Relax, Rachel, I instruct myself. Out the wide windows of Salamanca, kayakers and rafters skim the Charles River, spending a carefree day on the water. I try to remember the last time I was carefree. I can’t.
“How about over there, Sal?” Martha points to a table for four in the corner.
“It’s all yours, my friend, as always. As you see.” The man in the starched white chef’s jacket gestures across the deserted dining room, curvy padded chairs in a mini-spectrum of watery blues and greens, each linen-clothed table centered with a spray of tiny green-edged lilies in a crystal vase. He looks at me. “We’re closed until dinner on Fridays. Martha knows.”
Sal pulls out a chair for Gardiner, and as she sits, he waves me to the aquamarine one across from her. She flips open her briefcase and unpacks a pile of legal pads and three-ring binders. Moving aside the pepper grinder and the lilies, she lays the paperwork out in a grid, appropriating all the empty space on the tabletop.
Sal is still hovering. “The usual?” he asks.
Martha nods. And Sal trots away.
“Alone at last,” Gardiner says. “Now. Let me organize this so we can assess it.” She pauses, looks at me with a smile. “And you should call me Martha.”
What’s she doing? This is scaring me, her cutting me out of the intern herd for an afternoon tête-á-tête. But maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe this is the best thing that’s happened. I’d planned to get close to her. And now “call me Martha” is making that easy.
What the hell was Jack doing at the courthouse? He saw me with Clea. And then in Martha’s car. But I was exactly where I was supposed to be. He wasn’t.
Outside, the Charles River glistens in the afternoon sun. A fraternity of mallards, like aquatic entertainment, dives and splashes, then all turning at exactly the same time and at exactly the same speed, glide past us to their next stop. I wonder if these are the same ducks Jack and I see on our lake. I wonder where Jack is. If I could get one moment alone, I’d text him. My phone, nestled in my jacket pocket, is set on vibrate. But it stays silent.
“Okay. Police reports, Baltrim’s record, such as it is, employment histories.” Martha points to one black binder, then lays another one next to it. “Police reports, crime-scene evidence. Interviews with Lyle’s hospital colleagues, Facebook-page screen grabs, a few Instagram postings.” She looks at me, all business. “You do Instagram?”
“No,” I say. “But I could—”
“Okay, no need, I’ll put Nick on that,” she says. “Moving along. Phillip Ong and CJ, the crime tech, are expediting the DNA evidence—God knows how long that’ll take. Murder cases don’t always proceed as quickly as we’d like, as you may be aware. Questions, Rachel?”
As I’m wondering what she means, Sal appears table-side balancing a silver tray holding two sweating ice-filled glasses. Beside them are two turkey sandwiches, cut on the diagonal, pale-green lettuce fluttering out of the edges of the whole-wheat toast.
“Buon appetito,” Sal says. He chooses one of the glasses. “Lemonade. Ms. North, this one is yours.”
“Rachel.” Martha takes a sip of lemonade, puts down her glass, and looks at me. Sal has disappeared. “Listen, I didn’t quite tell you the truth. I don’t bring all my interns here for lunch.”
“But wh—”
“I’m sorry.” She puts up both palms, stopping me. “But I simply…”
She looks flustered. That’s a new one. Though I am utterly baffled, I keep quiet.
“I see something in you, you know? A potential. But—”
“But?” Potential is good. “But” is not good.
Martha presses her fingertips to her lips, almost sighs. “Look. It’s your husband.”
My heart flares. “Is something wrong? About Jack?”
“I’m not handling this well,” she says, shaking her head a fraction. Her sleek hair swings over one cheek, and she swipes it away. “No, no, certainly not. But you’ve hitched your wagon to him, haven’t you, Rachel? Harvard, and his law firm, his status in the defense bar?”
“Well, no. Not really.” I have to stand up for myself here. “I worked for the state senate—”
“You know I’m aware of that.”
“And then got into law school on my own.”
“After you met Jack. And married him. Funny how you met, isn’t it?”
“Well, I suppose…” I begin.
“And come to think about it, you know what else is so odd?” She keeps talking. “I’ve known your husband longer than you have. Worked with him longer. Heard about more of his cases. From the inside.”
“I suppose so.” I look at my lemonade, bits of yellow pulp drifting downward.
Martha takes a bite of her turkey sandwich, but I’m not hungry anymore.
“Martha? What’s this about?”
“I had a rough road.” She leans forward, conspiratorial. “Getting where I am. And I did it—despite being a woman. I’m willing to bet you understand exactly how hard that is. As you reminded me, you worked on Beacon Hill. Wasn’t there a lot of”—she rolls her eyes—“good old boys’ club? Treating women like possessions or objects or stenographers? And certain women using men to get what they wanted? I know I sound second-wave, but good lord, Rachel, we need to get past that.”
“Yeah, it was pretty bad,” I venture. “But I managed.”
“I guess you did,” she said. “But you got out of one men’s club and into another. Now your protector is Jack Kirkland. And Rachel? I assume you’re planning to go into business with him. Maybe he’s told you he’ll make you a partner?”
