Drift (Lengths) (22 page)

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, sitting back with the smile that never seems to leave my face when I’m around Lydia.

***

Her parents’ house is full of noise and life.

It’s not something that takes me completely by surprise. My parents had large parties constantly when I was growing up. But they were never like this.

People are weaving in and out between the kitchen and the dining room, and there’s an extreme amount of pinching, hugging, kissing, laughing, and loud, multilingual yelling. Again, on one level, not so different from what I grew up with at all; on another, this scenario might as well be happening on another planet for all the core similarities it has to one of my parents’ gatherings. There’s nothing furtive here. No ego-laden boasting—or at least none of that without a healthy amount of eye-rolling and head-shaking. Pomposity doesn’t stand a chance and love is thick and almost oppressive in the air. Oppressive in the best way.

Lydia cringes. “We could totally just pick up Thai. Seriously. I’ve had you trapped with these crazies all day long.”

I pull her close and kiss her on the lips. “I’m happy to be here.”

A series of cat calls from Whit and Cece make me reconsider for a flash. But then they run to us, pulling Lydia, who sighs and shrugs, and me, only to
o happy to follow, into the kitchen to help.

“Mami, this is Isaac Ortiz, my boyfriend.” Lydia says the words easily, but the room falls into a hush.

A gorgeous woman who could be Lydia’s older sister wipes her hands on her apron and looks me up and down. A little smile tugs on the side of her face. “
Muy guapo
, Lydia.
Muy, muy guapo.
”

“The ‘Ortiz’ isn’t just a decorative last name, Mam
á. He’s actually from Spain. Also, I think Dora the Explorer taught everyone enough basic Spanish to know what
guapo
means.” Lydia drops a quick kiss on her mother’s beet red cheek. “And, better than handsome, he’s brilliant.”

“Your daughter exaggerates, Mrs. Rodriguez. She’s the brilliant one. And the beautiful one. I’m just hanging around hoping she won’t wise up to those facts and leave me. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I’m not sure the etiquette on this one, but I give her a quick hug. It seems to be what everyone here is doing.

She looks up at me, eyes glimmering with unshed tears, and says, “Better than brilliant, you’re very kind. Call me Dinah.” Louder she says, “I like this one. You need to keep him around, Lydia” as she pokes me in the chest and laughs.

The kitchen smells warm and inviting. Mrs. Rodriguez wastes no time having me stir the blueberries for her cottage cheese noodle kugel. Lydia comes behind me, tying a plain white apron around my waist. “What’s with you charming my mom like that?” she asks in my ear, pinching my ass.

“That’s just my natural charm, baby. I can’t turn it off.” I turn my head to kiss her on the mouth, almost tipping the blueberries over.

A giggle makes us break apart quickly. “Don’t stop on my account,” Maren says, pulling her dark hair into a bun before she pulls a quiche out of the oven. “It’s just Lydia always ragged on me and Cohen for contaminating the kitchen with our
make out sessions.” She winks and walks to the dining room, calling, “No worries!
I’m
not a germaphobe!”

Lydia grimaces. “She’s right you know.” She dips her finger in the blueberries, sucks the syrupy juice off, and grabs a container of amber honey, scooping some in. “I was such an asshole. I have no idea why they hang out with me.”

I put my spoon down and take the honey out of her hands, tilting her face up so she’s looking me in the eye. “You are too damn hard on yourself. Maren loves you. This family loves you.” I know I said it once before and got zero response from her, but I don’t care. I’ll say it every day for the rest of my life, even if she never says it back. Because it’s true. Because she needs to know. Because I can’t hold it inside. “I love you. I do. With everything in me, I love you, Lydia.”

Her face goes a deep, sweet rose, then a blood-drained white. She begins to stutter, and I press a finger to her lips.

“It’s not something you need to say back to me.” I pull my fingers away and kiss her softly. “I just want you to know.”

Whatever she may have said next she doesn’t get to. Deo sticks his head in and yells, “Bring it to the table. Let’s break this fast Rodriguez style.”

Lydia tears her apron off, grabs the blintzes that are warming in the stove, and leaves me to pour the blueberries over the kugel. I expect...something other than what I see.

