Unlawfull Alliances Read online

  Jim Gimble’s nod was on the short side of friendly. The other senior partner of Morrison, Gimble, Stratton, and Morrison obviously did not appreciate the interruption to his story. His wife smiled for him. Was there an apology behind it? I liked Dana. She was a high school history and political science teacher, and the only one, yours truly aside, who was not dressed to kill. A bit on the pudgy side, she seemed more comfortable in her role as mother and school teacher.

  Richard Stratton, a junior partner along with Scott, was too busy straightening his John Hardy cufflinks, to acknowledge my existence. Appropriate. He was known as the weak link in the firm, Joe had commented more than once. I trusted that there were some redeeming qualities to Jim Gimble and Richard Stratton. They were just a bit hard to spot at first glance. I knew enough to keep searching. And to stop judging—at least to try.

  Scott Morrison stepped across the circle and shook my hand. “It’s good to see you, Jenny.” Was it his mother’s prompting? I didn’t think so. His brown eyes met mine with comfort and honesty. Scott was not as handsome as his father. While Anthony Morrison seemed a debonair blend of Laurence Olivier and Marcello Mastroianni, Scott had the vulnerability of a naive Robert Redford but with dark eyes and sandy brown hair. He was too boyish to have his father’s charisma. What he did have was an impish smile and a single dimple in his right cheek.

  “Scott, sweetie, can I refresh your drink?” Erica, Richard Stratton’s wife, stepped in between us, grabbing his arm possessively.

  “Thank you, Erica.” Scott handed her his glass. “Amy, would you like something?”

  Amy shook her head. I didn’t miss the miffed expression on Erica’s face as she left the group to get a drink for her apparent favorite man in the bunch.

  “Anyway, as I was saying, if that bitch thinks she’s going to get another penny, she has another think coming,” Jim Gimble picked up where he left off. “This case is in our pocket.”

  “We’re in mixed company here, Jim,” Scott reminded his crude and somewhat overweight law partner. Dana Gimble’s right eyebrow quivered in surprise, or perhaps disapproval, as she tugged on her husband’s arm in an effort to give him a similar message to Scott’s.

  Jim ignored his wife, rubbing his burly beard as he eyed each of us women, one at a time, grinning as he went. “I’m sure you girls don’t mind my language. Do you?”

  Rosemary smiled. Erica, returning with Scott’s glass, patted Jim’s stomach and said, “Oh, Jimmy, I’ve known you too long to let your crude mouth bother me.” Amy stood quietly, saying nothing, despite the tint of pink climbing up her cheeks.

  And I? Well, if I’d just gotten myself out of there a little faster, or better yet, if I’d never let Rosemary drag me across the room in the first place, or let Joe talk me into making an appearance tonight . . . But as my Grandmother McNair used to say, “If ifs and ands were pots and pans, there’d be no need for tinkers.” So really, it was Joe’s fault. He invited me here, so he couldn’t very well complain about my loose tongue.

  “Actually, since you asked, Jim, your language does bother me,” I said above the chuckles and snickers. “Bitch is not a word I like to hear used in reference to the women I know, and girls is a word I like even less. Now if you’ll excuse me,” I turned and walked away from Rosemary’s cozy circle, but not before noticing Scott’s wink in my direction and Amy’s flicker of a smile. I nearly laughed out loud at myself. I did, after all, use the word girl myself on occasion. It must have been the condescension with which he said it that I found objectionable.

  Safely back in my easy chair, the only comfortable piece of furniture left since the office make over, I finished my glass of Chardonnay and returned to one of my favorite hobbies, people-watching. Again my gaze stopped at Amy as if she were a magnet, gently pulling my focus towards her. I was not alone. Everyone liked watching Amy. Perhaps it was her exotic beauty. Or maybe the mysterious aura that always surrounded her. Whatever it was, eyes migrated towards her in any room, as did people. But few were granted the right to enter her realm.

