Elle idled in her parking space, pondering the mechanics of car energy. “If I turn it off but leave the CD player on, that drains the battery. But I’ll probably be asphyxiated soon if I sit in here any longer.” She surveyed the dark interior of the parking garage and turned the engine off.
She peeked at her watch again, annoyed at its holding pattern. It had been 7:30 last time she checked, and was only 7:32 now—7:33 if she looked down from the top of her hand at an angle, but that was cheating. Elle checked her lipstick in the vanity mirror.
“One more song,” she decided, and flipped the Styx CD to “Babe,” a song she loved when in love. “You know it’s you, babe,” Elle sang blissfully, ranging far from the tune. Singing had never been her strength.
She finished her operetta and sat again in the quiet, warmly envisioning a link that defied circumstance, a reunion stronger for the separation. In her heart, she had waited for Warner, never losing faith. He was her Velveteen Rabbit, finally opening his eyes to love’s constancy. She breathed deeply, dreaming of their future.
Deciding that fifteen minutes satisfied the feminine necessity of tardiness, Elle entered the low-lit restaurant. Her silver Gucci mules clicked quietly but steadily with each hasty step, an apology ready on her lips to console her waiting date. “Huntington, table for two,” she beamed to the maître d’.
“Yes, madam,” he crooned, leading Elle to an empty table. She was oblivious of the admiring stares taking in her beauty and her silver metal-mesh dress with plunging neckline and green rhinestone straps.
“Would you care for something to drink while you wait?” He motioned to a server.
Elle sighed, downcast. She ordered mineral water, gazing uninterestedly at the menu. Warner had beaten her at the delay game, so he started with the upper hand.
“Elle!” Warner rushed to the table just as her drink arrived. She didn’t stand to greet him. “Hello, Warner,” she nodded, feigning indifference. He leaned around the table to kiss her cheek.
“I’m sorry I’m late. Traffic was heavy,” Warner said with a shrug. As if she hadn’t driven in the same.
“I just sat down, don’t worry.” Elle sipped her water nonchalantly. But her eyes defied her attempt at composure, shining with delight.
“You look beautiful”—he reached for her hand—“as always.”
Elle smiled. “Thanks.” She stirred the ice around her drink, chasing the lime about with the red plastic straw, apprehending it finally with a poke. Winning lines she had rehearsed in the car emptied from her mind as if through a sieve. “It’s been too long,” she attempted.
“Definitely,” Warner agreed, opening the menu. “Much too long. I’m starved.”
Elle turned to her own menu and commented stupidly on the range of appetizers. She felt like cornering him, asking what this was all about. Don’t push him.
Warner motioned to the server to bring a wine list. “It’s great to see you, Elle. It’s so nice to get together again.”
“It’s wonderful.” Elle smiled eagerly. Nothing had changed after all.
Elle began chatting about the Vandermark case, asking Warner politely about his research. He frowned, waving his hand to dismiss the topic. “Elle, you never did care about that stuff.”
Elle retreated. She had spent such energy on Brooke’s case, thinking that she and Warner would have that, at least, in common.
“But, Warner, I care about it now. I’ve become totally involved in this case.”
“You’re full of surprises, Elle.” Warner laughed. “How about this for a surprise…I’ll have a steak tonight. And rare!” He beckoned for a waiter and ordered a red wine without consulting her.
“But you always have it rare.” Elle squinted, puzzled. “‘I want something that took its last breath in the kitchen,’” she imitated Warner’s old line.
“Elle, you’re right,” Warner smiled. “It has been too long. God, I haven’t said that in ages. I forgot…I guess you wouldn’t know. I hardly ever eat red meat anymore.”
“Since when?” Elle arched one eyebrow suspiciously.
Warner hid behind the menu, playing embarrassed. “You’ll laugh…I’ve been a different man lately. Sarah says red meat is bad for my heart, you know, so when I’m with her I never eat it anymore.”
“Sarah’s bad for your heart,” Elle said. She shook the ice in her glass, more angry than nervous.
“Ha-ha, you’ve got me there,” said Warner, winking. When he saw her disappointment, his tone dropped and he spoke seriously.
