Margot: A Novel (30 page)

Pelts.
And all the while was he really kissing my sister by the
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window? Did he make it to America only to marry a redhead?
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“Ron does love and respect me,” she says, an edge of
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annoyance to her voice.
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“I’m sorry,” I say, because I did not mean to offend her. “I
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just want you to be happy.”
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She smiles at me. “I
am
happy. Have you ever seen me
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happier?”
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The truth of it is, sitting there, tapping her smoke into her
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coffee cup, she looks a bit more nervous than I am used to
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seeing her, as if she too is hiding. But I wonder in Shelby’s
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case if she is hiding from herself. “Just ask him about the
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hussy,” I whisper across the desks. “It will be better to know
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the truth now than later.”
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“Oh, for goodness’ sakes, Margie. You’re a fine one to talk.
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Look at you, you’re such a prude, you’re sitting there in the
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heat, in your sweater.”
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I avert my eyes back to my typewriter, and Shelby and I
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don’t say a word to each other for the rest of the day,
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It is the end of May by the time Ezra is released from the
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hospital, but even then, he does not come back to work.
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“He’s recuperating in Margate,” Shelby tells me one morn
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ing, on a day when the temperature is predicted to hit ninety
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degrees, and I am dressed in my gray dress with the thinnest
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black cotton sweater I own, which is already, even in the
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morning, suffocating. Shelby and I have barely spoken since
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01
the other day when I pressed her to talk to Ron, so at first I
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am surprised she is talking to me.
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“So Ezra is getting better, then?” I ask her.
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She shrugs. “Joshua said recuperating, so yes, I think
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he is.”
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“Joshua told you?” I ask.
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She nods. “He called me at home this morning to let me
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know he was moving his father down to Margate. And that
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he would be in for a full day of work tomorrow.”
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“He called
you
at home?” I ask, wondering why her and not
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me. And also, how silly I have been, to believe that his calling
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me, at home, meant something. Something other than work.
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“Oh, Margie,” Shelby says.
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“What?” I ask her.
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She looks at me for a moment, as if there is something
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more she wants to say, but then she seems to think better of
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it because she shakes her head. “Nothing,” she finally says.
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“Just forget it.”
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“You’re still angry with me?” I ask her.
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“No, Margie. It’s just . . . You’re worried about me, that’s
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why you want me to talk to Ron, right?” I nod. “Well, I worry
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about you too. Joshua will never see you the way you see him.
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He’s your boss, and besides that, he’s with Penny. And besides
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that, he’s Jewish, and he’s a lawyer. And you’re . . . you.”
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I feel my cheeks turning hot, and my brow is already
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sweating from the heat, but I feel it turning hotter.
I cannot
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work without you, Margie.
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You’re you,
Shelby said. And yet she has no idea, none in
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the slightest, what that even means.
The elevator dings open, and just then Joshua steps off.
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He is dressed in his most handsome tailored black suit with
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a green-and-white-striped tie. He clutches tightly to his black
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leather attaché and walks, with a purpose, in my direction. It
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was not so long ago, I think, that we were walking off together,
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in the other direction. But, also, it feels like it has been for
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ever.
You’re you,
Shelby said.
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“Margie.” Joshua taps his hand on the side of my desk,
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then removes his hat and places it atop the rack. “Can I see
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you in my office?”
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Shelby is most likely raising her eyebrows at me, but I do
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not turn to turn to see. I stand and follow behind Joshua
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inside his office without even giving her a second glance.
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The air is cooler inside Joshua’s office, the room dark from
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lack of use. Joshua turns on the light now and puts his attaché
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down on his desk. “Shut the door, would you?” he asks me. I
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do, and then he tells me to have a seat.
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He sits in his chair, so we are across the desk from one
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another. It is not a far distance, and yet, as his gray-green eyes
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turn to meet mine for the first time in weeks, it feels like an
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interminable space.
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“Margie,” he says, his voice and his expression softening.
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“I feel I owe you an explanation.”
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“You don’t,” I say, though that is a lie. I ache for it, to get
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that moment back, when Joshua and I stood in the lobby, by
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the sandwich cart. When his hand tucked a stray hair behind
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my ear and traced the outline of my cheek. When Joshua
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01
looked at me, for a moment, as if I were more than just his
02
secretary, as if he was about to kiss me. When I almost told
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him,
This is the truth. This is who I really am.
