NO MATTER HOW WE LOOK at it, there are always things we could have done differently in life. There are two possible ways to deal with this. If we’re smart, we live with no regrets. If we’re not, well, we wallow in what could have been, living in a world of If Onlys.
I didn’t like either possibility, and being the resourceful sort, I came up with a third. Righting wrongs. Which, given the circumstances, seemed the only sensible thing to do. So when Jack pulled me to him with what I can only call hungry need, I went.
We came together, crashing against the bathroom stall, hands tugging at clothes, searching out skin, completely forgetting things like where we were and who was sitting in the front row of the courtroom. We kissed with TV movie desperation until we both pulled apart. He looked at me and I felt as if I had never been seen before. I became aware of the drip of water from the sink faucet echoing faintly against the tile floor and walls, panic mixing with a prickling excitement.
My breath shuddered in when he ran his thumb across my lips.
“Kiss me,” he said.
Well, really, what was I going to do?
I reached up on tiptoes, my body trembling, and pressed my mouth to his. Then whatever patience there had been disappeared and he pulled me back. We pressed together, like trying to get beyond the barrier of flesh and skin. In the tiny stall, he pulled my blouse free, kissing my bare skin, stopping at my shoulder.
“What’s this?” he asked.
I tried to pull the material back. “Just a scar,” I said, hating the reminder of running out of the building where the bar exam was being held, crying, half crazed, and tripping on a crack in the sidewalk. I had flown, my arms tangled in my books, unable to get free fast enough to break the fall. My shoulder took the brunt of the hit, my loose blouse from the previous night Jack and I had spent out late, flimsy and shredding along with my skin. No one had seen the mottled skin since, not even Phillip back in Boston.
“Stop,” Jack said, pushing my hand away, kissing the scar in a way that made me shiver with something more than desire.
After that, I forgot all about scars and pavement and him seeing a whole lot of my naked skin. He ripped my stockings free in a very Neanderthal (but totally hot) motion, then lifted me up, my back pressed against the metal divider. His kiss was intense, his hands pulling my knees up around his hips, cupping what I have to admit was a whole lot of bareness. I shivered and, yes, moaned, and wanted what I knew was coming in the worst sort of way.
“This is such a bad idea,” he groaned into my neck. And when he lifted me up just a bit and slid my body down on his, well, we both cried out.
It was one of those moments in life that you hear about, where time stands still, reality suspended as if nothing in the world existed beyond the tiny metal stall. We moved together, touching, kissing, whispering, the world locked out. And when we both finished, everything seeming to stop, I could feel the muscles in Jack’s back shudder then relax before he seemed to cave in on me.
We stood that way, locked together, braced against metal, his heart pounding in his chest. I could feel his breath against my neck as it slowly steadied. Then in a hoarse whisper he said, “Your mother is proud of you. You shouldn’t give up on her.”
“What?”
Not quite the postcoital talk one would imagine—especially when it was coming from the lawyer who in minutes would be reseated on the opposite side of the aisle.
I tried to push him away just far enough so I could see his face. After a second, he said, “The other night you asked me why I didn’t come and find you after you left.”
“Yes,” I said carefully. “And you said something to the effect that it didn’t suit you to find me.”
“Well, that part is true. But I left something out. I did try to find you.”
I felt the cold metal against my spine.
“When you didn’t come back and I couldn’t find you at your house, I went to your mother and asked her where you had gone. She wouldn’t tell me.”
“What? She wouldn’t tell you?” I couldn’t believe it, and I made a great production of gasping and gaping.
“Calm down,” he said.
“I’m calm!” Or not. The truth was, as soon as I got to Boston I realized I had overreacted. I called my mother, talked to her, and for once in my life I had asked her for advice, told her what I was feeling. And for weeks I’d had this crazy certainty that Jack would come after me. But he never did.
“I can’t believe she didn’t tell you.”
“Actually, it was more along the lines of her saying you were the first Wainwright woman who was going to do something more than rely on her beauty and wealth, that you were born to do ‘fabulous’ things. And I was distracting you.”
“She said that? About me?” Frankly, I was amazed. Then shook it away. “Still, it was my decision to make, not hers.”
“All I’m trying to tell you is that she’s proud of you. Don’t self-destruct in the courtroom because she isn’t who you want her to be.”
