Goodbye To All That (33 page)

He wasn’t laughing. Evidently he didn’t think he’d said anything funny. “So, your family is all screwed up, huh?”

She felt a pang of embarrassment over her earlier rant. “Forget I said any of that.”

“I won’t forget it. Things are going bad for your brother and your parents, and your sister is getting ripped off by an inn. You must be feeling a lot of pressure.”

She shrugged. “I’m not in the middle of their
tsorris
,” she said, although her amusement was gone, replaced by a wobbly bleakness. “They’re all up in the Boston area. I’m down here.” And sometimes Doug’s wife Brooke was down here, too, which might well cause more
tsorris
.

“But they’re your family and you’re upset.”

“Well
 . . .
” She attempted a smile. “They’re my family.”

He angled his head and scrutinized her. “You’re not just trying to rouse my sympathy so I’ll agree to go to my guy with a bigger settlement, are you? Because it’s not going to work.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” she said, meaning it. She was a good lawyer, she worked hard, she deserved to make partner, but unlike O’Leary, she didn’t play judges. And she wasn’t going to play him. Not out of scruples, but because he would have her pinned to the mat in seconds if she tried. He was clearly much better at playing his opponents than she was.

“So you fled the family—what was that word you used? Circus?”

“
Tsorris
. It means heartache, problems, that kind of thing.”

“
Tsorris
,” he repeated like a diligent language student.
Schmuck
he could pronounce easily, but not
tsorris
. He’d probably never experienced
tsorris
in his life. As a lawyer, he undoubtedly encountered schmucks all the time, so the word sounded more natural when he said it.

“And I didn’t flee the family. I got my law degree from Columbia and decided to stay here.”

“Because your family was driving you crazy?”

“No,” she said emphatically, then succumbed to a reluctant smile. “Yeah. They’re good people. I love them. But
 . . .
” She sighed, feeling tears press against her lower eyelids. God, she’d already said too much to O’Leary. She damn well wasn’t going to cry in front of him, too. A couple of deep sips of margarita helped her to recover. “My parents are getting a divorce.”

He chewed on that and frowned. “Now?”

“Well, not this minute, but my mother moved out a month ago.”

“I mean, they’re your parents. If they’re just getting a divorce now, they must have been married—” he did a quick calculation “—what, thirty years?”

“Forty-two. I’m the baby of the family.” Tears were rising again, bubbling up toward her eyes like lava, threatening to erupt. “I don’t understand it. Forty-two years, and they want to throw it all away. And it’s not what you’re thinking.”

“What am I thinking?”

“That my father’s having an affair or something? No one’s having an affair, as far as I know. My mother just decided she wanted a change, and my stubborn-ass father refuses to change.”

He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it adorably unkempt. The hiccupping female singer had been replaced by a growling male singer and the bar was beginning to fill up. Melissa glanced around, but in the bluish gloom the other patrons were mere silhouettes. When she turned back to O’Leary, she found him gazing at her with unnerving intensity. “You aren’t going to cry, are you?”

That was all she had to hear. Her vision went blurry and she gulped in a breath. Damn. She looked so wretched when she cried, her eyes swelling, her cheeks blotching, her nose running like a leaky hose.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, her voice thick with a suppressed sob. “I’m breaking up with my boyfriend and I can’t talk to anybody about it, because my parents are already broken up and I don’t know what’s going on with my brother and his wife, and my sister’s husband is sweet but he’s just so
 . . .
I mean, he’s a teacher, for God’s sake, and he and my sister are so much like my parents, I bet they wind up getting a divorce in another twenty-five years, and I can almost afford that apartment in Murray Hill except almost doesn’t count, and I have to go to my client tomorrow and say, ‘This is all we’re getting out of that scumbag who’s been ripping off your bag designs,’ and you know, some days just suck.” The last word came out
zuck
and she didn’t care.

O’Leary sighed, dug into a trouser pocket and pulled out a linen handkerchief, which he handed to her. She didn’t know men still carried handkerchiefs. Men of her generation, anyway. Her father always had a fresh square of linen folded and tucked into a pocket of his slacks. Maybe that was why her mother left him—she was tired of laundering and ironing his handkerchiefs, in an era when Kleenex could be sneezed into and then discarded.

She waved off O’Leary’s gesture and wiped her face with one of the cocktail napkins the green-haired waiter had placed on the table with their drinks. The white paper square was damp with condensation from her margarita, but that moisture felt cool on her fevered cheeks. By the time she was done wiping her eyes, the napkin was a lot damper, and it also had faint traces of mascara on it. She’d paid a fortune for the stuff, too, because it had been guaranteed not to smudge.

