Caleb Solomon usually didn’t meet with clients in bars. But he couldn’t survive another minute in his office. The central air conditioning had conked out mid-morning on a June day that was aiming to break a heat record. By two in the afternoon, he felt as if his bones had melted into molasses. He’d shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and his shirt hung limp and damp from his shoulders. His hair weighed heavily on his scalp, as if a dead squirrel had dropped from the sky and landed on his skull.
He vowed to send a big donation to some reputable environmental organization. If this was what global warming was like, it had to be reversed. Immediately.
He’d badgered Megan about calling the landlord, but that hadn’t stopped him from marching down the hall to the reception area in the middle of the afternoon and badgering her some more. “I’ve phoned twice,” she’d assured him. “I left a message both times.”
“Call him again,” Caleb had demanded. “Tell him we’re hiring our own repair service and sending him the bill. Hell,” he’d added, mopping sweat from the nape of his neck with a swipe of his hand. “Tell him we’re adding a surcharge to the bill for our pain and suffering.”
“Why don’t you leave?” Megan had suggested, as placid as he was stressed. In her sleeveless cotton dress and strappy sandals, she’d seemed cool and composed, her hair in a bouncy pony-tail and her face wearing not a single drop of perspiration. “Heather and Niall found excuses to clear out. You can, too.”
Heather Chase, one third of Chase, Mullen and Solomon, Attorneys-at-Law, was in court that day. Niall Mullen, another third, was down in Boston, taking a deposition. Caleb would have welcomed any excuse to leave the sauna-like suite of offices the firm rented a block from the heart of Brogan Point’s downtown.
He found his own excuse to leave shortly after his latest bout of complaining to Megan, when Jerry Felton phoned and asked for a meeting. “Fine,” Caleb said. “I’ll come to Town Hall. You’ve got functioning AC, don’t you?”
“You can’t come here,” Felton mumbled, his voice hushed to a near whisper. “I don’t want people to see me meeting with a hot-shot lawyer.”
Caleb let the adjective pass without comment. If people considered him a hot-shot, good for business. Good for his rep. Good for scaring the opposition.
That Brogan Point’s town manager needed to meet with a hot-shot lawyer without being seen whetted Caleb’s curiosity. “Well, here’s the situation,” he explained. “Our AC is dead. In another ten minutes, I’m going to be dead, too. Heat stroke can be fatal, right? You can’t come here.”
“Meet me at the Faulk Street Tavern,” Felton suggested. “If anyone sees us, we’re having a friendly drink.”
Two-thirty in the afternoon was a bit early for a “friendly drink,” although Caleb supposed he could order an iced tea, or an iced coffee—or an iced anything. And to his great relief, he discovered once he entered the downscale bar near Brogan’s Point’s waterfront, the vents in the tavern’s ceiling were blasting deliciously chilled air into the room, cooling him down.
Felton arrived a few minutes later. He had no difficulty locating Caleb, seated alone in one of the booths, since the place was nearly empty. A couple of grizzled retirees sat at the bar, nursing beers and arguing loudly about the Red Sox’s pitching roster, and a well-muscled guy worked behind the bar, rattling bottles and glasses and occasionally adding fuel to the Red Sox debate by insisting the team hadn’t had a decent pitcher since Pedro Martinez left. Felton headed straight for Caleb’s booth and slid onto the seat facing Caleb.
Caleb didn’t know the guy well. But Jerry Felton had been the town manager since before Caleb had set up his law practice with Heather and Niall here in Brogan’s Point four years ago, and you couldn’t live in a town this size and not know who ran it, at least not if you paid passing attention to the way things were run. As far as Caleb could tell, Felton managed the town competently. He was a barrel-chested man, too old to have political aspirations beyond the corner office in the Town Hall of this cozy seaside community on Massachusetts’s North Shore. His thin brown hair was fading to gray and his face was square and bluff, as if carved out of granite and then layered in putty to soften the edges.
Caleb pulled his laptop from his briefcase, and Felton quickly waved his hand, signaling Caleb to put it away. “We’re having a friendly drink,” he reminded Caleb. “We’re just talking. Okay?”
