Trophy Widow (33 page)

Our conversation grew more sporadic as I drove on. We talked some about Sonya and about her sorrow over her estrangement from Michael junior. We talked some about the Oasis Shelter and how its future seemed more secure with Nate the Great out of the way. We talked some about what she would do with the rest of her life. But by the time we passed through Columbia, we were riding in silence. The Temptations'
Greatest Hits
was on the car stereo, our heads nodding in time to “My Girl,” each of us lost in our own reverie.

I could feel the connection between us starting to slacken. No surprise there. I knew that it would. It always does. It's what's supposed to happen. We were, ultimately, just an attorney and a client—two people with little in common, brought together under extraordinary circumstances, sharing moments of intimacy along the way, drawn ever closer by the process, but ultimately just an attorney and her client—a relationship that, at its core, was not personal but professional. I knew that we would remain friendly, and no doubt she would call upon me to act as her attorney in some future matter, but the legal mess that brought us together was now resolved, and with that conclusion came a loosening of our bond. Angela's legal problems were behind her. Her new priority was to piece back together her life—and her family.

I had my own priorities as well, including other clients with needs and, frankly, a life of my own that could use some attention—especially dealing with the inevitable confrontation with Jonathan over Orthodox Judaism. My anxiety over that problem was beginning to ruin my sleep.

The thought of the ostrich ranch rendezvous ahead of us added a surreal touch to what was already a strange day. Presumably, the members of the press laying siege to the Chillicothe women's prison had learned by now that Elvis had left the building. I glanced in the rearview mirror. I don't know what I was expecting to see. Perhaps one of those bizarre vehicle cavalcades from a Mad Max movie—hot rods and pickups and jalopies and dune buggies careening down the highway crammed with rowdy tattooed journalists. But there was nothing back there except three tractor-trailers and a pair of minivans.

After the Temptations, we listened to a Bob Marley album and then Frank Sinatra's
A Swinging Affair
. I took the Warrenton exit just as Frank reached the end of one of my favorite songs, his version of Cole Porter's “You'd Be So Nice to Come Home To.” The song reminded me of Jonathan Wolf. I gave a wistful sigh. I missed him like crazy. Although I had plenty of ambivalence over his religion, I had none over him. He'd definitely be nice to come home to.

Angela was checking her hair and makeup in the vanity mirror on the sun visor as we came off the exit ramp onto Highway 47. “Will your crazy professor friend be there?”

“Oh, definitely,” I said with a smile. “He would have been there anyway, since the ostrich case was originally his. Now that he knows I'm bringing you, he wouldn't miss it for the world. He wants to meet you.”

“I want to meet him. I know how helpful he's been for you.”

“He's an acquired taste,” I warned. “But he's actually quite lovable in his own totally repulsive way.”

She paused to reapply her lipstick. “What about your secretary? Jacki is so sweet whenever I call.”

“She'll be there. She's dying to meet you.”

“Jacki's a large woman, isn't she?”

“Actually, yes. How did you know?”

“From the sound of her voice when I talked to her that time—so deep and full. I picture one of those big earth mother types.”

“Benny calls her a big mother, although not in quite the same sense.” I decided to leave it at that. “You'll see when you meet her.”

Dusk was falling as we approached the ranch. The flock of ostriches in the pasture to our left—the ones who'd jogged alongside my car my first time here—were standing motionless. One or two glanced our way, but the rest ignored us. No doubt they'd seen plenty of passing vehicles that day. We drove through the gated entrance to the ranch and onto the gravel road. As we approached the house, there were dozens of cars and pickups parked at various angles on either side of the road. About thirty yards from the front yard, I pulled into a spot between a Dodge minivan and a Ford Explorer.

We could hear the country music as we got out of the car. Angela watched with an amused smile as I tied a red bandanna around my neck. For this party I was determined to shed the lawyer image for the rancher look—or at least as close to the rancher look as a nice Jewish girl from the city could get. I had on my faded Levi's, a blue chambray shirt over a white tank top, a Western-style tooled leather belt, and my Doc Marten hiking boots. As we started our walk toward the house, I adjusted my Australian bush hat. It was the closest thing in my closet to a ten-gallon hat.