  My mind flashed back to childhood, fourth grade to be precise. Janie Miller. Pretty, smart, egocentric, and just plain mean. Yet we all gathered round her, hoping that today would be the day she would deem us worthy of her company on the jungle gym. Better yet, would we be the one bestowed the privilege of pushing her on the swing, the one granted the spot beside her on the lunch bench, the one allowed to share their Hostess cupcake with her?

  Why did we do it? Why did we pretend to ignore, day after day, the insults, teasing, cruel words, looks of disdain, just to be given the chance to be caught in her web? We tossed aside all hints of pride and dignity, all in the name of popularity. Are we so insecure that we give away our own power, that we allow another human being to determine our worth? Apparently.

  I wondered if Amy was empress of the fourth grade, a cheerleader in high school, homecoming queen. Maybe she just looked the part. But it was just that, wasn’t it—a part. Like the other one she played so well—lawyer’s wife—something at which I had never been adept. She smiled at the right moment, shook her head to the altered tones of voices, without hearing a word. It was almost as if she had been programmed. If not for the pain and the vulnerability in her eyes, I would not have known her feelings ran deep. Apparently she did not know how to express them. I would have liked to invite her to my Authentic Feeling class or my Art Exploration to Self workshop, but it did not seem quite the right time or place to be handing out my threefold violet fliers, elegant though they may be.

  But five minutes later, I found my opportunity. I too had decided to use the lady’s rest room. And I too had decided to use the one furthest from the madding crowd.

  Amy was sitting at the mirror, a tissue in hand, ready to wipe her mascara that had taken a journey from her eyes to her cheeks. I could not ignore her, not even out of courtesy. After all, I was a minister. Of course, I know better than to believe that a minister’s job is to save people. But we can’t ignore them when they’re in pain either.

  I pulled up a chair beside her. “These functions can be quite stressful, can’t they?” A perfect opening, or so I thought.

  The look of panic in her eyes and the tilt of her body away from me told me that I had only succeeded in upsetting her more than she already was. I stood up and headed for a bathroom stall, turning before I reached it. “If you’d like to talk . . . I’m here,” I told her, smiling compassionately.

  She nodded but did not speak. When I came out of the stall, I washed my hands, and meticulously combed my hair more than I did in a weekend. If I’d had make up in my purse, I would have indulgently put it on, anything to stall my departure and give her time to reconsider my offer. But there were no takers, so I left. I stood for a few minutes outside the door, listening to the muffled sobs.

  What kind of a minister was I if I couldn’t even comfort a fellow female in the bathroom? I opened the door, more slowly this time, and returned to the chair that I had set beside her. Still, she refused to meet my eyes.

  “You don’t have to be alone with it . . . whatever it is.”

  She nodded in disagreement.

  “I would honor your confidence, if that is your concern.”

  “I know,” she mumbled. Her first words so far. This was a good sign. She was speaking.

  “It’s not something I can talk about.” Her eyes met mine with stark clarity. “Not even to a minister.”

  She knew I was a minister. Had Joe actually willingly divulged this information to his colleagues? And had it spread down the hall to other colleagues and home to their wives? I was startled, taken aback, and more than a little pleased.

  After my momentary lapse into ego, I returned my attention to Amy. I had heard something in her voice. If I was correct, it was shame. She could not face a minister above all, if shame was involved.

  “I got my ministry degree so I could counsel people, Amy, not judge them. I’m a spiritual counselor.”

  She smiled
slightly. And sighed. Another good sign, letting down the barriers.

  “It’s not you, Jenny. It’s too personal, that’s all.”

  “I do have some support groups which are wonderful. You don’t have to say any more than you’re comfortable saying, and the group supports you in any way they can.”

  “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind,” she said before I could offer a description of the aforementioned groups. With that she stood up, wiped the last speckle of mascara from her face, and pulled out her makeup kit to redo the job that had been undone by the frailty of human emotions.

  Not being particularly stupid, I knew when I was being dismissed. I smiled and left the lounge, despite the alarm that was going off in my solar plexus telling me not to leave this woman alone, not without a commitment that she would find someone she could talk to, immediately.