Maybe she’d sue the cosmetics company. She could probably get at least as much out of them as she’d gotten out of O’Leary’s asshole client.

She dabbed her eyes one final time, hoped the mascara wasn’t striping her cheeks with smeary black rivulets, and risked a glimpse of O’Leary. He didn’t look alarmed, the way most men looked when the woman they were with began weeping. He didn’t look helpless or annoyed. He actually looked kind.

“I wish I could solve your problems,” he said. “I can’t, but I can think of a way to take your mind off them for a little while.”

Not kind. He looked seductive, or at least he looked like what he thought seductive would look like. Slight smile, plenty of dimple, eyelids slightly lowered, head angled in a beckoning manner.

She sat straighter. “If you’re implying what I think you’re implying, the answer is no. No way in hell.”

He chuckled. “No way in hell? That sounds pretty definitive.”

“I’m not Judge Montoya.”

“And I would never offer to take her mind off her problems.” He held up his hands in surrender. “Okay. All I’m saying is, once we’ve gotten all the parties to sign on to this settlement, let’s have dinner.”

Skepticism reared up inside her. What did he want? She wasn’t going to lower the settlement amount one penny. And his client was going to have to make the apology, too. Maybe she’d add that he had to make a video of his apology and post it on YouTube, just so the entire world could see him expressing regret for his dishonorable behavior.

If he didn’t want to influence the settlement, why would he want to have dinner with her? She’d already blubbered like a baby in front of him—terribly unprofessional, to say nothing of embarrassingly immature. She hadn’t let him treat her to this margarita. She hadn’t done anything to indicate any interest in him. She hadn’t even officially broken up with Luc, for what that was worth.

“Dinner?” she asked dubiously. “You and me?”

He made a big show of searching the area around their table. “Is there anyone else here?”

“I thought you didn’t like lawyers.” When he arched his eyebrows in a question, she reminded him, “You didn’t want to go to any of the bars downtown because they’d all be filled with lawyers.”

“True.” He contemplated her charge and shrugged. “You’re right. I don’t like lawyers.”

“And my life is full of
tsorris
.”

“A definite negative.” His smile widened.

“So why on earth would you want to have dinner with me?”

“I’m not really sure,” he admitted, still sending her that mischievous smile. “I think it’s because your hair turns me on.”

But that was the thing about Gordon. If she asked, he would tell her she was insane, he’d resist as long as he could, but ultimately he’d break the mirror. He’d take seven years’ bad luck upon himself, even though he thought superstition was silly. Perhaps this was why, unlike her parents, unlike Melissa and Luc, and possibly—who the hell knew?—unlike Doug and Brooke, Jill and Gordon were still together.

She should have donned a sexier nightie. She was wearing one of her old flannel nightgowns—Gordon was delaying turning on the furnace as late into the fall as the family could tolerate an unheated house, to save money and the environment. But with October winding down, the nights were getting awfully chilly. Yesterday morning when she’d awakened, the thermostat in the upstairs hall had read sixty-two degrees. Bright sunlight warmed the house up during the day, but it was bound to cool off again overnight. She needed flannel.

Besides which, she wasn’t feeling the least bit sexy.

She rinsed her mouth, washed away her toothpaste residue and the dried blobs Gordon had left blemishing the porcelain bowl of the sink, and averted her eyes as she reached for a towel. If she didn’t look into the mirror, she wouldn’t notice her dowdy nightgown, her dowdy hair—untouched by the likes of Luc Brondo—her unpolished nails and the way the tendons in her neck protruded when she was tense. No doubt they were forming two strident ridges right now.

She flicked off the light and left the bathroom. Gordon was sprawled out in bed, wearing gray sweatpants. He didn’t believe in pajamas—as if pajamas were a religion you were supposed to believe in. During the coldest stretch of winter, he would usually wear a sweatshirt as well as sweatpants, but late October wasn’t cold enough for that.

He had a nice chest. Sometimes just gazing at it was enough to turn her on, but not when she was anxious and harried and wishing seven years of bad luck on her parents, siblings and children. Gordon’s upper torso was lean, not muscle-bound. He wasn’t buff, but he wasn’t too fat or too skinny. And he wasn’t too hairy.

And really, of all the people in her life, all the people she cared about, he was the only one who’d break a mirror if she asked.

She wished, for his sake, that tonight had been one of those times when gazing at him turned her on.