We followed the hand-lettered signs and arrows around to the back of the house, where the party was in full swing. There were dozens of people talking and laughing as the Dixie Chicks blared from two large speakers set up near the barn. Three white-hatted chefs at the barbecue pits were grilling steaks and slathering sauce on the hamburgers and sausages and turning ears of corn. The steel water trough was filled with iced bottles and cans of beer and soda. There were four picnic tables, each laden with bowls and platters of appetizers and side dishes.

“Hey, Tex!”

The voice was unmistakable. I turned to see Benny heading toward us through the crowd, a white cardboard bucket under one arm and a bottle of Budweiser in the other hand. He was wearing baggy cargo pants, a blue River Des Peres Yacht Club T-shirt, and a Portland Beavers baseball cap. For that final touch of sartorial elegance, he hadn't shaved since Friday.

“Hot damn, you looking mighty fine.” He gave me an appraising look. “Saddle me up, cowgirl, and you can ride me all night.”

I glanced over at Angela. “As you may have guessed, this is Benny Goldberg. Benny, this is Angela Green.”

“Honored to meet you, Angela.” He jammed the beer bottle under the arm holding the bucket and shook her hand.

“Same here, Benny. Rachel has told me wonderful things about you.”

“They're all true.”

“What's in your bucket?” I asked him.

“Ah,” he said with a beatific smile, “a veritable slice of heaven, ordered especially for you, Rachel.”

“I give up”.

“Here's a hint.” He cradled the bucket, his hand on the lid. “These come to you direct from C and K Restaurant in north St. Louis.”

It took me a moment to make the connection. “Oh, no. Pig noses?”

“Snoots, you boorish lout. Hickory-smoked snoots, ready for your delectation. Tonight will be the culinary equivalent of your bat mitzvah, cowgirl. Tonight you will bid farewell to girlhood and become a woman.” He removed the lid, closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply through his nostrils. “Indulge your senses.”

I peered into the bucket warily. “I don't know about this.”

From the distance, someone called, “Benny!”

A platinum-haired woman in what looked like a leather catwoman bodysuit was waving at him from over by the fence.

“Good grief,” I said, “is that the one from the bar?”

“Ah, yes. The sassy yet understated Sabrina.”

“So she's not too kinky for you, eh?”

“A woman too kinky for me? Not in this solar system.” He waved to her across the crowd and then turned to me. “Actually, Sabrina's perversity has been greatly exaggerated. The two of us are almost quaint together. When you think of us, think of Ozzie and Harriet.”

“Actually, I'm thinking of Mr. Ed and Catherine the Great.”

He laughed. “Well, maybe them, too.” He turned to Angela. “I have to get back to my date.”

“Don't forget your noses,” I told him.

He lifted the bucket. “You can't dodge these babies that easily. By the way, have you seen the surprise guest?”

“No, we just got here. Who is it?”

He gave me a wink. “You'll see.” Hefting the bucket, he gave a horse whinny, stamped his foot three times, and started to leave. “I'll be back,” he called over his shoulder in a Mr. Ed voice, “so save some room for snoots, Wilbur.”

We watched him move through the crowd toward Cat-woman, the bucket held over his head.

I turned to Angela. “Let's find your daughter.”

We stopped at the iced trough—a diet Coke for Angela, a Corona for me—and then set off to look for Sonya. She wasn't in the back area. For that matter, neither were our hosts, Maggie Lane and Sara Freed. They were probably inside attending to party details. Angela and I walked around to the front of the house.

“There she is,” I said, pointing down the driveway.

Sonya brightened when she saw us.

“Momma!”

She started running up the path toward Angela.

“Oh, baby,” Angela called, moving toward her.

I hung back, watching as they embraced, both of them crying.

Eventually, all three of us started down the road toward my mother's Buick to get Angela's luggage.

“Where's your car, baby?” Angela asked Sonya as I opened the trunk.

“Just over there, Momma.”

I lifted out the suitcase and set it on the ground by Angela's side. She was squinting toward Sonya's car.