“Sure,” Caleb said carefully, sliding the laptop back into its padded pocket. “What are we talking about?”
They were talking about nothing until Felton ordered two iced teas at the bar and carried them to the table. Then he leaned toward Caleb, as if about to confide some hideous secret. “I’m going to be indicted,” he whispered.
Caleb’s eyebrows arched, but he said nothing. Instead, he squeezed the wedge of lemon garnishing his iced tea, letting its tart juice drip into the glass.
“Word is, a grand jury is handing down an indictment. When I knew I was under investigation, I conferred with Joe Tenney—the town’s attorney. Do you know him?”
Caleb nodded. He’d never had dealings with Tenney, but he knew who the guy was. Caleb had sat in on a couple of town meetings during which Tenney appeared to be napping. Not the sort of lawyer the term “hot-shot” would apply to.
“Once it became clear where the grand jury was headed, Joe said that because he worked for the town, there was a conflict of interest and he couldn’t represent me. He told me to hire you.”
Maybe Tenney was sharper than he appeared, Caleb thought with a private smile. Anyone who recommended him had to possess at least some intelligence. “What’s the indictment about?”
“Embezzling from the town’s pension fund. Here’s the thing: a couple of months ago, I became aware that our town treasurer, Sheila Valenti, was skimming money from the pension fund. I fired her. I was kind, though. I did it discreetly. I put out an announcement that she was leaving the job for personal reasons. I thought we’d worked out an arrangement for her to pay back the money she’d taken, a little at a time. I wanted to spare her a scandal. And the town, too.”
Caleb nodded again.
“So, instead, she turns on me and accuses me of embezzling the money. There’s no evidence. No proof. Of course there isn’t, because I didn’t do it. But now we have a case of he-said-she-said, and the grand jury decided to believe her. All because I was kind-hearted and discreet and tried not to trash her reputation.”
“If she embezzled money from the town,” Caleb pointed out, “maybe she deserved to have her reputation trashed.”
“That’s not how I operate,” Felton said. “I’m not a vengeful person. I was trying to leave her with something salvageable, so she could get another job and repay the money she’d stolen.”
“What kind of money are we talking about?” Caleb asked.
“Eight hundred sixty thousand dollars, give or take.”
That was a lot of money in a small town’s budget. “So.” Caleb desperately wished he could pull out his laptop and start typing notes. Instead, he took a sip of iced tea. “You haven’t seen the indictment yet?”
“No. I just heard from Joe that it was going to be handed down soon.”
“Okay. I’ll visit the DA’s office tomorrow and find out what we’re dealing with.” He hoped the District Attorney’s office had air conditioning. Even more, he hoped the air conditioning in his own office would be fixed by then. “In the meantime, don’t say anything. Don’t talk to the media.”
“The media?”
“You’re the town manager. The press is going to be all over this story. If anyone calls you—a reporter, a blogger, anyone—tell them to contact me. Don’t say a word without my permission.”
“Not even the local—?”
“No one,” Caleb emphasized. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet. You’re a politician, you’re used to schmoozing the press and vice versa, but no. I’ll also need all the pension fund financials covering the period the embezzlement took place. I’ll need to view your personal bank records, your tax returns. The DA has gone through these records with a forensic accountant. We’re going to do that, too. I’ll get everything he’s got, we’ll go through it, and we’ll put together a defense. Okay?”
Felton looked marginally calmer. “Because I’m innocent,” he swore. “I didn’t take that money.”
“And my job will be to prove that. Assuming you even get indicted. All we’re operating on right now is some second-hand information from Joe Tenney.” Who naps during town meetings, Caleb almost added.
“So…you’re going to get me off?”
“I’m going to give you the best defense I can,” Caleb promised. “I’ll call you after I’ve talked to the DA tomorrow. Okay?”
“Thank you.” Layers of tension melted from Felton’s face until he was actually smiling. “Joe Tenney says you’re the best.”
Courtesy compelled Caleb to return Tenney’s compliment. “The man has good judgment,” was the best he could muster without lying.
