Who Would You Choose? Page 3

  She supposed she and Jerry looked good together. Was that important? They got along well, but she never felt as though they needed to live together in order to get along well. They were sort of bonded. Casually bonded. Was that enough?

  The waiter arrived with their food, and for a moment there was a flurry of arranging plates and tasting the first bites and making observations about the skill of the chef. They were old friends and had long ago gotten into the rather intimate habit of tasting each other’s food. Soon the four of them were in a heated political discussion, the kind that can animate good friends without sending them home mad. By the time they’d had their desserts, paid the bill, and were ready to leave, they’d set aside all their political differences, which weren’t many and in any case, not crucial, and were ready to end the day.

  Out on the street, Mack and Bridey said good night and were walking home in the sweet late-summer evening. Jerry scanned the street for a cruising cab and it was only a minute before a yellow taxi pulled up. He held the door and Marge got in.

  He leaned his head into the cab.

  “Don’t forget. Tomorrow night. Meet me at the courthouse. Six o’clock.”

  “I didn’t forget.”

  “Great. We’ll ride uptown together—grab dinner somewhere before the game. See you then.”

  He closed the door, and the taxi drove off.

  She sat back, leaned her head against the cracking faux leather, smiled, and started planning.

  Courtside at the Garden. Cameras likely, of course. Wear something casual, something simple. Altuzarra sent over some great skirts this afternoon. Maybe one of those—the multicolored maxi skirt, I think. With tall boots. And a plain top, something loose and comfy. And long sleeves. They keep the Garden so cold.

  And after the game—Jerry will come back to the apartment with me. Maybe he’ll stay for the weekend.

  A nice thought. She liked having Jerry Germaine in her life.

  The city flowed past her, bright lights flashing in the dark, the reds and the greens of the traffic signals, and the New York pulse all around her. She put her head back, closed her eyes, and smiled all the way home.

  Chapter Three

  Friday afternoon, already six o’clock, and Marge hurried down the corridor just as the doors to the courtroom were being opened. There was a spill of people coming out, but she knew Jerry wouldn’t be among those first to leave. He’d need to be packing up his papers, having some last words with his team, with his client, maybe even in the judge’s chambers along with opposing counsel, needing to take care of some loose ends. So she got herself comfortable on a bench opposite the doors, took out her tablet and prepared to get a little work handled while she waited. A young new features editor, Penny Lightly, had just joined the staff and had pitched a proposal, the first one on her own. Marge started scrolling through it and was pleased, right away. The girl was onto a good idea, something that would appeal to a certain niche of Lady Fair readers, and she had a nice writing style, conversational but sophisticated. Though the hall was filled with the chatter of people and the sounds of their footsteps on the marble floor, Marge was quickly engrossed, unbothered by the clatter around her. Unbothered, unaware.

  Until a man’s voice broke through the background noise.

  “My God! Marge? Marge Webster? Is that you?”

  That voice.

  Her hand went to her throat.

  The necklace!

  So many years ago, she still knew that voice.

  She looked up. He was silhouetted against the ceiling light behind him; his face was shadowed. A sheaf of papers in one hand, cell phone in the other, business suit, and his tie slightly askew. But yes, of course she remembered him.

  “Sam?”

  Back in high school, he’d been a tall, skinny boy, not athletic, wrote for the school newspaper and the literary magazine. Funny, fun, bright, charismatic and everyone loved him. Went on to Harvard undergrad. Her family moved out of state. They’d gone on to separate lives, lost track of each other.

  “What in the world—?”

  He stuck the cell phone in his pocket. Laid the papers on the bench and sat down next to her.

  “I know,” he said. “What in the world? What are you doing here?”

  “I’m waiting to meet—someone.” She’d been about to say “my boyfriend,” and noticed that she’d edited herself.

  “You’re looking great,” Sam said. He seemed really happy to see her. “I see you sometimes, in the news. I tell people, ‘I knew her, back in high school.’” He laughed. “They always want to know, ‘What’s she really like?’”

  “What do you tell them?” She couldn’t believe how she felt—totally self-conscious—like she was a teenager again. She’d gone tongue-tied and could feel herself blushing.

  “I tell them you were the most focused kid I’d ever known, that you knew what you were going to be doing in ten years, in twenty years. And that you were always got up in the most interesting, God-awful outfits. Something new and outrageous every day. Plus, that you were a knockout. The best-looking girl in the school.” He paused and his face lost some of its merriment. “And that you left a trail of broken hearts behind you.”

  She managed a little laugh and found her tongue. “I don’t know whether to protest or say thank you. I wasn’t aware of any broken hearts.”

  He laughed, too. Reassuringly. “We were all young. I’m sure we all recovered.”

  “Well, then. No damage done.”

  “No, none at all.” There was that nice smile of his. “Listen. We ought to go somewhere and catch up. Are you busy? There’s a bar, right across Centre Street, we could—”

  “Can’t do it, Sam. I’m busy tonight.” She noticed that she didn’t say “I have a date.” Second time she’d edited herself. “Going to the game at the Garden.” She felt as though she needed to change the subject. “Have you kept in touch with people from school?”