“Okay, Elle, I’ve let a lot of things change me. It took me a while to notice it myself. I thought I had to grow up, you know, into this new life. But I caught myself!
“See, I took a look around,” he continued, “at what I was becoming…no, at what I was letting myself become.” At that Warner shook his head abruptly, and his grin returned. “No more, though, baby: I’m a new man. A new, steak-eating man.”
“How daring,” Elle muttered, not loud enough to be heard.
The server arrived and poured wine for Warner to sample. “I’ve had it before.” He motioned for the man to keep pouring. “Anyway, Elle’s the epicure. Let the lady taste it, please.”
Obligingly, the server handed a sharply fluted glass to Elle, who sipped and nodded her approval. Red, as if he didn’t know she would have chicken or fish. She scanned the menu hastily for tomato-based pasta.
“I think a toast is in order,” Warner said as he hoisted his brimming glass.
“Allow me,” Elle agreed. “To the old Warner. The old, steak-eating, USC golden boy.” With his USC golden girl, she added mentally.
“I’ll drink to that.” Warner clinked Elle’s glass. “In solidarity.”
Elle smiled shyly. “To Poland?”
“To what?” Warner set his glass on the table and squinted at Elle, not sure if he had heard her right. “Oh, right,” he chortled, toasting anew. “Why not? Here’s to Poland.”
Elle frowned, unsatisfied.
“I mean it, Elle.” Warner spoke naturally, soft with instinctive charm. “Since I’ve seen you again, through this internship, and around school…it’s made me think about the things we used to do, when we were together.”
Elle sighed, her tender eyes anchored to Warner. “Warner, I think about it all the time. Things were good back then. Why…” She trailed off, shook the crimson pool of wine like brandy in her glass, wondering why Warner had left her last spring.
“‘Why’ is right,” Warner agreed with a hearty nod. “Why, just because we checked ourselves into law school, why should anything be different?”
“‘Checked in,’” Elle repeated. “That’s the way to describe it. It’s a madhouse, law school. A regular cuckoo’s nest.”
“Elle, that’s what makes you so lovable. Your charm is that you’ll never change. You’re a homecoming queen, even among toads. I didn’t know what to think when you showed up at registration. It was so…unlikely.” Warner smiled, gazing at Elle’s captivated face.
“Man. I couldn’t bear to see you waste…what you’ve got”—he dropped his gaze beneath her eyes—“at a dull place like Stanford. Law school can suck the life out of you, Elle. And you were always so full of life.”
“Warner,” Elle gushed, “oh, I know. I know. I felt the same way about you. Your films! Remember how you directed documentaries? Remember Vegas?” She paused, tracing patterns on the tablecloth with her fork. “You had such joie de vivre. Then one day”—her eyes narrowed—“you just traded it all in.” She imagined Warner buying Sarah a toaster, and shuddered.
Warner reached for her hand. “Elle, you’ve known me better than anyone. What you say about me…” He drew back, shaking his head with self-reproach. “Elle, it’s true. I bought into this law school routine. I put other things…more important things…on the shelf. But I’m not going to live that way anymore, and I guess I should thank you.”
Elle gasped, blushing. She waited for the words she dreamed Warner would say, wondering whether he had taken the Rock back from Sarah, or maybe gotten another ring for now. She was too excited to speak.
“Maybe that doesn’t make sense.” Warner hesitated, releasing her hand. “I’d like to think I would have come around even if you weren’t in law school, but I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. It was you who made the difference. Seeing you just be yourself, my Elle from college, the calendar girl…taking the same exams as anyone else.” He smiled. “Elle, you’ve taught me a lesson.”
“What do you mean?” she prodded, thinking he had gotten a little off track.
Warner laughed. “I mean you haven’t changed, Elle. And you shouldn’t, and neither should I, just because of law school. It’s a damn degree, that’s all. Everything can be just the way it was before.”
“Oh, Warner,” Elle cried, “I’ve wanted so much to hear you say that!”
“I know, Elle. I can’t believe it took me this long.” He reached under the table, fishing for something. “I should have realized this when I first saw you at Stanford.” Warner stood up suddenly, reaching deep into his pocket.