Whoa, bring in the couch, a box of Kleenex, and the man with horn-rimmed spectacles and a close-cropped beard.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “First you go for the jugular, now you’re trying to help me win?”
He straightened his shirt and adjusted his tie, bringing him back to himself. “Don’t fool yourself, Carlisle. I have every intention of winning. I just don’t want it to be because you threw in the towel.”
Someone pounded on the door. Hard. Then hard again.
“Open up!”
Either someone needed to pee really bad or security was wise to us. Either way, their timing was unfortunate.
“Damn,” Jack muttered. “It’s Bart.”
Bart, as in the former covert operations CIA man who currently ran courthouse security.
Just perfect.
We banged out of the stall straightening our clothes. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and swallowed back a gasp. One look at me and everyone would know just exactly what we had been doing in the men’s room.
“Let me talk to him,” Jack said, once we were as together as we were going to be.
Amazingly, he used his cell phone. Then I heard a ring on the other side.
“Bart, my man.” Pause. “Yeah, I know you’re busy, but wanted to let you know I’m the one in the bathroom.”
I could hear the profanity coming through the phone at a slight delay from what I heard coming through the locked door.
“I know, I know. But remember, you owe me.”
More profanity ensued.
“Bart, I know. But you help me out on this and we’ll call it even.”
Still more profanity, but issued with a fraction of the intensity.
Finally Jack flipped his phone shut just as I heard what was obviously Bart clearing the hallway.
“Well, um,” I said, buttoning my blouse, smoothing my skirt. “Shouldn’t we talk about what just happened? You know, the sex part? Your fiancée in the gallery part?” Me feeling stupid and totally guilty part?
He studied me, his expression grim. “I’d say we’ve talked enough for one day.”
Bart gave two sharp pounds on the door.
“Time to go,” Jack said.
He undid the lock and opened the door. Once he determined the coast was clear, he thanked the court officer, then tugged me out of the men’s room. As soon as we were out with no one besides Bart the wiser, he stopped.
“You go in first.”
“Bart, give us a minute. Jack, we can’t just leave it this way.”
“Carlisle, we’re already late.”
Well, there was that. But it just seemed like we should have said something, even if it was a tossed-off “I’ll give you a call.” Clearly Jack had done all the talking he was going to do.
INSIDE THE COURTROOM, Racine looked decidedly unhappy, and I doubted it was because she envied my new postbathroom-romp hairstyle. But I had enough problems just then without adding Jack’s fiancée to the mix.
My mother still sat there, looking even more worried now that she’d had time to wonder what direction this was going to take. For the record, I wondered the same thing.
I looked at her, trying to fathom why she really hadn’t told Jack where I had gone. Had it been concern about me? Or had it been about Jack and his family? My mother barely tolerated India—and only out of desperation. Whatever the case, I knew I had to fix this.
With that goal in mind, I considered my options. As I saw it I had two:
throw my mother under the bus by proving her beauty was manufactured, namely by Mr. Pender, who had been treating her with illegal hormone therapies, not making illicit love to her every Wednesday at noon, or,
throw my mother under the bus by letting Mr. Pender off the hook and allowing the judge to believe my mother had had an affair, thereby nullifying the prenuptial agreement, and in the process vaporizing half of her net worth.
Not a great menu of options.
I glanced over at Jack, and was thrown off balance when I saw that he was looking at my shoulder, as if remembering. What? The scar? How much he hated me? Us together? Me naked?
My head whipped back when it hit me.
Sitting there in court with Jack looking at me, I realized something. It was all I could do to stay in my seat and not jump up and sing at the top of my lungs, “There’s a third option!”
Hurriedly, I scribbled a note and handed it to Bart, who had followed us into the courtroom.
He read, then scoffed.
“Please, Bart. Do it for me.” I batted my eyelashes, and this time it got me somewhere. That, or as I had gambled, underneath the gruff exterior Bart was kind. He’d saved me from complete humiliation in the courtroom hallway, hadn’t he?
Sure enough, he muttered some things that don’t need repeating here, but suffice it to say he barreled down the center aisle and out the door.
By then Jack had stopped looking at me. He stared at the closing door, then turned back to me with a question in his eyes.
I gave him a quick shrug across the aisle, then thanked my lucky stars when the bailiff brought the court to order.
“Miss Cushing?” the judge inquired.