Mr. Rodriguez, his thick moustache seeming to hold his mouth down in a solemn line, pours liquor into small glasses placed neatly around the table. He looks around at us all with a stern expression, and beads of sweat gather on my forehead. I know from talking to Lydia how important this man is to her, how much he influenced her decision to practice law. His word has influence with the woman I love, and I’m at his table on a day that’s holy to him, intruding on his family.

Intruding in the hopes of becoming part of, but still intruding.

“
L’chaim
,” he says, lifting his glass.

Everyone in the family picks up a glass, and we all toast and throw back the liquor.

A full day of fasting makes it burn hot and fast down my throat and into my stomach. My head feels woozy and my heart thumps. I sit back at the table and watch all the happiness as food is heaped onto trays and passed around.

“What’s wrong?” Lydia asks, her eyes on her fork, tapping against a near-empty plate.

“Nothing. At all. I’m just happy to be in this moment, part of this time with all of you.” I clear my throat. “You should eat a little more.”

She shakes her head. “You should be careful not to eat too much. If you’ve never fasted, even a short fast like this one, it can be too much too quickly.”

We talk to one another like concerned acquaintances, not lovers. It doesn’t make me regret what I said to her in the kitchen. But it does make me wish it hadn’t been me pushing her too hard. It makes me wish it had been what we say to each other as a matter of course. Not something that would spook her or make her upset. I want our love to be an open part of our everyday.

“Isaac.” Mr. Rodriguez says my name and every person at the table turns to look at me. “My wife tells me you make art.”

I don’t know how to read him. Mr. Rodriguez owns a furniture store. That could mean he’s a very grounded man who appreciates tangible things like end tables and armchairs. But he also loves Salinas. A man who can appreciate great art must have a soft spot for artists.

“I am a painter. I also lecture at the university.” I don’t mention this guest lecture position is my first and possibly only foray into teaching. I want to sound like a man who can care for the woman he loves.

“I’d love to see your works. I hear you’ve done paintings of cathedrals?” He narrows his eyes at me, and I’ve never felt more anxious to admit to every wrong in my heart. Not since I was a boy going to first confession.

“I’m a Roman Catholic,” I say into the awkward silence. Strangely, it’s Deo who looks most shocked that I’d admit that here. “I’ve grown up attending mass at some truly amazing cathedrals. I’ve worshipped in the Basilica of Our Lady of the Pillar and Las Lajas. They were very awe inspiring to me, and my memories of them stayed with me through my childhood and until I was a grown man.” I stop and swallow hard. Am I bragging? Am I throwing my religion in his face? “I was overwhelmed by the way the spirituality came through in the architecture.” His face looks exactly as it did when I first sat down. “It’s actually very similar to the feeling I got when I was inside your beautiful temple today.” 

His smile is alarmingly wide and white under that inky moustache. He takes the bottle of harsh, hot liquor, gesturing to me with his hand. “Maybe one day, you could paint our temple. I dabble in painting now and then myself. You could give me a few tips. Come, let’s drink another round.” Mr. Rodriguez refills all the glasses and holds his glass up. “To conversations about art and the spirit. I love surfing dearly, but if I had to sit through one more dinner of Deo and Cohen yapping about money trees, I may have gone crazy.
L’chaim
!”

Lydia laughs, and is joined in by the other girls. Cohen and Deo scowl. “Isaac loves to surf, too,” Deo points out.

Mr. Rodriguez gives Deo a good-natured wink. “Now, now, there’s no reason to get testy, Deo. I love you like a son. But one day you may want to move onto more mature topics. That’s all.” He shrugs.

Cohen scoffs. “More mature topics? Deo has been running his own business for two years. Aren’t you, like, twenty?” he asks me.

The table goes quiet. Maren yanks Cohen by the arm and whispers something furious in his ear. Mr. Rodriguez looks at me with that same blank face. Lydia’s hand moves to my knee under the table, grabs tight, and squeezes.

“Not twenty,” I say. Cece winks at me and smiles. Mrs. Rodriguez looks over to Lydia, who doesn’t look back. My throat is dry. I’ll fight for Lydia whether her family thinks I’m a good match or not. But, damn, their support would have made things so much easier. “I’m nineteen.”

Mr. Rodriguez squints at me. “Nineteen?”

“Yes, sir. Nineteen.”