  Chapter 2

  Home looked good. Bed looked better. I had slipped into my flannel nightie and, scarcely touching toothbrush to teeth, had climbed between the sheets, pulling the snug down comforter all the way up to my chin. It was cold for May. Holly, no doubt too busy singing and dancing to notice the drop in temperature, had not bothered to turn on the heater. Nor had Matthew who skis in T-shirts.

  I smiled to myself and sighed one of those sighs that is near to blissful, the kind that says you are grateful for your life; grateful for your daughter who is clomping about in her toe shoes and is likely to keep you awake well after midnight with her pirouettes and tourjetes on a Saturday night, rather than attending a teen party with God knows who and God knows what going on; grateful that your son is home from the dorm on a Saturday night, and preferring books to modems, is using your library full of encyclopedias for research and your washer and drier for his dirty rugby, soccer, and track garb; and grateful, even though you hate the smell of eggs, that your husband is in the kitchen fixing himself a fried-egg sandwich because the truth is, he prefers them to fancy dips and caviar. And you’re grateful that instead of crying when you climb into bed, you are smiling.

  The doorknob turned slowly and Joe tiptoed toward the bathroom.

  “I’m awake,” I said.

  “Oh, sorry, waiting for me?”

  “Just basking in the comfort of home.”

  He sat down on the edge of the bed to take off his shoes. “You really hate these parties, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know if hate is the right word. More like, well put it this way, I’d rather be stuck on a mountain cliff somewhere, waiting to be rescued by a helicopter.” I had always found it easier to commune with nature than with lawyers. Not the dramatic or remote kind of nature. After all, I was city raised. But parks and gardens, definitely were home to me.

  Joe kissed me on the forehead. “Thanks for coming tonight, Jenny. You’re a good sport.”

  I shrugged. “What can I say, I love ya, Joe. And I’m very happy to know you haven’t been hiding the fact that your wife is a minister.”

  “What?”

  “Amy Morrison mentioned it. Apparently the news has made it all the way down the hall and around the corner. I’m glad it doesn’t embarrass you.”

  “Embarrass me?” His eyebrows furrowed as he stood up and started for the bathroom. “Jenny, why would it embarrass me?”

  “I had thought— I don’t know. I just didn’t think it was information you would broadcast, particularly at the office. I guess I don’t embarrass you as much as I assume I do.”

  “No.” He cleared his throat; his voice had turned husky. “Of course you don’t.”

  Sometimes after being married to someone for so many years, we assume that we know their every thought and feeling. We don’t. I reminded myself of that as my husband began his nightly routine of undressing in the closet, tossing his clothes onto the top of the hamper, pulling on his pajama bottoms and a worn T-shirt, and brushing and flossing his teeth, then brushing again. I smiled at his consistency, and I suppose, at how well I did know him.

  But by the time he slipped into bed beside me, my mind had moved onto another subject. “Do you know what’s going on with Scott and Amy Morrison?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. She seemed upset tonight. She’d been crying. You didn’t notice?”

  “I was too busy playing host to notice much of anything.”

  “I’m sure something’s bothering her. I think maybe she’s—”

  “Overanalyzing again, are you, Hamlet?”

  “Sorry.”

  “A little late at night for this, don’t you think? If you start chewing on this one, you’re liable to be awake until morning.”

  “True. Goodnight, Joe.”

  He kissed me again, this time on the lips. “Goodnight, Jenny. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Joe.” But I didn’t go to sleep. Unfortunately I didn’t shut up either. “But I just know something’s wrong. All evening I could sense—”

  I stopped myself, but not before Joe had groaned. It was his usual reaction to any sentence that began with, “I sense.” Joe did not put a lot of credibility in the power of intuition, especially mine.

  “Anyway, she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong.”

  “You tried?”

  “Yep, but she didn’t say a single word, beyond no thanks.”

  “Oh, well, don’t feel bad, honey.”

  “I don’t.” I rolled onto my side and bunched my pillow under my head just the way I liked it. “But I am concerned about her.” And I knew, that feeling was not going to go away anytime soon.

  * * *

  Charlie called me bright and early the next morning when I was in the middle of a meditation. I tried to ignore his voice coming through my message machine, but the mind chatter had begun. I took the portable phone into the den and dialed him back. I did not want to disturb the rest of my slumbering family.

