A Picture of Guilt (20 page)

She moved back to the table.

“So you joined Great Lakes after the merger?”

She nodded. “They needed some shaking up. Especially here in T&D. Early retirement, attrition, deadweight.” Which judging from her no-nonsense style, she must have promptly jettisoned.

“How long have you been stateside?”

“About eighteen months.”

I gestured toward the photo of the boys. “Long enough for them to join a soccer team, I see.”

“They’re back in England.” Her face was impassive. “I didn’t know how long I would be here. So they stayed.” She stubbed her cigarette out in a large ceramic ashtray. No mention of a husband. “Now Ellie. What do you know about shale oil?”

I dug out a file from my bag. I’d done a little research last night. “It’s a fossil fuel that’s extracted from shale by heating it to very high temperatures. But the process isn’t widespread, mostly because of the cost. There are also environmental issues. Greenpeace raised a fuss about greenhouse emissions in Australia—so much that the company developing the shale down there ultimately pulled out.”

“Quite right.”

“Here in the U.S., the federal government owns a lot of the shale reserves, but they’re leasing or selling them off bit by bit. And because environmental controls are more restrictive here, there hasn’t been the same outcry. At least not yet. The entire process was looked at during the first energy crisis. But because of the cost, nothing much was done.” I closed the file.

“Impressive.” She leaned back. “Tell me. Do you like to ski?”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Great Lakes has some shale reserves in Colorado that we’re starting to develop, and we want to produce a training video about them. Well—” She tipped her head. “Part training. Part PR. We want to take a leadership role within the industry. Position ourselves on the leading edge of an emerging—or re-emerging—technology, I should say. Twenty-first-century vision. That kind of thing.”

“Why now?”

“The costs are more manageable.” She laughed. “And who knows? It might even become profitable.”

“I read that Great Lakes had an opportunity to bid on the Australian project but declined. Why?”

She extracted another cigarette. “We wanted to start fresh. Without any baggage.” She stole a look at me. “You can understand that.”

I leaned my elbows on the table. “Why me?”
Given my baggage
, I almost added.

She took her time lighting her cigarette. “You come highly recommended.”

“By whom?”

“Midwest Mutual. The Mayor’s Office. Brisco Chemicals.” She blew out another stream of smoke. “And as for the others, well, bugger them, I say.”

I sat up straighter. I liked Dale Reedy.

We spent a few more minutes discussing the audience, the timetable, the budget, and possible elements. I imagined myself on the slopes of Aspen, gracefully crisscrossing a hill. A nice fantasy, considering I’ve only skied twice.

“So when can you get me a proposal?”

I was about to answer when a knock interrupted, and an older man appeared at the door. Gray hair, stylishly cut. Nice suit. Cuff links. “Dale, I wanted to make sure you got those RFPs—oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Sure you didn’t.

Reedy rose and introduced me to her boss, the vice-president of training and development. He clasped my hand.

“You look familiar.” He tipped his head to the side, then aimed a finger at me. “Aren’t you the woman who was on TV a few weeks ago? That trial business.”

I felt myself color. “Guilty.”

He studied me, then looked back at Reedy. Her face was curiously blank. “I see. Nice to meet you.” His voice reeked with false politesse. “Dale, come see me when you’re done.” His lips tightened.

She nodded and watched him go. My spirits sank. Dale dabbed at her hair. Had she noticed? “Sorry. Where were we?”

“I—I brought a demo reel for you to screen. It’s not my most current version, unfortunately, but I can supply references.”

“I should think the reel would be sufficient.” She fixed me with a serious look. “Ellie. May I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“It’s about that trial.”

I’d been wondering whether she was going to bring it up. I braced myself. “Go ahead.”

“Do you still think he’s innocent? I mean, now that it’s over?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer. If I went into any detail, I might scare her off. She’d think I was unreliable, too flaky to work with. But if I didn’t say anything, she might think I was holding out on her, something you never do with a client.

“Yes,” I said slowly. “I still think he’s innocent. And if I’d been smarter, or more persuasive, maybe the jury would have agreed.”

“But everyone else was so certain.”

“I know.”