Elle shivered, knowing what moment was at hand. “Warner, thank God, you’re back!”
“Listen, Elle, the old Warner is back. What was important to me before law school is important to me again. No matter what Sarah says.” He pulled his hand from his pocket and sat back down, resting his fist, clenched, upon the table.
Elle gasped as Warner’s fist opened with a flourish. She expected the Rock! Instead, two white golf tees spilled onto the tablecloth.
“I played golf in college, and I’m going to make time for it again. Law school or no law school. I don’t care what Sarah says,” Warner stated firmly, sitting back with satisfaction.
Elle gaped in shock at the golf tees. She stared at Warner for a moment, then shot from her chair, almost upending it. “Ladies’ room,” she explained, forcing a smile. Warner shrugged, and was glad to see his steak arriving. Elle managed to stifle her tears only until the bathroom door closed behind her.
Elle replayed the voice mail that directed her to the office of Kohn & Siglery in San Francisco. Chutney Vandermark was to be deposed at 10:30 that morning. It was the last deposition scheduled before the will probate proceeding.
“Sorry I can’t drive over with you, Elle,” Christopher Miles said. “Try to meet me there a little early, around ten.”
Elle looked at her watch and jumped from her seat, which was a tubular creation, more artful than cozy. She caught her knee beneath the desk and winced.
Drawing back, Elle rubbed her knee and noticed a small run in her nylons. “Great,” she said, reaching for her purse. She didn’t have time to change, and she didn’t want Chutney to see her lugging binders around with a run in her hose, like a harried proletarian. She’d disgrace the Delta Gamma house.
In her emptied bag she found only Chanel’s nearly black blue polish, an annoyingly trendy purchase that she never should have made, and “Pink Alert,” which she kept in her bag to touch up her manicure. A woman should always carry clear nail polish for these blunders.
She hobbled to Mia’s desk, careful not to put stress on her right leg and lengthen the run. “Mia,” she pleaded, “tell me you have some clear nail polish.”
Mia opened the drawer of her desk and began removing its contents. Behind the pink and green Great Lash mascara and a blue jar of Nivea moisturizing cream, Mia grabbed a nail polish and brandished it happily. “Ultra Glaze Nail Enamel,” she said with a smile, but Elle’s heart dropped when she saw the bottle’s color.
“Mauve-black. That won’t work,” she sighed.
“Sorry, it’s all I’ve got.” Mia shrugged.
“That’s okay,” Elle said. “I guess I could dot it with mauve. At least I’d match.”
“I’d just leave it,” Mia advised, leaning over to assess the damage. “You don’t want a big spot there.” Elle’s nylons were white, and either course was a bad one.
“I’ve got clear polish, Elle, if you want to borrow it.” Elle heard Sarah’s voice behind her and turned around with surprise.
“It’s in my office,” Sarah offered simply. She started down the hall and motioned with her hand for Elle to follow her.
She walked meekly behind Sarah into her office, where she was prepared with a bottle of nail polish in her top drawer. “I keep it in here,” Sarah said. “I should keep an extra pair of nylons, too, for the really bad runs.”
Elle smiled in agreement. “Those horrible ones that rip down your leg before you know what hit you,” she laughed. “They’re the worst.” She took the nail polish from Sarah’s hand and stretched her leg out across the arm rest of a chair to determine the best place to paint.
“I’ve had some like cartoons, I swear.” Sarah smiled. “Like those cartoons where somebody catches a sweater by its thread and runs away and the whole thing unravels?”
Elle paused, tapping the bottle against her hand to shake it.
“I don’t know why we have to wear these silly things, anyway,” she muttered, balancing on one heel while dotting her knee with Sarah’s nail polish. “I mean, the old ladies wear them to hide their varicose veins. But when you’re young, what’s the point?”
“Maybe because your shoes would hurt otherwise.” Sarah shrugged.
“You’re right,” Elle said, glancing at Sarah. “Which raises the question of these painful shoes.”
“I don’t wear heels that narrow,” Sarah replied. “I don’t know how you can even stand in them.”
“Slave to fashion,” Elle said, noticing Sarah’s steady Ferragamo pumps and considering that she might have a point. Neither spoke for a minute as Elle waited for the polish to harden.
