Something Borrowed (20 page)

with mashed potatoes and green beans, I actually took the subway

home for an afternoon nap. I returned to six voice-mail messages,

including a ranting one from Les. That had been my last nap,

unless you count the times I turn my chair to the window and

balance a paper in my lap. The technique is foolproof if someone

barges in, it just looks as if you're reading. I sling my purse over

my shoulder as

Kenny, our internal messenger from the mailroom, peeks around

my half-open door.

"Hey, Kenny, come on in."

"Ra-chelle." He says my name in a French accent.

"These are for

you." He smirks as he produces a glass vase filled with red roses. A

lot of roses. More than a dozen. More like two dozen, although I

don't count. Yet.

"Holy shit!" Hillary's eyes are wide. I can tell that it takes

tremendous effort for her not to grab the card.

"Where should I put em?" Kenny asks.

I clear a spot on my desk and point. "Here's fine."

Kenny shakes his wrists, exaggerating the weight of the vase,

whistles, and says, "Woo-hoo, Rachel. Someone's diggin' you."

I wave my hand at him, but there is no way to deny that these are

from anyone other than a guy with romantic interest. If they

weren't red roses, I could pawn them off on some familial

occasion, tell them it was some special day for me or that my

parents are aware of my service error and are trying to comfort

me. But these are not only roses, they are red roses.

And

bountiful. Most certainly not from a relative.

Kenny leaves after making one final remark about the roses

costing someone some serious jack. I try to head out the door after

him, but there is no chance that we are going anywhere until

Hillary gets full information.

"Who are they from?"

I shrug. "I have no clue."

"Aren't you going to read the card?"

I am afraid to read it. They have to be from Dex and what if he

signed his name? It is too risky.

"I know who they're from," I say.

"Who?"

"Marcus." He is the only other possibility.

"Marcus? You guys barely hung out at all this weekend. What's the

deal? Are you holding back on me? You better not be holding back

on me!"

I shush her, tell her that I don't want everybody at the firm

knowing my business.

"Okay, well then, tell me. What does the card say?"

She is in

interrogation mode. For as much as she hates the firm, she is one

tough litigator.

I know I can't get out of reading the card. Besides, I, too, am dying

to know what it says. I pluck the white envelope out of the plastic

fork in the vase, open it very slowly as my mind races to make up

a story about Marcus. I slide the card out and read the two

sentences silently: I AM SO SORRY. PLEASE SEE

ME TONIGHT.

It is written in Dexter's all-capitals handwriting, which means he

had to go to the flower store in person. Even better. He did not

sign his name, probably imagining a scenario like this one. My

heart is racing, but I try to avoid a full-on grin in front of Hillary.

The roses thrill me. The note thrills me even more. I know I will

not refuse his invitation. I will be seeing him tonight, even though

I am more afraid than ever of getting hurt. I lick my lips and try to

appear composed. "Yeah, from Marcus," I say.

Hillary stares at me. "Let me see," she says, grabbing for the card.

I pull it out of her reach and slip it into my purse. "It just says he's

thinking of me."

She pushes her hair behind her ears and asks suspiciously, "Have

you been on more than that one date? What's the full story?"

I sigh and head into the hallway, fully prepared to sell out poor

Marcus. "Okay, we had a date last week that I didn't tell you

about," I start, as we walk toward the elevator. "And, um, he told

me his feelings were growing"

"He said that?"

"Something like that. Yeah."

She digests this. "And what did you say?"

"I told him I wasn't sure how I felt and, um, I thought we should

keep things low-key over the weekend."

Frieda from accounting darts into the elevator after us.

I hope that

Hillary will save further interrogation for after our elevator ride,

but no, she continues as the doors close. "Did you guys hook up?"

I nod so that Frieda, standing with her back to us, won't know my

business. I would have said no, but red roses would make less

sense had there been no hook-up.

"But you didn't sleep together, did you?" At least she whispers

this.

"No," I say, and then give her a look to be quiet.

The elevator doors open, and Frieda scurries on her way.

"So? Tell me more," Hillary says.

"It was pretty minor stuff. C'mon, Hill. You're relentless!"

"Well, if you'd told me the entire story up front, I wouldn't need to

be relentless." Her face looks trusting again. I am out of the

woods.

We talk about other things on our short walk to Second Avenue.

But then, over steak at Palm Too, she says, "Remember when you

dropped that beer on Saturday night, while you and Dex were

talking?"

"When?" I ask, feeling panicked.

"You know, when you were talking, and I came up right at the

end of the evening?"

"Oh yeah. I guess. What about it?" I make my face as blank as

possible.

"What was going on? Why was Dex so upset?"

"He was upset? I don't remember." I look at the ceiling, wrinkle

my forehead. "I don't think he was upset. Why do you ask?"

When trapped, answering a question with a question is always a

sound tactic.

"No reason. It just seemed odd, is all."

"Odd?"

"I don't know. It's crazy"

"What?"

"It's crazy, but you guys looked like a couple."

I laugh nervously. "That is crazy!"

"I know. But as I was watching you two talk, I thought to myself

that you would be way better with Dex. You know, better than he

is with Darcy."

"Oh, come on," I say. More nervous laughter. "They look great

together."

"Sure. Yes. They have all of that surface stuff. But something

about them doesn't fit." She brings her water glass to her lips and

inspects me over it.

Keep your day job, Hillary.

I tell her she is nuts, even though I love what she has just told me.

I want to ask her why she thinks this. Because we both went to law

school? Because we have some shared trait more depth or dignity

than Darcy? But I say nothing more, because it's always wise to

say as little as possible when you're guilty.

