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“Where do you live?” Carter said.
It was the last question she’d expected. “Ah. I, um, I live, ah…” Surely she could remember her address. Finally she managed to spit it out.
“I was thinking we could drive to O’Hare together, but I’m too far out of your way. Okay if we meet at the gate? My secretary made the reservations. Your aide can call her, take it from there.”
“Gate,” Mallory stammered, nodding. “Ticket.”
A quick goodbye to Bill, a flashing smile in Mallory’s direction and he was gone. Mallory sank back into her chair.
Bill was wearing a satisfied expression. “I knew you were the right person to do this job.”
“Why?” It came out like a sigh.
He beamed at her. “You’re immune to Carter Compton’s manly charms. I can trust you. Anywhere. With anyone.” He leaned forward, his expression shining with sincerity. “I can read a person like a book, and I saw it, just now, while you were chatting with Compton. Your colleagues think of you as a lawyer, not as a woman.”
On another day Mallory might have taken Bill’s backhanded compliment in stride. All he meant was that she was a trusted colleague, a woman who didn’t use her sexuality to her professional advantage. But seeing Carter had set off something weird in her mind. Her fingers fumbled with the PalmPilot she usually handled with such dexterity. “High praise indeed,” she mumbled through lips that felt cold and numb. “Thanks again, Bill.” She stood up. “I’ll be ready to leave tomorrow.”
On her way back to her office she thought, Bill saw it, too. Carter doesn’t see me as a woman.
Suddenly overheated from frustration, she quickened her step and opened the door to her office suite, where she found Hilda, Cassie and Ned waiting like circled wagons.
“What happened?” they said in chorus.
“Did he fire you?” Ned added an appropriately lugubrious expression to his thick southern drawl.
“Did you find out what he’s doing in the building?” Cassie’s interest was no longer a mystery now that Mallory knew who he was.
“Should I order boxes for clearing out your office?” Hilda sounded anxious.
Still feeling dazed, Mallory let her eyes drift from one to the other. “No, Hilda, you should call Carter Compton’s secretary and get me a plane ticket.”
She heard Cassie’s gasp, but forged on.
“He’s taking on the Green case. Bill has assigned me to go to New York with him to depose the plaintiffs’ witnesses.”
In the thunderous silence, Cassie’s eyes widened while her mouth thinned out into a vicious line. “I hate you!” she yelled. “I was dying, dying, for that assignment.” She stomped into her office, from which immediately came the sounds of objects hitting the wall.
“Pack enough condoms to last a couple of days,” Ned suggested, his mild, owlish gaze swinging back from Cassie’s closed door to Mallory’s face. “Carter’s the Casanova of the twenty-first century, a legend in his time. Are you on the Pill?”
“Keep your knees locked together,” Hilda said, wincing as the crashing sounds increased in volume.
Still in slow motion, Mallory stared at Ned, then at Hilda. “But you see,” she said in the calm manner of the totally shocked, “that’s why Bill’s sending me. Because I don’t need the Pill and I won’t need the condoms. My knees are already permanently locked together. I am not a woman. I am a lawyer.”
She drifted into her own office and closed the door just in time to see her framed diploma from the University of Chicago School of Law jump off its hook from the impact of whatever Cassie had just thrown against the dividing wall. A thin ray of sunlight broke through the uncertain winter sky to illuminate its glass as it shattered into a million glittering shards.
It seemed significant, somehow.
Mallory opened her PalmPilot to her to-do list. “Have diploma reframed,” she wrote with the slim plastic stylus.
CARTER RETURNED TO THE legal department library in a thoughtful mood. He was very glad Mallory was going with him to New York. Good old Mallory. With her on the job, he wouldn’t have to spend half his time in sexual fencing: the way he’d have to with most women.
He was getting tired of it, starting to want something real, starting to think about settling down.
With Paige, maybe. Well, no, not Paige. Not for the long run. Even a long weekend was sort of a stretch.
He’d eliminated Diana last weekend.
Andrea, then. Uh-uh. He never quite connected with Andrea, never felt they were talking about the same thing.
What about Marcie? Marcie was smart and sexy, and had made no secret of the fact that she’d like their relationship to grow, blossom and produce an engagement ring set with a diamond of substantial size. He didn’t know why, after he’d been with her, he sometimes felt a little—empty.
