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“Yes,” he answered, pointing out the pies and cakes of the day, written on the chalkboard. “See what I mean about options?”
She read the listings—so many delicious desserts—but they had her favorite, an old-fashioned chocolate layer cake with chocolate frosting, and Rachel didn’t need to look anymore. “What do you like about Houston?” she asked, determined to get him to talk since he seemed to ask a lot of questions rather than share much about himself.
“It’s home.”
She arched a brow. “That’s it?”
“There is a lot to like. The culture, the art, food. It’s pretty diverse, and it’s an interesting place to do what I do since there is no formal zoning code. It’s why the urban sprawl can appear so confusing to the outsider.”
“I’ve never been,” she confessed. “And I’ve heard it’s a big city, where you drive and drive, and drive.”
“It’s smaller than Los Angeles.”
That wasn’t saying much, she thought. “Where’s your office?”
“Downtown Houston.”
“Is it your own business?”
“Yes.”
“You give very short answers.”
He cracked a smile. “I’m a former trial attorney. I hate revealing anything.”
“In case it gets used against you?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re not a trial attorney anymore?” she asked.
“I switched to real estate law.”
“Why?”
“Is this a deposition?”
“You really hate answering questions.”
Creases fanned from his eyes. “You picked up on that, did you?”
She shook her head. “You’re impossible.”
“That’s not the first time I’ve heard that.”
They paused to place their order and then when the waitress walked away, Rachel said, “It must be nice having control of your own schedule.”
“It’s one of the better perks about my work now.”
“Do you miss anything about being a litigator?”
He hesitated so long she wasn’t sure he would answer. “I felt like I was doing something good,” he said at length. “I felt like I had a purpose.”
“You don’t anymore?”
“It’s a different kind of good, and a different kind of purpose. Maybe because the stakes are different.”
She wanted to reply to this, but the waitress returned with their cups of coffee—regular for Atticus, and decaf for her—and after the waitress left, it somehow didn’t seem right to pursue the subject. Or maybe Atticus’s hard, shuttered expression made her reluctant to push.
Rachel added milk to her coffee and gave it a slow, thoughtful stir. “Work is a strange thing,” she said after a moment. “It’s certainly consuming. This is my first real break in years. I’ve taken a day here and there, but never two full weeks off at one time.”
“Your company discourages staff from taking vacation time?”
“No. I just always feel like I have too much to do to take time off. I have weeks and weeks coming to me—and I was going to lose three of those at the end of this year if I didn’t take them—which is partly why I’m here now rather than January or February.”
“I’m glad it wasn’t hard for you to take two weeks at one time.”
She grimaced. “Oh, they didn’t like it. In fact, at first I was told it couldn’t happen, that it wasn’t convenient, but when I threatened to quit they backed down. So here I am.”
“Will you face a backlash when you return?”
She thought of work and wasn’t sure if she should laugh or cry. It had been such a roller coaster the past few years, and she still felt so deflated after being passed over for the last promotion. “I would have worried two months ago. I’m not as concerned anymore.”
He gave her a penetrating look. “Did something happen?”
“It’s just an annoying thing. Not worth talking about.” She sipped her coffee, enjoying its warmth. “I will say, though, that I miss my work routine. I’m struggling a bit without it. This afternoon seemed to last forever. I would have given almost anything to be at my desk, in my office, pouring over real numbers instead of deciding whether or not a hundred-year-old book is worth keeping.”
“I would think the monetary value would be the indication.”
“So would I, but it’s not quite so cut and dried. Some of the books have exquisite illustrations. Others have lovely gilt edges and delicate pages—” She broke off and gave her head a shake. “Accounting is black and white. The book business isn’t.”
“Can you make it more black and white?”
“I’m trying. It’d be easier if it was.”
“Aren’t there online bookstore that will tell you whether or not your book is important?”
“Yes, there are, and I’m using those, but sometimes the books have secrets that don’t increase the value.”
“What do you mean by secrets?”
“Maybe there’s a better word, but as I’ve been going through the boxes of books I’ve found books with sweet inscriptions, books with slips of paper inside, where someone saved a dance card, or a ticket stub, or a shopping list. In one book I even found a republican ticket with a list of candidates from 1881.”
“That must be fascinating.”
“It is, but it complicates the book business. What do you do with the dance card, and the ticket stub, and the republican ticket?”
“Leave it inside the book?”
“That’s what I’ve done, but some of those books aren’t valuable, so theoretically they shouldn’t be kept.”
“But if you see value in them, can’t you keep them?”
“I would if there was a place to put them. Lesley’s store shelves are crammed full. I can’t see keeping a storage room filled with boxes.”
The waitress returned with her
cake and his slice of banana cream pie.
“Why not reach out to Lesley and ask her?”
Rachel slowly lowered her fork. “Ask her what?”
“Ask her whatever you don’t know. Ask whatever you want to know. Ask to see her profit and loss statement going back five years—”
“I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not? You look at everyone else’s financials.”
“That’s different. I’m their accountant.”
“But wouldn’t it be nice to see her operating numbers?”
Absolutely, Rachel thought. It would make a huge difference, but she also understood why Lesley might not want her to see them—if Lesley was operating in the red, she might be afraid the debt would scare Rachel away. “I’ve seen some of her taxes from three years ago. There wasn’t a lot of income.”
“What about monthly? Which months were her best months? Which months were the leanest?”
“Atticus, I’ve only met her a couple times in my life, the last time at my mother’s funeral. If she walked in here now, I don’t think I’d even recognize her.”
“I think you would. I’ve never met her but what I’ve heard she’s short with curly gray hair and a big smile. Think Angela Lansbury.”
“Except that Angela Lansbury is five eight, not five one.”
“How do you know Angela Lansbury’s height?”
“My grandmother Gerber—that was my mom’s maiden name—was a huge fan of Murder She Wrote and whenever I’d stay over at her house, we’d watch it, so in fifth grade I ended up doing a book report on her character, Jessica Fletcher, and the fictional town of Cabot Cove, and I read that Angela was five eight.”
“You’ve remembered that detail all these years?”
“I have a gift for numbers.”
“Yes, you do.”
They fell silent for several minutes as they ate, and then Atticus said, “You do know it’s okay to ask for help, don’t you? No one expects anyone to be able to do everything perfectly.”
Rachel’s cheeks heated. She felt vaguely nauseous and suddenly didn’t feel much like eating anymore. “Where did that little gem come from?”
“I’m not criticizing you,” he said almost gently.