It took a few minutes of idle chatter about the record-setting June heat to see Caleb and Felton through the rest of their iced tea. Once Felton’s glass was empty, he stood, shook Caleb’s hand, and headed for the door. As soon as he was gone, Caleb pulled out his laptop, turned it on, and opened a new file. If Annie, the office paralegal, were here, she would have been taking notes for him. But Caleb was on his own.
Not a problem. He knew how to take notes. If aspiring novelists could sit in Starbucks, pounding away on their laptops, he could sit in a neighborhood pub and pound away on his.
Bar patrons began to drift into the tavern. He checked his watch: a little after four o’clock. Folks getting off work early, he guessed. The woman who owned the place materialized behind the bar, tall and sturdy, her shoulders nearly as broad as Caleb’s. He wondered if she’d been an athlete in her youth. Most likely basketball, given her height. Niall had grown up in Brogan’s Point; he’d probably know her story.
Caleb did his best to block out the crescendo of chatter rising around him. A group of young women gathered in the booth behind him, bitching about their boss. They sounded indignant, but their words were seasoned with laughter. A group of fishermen carried the scent of the ocean past Caleb’s table en route to the bar. A waitress paused at his table and asked if he wanted a refill of his iced tea. “Thanks,” he said with a nod.
He wasn’t sure how long the woman hovering near his table might have been there before he noticed her. His peripheral vision snagged on a flowing, flowery skirt. His nostrils caught a faint whiff of fresh roses—and then lemon as the waitress set a fresh iced tea down beside his laptop. He thanked her and she moved on to the table behind his, her tray bearing an array of festive-looking mixed drinks, the sort of sweet-with-a-kick stuff Caleb avoided whenever possible.
The skirt moved a step closer. He noticed long, tan legs.
“Excuse me?” she murmured.
He finished typing a sentence with a flourish of clicks, then glanced up. Then stood as courtesy kicked in again. He was raised well. He knew to stand in the presence of a lady.
And she was a lady. A woman, yes, but also a lady. He could tell by her perfect posture, her neat blond hair pulled back from her face, her smooth, even features. And her voice. In just those two words, he heard velvet and bourbon—not quite a drawl, but a definite Southern inflection. In this proud New England town, you didn’t hear Southern accents that often.
“Are you Caleb Solomon?” she asked.
“I am.”
“I phoned your office. The woman I spoke to there said I’d find you here. I hope you don’t mind.”
“The air conditioning in my office is broken. I came here to cool off. What can I help you with?”
She gestured toward the banquette previously occupied by Jerry Felton. “May I?”
“Please.” He waited until she was seated, then searched for the waitress. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you. I won’t be long. I just…” Her voice trailed off. She pursed her lips and folded her hands primly on the scarred wooden tabletop. “I’m sorry. This is just…very awkward for me.”
What was awkward? Meeting him? Meeting him in a bar?
“I believe I need an attorney,” she said.
“Okay.” He settled back in his seat and smiled. One of his most useful traits as a lawyer was the ability to listen. And to wait. Wait long enough, and people often wound up saying exactly what you needed to hear.
The first thing he heard was a song. Someone must have fed a coin into the antique jukebox that stood on the far wall of the tavern. According to town lore, it played only songs old enough to have been recorded on vinyl. The song that spilled out of the speakers right now was a smooth rock-and-roll oldie. The Allman Brothers, he identified it. Even though the steamy afternoon air had annoyed him when he’d been at his office, the lilt of the band singing about a sunny day made him grin.
“Oh, I love this song,” the woman said, a smile skimming her lips. Then she grew serious again. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be wasting your time. My name is Meredith Benoit, and I have something of a problem.”
“Okay,” he said again, still waiting.
“What happened was…” Her fingers flexed. Her nails, he noticed, were perfectly oval and polished to look like pink pearls. “I was sunning myself at the town beach on Sunday. Please don’t lecture me about skin cancer. I was wearing a lot of sunblock.”