“Is there someone in there?” she asked.

“Yes, Momma.”

“Who is—?” She paused and then gasped. “Oh, Lord.” I followed her gaze. Sonya's late-model Toyota was parked farther down the road. Seated in the passenger side of her car was her brother Michael. He'd been watching the ostriches. Now he turned toward us.

“He's coming on the trip with us, Momma,” Sonya said gently, putting her arm around her mother's shoulder. “We're going to make us a family again.”

Michael opened the door and got out. He stood there facing his mother. After a moment, he smiled at her.

“Oh, dear Lord,” Angela said, leaning against her daughter, her hand at her mouth.

Sonya reached down and lifted the suitcase. “Come on, Momma. Let's go join Michael.”

I watched the two of them head toward her car. About halfway there, Angela turned toward me. “Rachel, honey,” she stammered, “I never said—”

“Go,” I told her with a smile, blinking back tears. “We'll talk when you get back to town.”

She gazed at me a moment. “Thank you.”

“Good luck.”

I turned and started toward the house, not wanting to intrude any further on their family reunion. It was almost dark when I rejoined the party. Maggie Lane had just come out of the back door carrying a serving platter heaped with what looked like potato salad.

“Rachel!” she called, setting the platter down on the nearest table. “Oh, I'm so glad you made it.”

We hugged.

“Where's Sara?” I asked.

“She'll be back any minute. She's giving a group a tour of the ranch.” She paused. “Did you just get here?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

I explained my arrival with Angela and our search for her daughter.

“Was Sara already on the tour?” Maggie asked.

“I guess so.”

She gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Oh, Rachel, you're going to love this party more than you can imagine.”

I gave her a curious look. “What do you mean?”

There was a twinkle in her eye. “You'll see.”

Five minutes later, I was eating a quesadilla wedge and chatting with Martha Hogan when I spotted Sara Freed's tour group coming toward us from across the pasture. She was leading a group of seven. I watched as they approached the fence, the group gradually emerging from the darkness as each passed through the gate. There was Jacki, flirting with Bob the UPS guy, who was not only dressed in cowboy gear but looked the part. I smiled at the sight of the two of them.

Then I saw him.

“Oh, my God, I can't believe this, Martha. He's here.”

“Who is?” she said, turning to look.

By then I'd put down the quesadilla and was racing toward the fence. I reached it just as Jonathan Wolf stepped through the gate. With a big grin, he caught me in his arms and lifted me off the ground.

“Hi, beautiful,” he said softly.

“Oh, Jonathan.”

He held me in his arms, my feet off the ground. I hugged him ferociously, eyes shut tight, my face buried against his neck, breathing in his scent. Finally, he lowered me to the ground.

Holding me gently around my waist, he stared into my eyes. “I missed you so much, Rachel.”

As usually happens when I hadn't seen him in a while, his good looks made me catch my breath. Jonathan Wolf was my idea of tall, dark, and handsome. Standing just a shade over six feet, he still resembled the light heavyweight fighter he once was, right down to the nose that had been broken and never properly reset. Although that imperfection scratched him from the pretty boy category, to me it only added to his allure. He had a close-trimmed black beard flecked with gray, and intense green eyes. Tonight he wore a black cotton turtleneck, khaki slacks, and leather hiking boots. And, of course, a yarmulke.

The next hour passed in a blur as we caught up on our lives. Occasionally, a party guest would interrupt—some to meet Jonathan, others to say hi to me, a few to share a memory from the ostrich lawsuit. Between interruptions, I learned that Jonathan's trial had ended Friday afternoon when the jury returned a mixed set of verdicts that acquitted his client on most but not all counts, did much the same with the other defendants, and thus guaranteed a complicated appeal. He'd left the courthouse late in the afternoon and reached his parents' home by the start of the Sabbath at sundown. When the Sabbath ended the following night, he booked flights to St. Louis for the next morning and packed up his daughters' things. By the time their plane touched down at Lambert this morning, I'd already left for Chillicothe to pick up Angela. Jonathan called around, eventually reaching my mother, who told him about tonight's party. He called out to the ranch, and Maggie insisted that he come.