He shakes his head back and forth. “I was married and running my own store at eighteen. I had Lydia at nineteen and got the down payment for this house two months after she was born. But we can’t all be on such a fast track.”

“What?” Deo sits back hard in his chair, mouth hanging open, and points his forkful of quiche between Lydia’s parents. “You two got married right out of
high school?”

“No, no. Dinah was twenty and working as a hostess at her father’s diner. I went to eat there while I was finishing my senior year on a reduced schedule so I could take over their store. She served me homemade anise churros, and I fell head over heels in love. I wooed her for weeks, refusing to take ‘no’ for an answer. She was a little leery about going with a younger guy, you know. But I finally got her to go on a date with me, and it was all moonlight and stars and romance. Little by little, she came around. She married me two months before I graduated.” He pulls his wife close, kisses her as she laughs and clucks her tongue, and grabs the bottle of mezcal, beckoning for my glass. “To older women!”

“
L’chaim
,” I say as Mr. Rodriguez and I throw back our drinks and celebrate our good taste and better luck.

2
3  LYDIA

I turn Cumberland’s card in my hands over and over again, wondering what I should do. And then, like a miracle, my phone rings.

I jump to answer it, sure it’s going to be some kind of divine intervention. But the voice is familiar.

Familiar and so irritating, I have to resist the urge to end the call before I know why she’s contacting me.

“Hello, Lydia,” Tanya says. It’s purposeful, her not referring to me as
Ms. Rodriguez
. It’s a spiteful, childish power play, and I realize that immediately.

It doesn’t stop my blood from boiling.

“What is it, Tanya?” I ask, eager to get back to dissecting my problem with Isaac.

I’ve been sending faxes and references over for weeks, leaping to get whatever they need done the exact moment they need it. I feel burned out already, and I have this strange sense that my case will never be resolved anyway. So why am I bothering to chase after them like a stupid dog waiting with her tongue wagging for her master to give her another kick in the ribs?

“Mr. Sandberg will see you at two.” Her voice is smug and condescending; like she knows something I don’t and can’t wait to see my face when I get smacked upside the head with it.

But that’s just me being a paranoid idiot. No matter how much Tanya has always irritated me, and no matter how much it irks that she and Richard joined idiotic forces, she doesn’t have privy information. Mr. Sandberg is the ultimate professional. He doesn’t share details of cases with secretaries. Ever.

“Thank you,” I say in a clipped voice, and then hang up before she can utter another syllable.

Cumberland’s card, now stained from the oils of my fingers and the weeks it’s spent bumping around my purse, falls from my hand, and I stand on shaky knees in the middle of my bedroom.

I look around, unsure I know the place. It’s not pin-straight anymore. I realized keeping a place clinically pin-straight is easy if you’re a consummate organizer and cleaner—or if you’re such an intense workaholic, you’re simply never home to make a mess.

When you’re home, you start to inadvertently humanize your space. I began reading the books on my shelves and buying more to feed the growing need to consume stories and information. And, this time, I didn’t buy them because of their gorgeous covers or spine heights
—because, yes, I did buy books so they’d fall into neat patterns on my shelves. Instead of worrying about what the covers looked like, I bought stories that captivated me, and left them, face down, open to pages I wanted to reread just one more time.

My iPod wound up out on my nightstand because I wanted to listen to it more often than just when I was on my daily run. Clothes began to collect here and there because I found I often needed to grab my favorite striped cardigan to ward off the morning chill and then the evening breezes, so it made sense to leave it out and easily accessible in the in-between time.

My place feels less like a museum and more like a
home.
And I feel less like some fancy vase, perfectly made and too precious to touch. I feel, instead, like something homey and available, something that speaks of a life lived fully...like a favorite copper kettle or a hand-stitched quilt.

I reach into my closet, push past the comfy camis and tees I’ve been wearing at home and the flirty, gorgeously printed dresses when I go out, and reach for a crisp suit. My fingers fumble over the buttons and zippers. The suit feels tight on my shoulders and arms, bigger now because of my daily morning laps in the complex pool I never bothered to use before. My skin is sun-kissed in a way that used to make me whisper to my colleagues about “too much vacation.” My hair is overlong and not easy to work with. Instead of putting it in my usual tight bun, I curl the ends and worry if it’s not too
risqué, too sexy.