  “Some of them.” He paused, noticed the shift. “But listen. Let’s really plan to get together. I could give you a call—arrange something—”

  “Of course,” Marge said. I can’t believe this. My hand is shaking. She needed to get her hand under control. She dug around in her bag, fished out her business card, and handed it to him. “Call me. Any time. We can dredge up old memories. If I can remember back that far.”

  They were laughing together when Jerry came out of the courtroom.

  “Oh, here he is, now,” she said. Jerry spotted them together as she lifted a hand to wave him over. His expression, as he approached them, seemed guarded, even—perhaps—not his usually cordial smile? That’s not like Jerry, she thought. What’s bothering him?

  “Jerry,” she said, “this is Sam Packard. He just found me here while I was waiting for you. Sam and I were in high school together. Big surprise, running into each other like this—after all these years.” And to Sam, she said, “Sam, this is Jerry Germaine. I’ve been waiting for him to finish up. We’re going to the game tonight.” To her surprise, the two men didn’t shake hands. She paused, wondering what was going on. “I was going to suggest Sam join us for dinner. He could tell you all about my awkward adolescent years. Sam was three years ahead of me in school and we all adored him. He was—”

  But Sam interrupted her. He turned to Jerry and shrugged and said, “If I’d known—”

  Jerry’s smile was a forced imitation of the real thing.

  “Sam and I know each other, honey. Sam’s on the other side.” His tone was cool, only professionally cordial. Cautious—and maybe just a little sarcastic? “My ‘worthy opponent.’”

  “I had no idea, Jerry,” Sam said. “Marge didn’t say—”

  “Of course not.” Jerry’s tone was just this side of frosty.

  Sam got the message. He smiled—and Marge remembered that smile of his, remembered how it slipped acros
s his face and lit up his nice brown eyes, a merry little smile that acknowledged that life always takes such an amusing turn.

  He picked up the sheaf of papers from the bench. “Let’s put a hold on that dinner,” he said. “Maybe when this case is done, we could all get together and talk about the good old days.” To Jerry, he said, “We can talk about how Marge and I were once young and innocent.” And to Marge he said, “I’ve got to get back to the office. It was great running into you like this. Really, Marge.” Now the two men did shake hands. And Sam said, “See you back here on Monday, Jerry.” And he was gone.

  Marge put away her tablet. Silently, she and Jerry walked down the corridor to the courthouse doors and out into the late afternoon light, down the long, broad flight of stone steps out to Centre Street. They remained silent until they were in the cab headed uptown. Then Jerry spoke.

  “So. Imagine your knowing Sam Packard.”

  “Mm-hmm. Yeah.”

  They continued on silently for a while.

  Then Marge said, “I think I’d heard he went to law school. It was a long time ago.”

  “Well, when this case is over, I suppose we could all go have a drink together or something. You could catch up.”

  “Yeah. We could do that.”

  She was deep in her memories and didn’t see how Jerry was looking at her. Very thoughtfully.

  Chapter Four

  “It was like a thunderbolt,” Marge said. “I swear, Bridey. Like I’d been hit by lightning.”

  Marge and Bridey were at their favorite brunch place, Miss Muffett’s Tea Shop on Madison Avenue. Miss Muffett’s people served the loveliest little sandwiches and tea cakes, had perhaps a hundred teas available, and were serious about their organic menu. Marge and Bridey had each ordered omelets and toast, and the waitress had set their plates in front of them and gone to get their tea—an exotic infused floral for Bridey, plain Earl Grey for Marge.

  “You’ve got to swear to say nothing to anyone, Bridey. Not even Mack.” She looked miserable.

  “Of course not. Just tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Bridey. There he was, big as life, right there in the courthouse, and I was like I was fourteen years old again, like my head was full of oatmeal and I couldn’t think what to say. Like I was a dumb kid again.”

  “I can believe it. You just said ‘like’ three times.”

  Marge shrugged. “Like I said. A dumb kid again.”

  “You were never a dumb kid, Marge. Not even in high school.”

  “Okay. Maybe not—but I was sure dumb about Sam Packard.” She broke off a bit of toast and buttered it. “You remember?”

  “I remember. He was a senior and you were totally goofy about him. For months, totally goofy. I remember, you had a party for your fifteenth birthday and he came and he gave you a little necklace. It was a silver chain with some kind of charm. You wore that damn necklace all the time. Whatever happened to it?”

  Marge shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve forgotten.” That was a lie. Marge knew perfectly well where that necklace was—in a small jewelry bag, a pouch made of royal purple velvet—tucked safely away in a corner of her jewel box. “It was so long ago,” she said.

  “He took you to his senior prom. You were just a freshman and he took you to his senior prom.”

  “Yes, he did. It was a big deal.”

  “It was a really big deal. We were all in awe.”

  “I was in awe myself.” Marge laughed at the memory.

