Alibi (28 page)

She looked at him then, her eyes bright, her head tilted slightly to the left as if examining him with a new sense of curiosity. And then she did something that he would never have anticipated. She did something that perhaps was the most erotic, exhilarating interaction he had ever encountered with another human being in his whole entire life. She leaned forward, and reached up, so that her full, red lips were mere millimeters from his ear. And then she took a long slow breath, exhaling sweetly before stretching her perfect narrow neck that fraction further to whisper. “I want to feel what she feels, James,” she said, referring to the girl in the painting. “I want to be cool and fresh and free and lucky. I want you to bathe with me, James.”

And just as she said this, she retreated slowly, her lower lip tracing the line of the edge of his ear.

“Where?” was all he could think of to say.

“Where else, silly?” she said as if she found the question ridiculous.

“This is New York, James. We are going to the Plaza.”

And so, as James Matheson realized the water had run cold, as he registered the sting the now icy flow was delivering to his freshly shaven face, he lifted his hand to turn off the faucet. He grabbed a towel and stepped from the shower, his skin on fire despite the cold, his eyes having trouble focusing on the living area of his pool house apartment at the back of his father’s Brookline home—his own little corner of Ivy League comfort.

“Jess,”
he said aloud in some pointless attempt to call her from beyond. But that was not to be and he was still alone, knowing this entire evening would be defined by loneliness and misery and the countless feigned attempts not to mention the unmentionable.

And he would smile and shake their hands and they would smile and shake his back and then he would move on and they would congregate again and wait until he was just beyond earshot before they returned to the subject on everyone’s “must discuss” list this evening. And then they would feel all noble for not embarrassing him and he would pretend not to hear their faintly disguised whispers—which in the end may have been weak enough to be swallowed by the evening’s festive ambience, but strong enough to tear at his slowly diminishing reserve.

He looked at his OMEGA Seamaster. It was almost seven. He had to leave within minutes if he was to be at Meredith’s on time. He could not let her down. She was Jess’s friend. She had asked him out of respect for Jess and so it was the least he could do.

Minutes later he was straightening his bow tie, securing his cuff links and removing his dinner suit jacket from the dry cleaning plastic before throwing it over his shoulder and moving out the door. And as he left his living room and walked around the pool toward the garage he found himself stopping once again, this time staring at the mosaic-tiled expanse of his own backyard swimming pool. And then he closed his eyes and turned before the water took him back again, to another time when pictures were paintings, the world had color and the girl with the long dark hair swept him away in a current of passion, just as Renoir had described.

“Wow,” said David Cavanaugh when his girlfriend emerged from their bedroom at the far end of the apartment. “You look amazing.”

And she did. The dress code for the Deane School of Law’s highly anticipated Halloween Ball was listed on the gilt-edged invitations as “black as night,” and to David, Sara’s long, fitted, sequined gown looked like the best dream he had ever had. She walked toward him then, holding her dark sapphire pendant at either end of its chain before turning around so that he might fasten the clasp at her neck.

“Sara,” he said, securing the clip before bending to kiss her. “I am so sorry—for last night. You have every right to represent the Jones kid and I shouldn’t have spoiled what was a perfect evening.”

She turned to place her long manicured finger on his lips. “Shhh. David, you weren’t the only one at fault. I shouldn’t have been so defensive. Besides, I think fifty apologies in twenty-four hours are enough. Not to mention the fact that you . . .”

“. . . spent at least half of those hours in bed with the most beautiful attorney in Boston,” he said, kissing her again.

“Boston’s a small city, David,” she smiled.

“Hmm, you’re right, let’s throw in Cambridge for the bargain.”

She punched him in the arm then. “You might have at least expanded the parameters to the state border,” she laughed.

“But from what I hear, there’s a really cute tax attorney in Chicopee . . .”

“You wanna break that fine ice you’re skating on, Cavanaugh?” she asked, taking a step back to place both hands on her hips.

“No, ma’am,” he said. “Massachusetts and beyond.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she said, before stepping forward again and reaching up to kiss him.

“I hope so.” And then he held her tight, kissing her again, this time slowly, until time stood still and the previous night’s argument became a distant memory.

It felt good, burying the hatchet. Last night he had fallen asleep on the couch before waking at 3 a.m. and feeling like a right ass for ruining Sara’s evening. Moments later he was moving down his apartment corridor toward the bedroom where he found a similarly wide awake Sara to whom he apologized for his bullheaded behavior and promised never to act like such a selfish schmuck again. In all honesty he was still concerned about her involvement with Jones, and Joe’s suspicions that the kid wasn’t totally up-front. But this
wasn’t his case
and Jones
wasn’t his client
and Sara was a big girl who was smart and experienced enough to make her own choices. Besides, he had certainly represented some less than savory characters in his past—so how bad could a nineteen-year-old college geek be?

“We should go,” she said, pulling away to straighten his bow tie before taking a step back to place her hands on her hips once again as if sizing him up for approval.

“Well?” he said.

“You’ll do.” She smiled.

“Geez, is that the best you can do?” he asked, grabbing his jacket from the back of the sofa.

“You want more I suggest you call your tax attorney friend in Chicopee.”