My heart whipped around in my chest like a car on a Tilt-A-Whirl. “Thank you, Your Honor,” I said. “I would like to call”—I drew a deep breath—“ah… Ms. Murtado.”
Jack was on his feet. “Objection,” he stated. “Your Honor, we’ve been over Ms. Murtado’s testimony in copious detail.”
Like that mattered? Hello? Forget that I had nothing else to ask the woman. I needed to buy some time while Bart was out rounding up my quarry.
As I knew would be the case, I got my chance with the motel housekeeper. Though then I had to move on to the desk clerk and even the handyman when Bart still hadn’t reappeared. When I had asked every question I could possibly think of with still no Bart, I was getting desperate and was just about to tell my mother to faint or have a spell or make some sort of scene when the head of security entered with three men behind him.
At the sight, my mother gasped. Vincent scowled. I smiled and gave a quick wave as Bart directed them to take their seats in the gallery.
Turning back to the bench, I said, “Your Honor, I would like to recall Martin Pender to the stand.”
The bailiff led the witness back. Once everyone was settled, I started in. “Mr. Pender, do you or don’t you go by the title of ‘doctor’?”
“This is ridiculous. My name is Martin Pender. Mister Martin Pender.”
“So you’re telling me you do not go by the title ‘doctor’? And just so we’re all clear, I would like to remind you that you are still under oath and lying can get you thrown in jail.”
The man’s face flared red with anger, his lips pursed.
“Mr. Pender?” the judge prompted.
Martin exploded, leaping up from his chair. “This is ridiculous. I’ve already told you, I am having an affair with Ridgely Ogden,” he yelled, panicking. And why wouldn’t he? Trafficking in illegal human growth hormones for use in athletic-performance enhancement or antiaging therapies was a federal offense.
“Mr. Pender,” the judge barked. “Calm down.”
He settled warily back in the chair, his muscles twitching.
“So the sex,” I fired off, unrelenting.
An uneasy (if titillated) murmur ran through the courtroom.
Pender looked like a caged animal. “What about it?”
“You said you engaged in wild sex with my mother.” Not my client. Not Mrs. Ogden. But my mother. I was making this personal.
“Yes!”
“Really?”
“Yes.” Though this time he didn’t appear as convinced.
“You’re sure we’re talking totally hot, wild sex on Wednesdays at the Lazy 6 Motel?”
The gallery twittered. My mother was on the verge of fainting again, for real. Vincent looked on the verge of murdering someone, namely me. Jack looked more worried by the tick of the courtroom clock. Good.
Pender pursed his lips.
“Mr. Pender,” I prompted. “You were telling me what you said about the sex.”
“Ah, I don’t remember exactly what I said.”
“Really? Or is it that you lied?”
“I did not lie! All I’m saying is that I don’t remember the exact words!”
“Then let me help.” I addressed the court reporter. “Could you please read back the witness’s testimony?”
Jack groaned. “Your Honor, objection. Where can this possibly be going? I don’t think the court needs to endure any more discussion of the sex.”
“Your Honor,” I interjected, my voice cajoling. Sue me, but I was starting to have fun. “A little talk about sex never hurt anyone.” I turned to Jack. “In fact, I believe that a bit of discussion afterward is more than warranted. It helps everyone understand what happened, why it happened, and more importantly, where we go from here.”
Jack’s expression went hard. The judge looked confused. My mother looked impatient. Racine looked like she might leap over the balustrade and wrestle me to the ground.
“Miss Cushing,” the judge said. “Just hurry this along.”
“Yes, of course, Your Honor.” I nodded at the court reporter, who found the section of the testimony.
In her dry, monotone voice she read, “‘Every Wednesday we had wicked wild sex, Ridgely Ogden naked and sweaty and asking for more.’”
The gallery oooohd.
“Thank you,” I said, unfazed. “Mr. Pender, is that true? Or, perhaps, did you get it wrong?”
“I did not get it wrong!”
“Fine. That’s all. Now I would like to call Wendell Jameson to the stand, Your Honor.”
Jack was back on his feet. “Your Honor, there is no Wendell Jameson on the witness list.”
“That is correct, Your Honor. However, I have every right to call into question the testimony of Mr. Pender. And I plan to do that with three of my mother’s former husbands.”
The gallery went crazy and Martin Pender leaped up from the witness stand where he hovered. “You can’t discredit me! I don’t care what anyone says. I spent every Wednesday with your mother making mad, passionate love!”
