on the radio, searching through the stations. "Now, where were we? What were you busting my chops about?"
"Nothing."
"I remember. You're upset because we're stopping for a beer. Or because I didn't ask if you wanted to stop. One of the two."
"I'm not upset." Thinking it wasn't the beer.
It's just you, Steve being Steve.
"Hey, Vic. You wanted the top up, I put the top up. You didn't want to listen to the Marlins game, I didn't put it on. Now, is it okay if I have one cool one before we hit the turnpike?"
"Are you two gonna fight all the way home?" Bobby said, putting down his book.
"We're not fighting," Steve said.
"We're working on our issues," Victoria said.
"What issues?" Steve said. Flummoxed.
He quit changing stations when the radio picked up Jimmy Buffett wailing "Coastal Confessions." Steve tried to sing along, just another tropical troubadour.
What was the point, she wondered, of glorifying beaches and bimbos and lazy days in an alcoholic haze? The Surgeon General ought to put out warning labels: "These songs could turn your children into slackers."
The tires were singing, too, buzzing across the bridge over Crocodile Lake when Steve turned to her and said: "Anyway, this road's more scenic."
Why did he always have to have the last word? "It's been a long weekend," she said. "Just take me home."
"Other than being thirsty, did I do something wrong here? Because if I did, tell me now instead of next month. I'd like to have a decent enough recollection to defend myself."
"You didn't do anything wrong. You were just you. Stephen Michael Solomon."
"Stephen Michael Solomon," Bobby said, wrinkling his forehead, unscrambling the words in his brain. "COMPLETE MANLINESS. HO. HO."
"Thanks, Bobby," Steve said, then shot a sideways look at Victoria. "Tell me the truth. What'd I do?"
On the berm, a turkey buzzard was hunched over the remains of a possum, picking at its bones. The buzzard, brazen as a trial lawyer, didn't even move as the Caddy blasted past, Jimmy Buffett confessing his misspent youth.
"I don't want to start anything," Victoria said, "but you acted unprofessionally with Junior."
"Did not."
"You practically accused him of murder."
"You guys are fighting," Bobby said.
"Pardon me, partner," Steve said, "but I thought a defense lawyer's job was to suggest to the jury that someone other than his client might have committed the crime."
"Not when the someone is the client's only son."
"Is that it? Or is the problem that the client's only son can't possibly be guilty because you get dreamy-eyed around him."
Dammit, she thought. I was giving off vibes. "I don't get dreamy-eyed around anybody."
"Ouch. Somebody pull the knife from my heart."
"Don't play the wounded lover, Steve. It doesn't become you."
"I'm just making an observation. The way you were gawking at Junior, you were practically secreting hormones."
"Estrogen or progesterone?" Bobby asked.
Just when you think Steve's not paying attention, Victoria thought, when he seems to be daydreaming about the Dolphins or a plate of stone crabs or some game where he stole a base-and maybe the petty cash, too-he surprises you.
She would not be defensive. Like a good trial lawyer, she would attack when challenged. "Face it, Steve. You're jealous of Junior."
"That's ridiculous. What's he have that I don't?"
Bobby leaned over the front seat. "He's rich. He's buff and ripped and totally jacked."
"Hey, Bobby," Steve said. "How'd you like to go back to the orphanage?"
"I was never in an orphanage."
"Never too late, kiddo," Steve said.
They rode in a silence a few minutes. Then, Bobby yelled: "Hey, look at that!"
Over the water, an osprey, its talons wrapped around a fish almost too big to handle, struggled to stay airborne. A second, larger osprey, hovering like a helicopter, tried to tear the fish away with its own talons.
"Put your money on the smaller, quicker bird," Steve said. "The one that grew up hungry."
"You have this preconception about people," Victoria told him as they passed the entrance to the Ocean Reef Club, home to rich snowbirds. "You think everyone who grew up with privilege is spoiled or lazy or degenerate. So it really bothers you that Junior is a good guy, that he cares about people and the environment."
"You can't be objective about him."
"And what about you and Delia-Big-Boobs Bustamante?" She dipped her voice into a pretty fair imitation of Steve's supercilious tone: " 'I don't see Delia killing anyone.' "