An unprecedented mood of dissatisfaction settled over him. He dated dozens of girls, and dozens more wished he’d ask them out or accept their thinly veiled invitations. One of them had to be just right.
In the meantime, he loved his work, and this was the craziest case he’d ever lucked into. Just thinking about it dispelled his bad mood. Its proper name was Kevin Knightson et al. v. Sensuous. Informally, they referred to it as the Green case, because last March a hundred or so women plus a few men had attempted to dye their hair Sensuous Flaming Red, and instead, had dyed their hair—and everything else the solution had touched—pea-green, as the brief described it.
They didn’t think it was funny. He’d better make sure he didn’t let on he thought it was funny. Mallory sure wouldn’t think it was funny. He’d be able to count on her to keep his face straight.
He could count on her for everything, just as he had in law school. That time they’d studied all night—something in his head had gone click and he’d finally gotten it together. It had taken a lot of hard work, but that one night had turned his law school record around.
He’d been sorely tempted to end the night with Mallory in his bed, at least to hold that tall, slim woman in his arms and give her a kiss that said, “Thanks, and let’s get together sometime.” A kiss that would make her want to get together sometime.
Why hadn’t he?
He’d gotten himself together was what had happened, had gotten the second highest grade on that exam. Mallory, of course, had gotten the highest.
Funny, he’d forgotten how pretty she was with her pale, blue-green eyes and that incredible silvery-blond hair.
He realized he was worrying his pen between his index and middle fingers, a nervous habit he’d been trying to break. His time was too valuable to waste it like this. He’d been thinking about the case, which was all he could afford to think about until he negotiated a settlement. Sensuous had recalled that entire lot of dye upon getting the first complaint, of course, and had sent lawyers out to negotiate generous settlements to the first fifteen or twenty of those hundred plus complainants. Unfortunately, a couple of the complainants had found an ambitious lawyer—or she had found them, which happened sometimes—who got all of them together and filed suit. They weren’t going to settle for hair therapy, weekly manicures, new sinks, re-painted walls and regrouted tile floors anymore. They were after everything Sensuous was worth.
And all because a bored assembly line man had decided it would be fun to add a permanent green dye to a batch of hair color in honor of St. Patrick’s Day.
Carter’s first priority was to keep the case from going to trial, which was one of the ironies of being a trial lawyer. He’d do his best to convince these pea-green plaintiffs that weekly manicures and new sinks were all the payback they needed.
He hoped Sensuous had hired him for his professional reputation, not his personal one. He hoped they didn’t think he could seduce the plaintiffs and their lawyer—a woman—into settling.
“Mr. Compton?” He looked up to see one of the department’s paralegals at the library door. “I know you have permission to access the Green case files on our network, but I made you a CD as backup in case you’re somewhere without a network connection.” The girl’s hands trembled as she handed him the packaged disk.
“Thanks,” he said, standing up, giving her a smile. For a second he was afraid she was going to faint. Then what would he do? But she mustered up some poise, returned his smile, batted her lashes and swung her hips provocatively as she made her way out of the library. At the door she paused, struck a sexy pose, gave him some more eyelash action and said, “I’m Lisa, and if there’s anything else I can do to help, like if you need clerical or paralegal backup in New York…”
It was the story of his life. He couldn’t help it. It wasn’t anything he did deliberately. Some chemical in his body—well, testosterone was what it was—must have sprung a leak at birth and had been oozing out of him ever since, attracting women like beer attracted slugs.
If he intended to settle down, he had to plug that leak. He had to become irresistible to just one woman. And he had to stop attracting every unattached female who came into view. There was no better time than right now to give it a try. He wondered what he could say that would leave no doubt in Lisa’s mind that he wouldn’t be calling her for a wild weekend in New York. And while he wondered and Lisa waited, a bright idea popped into his mind.
“Thanks, Lisa,” he said. “I’ll pass that on to Mallory Trent. She’s going to need plenty of support from the department.”
He was relieved to hear the smoky tone clear from Lisa’s voice. “Of course,” she said, releasing her body from the arched-back position that made her breasts and butt stick out at the same time. “I’m happy to give Mallory any help she needs.”
When she slammed the library door, Carter felt he’d made some progress. He’d discovered, he ruminated as he made his way back to his own handsome office at Rendell and Renfro, that it paid to have a woman on his team who could run interference for him with other women.