  “Please, Jenny,” Charlie said, and I could see those puppy dog eyes as though they were staring at me now. As bad as Stanley Holloway in My Fair Lady, he was.

  “At least let me tell you about the case.”

  “Okay, Charlie, tell me who is involved, but I’m not ready to hear anymore details than that. It’s Sunday morning. Seven o’clock on Sunday morning, I might add.”

  “Sorry, I was up early. Didn’t realize how early, I guess.”

  “Have you been to bed, Charlie?”

  “What kind of a question is that to ask your father?”

  “No doubt, a perceptive one. So, who are the specimens involved this time?”

  “Scott and Amy Morrison.”

  I no longer needed my morning cup of coffee. “You’re not serious.”

  “Why?”

  I brushed my hand through the air. “They were at the office party last night.”

  “How were they?”

  “Not so good.”

  “That’s no wonder. So, interested in helping?”

  “Well, I don’t know if I should, considering that I know them.”

  “Are they friends?”

  “Not really.”

  “You can help. Meet me at my office in fifteen minutes.”

  “It’s Sunday morning!”

  “I’ll buy you breakfast.”

  “Okay, but not at that greasy spoon next door.”

  “Dinna fash yerself. There’s a wee cafe that’s just opened across the street.”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you at the cafe, but I need to be home by ten to fix breakfast for the family. Matthew spent the night here and I’m sure there was another reason besides hoping I would iron his laundry for him.”

  Charlie laughed.

  “Hey, he’s crazy about my tofu quiche, you know.”

  “I’m sure he is. I’m sure he is.”

  “And I really want to have some time at my wheel today. I’m working on a new design for a mug.”

  “No problem. Just want your intuition on this one, Jenny. If you do no more than that, I’ll be happy as a lamb on the west hills of Scotland.”


  I laughed as I hung up the phone and pulled my wool coat over my leggings and sweatshirt. I didn’t want to risk waking Joe with the opening and closing of dresser drawers. Besides, I suddenly found myself very anxious to hear what Charlie had to say. Amy’s tears apparently were the result of my dreaded suspicion. Scott Morrison, sweet as he was, it seemed, was cheating on his wife after all. My sixth chakra protested that possibility. I would find out in a few minutes if Charlie had evidence to prove it wrong.

  When I arrived at the cafe, Charlie was sitting cross-legged at the large wooden butcher block table, an espresso and an extra wide British newspaper spread out in front of him. He didn’t care that this was the one table lacking privacy or character. That wasn’t fair. It did have character. It would have served eight lumberjacks very nicely. But Charlie had to have a surface large enough to spread his fill of British sports—soccer, and of course, rugby. Either that, or a waitress with whom to flirt. And since this was a serve-yourself type cafe, there was little chance of that.

  “Hey, Charlie.”

  “Jenny, my sweet.” He dropped his paper and bounced off the wooden bench to hug me. When he finished, he rested his hands on my shoulders and looked me directly in the eye. It was something I had learned from him. It tells you a lot about people. With Charlie it was easy. I knew those deep brown eyes well. I had inherited them.

  He was looking at me with that look that told me I was cherished. It was Charlie who the men in my life had to live up to. And it was that look of unconditional love that I searched for in my husband’s eyes. I don’t suppose that was fair to Joe. How could any man live up to one as charming and dashing as my father? But the truth was, the unconditional love I was seeking would not come from a man, any man. It would come from me.

  I kissed his gently-wrinkled cheek. He was handsome, my father was. Debonair and handsome. Well, maybe not so debonair. But dapper, yes. He could be some things to his daughter, I suppose, that he might not be to the rest of the world. After all, I remembered him with a top hat and tails, escorting my stepmother to her fancy charity balls. And I remembered him with my mother, twirling a cane—or was it a broom?—and dancing around the house in an effort to bring a smile to her belligerent face. He succeeded on occasion, but not often enough to devote the rest of his life to trying to make her happy, a responsibility that she denied was her own.