Lecturing her about skin cancer wasn’t on his to-do list. He loved the way women looked when they were sprawled out on a beach in their skimpy swimsuits, their skin glistening beneath the summer sun.
“I just wanted to get a nice, even color,” she explained. “I have to be a bridesmaid in my cousin’s wedding in August, and the dresses she picked for us are, well, not entirely prim.”
It occurred to Caleb that while he’d enjoy observing Meredith Benoit sunbathing, he’d also enjoy checking her out in a not entirely prim dress. Her outfit now tended toward the prim end of the scale; her blouse had elbow-length sleeves and a rounded neckline, and her skirt’s hem covered her knees. She was willowy and fit, the skin of her throat smooth, her eyes blue. Her nose was narrow, almost too small for her face, and her chin formed a delicate point. He bet she would look damned good in something less prim than what she was wearing right now.
“The thing is,” she continued, “the bridesmaid’s dress is scooped low in the back.”
Bridal fashions held little interest for him. But he remained patient, figuring she’d get to the point eventually.
“I don’t want a tan line across my back.” She swallowed, her cheeks flushing slightly. “So I was lying on my stomach on the beach, and I opened the strap of my bikini top to prevent a tan line.”
He nodded, trying not to allow her long-winded story to bore him. Tan lines. Scooped low. Sunbathing. Sooner or later, she’d get around to telling him something useful.
“Anyway, I was half-asleep, dozing in the sun, when this boy—a teenager—dumped a bucket of ice on my back. I was so startled, I jerked to my feet and started chasing them.” Her cheeks blushed darker. “I forgot that I’d unfastened my top.”
All right. Now they were getting somewhere.
Meredith Benoit, this tall, slender, blond specimen of Southern Womanhood, had chased a teenage boy across a public beach with her breasts exposed to the world.
He gave his head a resolute shake to erase the vision her words had conjured. She’d gone to the effort to locate him at the bar after calling his office. She wanted to hire him. He was ethical enough not to undress potential clients in his mind. Even pretty potential clients with big blue eyes and alluring Dixie accents.
“A police officer happened to be on the beach,” she continued. “He stopped me, threw a towel over me, and cited me for public indecency.”
That might be humiliating, but was hardly the sort of incident that would require the services of the best hot-shot criminal defense lawyer on the North Shore.
“I need to contest this citation,” she said firmly.
“Ms. Benoit.” He smiled indulgently. “What is it, a twenty-five dollar fine or something? It’s like a parking ticket. You don’t need me for that.”
“I do.”
“Go to the police station. Write them a check. Believe me, it’ll cost you a lot less in time and energy, not to mention money. You don’t want to hire me for this.”
“Yes, I do.” She sighed. “I teach at the high school. I come up for tenure next year. I’m a good teacher. My students do well. They emerge from my classes with college-level writing skills, and some of them even fall in love with Shakespeare. I should get tenure. But the school’s budget is tight, and they’re always looking for a reason not to renew someone’s contract. An arrest for public indecency—especially since I work with teenagers, since the boy who dumped the ice on me was probably a student at the school… People saw my—well, they saw me. If I don’t get this expunged from my record, I won’t get tenure.”
Caleb tried to recall the last time someone had used the word “expunged” in a conversation with him. Then he gave his head another shake. Why did he keep getting distracted, his mind detouring from the matter at hand? Usually, he prided himself on his laser-sharp focus. That, along with patience and being a good listener, served him well as a lawyer.
He decided to blame his wandering thoughts on the heat. Even though the bar was a comfortable temperature, he’d spent too much of the day in his office, where the unconditioned air had wrapped around him like a smothering wool blanket. His brain was partially fried. And what wasn’t fried was fixed on Jerry Felton’s legal situation, which was a hell of a lot more interesting than a public indecency citation.
Yet looking at Meredith Benoit was a hell of a lot more interesting than looking at Jerry Felton.
Still, he couldn’t justify charging her his usual hourly rate just to make her citation go away. He could see how this transgression, however trivial, might screw up her chances for getting tenure. A high school boy, a teacher’s naked breasts—yeah, it could be a problem.