“What the hell, Lydia,” I hiss at my perfectly put-together reflection. “Self-doubt is the last damn thing you need. Go and show them you’re still Pitbull Rodriguez.”

Of course, softly curled hair doesn’t exactly communicate ‘pitbull’ tendencies, but whatever. I make my way to my car, taking a second to caress the hood.

I’m keeping this car.

It’s a thought that comes to me from a clear, sure place.

I’m keeping my apartment. I’m keeping my job. I know, for sure, that these things are all within my grasp. All I have to do is reach out and take what’s mine.

I glance back at Cumberland’s card and promise—
promise
—I’ll come back and make it happen. All of it. For me and for Isaac.

I drive over quickly, pull into my old space and ignore the gloomy melancholy that always seems to define the lot, shadowed by the gray rectangle of the law offices. I go through the huge set of doors, my heels clicking against the marble floor tiles. At Sandberg’s door, I don’t knock or announce myself to
his secretary, scrambling to choke down her pita and almonds so she can demand I sit and wait until she says otherwise.

“Mr. Sandberg.” I march into his office and stick my hand out. We shake like it’s the first time we’re meeting, and I realize how stupidly formal I’m being. Navigating this isn’t as easy as I hoped. “I’m pleased to have the chance to talk to you again. I’ve been in contact with the office and hope you found all my paperwork in order.”

He clears his throat, sinking the tip of one finger into the collar of his too-tight shirt. He rings it around his neck, and I want to suggest he undo one more button, but he looks miserable enough as it is.

“Come on in, Lydia. Could you close the door behind you?” He gestures to the glass doors set in the glass walls. Sandberg likes to play things safe, and this way his secretary can watch and vouch for the fact that things are on the up and up.

He’s a smart man. That’s one of the many reasons I chose to work at his law offices. I had my pick of more than a dozen firms. But Sandberg hadn’t settled into complacency. He still had hunger. His competitive edge was still razor sharp, and I was ready to learn how to keep mine that way too.

“It feels good to be back,” I lie. It’s a fit that’s not getting any more comfortable the longer I’m here, but what do I expect? It’s not novels and yoga pants and long, passionate dates with the man I love. This is work. This is life. No one promised me it would be easy.

Actually, I’m very sure many people told me it would be soul-crushingly difficult.

“It’s good to have you back.” He rubs a hand over his thinning hair. “We’ve been lost without you, Lydia. If Mrs. Gutzman hadn’t been adamant about not having you on the case, I would have been able to arrange something for you earlier. As it is, I hope you enjoyed your time off.” He takes off his glasses and pinches his nose, his mind on so many things at once, I know for sure his sentiments about my “time off” are completely insincere. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t want to know, and I don’t really want to talk about it.

So I don’t.

“The thirty days are up. I need a verdict, Mr. Sandberg. I need to know what the conclusion is.” I look at his face, lined from stress, gray from a lack of exposure to sun.

When I first started, I looked into this man’s face and saw what I hoped would be my future. Now? Now I see a tired, broken man running on the last fumes of adrenaline.

“The conclusion is...complicated.” He gives me a brief smile that reads more like a grimace. “Mrs. Gutzman’s case is taking some unexpected turns. Frankly, we need your expertise. After what you did
on the Michaels case, I think you’ll be able to hack through some of the more intricate fine print in the contracts her husband is presenting as evidence that she’s not able to access their accounts from before they were engaged. I think we’re close to a break, but no one can seem to nail down the last piece of the puzzle.” This time when he smiles, it’s a little more real. “You were always good at that. Figuring out what no one else could pin down.”

“Yes,” I say, my throat thick and dry. This is it. This is my redemption. “I always was.”

I should be flying off that adrenaline I know is probably pinging through every other attorney here. We’re on the cusp of a break in a huge case, and
I
may be the key that will unlock everything. This is the very definition of ‘living the dream.’

So why do I want to wake up and forget all of this?

“I want you back, Lydia.” Mr. Sandberg spreads his hands flat on the desk. “I know there was,
ahem
, a more personal aspect to your relationship with Richard. The kind of personal aspect you know I don’t approve of.”

