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And comes back drunk. But she’s not telling me that. No point asking about drugs, either. I pray he’s not selling them out of her house.
“Maman, has he hit you?”
“Non.” Her voice rises an octave and gets louder by at least twenty decibels, a sure sign she’s lying. “There is nothing to worry yourself about, JL. Everything is fine.”
Prickles break out on my chest, and my breathing is heavy. I slap the phone down on the desk. Then I rub my chest with one hand, while sipping coffee from the mug I hold in the other. If I could, I’d be on a plane tonight. But I’m leaving for London on Sunday. Can’t be in two places at once and if I go to Vancouver first, I’ll be stuck there. Ostie de Tabarnak.
“JL?” Her voice is apologetic. Not the Maman I expect. “He needs to be somewhere safe. And he doesn’t have anyone else.”
“I know, Maman. But he doesn’t make life safe for you.”
Stronger and sharper, she snaps at me, “I can take care of myself, Jean-Louis. Just make sure you keep in touch while you are away.” I hear the receiver bang down.
Coffee mug in hand, I pace. Cancel the European trip and leave for Vancouver now? Or take her word and see her in late April. The worry over Maman’s safety tangles with anger as I think about how easily she gives in to him. Why she feels any loyalty to my father’s brother, I can’t fathom. He’s always been a cheat and a liar. It’s his fault Papa died, an innocent bystander when a criminal rival tried to shoot Uncle François, who got away without a scratch. I had just joined the army and couldn’t return for the funeral. I’ve never forgiven him for that.
Cup empty, I walk back to the small kitchen area, set the vessel in the sink, and start down the corridor to see Clay. Halfway there, I stop, turn around, and go to Max’s office instead. He’s leaning forward to study the big screen that takes up the side portion of his desk and tapping quickly on the keyboard in front of him.
A rap on the door gets his attention. “You need something, JL?”
“Just got off a call with my mother and I’m worried. Maybe I should cancel on Europe and go to Vancouver instead. I still might be able to make Cress’ dinner in Paris.”
“Is it an emergency?”
“No. My uncle is staying with my mother, and he’s an alcoholic. Sometimes he just sleeps off a bender, and sometimes he is a nasty, threatening drunk. I worry about her safety.” I decide not to mention the possible criminal activity.
“You have clients to meet with in London. A little late to cancel, don’t you think?”
“Mince!” I hit my palm with the fist of my other hand. “Maybe we could send someone else?”
He laughs. “Who? Clay? No chance he’s going anywhere with Kath pregnant again. None of your blokes can negotiate the contract and sending someone lower level will rankle the bankers.”
Max takes off his glasses, then pulls out a microfiber cleaning cloth and a small spray bottle. He sprays the lenses and rubs them clean. After he finishes one side, he does the other. Finally, he slips them back and returns the cloth and bottle to their assigned places in his desk drawer. Then he tents his fingers, resting his elbows on the top of the blotter.
“And my parents would be very sad if you weren’t at Dad’s party.” He searches my face as if looking for buried treasure.
“I know. Your family has been very kind to me, and I would hate to miss spending time with them. But she is my flesh and blood.”
Max looks pensive. “If you really need to go, we’ll figure something out. Did she ask you to come? Give you evidence your uncle was being abusive? Was this a call for help?”
I shake my head no. “She told me there’s nothing wrong and she can take care of herself and she’d see me when I return.”
He turns back to his screen, relief in his voice. “Nothing to cancel, then. If something happens, you can cut the trip short.”
ChapterSix
Failure should be our teacher, not our undertaker. Failure is delay, not defeat. It is a temporary detour, not a dead end. Failure is something we can avoid only by saying nothing, doing nothing, and being nothing.—Denis Waitley
Micki
I picturemy office and visualize the extra pair of shoes I keep there. Not my usual stilettos, but acceptable low-heeled black pumps. The idea of spending the day in my bare feet is so horrifying that relief floods through me, knowing a bit of leather stands between me and utter humiliation. I limp back into the building, swipe my ID, and hobble to the elevator that will return me to the sixty-first floor and the law offices of Miller, Lanscombe, Baker, Francis, Masters, and Hargrove.
When I reach the glass doors etched with the firm’s name, the lights are on. I peer in, hoping the receptionist isn’t there. No luck. She’s perched on her high chair, above the long, polished marble counter. Twenty-five or so, but looking fifteen, she has magenta curls that cascade down below her shoulders and clash with the orange, yellow, and purple of her patchwork-print dress. She raises one pierced eyebrow. “Why you standin’ out dere, Ms. Press?”
I straighten my shoulders and march in as if I don’t have a care in the world, my shoes gripped in the fingers of my left hand. Cold feet from the granite floor is the least of my problems as I glare at her.
Her voice is identifiably Bridgeport Irish, and I wonder how many partners heard her. None, I hope. The senior ones won’t be in yet.
Wrong. A tap on my shoulder. I turn and practically bump my nose into Tyler Miller’s chest.
