When Nicole got to work the next day, the scene in front of the building was relatively quiet, with only a few paparazzi keeping watch. There had been no new stories about Robert, although the tabloids managed to build an article on the somewhat tenuous news peg that there were no new developments in the case. To her, it appeared to be a lame attempt to keep the story alive and run Robert’s photo yet another day.
She was still jet-lagged, her fatigue compounded by the late evening with Josh. She couldn’t remember ever being so grateful that it was Friday.
The day was a busy one, and not in a good way. She completed the paperwork on the performance reviews and, by late morning, began delivering these evaluations to the staff. It was a yearly unpleasantness, dreaded by everyone, especially Nicole. Staff members came in one by one, and she had to explain what they were doing wrong or what they could do better, or in several happier cases, how well they were doing. Raises depended on these ratings, and she’d taken a lot of time to look at each employee’s work and be fair, even generous, in her assessments. But there were always slackers, those whose work was below par, and others who she thought must have “job suicide” with work so spectacularly bad that it appeared they were determined to get fired and collect unemployment.
She’d told Breanna to hold her calls while she was conferring with each person, but to take a message from Josh Mulhern or put him through if she was free. Breanna raised her eyebrows. “Not a word,” Nicole warned. Breanna made a motion of zipping her lips, and they both smiled.
From her glass cubicle, she watched the usual parade of clients making their way to conference rooms to meet with their attorneys. The billing rates at a firm like this ran close to $1,000 an hour for a lawyer’s time—$700 for a paralegal. While most of the work was for big corporations, some cases involved family law—prenuptial agreements, the subsequent divorces, negotiations over the settlement of property, and renewed fights over the initial prenups. It was a perpetual-motion machine. Obviously, in order to employ a top-drawer firm for these matters, the clients were either executives of corporate clients or the superrich. More often than not, the husband was a good deal older than the wife.
Once in a while, a husband or wife would call on the firm’s services to investigate a spouse he or she suspected of infidelity. These investigations were usually conducted by an outside firm, since Robert was always quick to hand them off. It had seemed to Nicole that he felt these cases were beneath him. He was a cynic about marriage and refused on principle to be party to such stupidity. But now, given his unwanted interest in her, and the age disparity between them, she wondered if it might have been something else.
The firm’s other non-corporate work involved estate issues, wills, trusts, inheritances, and the like. Such cases were often filed by heirs who objected to whatever had been left to them, or—to be precise—what had not been left to them. Many of these litigants had been trust-fund babies, had never had to work for a living, and never would. Still, they seemed in such bad need of more wealth that they were willing to spend what—over the years—amounted to hundreds of thousands of dollars fighting for money that had been left to someone else. In the offices of Bascomb, Rice, Smith & Di Angelo and their $1,000-an-hour fees, billable hours could add up quickly. In Nicole’s view, the whole exercise was a ridiculous waste of time and money. An estate could be depleted before the case was settled, which was exactly what had happened in Dickens’s Bleak House with the case of Jarndyce and Jarndyce.
On her way to Stephanie’s that night, Nicole detoured west to check on her condo. The front of the building was deserted, and she felt safe enough to stop and pick up her mail.
When she got back to the car, she gave into an impulse and called Josh. He picked up after one ring. “Really?” he said. “Things back to normal already?”
“I wouldn’t say they’re normal,” she said. “But nothing bad happened today, so I decided to call you.”
“It’s 6:00,” he said. “Can you meet me for dinner?”
“I have to stop at my sister’s apartment in West Hollywood first. I’ve been staying there since my condo became paparazzi central. But I could probably meet you at 8:00.”
“How about the Café Marie. It’s just off Ventura near Laurel Canyon,” he said. “Does that work for you, or do you want me to come over the hill to West Hollywood?”
It was clear they were negotiating over what might happen after dinner. If they met in West Hollywood, they couldn’t go to her sister’s. “Café Marie is fine,” she said. “I’ll see you at 8:00.”
Nicole put her foot to the accelerator and made it to Stephanie’s in record time so she could shower and freshen up before driving out to the valley. At the same time, she kept asking herself what she thought she was doing. It was as if she’d lost control and some kind of possession had taken hold of her.
She pulled her new navy dress from the closet, held it up to herself, and looked in the mirror. It had a scooped neckline, just short of daring, and was fitted to the hip, where it flared into soft folds. The dress was flattering—no doubt about it. She decided it would be fine to wear to dinner. She selected fresh underwear, grabbed a towel from the linen closet, and went into the bathroom. Before she closed the door, she told her sister that she was going to shower.
“OK, but I’m next,” said Steph. “Remember: I’ve got a date, too.”