Shelby has no
04
idea.
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“My father is very sick,” Joshua is saying now. “And I need
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to do everything I can to make him happy.” He pauses, and I
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think about everything he told me about his mother, about
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how hard it was to watch her disappear.
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“I’m so sorry,” I tell Joshua. “This must be very hard for
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you.”
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“Thank you,” he says, and he casts his eyes downward, as
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if searching for something on his desk, in the papers that I
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have piled up there in his absence. “Anyway,” he says, “all that
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stuff I said about leaving . . .” His voice trails off, and he
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shakes his head. His chestnut curls are still rumpled from his
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hat, and I have the urge to reach across the desk and fix them.
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“I was saying it in anger, and I shouldn’t have. And I certainly
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shouldn’t have involved you.” He pauses. “While my father
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recovers, I’m going to make sure I do what needs to get done
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here on my cases and some of his too.”
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“And your dream of starting your own firm?” I say.
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“That was silly,” he says. “Stupid.”
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I nod, but I am thinking that Joshua is lying again. Maybe
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just to me, or maybe, also, to himself.
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“As I said on the phone a few weeks ago, I want you to stay
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on here, as my secretary, of course. We’ll be ceasing our
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group litigation, but you can keep your raise. For your contin
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ued loyalty,” he adds.
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I am not sure how I feel, about Joshua saying we will cease
working on our secret case. On one hand, I’m relieved, but
01
I’m also, surprisingly, a bit annoyed. How can Joshua let
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Bryda and the others go, just like that? What about that night,
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when his eyes lit up, when he confessed to me his fear, that
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if Jews are not seen as equals, something terrible could hap
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pen again?
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“You will stay on, won’t you, Margie?”
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I cannot work without you, Margie.
I nod.
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“Good.” He sighs, leans back in his chair, and runs his
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fingers through his curls. I notice now his green tie looks too
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tight, and his neck is red, as if he is being suffocated by it, or
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it could be that he has already gotten too much sun in Mar
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gate. “For now, we’ll be doing everything we can to make sure
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Mr. Bakerfield does not get convicted of murder. His trial is
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coming up in three weeks.”
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“But you said he was guilty,” I say softly.
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He leans forward his chair, but he does not look at me
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now. He looks past me, toward the door, the glass window,
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as if there is something out there, just beyond his reach. “It is
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not our job to judge a client’s guilt or innocence,” he says,
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his voice devoid of emotion, as if this is a rote phrase he has
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practiced in his head, wanting it to take on meaning.
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“I see,” I say, standing, not sure whether I am annoyed or
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disappointed, but wanting suddenly to be back at my desk,
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even if that will mean Shelby’s eyes staring at me just a little
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too hard.
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“Oh, and Margie,” Joshua says as I am about to open the
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door.
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“Yes?” I turn back, and for a second our eyes do meet.
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Joshua’s eyes are melting, full of hurt and pain and tiredness,
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and I feel the weight of all of that on my own sagging, sweat
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ing shoulders. I want him to say something profound, some
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thing that will make me feel the way I did that morning, not
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so long ago, when he looked me in my eyes and spoke of the
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truth as if it were something glimmering and full of light, like
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Shelby’s diamond.
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“Miss Greenberg will be stopping by for lunch. See to it
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that you send her right back.”
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“Of course,” I say again, and I drop my eyes before he
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does, before I can see it there, what it is exactly Joshua is
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thinking when he talks about Penny.
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Five minutes before noon, Penny steps off the elevator,
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dressed for summer in a sleeveless floral print that is tied at
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her tiny waist with a pink ribbon. She clutches a wicker
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handbag—or no, it is too big, it is not a handbag but a picnic
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basket, and food overflows from its top.
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“I have come to rescue Josh,” she announces, not to any
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one in particular. Shelby rolls her eyes in my direction. And
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then Penny stops in front of our desks and shoots me a tiny,
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irascible smirk as she pulls her Marilyn sunglasses atop her
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head. “Hello, Margie,” she says. “Josh is expecting me.” I nod,
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and she leans in closer. “How’s he doing?” she whispers, as if
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we are friends, confidantes. Only, it is not a real question, as
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she does not wait for me to answer her. “This has been so
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tough on him.” She sighs. “I expect we’ll even move the
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