“I’ve gotta run,” Elle said as she stood to leave.
“I’ll say, but it’s not such a bad one now.”
Elle turned around to look with surprise at Warner’s serious fiancée suddenly turned punster. “Yeah, thanks to you,” she said and grinned, then left in a rush.
“You’re welcome,” Sarah said quietly.
Elle hesitated.
“Elle, will you wait a minute?” Sarah asked suddenly, gathering her papers. “I’m on my way too. Christopher asked me to go to the deposition.”
Elle waited at the entrance to Sarah’s office while Sarah grabbed a highlighted street map from her shiny briefcase. Unclipping from the map a sheet that had directions scribbled on it, Sarah frowned.
“I hope the office isn’t too hard to find,” she said, hurrying toward the hall where Elle stood.
Elle glanced down at the floor. She turned and started to walk away, then turned back as if she had remembered something.
“I know where it is,” Elle said quietly, not looking at Sarah.
Sarah didn’t respond.
“I’ll give you a ride over.” Elle shrugged her shoulders, insecure at having made the offer. “If you want.” Elle bit her lip and glanced uncertainly at the brunette.
Sarah turned her attention to the Brooks Brothers button on her navy blazer, which she fastened and unfastened. “That would be nice,” she said. “I don’t really know my way around the city yet.”
Elle tossed her hair behind her shoulders and walked ahead. “Let’s go, then,” she said, waving for Sarah to follow her.
On the drive over, Elle found out that not all of the interns were attending the deposition.
“Warner’s preparing witness books,” Sarah said, sensing Elle’s silent question. “It’s just you and me,” she added.
“His loss,” Elle said sarcastically, turning up the stereo.
Chutney Vandermark was extremely well coached, so the deposition was an exercise in futility. She would not reply to a question without first turning for a nod or motion from her lawyer, Henry Kohn, and even then she mumbled terse replies under her breath. Several times the stenographer, who was straining to hear her, had to ask Chutney to repeat herself. She balked even when Christopher Miles asked her for background facts about her education, scowling and behaving like a spoiled child. Most of the time she sat sullenly with her arms crossed.
During one of the several breaks in which Chutney asked to “be excused to the hallway to consult with counsel,” Christopher Miles left to check his messages. Elle sat alone in the room with Sarah.
“She seems really upset,” Sarah said, finally breaking the heavy silence. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like. She actually found his body.” Sarah quivered, dropping her gaze to the floor.
Elle studied her fingernails for a minute, then shook her head in a sharp motion. “She’s not crying.”
“No, she’s not,” Sarah agreed. “Poor thing, she seems bewildered. I bet she’s just shocked, losing her father like that. She found his body! Can you imagine?”
“No,” Elle admitted, “but still, I expected her to cry.” She paused, wrinkling her face, unsatisfied. “So she was working out at the gym and then home taking a shower when it happened.” Elle traced on her legal pad and spoke rather absently, repeated these facts as if to herself. “Must have happened awfully fast.”
“Yeah,” Sarah agreed. “God, I bet he was still bleeding. Can you picture that?”
“No,” Elle said, shaking with a cold shudder. “No, I really can’t. It must have been horrible.”
Christopher Miles reentered the room and pulled his interns aside.
“We’ve got a transcript,” he said, glancing at the stenographer to make sure he was off the record, “so you don’t have to take everything down. Listen”—he dropped his voice to a whisper—“take note on her demeanor. Her motions, where she pauses, that sort of thing. The transcript won’t pick that up. Record anything that strikes you as odd. It’ll give me an idea where to go on cross-examination. Right now,” he muttered, “I wouldn’t know where to start.”
The lawyer shook his head and returned to the table across from Chutney’s seat, hunching his shoulders in a weary slouch.
Tapping heels in the hallway announced Chutney’s return. Straightening, Christopher checked his watch and motioned to Henry Kohn as he stepped into the room with the solemn girl at his elbow.
“Henry.” Christopher stood up, smiling with light charisma and confidence. “Thanks for your patience. We’ll only be another fifteen minutes or so. I’ve got just about everything I need.”