“I thought they had quite a bit of evidence.”

“I suppose so. But nothing’s happened since to change my mind. In fact—” I stopped. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

She cocked her head.

I shrugged. “His lawyer is dead, and I don’t see anyone jumping into the ring to take his appeal. Although the court will have to appoint someone eventually.”

She tapped her pen on a pad of paper, shutting me out. “Of course.”

“To be honest, I’ve been trying to put it all behind me.” I looked out the window. Most of the fog had burned off, leaving wispy clouds scuttling across a blue sky. She followed my gaze. I looked back at her.

“But you still think about it.”

“A little,” I admitted. “Especially when I’m driving down Lake Shore Drive. You know, the cribs are only a few miles from here. And Olive Park is even closer.” I waved a hand. “You could probably see them from your window.”

“I doubt it,” she said crisply. “I have a southern exposure.”

The room felt suddenly chillier.

“Oh. Um, by the way, is there someone—some resource person I could call while I’m working on the proposal?”

“Resource person?”

“I’m sure to have some questions that I don’t need to bother you with. Background on Great Lakes Oil. And shale development.”

“Let me give you our librarian’s name. I’ll tell her to expect a call.”

Back at her desk, she pulled out a flat board that looked like a drawer and ran her hand down a page that was taped to it. She scribbled a number on her pad, tore off the sheet, and handed it to me.

“So then, why don’t we set up a meeting for next week?” She picked up her PDA and pushed a few buttons. “How is Monday, the fourteenth? I’d like to get moving.”

“Sounds fine.” I stood up.

“Ellie, it’s been a pleasure. I look forward to working with you.”

“Same here. I’ll be in touch.”

I felt her eyes on my back as I left.

***

A young stud in the parking lot brought my car around, his head bobbing to the beat from my radio—some rap tune encouraging him to kill The Man. After shelling out twenty bucks for a measly two hours’ parking, I could relate. I peeled out of the garage, my tires squealing impressively.

Traffic slowed on the expressway. Sandwiched between a truck and a van, I took out my cell and called Dad. A woman answered.

“Hello?” The voice was throaty but sweet.

“I’m sorry. I must have the wrong number.”

“This is Sylvia Weiner.”

“Oh, hello, Sylvia. This is Ellie Foreman. How are you?”

“I’m fine, dear. Just fine. And what can I do for you?”

“Uh—is my father there?”

“Your father? Who are you trying to reach, dear?”

I hesitated. “Jake. Jake Foreman.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know anyone named Jake. You must have the wrong number.”

I heard a slight commotion, followed by the swish of the phone being transferred.

“Ellie?”

“Dad? Is that you? Is everything okay?”

“Sure, sure,” he said. “Everything’s fine.”

“So that’s Sylvia?”

“That’s Sylvia,” he replied. “A hell of a girl.” I heard giggles in the background. His voice dropped to a whisper. “She doesn’t remember so good.”

“Is it—”

“I think so.” He answered. “Just starting.”

I sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey. Nothing’s forever. That’s why you gotta enjoy every day.”

“In that case, I’ll let you go.”

“No. I’m glad you called.
Nu
?”

“I just wanted to remind you about the Eskin Bar Mitzvah this weekend.”

“What time?”

“Service at nine. Kiddush and lunch afterwards.”

“Long day.”

“Your friends.”

The Eskins and my parents played bridge together for years. Their son, Danny, was the same age as I, and our parents had hoped we’d find each other. For a while, I thought it might happen. In Sunday school, he used to borrow
zedakah
money from me. A high honor when you’re five. But after he borrowed a twenty on our one date in high school, I decided he could bestow the honor elsewhere. He became an accountant and got married, but we kept in touch in that almost-family kind of way. I went to their wedding; they came to mine. They weren’t invited to Rachel’s Bat Mitzvah, but we’d kept it small.

“The Torah service starts at ten,” I said. “I’ll pick you up at nine-thirty.”

“Sounds good.”

“Say hi to Sylvia for me.”

“Who?”

Such a joker.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SEVEN

I was going over my notes from my meeting with Dale Reedy the next day, thinking how much I admired her for blazing a trail in the corporate world at the expense of a family life, when David called.