Judge Melton hammered his gavel, not that anyone paid attention.
My mother and I stared at each other as she realized I had come up with another way to deal with her dilemma.
Option three: prove Ridgely Wainwright-Cushing-Jameson-Lackley-Harper-Ogden doesn’t do wild, or for that matter, naked. And I was going to put Wendell Jameson, Alton Lackley, and Lionel Harper on the stand to prove it. We Wainwright women go to a lot of trouble to not do naked.
I swear a smile of surprised pride flitted across her lips, before she rolled her eyes and stood, the scrape of her chair gaining everyone’s attention.
“Give it up, Umberto,” my mother snapped. “It’s over.” She turned to the judge. “He is Dr. Umberto Velasquez. Also known as the ‘Fountain of Youth Doctor’ from Mexico.” She turned to face the astonished, snickering crowd. “Yes, I work hard to look like this. But at least I do something about it instead of letting myself go,” she said pointedly to several women with their sun-beaten skin, who immediately snapped their mouths shut, pursing their wrinkled lips.
Umberto appeared to be on the verge of a full-fledged panic.
“You’re Umberto Velasquez?” the judge demanded. “The Mexican doctor wanted for practicing medicine with a fraudulent medical license?”
The court clerk typed something into his computer. “It’s him, Your Honor. He’s wanted by the IRS, the FBI, even the INS.”
The newly revealed Umberto wasn’t interested in answering questions, or waiting around to see what happened next. He made a run for it, leaping off the stand and heading for the masses.
“Stop him!” the judge called.
Fortunately, Bailiff Medina was a former running back for WCU and he caught the fleeing pseudo medical man before he could get through the swinging gates. Medina recuffed him and dragged him away, leaving a stunned and mostly snickering gallery behind.
My mother turned to Vincent, her perfect face lined with hauteur. “So now you know. You were right all along. I’m not as pretty as I pretend to be, and certainly not as young.” Everyone had stopped talking, her expression softening, and I swear her eyes had tears in them. “But I hated for you to think I was less than the woman you thought you fell in love with.”
I could hardly believe it: my mother showing vulnerability, especially in front of most every well-heeled and well-connected person in town. And I was almost certain she was sincere.
Vincent stood from his seat and approached my mother. “Ridgely. I’m so sorry I’ve put you through this.”
“Vincent,” Jack said, “we’re not done here.”
“Yes we are,” his client replied. “I withdraw my petition for divorce. That is, if you’ll have me back, Ridgely.”
“Oh, Vin, you know I wasn’t the one who wanted the divorce.”
The minute my mother stepped into Vincent’s arms the crowd went wild—half disappointed, half enthralled.
Formalities were dispensed with quickly and the courtroom emptied, my mother and Vincent filing out with the crowd until only Jack and I remained.
“So,” I said, and offered him a crooked smile. “I guess this Yankee convert won after all.”
He didn’t smile back, just nodded gravely. Racine was waiting at the back of the courtroom for him. “Congratulations, Carlisle,” he said. Nothing more.
“Oh, well, thank you.”
Then something occurred to me. It had nothing to do with winning or losing or anything regarding the case. My mind went back to what he had told me in the men’s room.
My eyes narrowed against the image of Jack arriving at Wainwright House to talk to my mother, her reluctantly letting him in wearing his standard jeans and leather jacket. I doubted she would have offered him a seat, much less a glass of sweet tea, her stiff formality and Wainwright lineage worn like a crown in front of the bad boy from the wrong side of the tracks—regardless of what his brother had managed to achieve.
And with that thought came another. Jack had walked into my mother’s house with trouble written all over him and she hadn’t simply told him he was distracting me.
He snapped his briefcase shut and stood to go.
“I get it now,” I said. “She told you that you weren’t good enough for me. That’s why you went after her.”
“What?”
“My mother, and the things she really said to keep you away from me. By taking the case, that was your way of making her pay.”
He hesitated, then his mouth crooked. “Give me a little credit. It was a case. A good one. It was nothing more than that. Besides, we both know that all your mother did was say out loud what everyone else said behind my back. You and I never did belong together. I never cared much for rules, still didn’t even though I was a lawyer by then. But you, Carlisle, you are about nothing but rules.”
He retrieved his briefcase then strode from the courtroom with Racine, the massive oak doors banging open, my mouth gaping much like the doors.