I open my mouth to answer, but Martha continues, shaking her head.
“Don’t be stupid, Rachel. If he takes a professional hit, if he—you know how defense attorneys are—if he gets disciplined, or even disbarred, you think you’re going to get a pass?”
“What are you talking about, Martha? What do you mean, I ‘know how defense attorneys are’?” I scan the room. We’re entirely alone. “Is Jack in trouble?”
“Where do you think you’ll wind up? If your husband’s law practice, such as it is, crashes? And you were little wifey? Do you think people will give you credit for anything on your own? I know it sounds harsh, Rachel. But that’s why I’m telling you. Straight talk. Succeeding doesn’t mean using your husband to get to the top. But that’s what it looks like. Like he’s your meal ticket. No matter how good a lawyer you’d turn out to be.”
“Martha.” My voice goes a little louder than it maybe should. I lower my volume. But I can’t lower my concern. “Is something going on? Is that why we’re here?”
But she’d never be able to divulge that. Unless she can. “You’re not … prosecuting Jack?”
“Oh! No. Don’t misunderstand. Not at the moment.” She touches one fingertip to her lips, then takes it away. Leans forward with a half smile. “Unless there’s something you think I should know?”
“What?” I think about getting up, walking away. Jack was so right. This woman is a spider. I need to escape from her web while the getting’s good. “Is that why you—?
“Kidding, Rachel.” Martha waves me off, then extracts the lettuce from her sandwich with two fingers and deposits it on the edge of her bright-blue plate. “Sort of kidding. But in all seriousness. This is about you. I said you had potential. That’s what matters.”
I blink, waiting.
“I want you to understand. To be prepared. To be your own person. Not Jack’s underling or his wannabe or forever his subordinate. Listen, he came to court today to make sure you didn’t embarrass him. Can there be any other reason?”
I’d been wondering that, too. “If I asked, he’d probably give me one,” I had to admit.
She jabs a forefinger at me. “Exactly. Men like that always have an answer for everything. Don’t they? Look. I see you as you. As Rachel. As a tough woman who knows how to get what she wants. Without some man always telling her what to do. I like that. Women have power, Rachel, if they work together. You and I can do that this summer. You’ll be on the inside. I chose you, Rachel. Despite him, I chose you.”
BEFORE
“Screw it,” I told the mirror. My bare feet freezing on my bedroom floor, I hurried, yanking on thick black leggings and a black turtleneck sweater and black boots. Added a scarf. Took off the scarf.
When the buzzer rang, I didn’t even use the intercom to confirm who it was. When I opened the door, I saw a black turtleneck, like mine, under the senator’s navy peacoat. His black knit cap was coated with snow, and a bright red plaid scarf, also snow-covered, dangled from around his neck, the fringe hanging past his waist. His laced duck boots were snowy, too. I scanned his cold-flushed face for some intent, some hint of what was to come, but there was none. The remnants of outdoors, cold, harsh, unrelenting, lingered in the air around him. His demeanor was more leading man than executioner. But he was a politician. I was not fooled by his exterior.
“Senator,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“You want to talk out here?” He smiled. “Let all the heat out? Besides…” He yanked off one black leather glove, reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out what looked like a stack of mail, five or six pieces. Held it out to me. “You’ve got mail. This was in the entryway. Neither rain nor snow, it seems.”
I could hear Dad humming our Twilight Zone theme song. We’d also watched Candid Camera, which right now seemed equally appropriate. Senator Rafferty was bringing me my mail? I stepped aside, let him walk past me into my little foyer. I put the letters, random and damp, on the side table. Rafferty had stuffed his gloves into his jacket pockets, and as I watched, unbuttoned his coat and stuffed his scarf into one sleeve. Held the whole thing out to me. “Where’s the best place to put this?”
“Let me hang it to dry,” I said, as if acting my role in a drama or farce. Hang it to dry, ha-ha. Like me. “Have a seat.” Reciting my lines, I pointed him to the living room.
Had I misunderstood? Stampeded myself into—I didn’t even know what? I grabbed a hanger from the front hall closet and toted his damp outerwear into the bathroom. Hung it over the shower rod. But I did overhear Logan—Nina, ballistic—and I knew she’d been talking to him, so something was going on. Did poor Nina know about the necklace? And I was going to take the blame? So insanely unfair.
“So. Rachel. Getting to the point.” Rafferty was seated in the center of my couch. He’d taken off his boots at the door and wore thick wool socks under his jeans. “And, as I said on the phone, I had wanted to discuss it with you at the office.” He cocked his head toward outside. “But weather notwithstanding, I felt—strongly—this thing couldn’t wait.”
Am I supposed to know which thing? I almost said it out loud. Job? Or necklace? Instead, I tucked my hands under my thighs. Felt my shoulders tighten.
“Laying it on the table,” he said. “We’re having to make some changes in the staff. Logan Concannon is no longer with our office. She’s leaving for, let’s characterize it at this point as ‘other opportunities.’”
I blinked at him, my lines being rewritten by the second. “Oh,” I said.