“This isn’t a date,” Nicole corrected her. “It’s just dinner.”
She took her shower and had just slipped into her bra and bikini panties—a matched set in sheer black lace—when Steph knocked. “Can I use the shower now?” she said.
Nicole opened the door. Steph had her change of clothes over her arm—jeans and a hoodie. No use dressing up for Mr. Dreadlocks. Usually, Nicole had observed, they just retired to Stephanie’s room, from which sounds of noisy sex would soon emanate.
“Huh,” said Stephanie, taking note of Nicole’s lingerie. “I guess this Josh guy is pretty hot.”
“Stop that,” Nicole said, playfully punching her sister in the arm. “He’s never going to see me in this. Besides, you’re the one who packed my undies. Remember? And this is what you packed.”
Nicole arrived at the restaurant first, a pretty little French bistro. The hostess had Josh’s reservation and seated her in a booth at the back. Nicole ordered a glass of wine. She sat uneasily for what seemed like a long time, constantly checking her watch. All kinds of things were going through her mind, especially the idea of being stood up. Again.
Then there he was, beaming at her and handing her a single, perfect red rose. “Sorry I was late. I got stuck at the office.”
She felt herself flush. “No worries,” she said. “I’ve already eaten. I was just waiting for the check.”
He laughed and sat down, then put up his hand to get the waitress’s attention. “Come on,” he said. “I wasn’t that late.”
“Fifteen whole minutes,” she said. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you about women with more troubles than your own.”
“I consider myself warned,” he said. “Next time I’ll call if I’m going to be even a minute late.”
Looking into her eyes, he reached out and took her hand. Her hand tingled; another tingling started at the inside soles of her feet and was working its way upward. Unbelievable, she thought, I hardly know this guy and look what he’s doing to me.
The waitress arrived and had to clear her throat to get their attention. Josh ordered a drink, and they both studied the menu.
They ordered—a steak for him and glazed salmon for her—and chatted about their day, the latest news, schools they’d gone to, their first romances. By the time they ordered coffee and a single molten chocolate cake to share, they’d both scooted to the center of the booth and were sitting close together. She was all too aware of the warmth of his thigh against hers.
Josh told her about his breakup. “We were engaged and starting to plan the wedding when she told me she’d met someone else. I found out later that she’d been seeing him for some time. I was ready to settle down and start a family, and I thought she wanted the same thing.”
He paused a moment and seemed to be considering it. “Maybe she did, but not with me. Looking back on it,” he added, “it wasn’t so much losing her that bummed me out as the betrayal.”
Nicole told him about her divorce—the short version—and admitted that Brad, her ex, had been into wholesale betrayals.
The waitress appeared, cleared away their empty cups and dessert dish, and placed the check on the table. “We’re closing in a few minutes,” she said.
Nicole looked at her watch. “11:30? I had no idea it was so late.”
Josh paid for dinner, and they walked out of the restaurant to the street where her car was parked. His was a few spaces ahead. Every business in the area seemed to have closed; the block was pretty much deserted.
“My place is just a few blocks away,” he said. “You could stop for a drink.”
“Anymore and I won’t be able to drive home,” she said.
“I’ve got a couch.”
They both smiled. It was pretty much what Rick had said, but coming from Josh it was something else entirely.
“I’ll follow you,” Nicole said, gesturing to her car.
His house was a small craftsman-style bungalow, the front yard smartly fitted out with a picket fence, a stone path bordered with flowers, and glass-haloed garden lights. When they stepped inside the house, Josh closed the door and reached over to push a button that turned on dim, recessed lighting. He pushed another that closed the blinds in the living and dining rooms. Then he pressed her against the door and kissed her. She kissed him back, putting her arms around his neck. With surprising speed, he took off his sports coat, tossed it behind him and began unbuttoning his shirt. Nicole started on the small buttons that ran down the front of her dress.
While this was going on, he still managed to keep kissing her. Nicole had begun to giggle, realizing it was a race to see who could get undressed first. When most of her buttons were undone, she kicked off her shoes and let her dress drop to the floor, leaving just her sheer, lacy bra and panties.
“Whoa!” Josh said. “Stop right there. I think the next step requires my personal supervision.” They both laughed as he pulled her toward the couch.
Afterward, he grabbed a throw blanket from the back of the couch and pulled it over them. They held each other, dozing.
A while later, Nicole woke with a start and sat up. He stirred.
“What?” he said.
“I’ve got to call my sister,” she said. “She’ll wonder what happened to me.”
“Can you spend the night?” he said. “I have to leave tomorrow morning for a family get-together. But I’d really like it if you stayed.”