“Hi. How’s the jet lag?” I tried for a cheerful tone, but it sounded artificial.

“I’m okay. I got back Sunday.” Today was Tuesday.

We chatted about unimportant things, both of us tiptoeing around the edges, as if confronting what was really on our minds would bruise us, scrape our skin raw. He sounded pleased when I told him about the Great Lakes proposal. He said Abdul was still working on his deal. When we ran out of prattle, I took a breath.

“I called you in London. The night after we spoke. There was no answer in your room.” He didn’t say anything. “Were you with someone?”

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“I—I was upset.”

He was silent a moment. Then, “Ellie. I wasn’t with anyone. I knew it was you. I didn’t feel like talking.”

“But we’ve got to.”

“Why? We’re not going to resolve anything over the phone.”

“Then how do we? Resolve things?”

“I don’t know.” His words reverberated over seven hundred miles of fiber optics. “Have you done any thinking?”

“Yes. But I don’t know if you’ll like it.” I glanced down at my notes on shale oil. The words looked garbled and meaningless. “You told me—just after the trial—how I’m always trying to right what I see as injustices. Maybe I do. But I try to be careful. I don’t look for danger. Occasionally, though, events do spiral out of control, like they did last summer.”

“What about now?”

“I don’t know that I can change the way I approach life. Or that I want to.” I paused. “You know, sometimes I get the feeling you want to put me in a glass jar where I’ll be safe. I know it’s motivated by love, but that’s not what I need. What I need is your support. It doesn’t help when you tell me how I’m going out on a limb or making a fool of myself. I do enough of that for myself.”

“So now I haven’t given you enough support?”

“David, you’re the best thing in my life. It’s just I can’t crawl into a cocoon with you and hide from the world.”

“Is that your impression of me?”

“Well…” I paused again. “You are pretty quick to tell me when I’m venturing too far afield.”

He didn’t answer.

“I—I know it’s because you care. And I know you don’t want to cramp my style. It’s just—” I stopped. “Sometimes I think I’m a bad influence on you. That I’m forcing you into situations and circumstances you’d never find yourself in were it not for me.”

“You don’t trust me very much, do you?”

I winced. He was veering far too close to the truth.

“What do you mean? Of course I—”

“No, you don’t. Listen to me. Whether I steal a flower at a hotel and put it in your hair isn’t your responsibility. I’m an adult. I make those decisions myself. By the same token, if I choose to share your life, unpredictable as it may be, it’s because I want to. But I can’t just let you put yourself—and Rachel—in jeopardy, if it can be helped. And you can’t expect me to.”

“You’re sorry I ever testified, aren’t you?”

“That’s not the issue.”

A streak of anger shot up my spine. “It was easier to react. You should know that given the same circumstances, I’d probably do it again.”

“I understand,” he said tiredly. “That’s where this conversation began. Look…” He paused. “I hope you understand what I’m about to say. I think we should take a breather.”

My body went still.
This is how it starts
, I thought.
With stillness. No movement. Just words.
“A breather?”

“I think we both need to decide—before we get any deeper—whether this is something we want to work out.” His voice was shadowed with pain. “That can’t happen when we’re seeing each other. We get—distracted.”

I had an image of us in bed, his body against mine. I pushed it away. “How long of a breather?”

“I don’t know.”

More silence.

“What do I tell Rachel?” My voice was small.

“That I love her. You, too.”

The stillness dissolved. My throat got thick. “Then why?”

His voice filled up. “You know why. Don’t make me say it again.”

It was useless to try to change his mind, and he cut the connection before I could. I stared at the phone, thinking about the flower I’d torn out of my hair at the Four Seasons. If I’d been trying to sabotage the relationship, I’d been more successful than I imagined.

***

I stayed up late burying myself in research so I wouldn’t have to think about David. I found out more than I’d ever wanted to know about shale oil from Googling, but there wasn’t much on Great Lakes Oil’s web site. I’d have to call the librarian tomorrow. I rummaged around for the sheet of paper Dale had ripped off her pad.