While they were in New York, Mallory would make a great blocker.
Of course, he didn’t want to be blocked completely. On his phone list were several women who lived in New York. This was his chance to go out with them, enjoy their company, treat them to a night on the town—and if he felt like it, a night in bed. Along the way, he’d determine if one of them might be someone he could settle down with forever. He’d make dates with a couple of them right now, tonight, before he forgot.
He reached his building, signed in and went up to his office. Too bad the plaintiffs didn’t have Mallory’s hair. Nobody with hair like Mallory’s would want to dye it red.
2
MALLORY DIDN’T OPEN her office door again until she’d heard her suitemates leave for the day. By that time she felt she’d successfully compartmentalized every facet of her life, including Carter, who’d gone into a read-only-don’t-touch file. And there he would stay, at least until she had to face him in person at the airport in the morning. By morning, she’d be herself again. Under control.
Dressed for the cold winter night, she caught a cab on LaSalle, which slipped and slid as it carried her through the velvety darkness. The streetlamps cast a golden glow on the snowflakes that misted the air and iced the streets. Christmas trees soared high within the lobbies of the commercial buildings she passed, and when she reached the more residential areas, glittered festively through the windows of brownstones and apartments.
“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” the cab driver said.
Resisting an alarming urge to sing, “everywhere you go,” back at him, Mallory said, “We just had Thanksgiving.”
“That’s Chicago for you. Start on Christmas and Hanukkah while we’re still living on turkey leftovers.”
“We are mere tools of the commercial establishment,” Mallory said, sighing even as her spirits rose in anticipation of her parents’ pleasure in the gifts she’d already gotten for them—a new, state-of-the-art laptop for her mother, which she’d asked her brother Macon to select and load with the most up-to-date software, and a fully accessorized riding lawnmower for her father, which would enable him to keep the lawn in Oak Park groomed to military standards.
“You got that right,” her philosophical driver agreed, nodding. “No love in the presents anymore, just money.”
Money. She’d spent a ton of money on those gifts. But, she argued with herself, she’d also spent a ton of time deciding what might please them most.
Still, it was something to think about, and she had plenty of time to think while the taxi driver told her a heart-wrenching story about the Christmas his great-aunt gave him a sweater she’d knitted with her own two hands, and on the day after Christmas, had passed on, leaving her memory behind in perfect cable stitch.
She gave him a generous tip when he dropped her at her high-rise in the Carl Sandburg Village in Old Town. When she stepped through the door, she found her apartment, as always, silent, warm, spotless and perfectly neat, just as it should be and would be, unless she drifted unknowingly into senility—still living in this apartment.
A grim resignation came over her as that thought went through her mind, but this wasn’t the time to attack and disarm it. She put her black leather briefcase on the desk in her home office off the kitchen, lining it up precisely beside the desk pad. Today’s mail went beneath the mail that had arrived while she was stoically enduring her vacation. First in, first out. That was the rule.
Go through mail.
Pay bills. Respond to invitations and requests.
Read and throw away or file everything else.
This list, an excerpt from one of her mother’s books, popped into her mind. No wonder the surprise encounter with Carter had thrown her completely off balance. She’d gotten in too late the night before—and had been too traumatized by warmth, sand and the mandate to relax—to follow her customary mail routine. A happy life, her mother asserted in every book, was a series of learned habits, or routines. And if you ever veered from one of your routines, it was the first step toward a downward slide into chaos and misery.
As always, her mother was right. She’d veered, her mental state was in chaos and she was miserable. So the mail would be her top priority after she finished her homecoming routine. No more veering.
As she slid a black leather glove into each pocket of her black cashmere coat, her gaze fell to the rectangular box on top of the stack. It was a complimentary copy of the latest Ellen Trent book. Just what she needed at the moment—a quick refresher course.
She hung the coat in the foyer closet, her black cashmere scarf tucked under the collar, and centered her black hat on the shelf directly above it. With her snow boots drying in a special snow-boot box just outside the front door of the apartment, she carried the black flannel bag that held her still-gleaming Soft ‘N’ Comfy pumps to her bedroom.
The pumps were black, too, as were the snow boots. Why didn’t she have anything—red?
It’s always best to stick to basic black in cold-weather climates and beige for warmer environments.