I thought for a beat, Rafferty waiting for my reaction. My political instincts kicked in, assessing how much Logan knew, which was a lot. I rewound the overheard phone conversation in my head, trying to rehear it, re-parse the exact words, but it was too difficult with Rafferty right there.
“Is everything okay?”
Rafferty shrugged, flipped a palm. “You know the statehouse is a revolving door. She had to revolve right out of it.”
Had to? I swiped through my mental contacts list, trying to predict the players. See where the chess pieces might be positioned. If Rafferty were the king, then Logan, certainly, had been the queen. And was now deposed. I knew who I’d been in the game, and stopped myself from pursuing the pawn comparison.
“So, onward.” Rafferty dusted his hands, twice, as if dismissing the entire situation. Then, plopping one hand on each of his knees, he leaned forward, looked me square in the eye. “And that means, Rachel, I’ll need a new chief of staff. Acting chief of staff. You’ve been on my team for what, three years? You know your stuff. Everyone respects you. Your reputation is beyond reproach. I can’t imagine anyone more ready for the job than you are. Or more capable.”
I could hear the silence in my little living room, the splat of the unceasing snow, nature’s insulation encasing the two of us in this urban cave. Soon, outside, the sky would grow even darker as the storm increased, the roads become even more impassable. Fifteen minutes ago I was steeled for the executioner. Now I had been offered stature and influence and power. Was the necklace the precursor to that? Or was he going to take it back and offer me the job instead? To shut me up?
“The other night…” I couldn’t help but say. “When you gave me—”
“Oh, right. Sorry about that, Rachel,” he said. “As you heard, I had to run before I could explain. But my wife—Nina? Was in the car. And when we left the statehouse, I realized I had it with me, but I couldn’t let her see that box. Her birthday present, you know? We were right in your neighborhood. So. I made up the envelope thing. Just got one from my briefcase. And now I’m also here to pick it up. The box.”
I touched a finger to my neck, then yanked it away. It wasn’t for me. The necklace, golden stars, wasn’t for me. I shouldn’t even know it was a necklace.
The world inside my head went white, then black, and I could hear my own heart beating. I was an idiot, a full-fledged, freaking, devastatingly humiliated idiot. I hated this man, loathed him with every cell of my humiliated soul. Who would even put a person in that position?
A man who loved his wife, Rachel. And wanted to surprise her and trusted an employee with a special gift. The answer was so simple.
But you, Rachel, you are living in such a freaking dream world. I could almost hear myself criticize. Who’d be insanely dumb enough to think it was for you?
“I have to,” I began, “go downstairs to get it.” I managed somehow to smile, and turn away before he could answer. Or ask me anything.
“You’re in charge, Ms. Chief of Staff,” he said to my back. “I’ll wait for you here. We have a lot to discuss.”
He’d never know. I reassured myself, a mantra, a refrain, a prayer, as I half ran, half stumbled downstairs to my bedroom. I yanked the bubble wrap from my lowest dresser drawer, I’d kept the wrapping, sentimental idiot that I am, then replaced the golden stars in the precious turquoise box, then rewrapped the whole thing, as if pristine and untouched. My face burned, my eyes brimming with sorrow and hatred and regret and humiliation.
That man had no idea, none at all, of what he’d done. To me. Of what he’d done to me.
I stared at myself in my mirror. A full-length portrait of a woman scorned. The bubble-wrapped box was reflected, too, backward, exactly like this entire situation. My brain swirled, sucking me down.
At that moment, I saw the mirror reflection narrow her eyes. Then the woman in the mirror smiled at me.
He doesn’t know you wore it, the woman in the mirror reminded me. No one knows, and no one can know.
I tilted my head, listening, as she explained. She tilted her head, too. “So nothing’s really happened,” I whispered.
I’d made a mistake. An error. But no harm done. As far as Tom knew, there was nothing amiss.
I saw the reflection smile. “You win, Rachel,” she told me. And she disappeared.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“I’ll let you consider my proposition, Rachel, if you need to,” the senator said as I handed him the box. He didn’t even look at it, just tucked it into his jacket pocket. “You’d start whenever Mother Nature allows us to return to work. And with a salary increase commensurate.”
Even in the strange light, the gloom of the falling snow softening every edge, I could see the hazel flecks in his eyes, the silvery beginnings around his forehead, the tips of his ears still red. I tried to separate what was real and what was my imagination. It was Logan who’d been fired, not me. Maybe it was her own future I’d heard her talking about.
So much of how we behave depends on what we decide reality is. One wrong decision means every following decision is also wrong. Until we’re trapped in a dead end of our own making.
He’d felt close enough to me to entrust me with a gift for his wife. That had to be reassuring. An example of respect and comradeship. The proof that he thought of me as an equal. He’d promoted me, after all. It was a business proposition. I was the one ruining it all, ruining it with my juvenile crush, when Tom, the senator, was looking for an adult business relationship. But I win now. Because he’ll never know I’d taken his wife’s necklace for my own. It was better this way. Much better.
Maybe this outcome proved I knew enough, and was strong enough, to grab the brass ring when it was presented.
I loved him. But I’d make myself forget about that.