Les barges into my office after lunch to ask me about another

matter for the same client. I have figured out over the years that

this is his awkward way of apologizing. He only comes by my

office after an explosion, like the one this morning.

I swivel in my chair and give him the update. "I've checked all of

the cases in New York. And federal cases too."

"Okay. But keep in mind that our fact pattern is unique," Les says.

"I'm not sure the Court will care much about precedent."

"I know that. But as far as I can tell, the general holding we rely

upon in Section One of our brief is still good law. So that's a good

first step."

So there.

"Well, make sure you check case law in other jurisdictions too," he

says. "We need to anticipate all of their arguments."

"Yup," I say.

As he turns to leave, he says over his shoulder, "Nice roses."

I am stunned. Les and I do not make small talk, and he has never

commented on anything other than my work, not even a "How

was your weekend?" on a Monday morning, or a "Cold enough out

there for you?" when we ride the elevator together on a snowy

day.

Maybe two dozen red roses make me seem more interesting. I am

more interesting, I think. This affair has given me a new

dimension.

I am shutting down my computer, about to leave work, with plans

to see Dexter. We have not yet spoken, only traded a series of

conciliatory messages, including one from me thanking him for

the beautiful flowers.

Hillary appears in my doorway, on her way out.

"You're leaving

now too?"

"Yeah," I say, wishing I had slipped out ahead of her.

She often

asks me if I want to get a drink after work, even on Mondays,

which virtually everybody else considers the only stayin night of

the week. She isn't so much a party girl, like Darcy, she just isn't

one to sit home and do nothing.

Sure enough, she asks if I want to grab a margarita at Tequilaville,

our favorite place near work despite or maybe because of the

stale chips and touristy crowd. It is always a welcome escape from

the predictable New York scene.

I say no, I can't.

Of course she wants a reason. Every reason I think of she can and

will refute: I'm tired (c'mon, one drink?), I have to go the gym

(blow it off!), I'm cutting back on alcohol (a blank, incredulous

stare). So I tell her that I have a date. Her face lights up. "So ole

Marky Mark's flowers worked their magic, huh?"

"You got me," I say, glancing at my watch for good measure.

"Where are you going? Or are you staying in?"

I tell her we're going out.

"Where?"

"Nobu," I say, because I ate there recently.

"Nobu on a Monday night, huh? He does dig you."

I regret my choice; I should have gone for the no-name neighborhood Italian restaurant.

"If the date ends before two, call me and give me the scoop," she

says.

"Sure thing," I say.

I go home forgetting all about Marcus and Hillary.

"Thank you so much for seeing me," Dex says, as I open the door.

He is wearing a dark suit and white shirt. His tie is removed, likely

stuffed into his briefcase, which he puts on the floor right inside

my door. His eyes are tired. "I didn't think you would."

I never considered not seeing him. I tell him this, realizing that it

might erode my power. I don't care. It is the truth.

Both of us begin to apologize, moving toward each other

awkwardly, self-consciously. He takes one of my hands in his,

squeezes it. His touch is both soothing and electrifying.

"I'm so

sorry for everything," he says slowly.

I wonder if he knows to be sorry about the beach too, if that is

included in "everything." I have replayed that scene over and over,

mostly in sepia, like Don Henley's "Boys of Summer"

video. I

blink, squeezing the images out of my mind. I want to make up. I

want to move on.

"I'm sorry too," I say. I take his other hand, but there is still much

space between us. Enough to fit another person or two.

"You have no reason to be sorry."

"Yes I do. I had no right to be angry at you. I was so out of line

We weren't going to discuss anything until after July Fourth. That

was the deal"

"It's not fair to you," he says. "It's a fucked-up deal."

"I am fine with the way things are," I say. It's not exactly true, but

I am afraid of losing him if I ask for more. Of course, I am terrified

of truly being with him too.

"I need to tell you about that afternoon with Darcy," he says.

I know he is talking about the shower episode, and I can't bear to

hear it. The sepia beach frolic is one thing, the up-close and color

porn scene is another. I don't want a single detail from his

perspective. "Please don't," I say. "You really don't have to

explain."

"It's just that I want you to know that she initiated it Truly

I've been avoiding it for so long, and I just couldn't get out of it."

His face twitches, a mask of guilty discomfort.

"You do not have to explain," I say again, more firmly.

"She's your

fiancee."

He nods, looking relieved.

"You know when the two of you were on the beach?" I ask quietly,

surprising myself by bringing it up.

"Yeah," he says knowingly, and then looks down.

"When I came

back up to the towels, I knew. I knew you were upset."

"How did you know?"

"You heard me say your name and ignored me. You were so cool.

Chilly. I hated that."

"I'm sorry. It's just that you looked so happy with her.

And I felt

so so" I struggle to find the right word. "Well, obsolete, used."

"You are not obsolete, Rachel. You are all I think about. I couldn't

sleep last night. Couldn't work today. You are anything but

obsolete." His voice has lowered to a whisper, and we have

assumed the position of slow-dancers, my arms around his neck.

"And you must know that I'm not using you," he says into my ear.

I feel the goose bumps rising.

"I know," I say into his shoulder. "But it's just so weird.

Watching

you with her. I don't think I should go to the Hamptons with you

both again."

"I'm so sorry," he says again. "I know. I just wanted to spend time

with you."

We kiss once. It is a soft, closed-mouth kiss, our lips barely

touching. There is no connotation of lust or sex or passion. It is

the other side of a love affair, the part I like the best.