Another quote from a book of her mother’s. That explained it. It didn’t explain a peculiar knot of rebellion that rolled through Mallory from her scalp to her toes. She did have something red. Wine. She went straight to the kitchen and poured herself a glass, then went back to the office to start her mail routine.
She swished the wine around in the glass, admiring its color and examining its rim, sniffed it, analyzing its bouquet, then took a totally undiscriminating gulp. The warmth cascaded down her throat, startling her into staring at the glass in her hand, unable to imagine how it had gotten there. Wine and paperwork didn’t go together. Everybody knew that, at least everybody who preferred a balanced checkbook. See what she’d done? She’d veered again! What was wrong with her, anyway? Nothing a dose of her mother’s wisdom couldn’t cure. She ripped open the box that held the new book.
Efficient Travel From A to Z was its predictable title, and clipped to the front was a sheet of notepaper with her mother’s letterhead. The message was typed: Compliments of Ellen Trent.
None too warm and motherly. Inside was a letter, also typed, but a little more warm and motherly.
Dearest daughter:
This one’s a compilation of all my travel tips plus a few exciting new ideas! Hope they help you remember Ellen’s Golden Rule: Efficiency is the key to a happy life.
Mother
Not finding a hug anywhere in the message, unless “dearest” was meant to be one, Mallory scanned the table of contents: “Beauty in a Baggie,” “Carry On,” “Delete, That’s the Key”—these chapter titles sounded familiar and had probably appeared as articles in women’s magazines. But “Returning to Serenity,” which cleverly filled two alphabet slots, was new. Mallory opened to that chapter.
Leave your paperwork in order.
That was already tops on Mallory’s to-do list.
Don’t leave any dirty laundry behind.
Well, of course not. Her dry cleaner opened at seven. She’d drop off her resort clothes on the way to the plane tomorrow morning. The dry cleaner would charge an exhorbitant rate for washing and pressing her clothes, but she didn’t have time to do laundry in the basement of the apartment building, and rules were rules.
Clean your refrigerator thoroughly, and pay special attention to the crisper. A rotten vegetable will spoil your return to hearth and home.
No problem there. She hadn’t been home long enough to put anything in the crisper.
Check the expiration date of your perishables—boxed, canned, frozen and refrigerated foods and over-the-counter drugs—and throw away those items that will expire while you’re away.
Mallory stared at the page, briefly considering the possibility that her mother had at long last gone over the edge. But millions of women bought these books, women who pursued the same kind of happiness her mother enjoyed, that Mallory relied upon and took comfort from.
Give your itinerary to a close friend or family member.
This brought her up short. If she called her parents, the conversation would take hours. Her mother would put her through a verbal checklist, and they might get into a fight over the expiration date thing. She had friends. Close friends. The friends with whom she’d taken the St. John’s trip, for example, who’d stared at her in disbelief when she’d announced her intention to come home early. They’d tease her mercilessly if she told them she’d traded sun and sand for sin and sex with Carter Compton.
Her head jolted up from the book with a snap that almost left her with whiplash. She was going to New York on business, not to engage in sin and sex.
She suddenly remembered she had a brother in New York she could send her itinerary.
It wasn’t surprising she was just now remembering that Macon was in New York. Macon was the sort of person whose location was vague, not so much a brother as a cyber-brother. He communicated with the family by e-mail. He sent Internet birthday cards and gifts he’d ordered online. Occasionally he came home for Christmas, but more often, he spent the holiday monitoring some public or private computer system. Macon was a computer ace. He lived and breathed computers, had since he met a keyboard and experienced love at first byte.
From time to time, their parents took a notion to make sure he still existed in the flesh. After their last trip to New York, Mallory’s mother had reported that he was dressing better these days. But then, it was hard to believe he could be dressing any worse.
She dialed his number. Predictably, the phone rang once and a message came on. “Trent Computer Consultants,” Macon’s familiar voice droned. “I’m not here. E-mail me at macontrent, all one word, at trent dot com.”
“My brother the robot,” Mallory muttered.
Whose sister isn’t a woman, she’s a lawyer.
The similarity was too great. Getting up from the computer after e-mailing Macon to tell him they should get together in New York, she felt exhausted. She’d better pack before she found herself checking the expiration dates on the box of crackers and tin of smoked oysters she kept on hand as an emergency hors d’oeuvre. She turned to the chapter entitled “Carry On.” She didn’t really need to look at it. This chapter she knew by heart.