“‘Was’ is the operative word in that scenario,” I assure my boss. The thought of what it’s going to be like working day and night with Richard pings through my head, and, no matter how much distance we could possibly manage to keep, I hate the idea that I’ll even have to be around his negative energy. “You were right. I’m extremely regretful Richard and I had that, um, lapse. Please be assured, there is absolutely no chance of that happening again.” I wince over how I have to vow my credibility back into existence.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Lydia. These things happen to all of us at some point. Sometimes the chemistry is just too strong. We are, after all, only human.” There’s something about his words that makes me think uptight Sandberg had a brush-in with an office romance at some point. I guess that’s why he’s always been so stringent about it. I always just assumed that was one more angle of his multifaceted control-freak personality.

“Well, I intend to be a little less human and a little more lawyer from now on.” It’s just a riff on an old joke about our blood-thirsty nature in this business. But it feels shallow and fake.

Sandberg laughs. “I’m glad to have you back, Lydia. I can honestly say I’ve never worked with a finer lawyer before you. I didn’t say that enough before, but I would like the chance to mentor you. I can see you on the fast track to full partner if this case goes the way I think it will.”

I make a definite effort to swallow, but there is no moisture in my throat at all. “Full partner?”

Of course that was a goal, an eventuality I wanted to work for. Sandberg rubs a hand over his face and his smile is warm and tired. “There would be hoops to jump through before that could happen, of course. But you’ve never been the kind of person who wanted a hand-out anyway.”

My head is spinning. I grab onto my portfolio folder, my fingernails sinking into the leather. “Right. Of course.” A few weeks ago, I’d put those hoops into the back of my mind and determine to jump through them whenever they got thrown in my way. But I’ve been burned by the man sitting in front of me, and I’m suddenly not so willing to do his blind bidding. “Let’s get those hoops outlined so I know what I’m up against.”

If I’m going to be a full partner, I need to start demanding that I get treated with respect.

Sandberg doesn’t seem particularly thrilled by my insistence to know all the details. “Well, it’s complicated,
you understand. And it would be contingent on this case and how well it goes, of   course—”

“But I thought Mrs. Gutzman was adamant I not be included in the case,” I interrupt.

Mr. Sandberg’s patient expression morphs before my eyes. He pulls his lips tight and the muscle high in his jaw twitched, like the friendly mask he was wearing has fallen away and revealed his true frustrations.

I’m on high alert.

“Mrs. Gutzman caught her husband cheating at the same hotel she saw you and Richard leaving. You know better than anyone that the human element of cases is unpredictable at best. It’s one of the things I hope to exploit when you take a look at the husband’s contracts.

“You hope to exploit ‘the human element’?” I’m no babe in the woods. This is how law works, at least in this office. You find a tiny tear and you dig your claws in and shred it wide open.

“Mr. Gutzman was very much in love with his wife early on. He had changes made to some standard contracts when he was more...hopeful...about their relationship, and it may allow us for some loopholes. If you can find them…” He trails off and holds his hands wide at his sides as if to say, ‘Then the world might just be your oyster.’

“Let’s say I find these ‘loopholes,’” I grit out. “What then?”

“The credit for your work on this case couldn’t be given to you outside my office, but I’d be able to begin that fast track process. Of course, it would have to at least begin covertly. Mrs. Gutzman’s case has attracted headlines for months, and it’s only gotten worse since her husband was linked to that American Idol winner. We’ll need to have you stay pretty much in-office, locking down work other partners will present—”

“So, I’d be doing all the work, but it would be credited to the other partners publicly? And no would know but you and me?” I ask, my words sounding muffled in my own ears.

“Lydia, lower your voice,” Sandberg hisses, looking out the glass-plated doors. “Look, you made this mess. Many bosses wouldn’t put up with that kind of unprofessional nonsense,” he preaches, obviously forgetting the ‘only human’ talk he gave me five minutes before. The one he apparently never believed in the first place.

Law can be duplicitous by nature, but this is just getting extreme.

“About that mess,” I say, loud and clear. “Richard was
just
as culpable. I understand he had the good luck of not being recognized. But is it fair that he’s not accepting any of the blame in or out of the office? I mean, you must know those papers weren’t my mistake.” I finally admit what I’ve held in for weeks, and I hold my breath, nervous for the fallout.