She regarded him for a moment. She really did like this guy, his earnest blue eyes, his easy smile.
“OK.” She got up and sent her sister a message saying she was spending the night with “the new guy.” She thought Steph probably had figured it out already. With that out of the way, they moved up a short flight of stairs to his bedroom and made love again.
Nicole woke up at 9:00 a.m., confused at first about where she was. When Josh came into the bedroom, he was already dressed. He’d brought her a cup of coffee, which he put on the night table next to her. He also had her clothes, neatly folded over his arm, her shoes dangling from two fingers. He placed them on the bed.
“I have to go, and I wanted to say goodbye,” he said. “My folks have a place up at Tahoe, and we’re going to spend the weekend skiing. I wish I could cancel and spend the day with you, but it’s a family get-together that’s been in the works for months.”
“Oh,” she said, “I have to get back to Stephanie’s anyway.” This wasn’t true, and she felt disappointed, even though she hadn’t given any thought to what would happen next when they’d ended up in his bed the night before.
“Stay as long as you’d like,” he said. “Breakfast is in the oven, keeping warm. The key is on the table next to the front door. Just lock up and drop the key in the mail slot.”
He leaned over to kiss her. “Can we have dinner Monday night? We can eat here. I’ll cook.”
“Sure,” she said. “Have a great time.”
Josh kissed her again, and after another round of goodbyes, he was gone.
She got up and put her clothes on. Then she walked around, getting her first good look at the house. This was a sample of his work as an architect, and she was impressed. From the area, she knew it had probably been one of the many identical tract houses built after World War II. He’d made it cozy and charming, with a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace in the living room; hardwood floors; and a surprisingly large, well-equipped kitchen. The furniture was spare, modern, and tasteful. Everything looked new, and the house was tidy and clean—another point in Josh’s favor.
She found her breakfast in the oven, a plate of French toast and bacon, lightly wrapped with foil to keep it from drying out. She smiled, thinking about the previous night with Josh. He cooks, too. He was almost too good to be true.
After Nicole ate, she took another tour of the house. She had a strong impulse to snoop around but limited herself to opening closet doors and checking bathroom cabinets and dresser drawers for any sign of a woman staying here or leaving things to mark her territory. She found no such evidence, just that Josh was neat and given to storing his possessions in boxes, lined baskets, and other organizers.
When she ended up in his office and saw his computer, the temptation was too much. She sat down in front of it and turned it on. To her surprise, it wasn’t password protected. What a trusting soul he was—leaving her alone in his house with free access to his computer.
His files all seemed to be work-related: plans and proposals for architectural projects. She looked at his email account. Among the messages he’d already opened were a number from friends, several offering to fix him up. Then she noticed an unopened one that had come in that morning. The “from” line—eleanorwinter@palmyra.com—caught her eye. It said, “I miss you. Please call me.” It was signed, “All my love, Elle.” Nicole closed it and took care to mark it unread, so Josh wouldn’t know she’d been snooping. Then she saw an earlier message from Elle, dated ten days before. It said, “Why don’t you return my calls?” One more was dated a week before that. It said, “I broke up with Tate. I realize now I made a terrible mistake. I’m still in love with you. I know you’re angry, but can’t we get together and talk?”
She clicked on Josh’s outgoing mail. He hadn’t replied to any of these messages. Even so, Nicole didn’t like this development. Maybe Josh hadn’t answered his ex, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t eventually do so. Well, Nicole told herself, this was what she got for snooping around. She quit out of his email and turned off the computer. Then she put her dishes in the dishwasher, made the bed, and left.
She got to Stephanie’s at 10:00 a.m. As soon as she opened the front door, Arnold’s excited barks woke up Steph.
“So how was it?” she wanted to know. Nicole smiled and felt herself flush. “That good, eh?” Steph said.
“Truly,” Nicole said. “God, I am such a slut.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You had a good time. That’s exactly what you needed.” Stephanie regarded Nicole for a moment, then went on, “You know, when someone’s life is completely upended like yours has been, it’s natural to look for a way to ease the pain. This guy was it. I can’t imagine why you’d feel guilty about it.”
“Oh,” Nicole said, eager to change the subject, “things have quieted down on the media front. The paparazzi have pretty much exhausted the story and abandoned me for fresh kill. So I’m moving home today. Would you mind keeping Arnold until Sunday? I just want to go home and sleep.”
“Sure,” said Stephanie. “Arnold likes it here. He’s asked me to adopt him. I’m seriously thinking it over.”
Nicole laughed, then went to the room she’d been using and started packing.