In the early 1900s, the then twenty-year-old Deane University issued an invitation to all its architecture graduates, past and present, to come up with a plan for the university’s first Great Hall. The graduates were issued numbers so that they might submit their designs anonymously—assuring impartiality in choice by a board who, even then, were driven by prestige, politics and power.

The choice was unanimous, in the form of an American Gothic cathedral-style masterpiece submitted by entrant No. 7 who, as it turned out, was the son of the chairman of the board of trustees. While it was widely acknowledged that No. 7 had been a particularly average student, it was also rumored that his father knew of a talented but impoverished designer who had been willing to assist his son in his submission and accept cash rather than kudos as his payment.

If nothing else this cozy arrangement, which saw the university construct one of the most magnificent Gothic structures the nation had ever seen, lent itself to the wonderful myth that the Hall was now haunted by the ghost of its true creator—an unknown genius who sold his soul so that his dream might become a reality, so that his work might be enjoyed for generations of young students to come, and more important, so that his family might have food on the table.

And so, just as David Cavanaugh pulled up at the front of the white gravel circular drive, his Land Cruiser easing to a stop in the slow moving parade of vehicles being met by valet attendants dressed completely in black, Jake Davis warned him and Sara of the unexplained noises and self-shutting doors and the mysterious moaning and baffling vibrations that were said to rock the towering structure from its foundations to its spire.

“You’re full of shit, Jake,” said David, putting the car into park.

“I know,” said Sara’s brother. “But it’s a good story, and it’s Halloween so . . .”

“So we’re not kids anymore and you can no longer frighten me with your pathetic little brother scare tactics,” said Sara.

“Boo!”
yelled Jake so loudly in Sara’s ear that she practically leapt from the car.

“For God’s sake, Jake.” She smiled.

And then the three of them looked up to behold the breathtaking sight before them. The impressive stone and gray slate structure stood high and mighty, set apart from the world around it by a luminous outline of thousands of tiny fairy lights strung high and stretched taut from ground to rooftop, eave to eave.

The front steps—of a rustic, well-worn sandstone—were now covered in a thick carpet of white rose petals, some lifting in the cool evening breeze, caught in the paths of upward tilting spotlights that cast flickering shadows on the lofty Gothic edifice above them. Centered on the steps was a long white carpet, bordered by black rope balustrades, behind which jostled scores of reporters and photographers snapping the who’s who of Boston as they moved toward the grand entranceway like the glamorous movie stars of old.

In fact, if David had not been so mesmerized by the spectacle before him he would have hurried up the smooth white walkway in an attempt to avoid the press who eventually recognized him and called out to say: “Mr. Cavanaugh, Mr. Cavanaugh, looking forward to the night ahead?”

“Sure,” answered an embarrassed David who tended to forget that last year’s Montgomery case had turned him into the local legal icon.

“Mr. Cavanaugh,” called a reporter from Channel 4. “What’s your next big case? Who’s your next client?”

“Ah . . .” said David. “Actually, it’s my partner here who’s getting all the good cases these days. Maybe I can take it easy for a while,” he joked.

The group now focused on Sara who was rapidly building a profile of her own after the seven-figure Sanchez settlement. “Miss Davis, Miss Davis . . .”

But luckily they were almost at the top of the stairs, Sara now dragging David by the elbow, Jake complaining he was the only anonymous one of the three.

Their conversation was cut short at the hand-carved double wooden doors, where they stood back in awe at the sight of scores of suspended strips of billowing see-through fabrics—the finest of black silks falling in consecutive layered rows across the main foyer, wafting around the mesmerized party goers, caressing their frames, slowly lifting and falling in a breeze created by discreet heating fans, and promising light, activity and more surprises at the main stairwell and beyond.

“Unbelievable,” said David as he took Sara by the hand.

“It’s incredible,” she said, as the final piece of silk gave way to reveal the giant marble staircase that was a breathtaking revelation in itself. And there it was before them, what must have been tens of thousands of silver votive candles lined up row upon row on the white marble steps. The tiny candles were set in perfectly aligned rows, enabling the awestruck guests to walk upward without unsettling their flames—their wicks giving off an almost sparkler effect of pure white light, along with a subtle scent of roses that wafted through the air in waves.

They walked slowly upward, beckoned by the music of the mini-orchestra now playing Vivaldi in the main Great Hall. The silver light on the stairwell finally gave way to a burst of color as they took the rise over the landing to behold what could only be described as a sort of Roman-themed extravaganza—the lofty eighty-five-foot-high ceilings now covered in temporary fres coes, the length of the Hall divided by faux marble columns and archways—just like a Roman palazzo with tented lounges, custom-built terraces and a fifteen-foot-high gray marble fountain that had been constructed at the front of the room.

Potted lemon, lime and orange trees lined the venue, bordering a space that now held over one hundred white-clothed circular tables of ten, each with sparkling silver flatware, crystal drinking glasses and jet black placemats offset by center-pieces of full-blown white roses that let off a scent that was sweet without being overpowering. The black-clad orchestra in the far right-hand corner was balanced by a massive vine-covered bar to the left where champagne was flowing, imported spirits were being selected and red and white Italian wines were being poured and ushered around the expansive hall by scores of eager waiters and waitresses dressed completely in white.