“Do you have the citation?” he asked. “I’ll stop by the police station tomorrow and see if I can make it go away.”
“I’d be terribly grateful,” she said, lifting the flap of her purse and pulling out a rectangular printed document. It even looked like a parking ticket. “It doesn’t seem fair,” she added as she handed him the citation, “that a woman should be penalized for appearing on a beach topless when men go topless on the beach all the time. Aren’t there laws against gender inequality?”
He grinned. “There are also laws establishing community standards.”
“Community standards that exist only because men lose all control when they see a naked breast,” she said.
“Indeed we do,” he agreed with a laugh. He decided he liked her. He also decided that, if he was handling her case—something he had apparently agreed to do—he shouldn’t like her. Not that way
His laptop was still open and running. A quick tap of the space key woke it from its snooze, and he opened a new file and typed in Meredith Benoit’s contact information as she recited it: cell phone number, street address, email address. “I’ll let you know what happens,” he told her, not bothering to mention one final decision: that unless this turned into a federal case, he was not going to charge her for his time. She was a school teacher, after all, not a hedge fund executive, not a corporate CEO. Not even a town manager. Ten minutes at the police station was not worth billing.
“I really appreciate this,” she said, closing her purse.
She seemed ready to leave, and he started to rise to his feet—but then a new song blasted through the jukebox’s speakers. A few loud chords, the guttural honk of a saxophone, and a gutsy, ballsy woman’s voice singing about a heat wave.
That it was a catchy song couldn’t explain why he found himself suddenly unable to move. That the song seemed far too appropriate, given the steamy weather outside and the oven-like conditions he’d tried to work in for most of the day, couldn’t explain why his gaze locked onto Meredith’s, her eyes wide and startled, her lips pressed into a perplexed frown.
The two of them remained at the table, transfixed. Could a song about a heat wave freeze people? He felt frozen…and hot. Something dark and smoky burned the length of his spine, searing his brain at one end and his groin at the other. Despite the tavern’s air conditioning, a film of sweat pooled at the base of his skull. The song was loud and bouncy, yet the singer wailed that she was crying and being torn apart. The lyrics filtered into his consciousness: high blood pressure, burning, the devil.
Yes. All those things. All those things and more.
He wanted Meredith Benoit. Like a lust-crazed stud. Like a sex-starved prisoner just paroled after a ten-year sentence in solitary. Like a pimply adolescent who’d just taken a bath in testosterone.
I ain't never felt like this before, the singer wailed.
The way Meredith stared at him, he wondered whether she could see his wild hunger, or feel it. She didn’t look alarmed or frightened. Merely stunned.
The song didn’t last long. It faded out, the way old rock-and-roll songs often did, as if the singer didn’t know how to end things so she just let the words and music trail off into silence. This song didn’t end in silence, though. It grew softer and softer until it no longer existed, and then Caleb felt his ears pop, as if he were in an airplane descending toward a runway. After the pop, all the normal sounds of the tavern swarmed his senses: conversation, laughter, the scrape of a chair, the clink of glasses touching, a waitress shouting an order at the bar.
Meredith stirred. Her hands flexed and her throat fluttered as she swallowed. “Well,” she said, her voice slightly raspy. “I shouldn’t take up more of your time—even though I assume you’ll bill me for it.”
He opened his mouth to tell her he’d represent her pro bono, then silenced himself. Before the song, he’d figured he wouldn’t bill her because getting her citation waived would probably take no more than five minutes of his time, and she was an untenured schoolteacher, earning what untenured schoolteachers earned, which wasn’t much. But now, if he told her he wasn’t going to bill her, it would be for another reason: because he wanted her. Bare breasts. Bare everything. He wanted her as hot as he was, in his arms, in his bed, in ecstasy.
Jesus. He was insane. I ain't never felt like this before.
He remembered to stand—he knew his manners—but she was already out of the booth and walking toward the tavern’s entrance. She moved slowly, planting each foot solidly on the scuffed wood-plank floor before taking the next step, as if she were making her way across a slick sheet of ice.
No ice in here, though. Just a heat wave.