  “What was it about Sam Packard? It’s not like he was the hottest-looking guy in the school. But he was so popular. He was everyone’s best friend.”

  “I know. I remember—he was funny—not funny-looking. Just funny. He made me laugh.”

  “He made everyone laugh. Is he still skinny and sort of gangly? Is his hair still all kind of wild?”

  “No. It looked quite normal. Still that sort of dark sandy color. Quite tidy, in fact. Actually, he’s aged nicely. He’s kind of filled out, looks more mature now.” She laughed. “Well, of course, what am I saying? He is more mature. He must be close to forty.”

  “Is he married?”

  “I didn’t have a chance to ask. He didn’t say.”

  “No ring?”

  “I had no chance to look. Actually, I didn’t think of it.”

  “I remember his eyes,” Bridey said. “He had the nicest eyes.”

  “I guess that was it. I was looking at his eyes. Didn’t think to look at his hand.”

  “So what did you talk about?”

  “We didn’t have a chance, really, to talk about anything. He suggested we get together, have a drink or something, catch up on old times, and I swear, Bridey, my heart just went pit-a-pat, it really did, like I couldn’t breathe. But just then Jerry came out of the courtroom before I could even answer.”

  “Are you going to see him?”

  Marge didn’t answer right away. Then, almost to herself, she said, “I really want to. I really would. Oh, Bridey, I really do want to.” She looked at the toast in her hand and took a bite. She hadn’t touched her omelet at all. “But I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t even be feeling this way about him.” She looked at the eggs on her plate as though she wondered how they got there. She had absolutely no appetite at all. She pushed the plate away. “Anyway, I really can’t. At least, not while they have this case against each other. It would be sort of unethical—or, at least—I don’t know—it wouldn’t look right. When a lawyer’s in court every day, litigating something, his girlfriend shouldn’t be seen socializing with the lawyer on the other side. Doesn’t look right.”

  “But you do want to see him?”

  “I really do. Is that awful of me?”

  “I’m not sure. When you called this morning, you said you hardly slept last night. Is it that bad?”

  “Like I said, it was like a lightning bolt. No kidding. There he was and suddenly I was back in that time when I had been so in love—the way you can be in love only when you’re fourteen—like I thought magic flowed from his fingertips.”

  “Oh, Marge, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. You can’t be serious.”

  “I know. I can’t be. Bridey, I’m thirty-five years old. I’m a serious adult. I live a very serious, adult life. I manage a major corporate enterprise, I influence a billion-dollar industry. Grown-up people invest big money depending on what I say, the choices I make. And a boy from my youth shows up and I’m fourteen years old again. I feel like a fool.” She looked at the toast in her hand, decided she didn’t want it, put it back on the plate. Fourteen silly years old again,” she repeated. “And it was as though the years fell off me and I was dumb again in that sweet way it is when you’re too young to know how dumb you are. Do you understand? Do you remember?”

  “Hmm.” Bridey smiled. “What I remember is I don’t ever want to be that dumb again.”

  “Well, that’s just it. What I’d forgotten is how sweet it is. Oh, God, Bridey. It’s like I have to save me from myself. What am I going to do?”

  “Where’s Jerry today?”

  “He’s at the club. Playing tennis. And that’s another thing. I think maybe Jerry smelled a rat. You know what a good guy Jerry is, how easy-going. But right away they were like a couple of moose or rams or something, squaring off against each other. I felt the tension between them, the minute Jerry saw me with him.”

  “That’s only because they’re on opposite sides in the case. They have to be adversaries. In court at least. Until it’s over.”

  “I guess so. You mean it’s not me?” She was definitely uncertain. “Probably. I suppose you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right.” She signaled the waitress for more tea. “Now eat your omelet and stop being fourteen again. Go home and get on your treadmill. Work up a sweat. It will clear your head.”

&nb
sp; “I already did that. At five o’clock this morning. It didn’t help.”

  “Jerry must have loved that. Didn’t your pounding away on the treadmill wake him up?”

  “He said he didn’t mind. He’s an early riser anyway and he said he could use the time to work on a brief before he went to play tennis. I told him I had a busy schedule today and wanted to get an early start.”

  Bridey made some playful tsk-tsking sounds. “Lying to your boyfriend. Shame on you, Marge. That’s not good.” Her smile said she wasn’t really scolding.

  But still, Marge felt guilty.

  “Not really lying,” she said, trying to reassure herself. “Just keeping the peace.”

  “Just kidding, Marge. But I know you, and Jerry does, too. You’d never be up at five. Work days, yes, but never on a Saturday.”

  “No. Actually, I really do have to get to the office today.” At least that part was true.

  But the rest of it she wasn’t ready to share with Bridey. Not yet. She wasn’t ready to tell Bridey that at five that morning, when she gave up trying to sleep, she found a text message on her phone.

  A message from Sam.

  So good to run into you, Marge.

  Beautiful as always—beautiful as I remembered you. When we’re done with this case, I want to see you.

  Chapter Five

  She wasn’t lying when she said she needed to be in the office that day. An item in the late news last night had caught her attention.