Court?”
“No.” Defensive. “But I didn’t expect mind-numbing drudgery.”
I let her vent on.
“I make next to nothing. And the people I work with are slammed by their caseloads and just want to negotiate pleas and move on to the next file. They don’t have time for a lot of interaction with staff. Talk about boring. There’s only one guy with spunk, and he’s got to be fifty.” Katy’s tone changed ever so slightly. “Actualy, he’s bodaciously hot.
If he weren’t so old I wouldn’t mind slipping off his tighty whities.”
“Too much information.”
Katy roled on.
“You’d like this guy. And he’s single. It’s realy sad. His wife was kiled on nine-eleven. I think she was an investment banker or something.”
“I’l find my own men, thanks.”
“Al right, al right. Anyway, half the staff are fossils, the other half are too harried to notice there’s a world outside the PD’s office.”
I was beginning to grasp the problem. Bily was no longer making grade, and no twenty-something cute-boy lawyer was waiting in the wings.
We ate in silence for a few moments. When Katy spoke again I could tel her thoughts had circled.
“So what are we going to do about Summer?”
“For my part, nothing.”
“Jesus, Mom. The woman hasn’t finished forming a ful set of molars.”
“Your father’s life is his own.”
Katy said something that sounded like “cha,” then fork-jabbed her fish. I took another mouthful of veal.
Seconds later I heard a whispered “Ohmygod.”
I looked up.
Katy was gazing at something over my shoulder.
“Ohmygod.”
8
“WHAT?”
“I don’t believe it.”
“What?”
Bunching her napkin, Katy pushed away from the table and strode across the restaurant.
I turned, confused and anxious.
Katy was talking to a very tal man in a very long trench coat. She was animated, smiling.
I relaxed.
Katy pointed at me and waved. The man waved. He looked familiar.
I waggled my fingers.
The two started toward me.
The NBA build. The loose gait. The black hair parted by Hugh Grant himself.
Ping.
Charles Anthony Hunt. Father, a guard first for the Celtics, later for the Buls. Mother, an Italian downhil skier.
Charlie Hunt had been a classmate at Myers Park High. Lettered in three sports, served as president of the Young Democrats. The yearbook predicted him the grad most likely to be famous by thirty. I was voted most likely to do stand-up.
Folowing graduation, I’d left Charlotte for the University of Ilinois, gone on to grad school at Northwestern, then married Pete. Charlie had attended Duke on a hoops scholarship, then UNC–Chapel Hil law. Over the years I’d heard that he’d married and was practicing up North.
Charlie and I both played varsity tennis. He was al-state. I won most of my matches. I found him attractive. Everyone did. Change was sweeping the South in the seventies, but old mores die slowly. We didn’t date.
The Labor Day weekend before our colegiate departures, Charlie and I swung a bit more than our rackets. The match involved tequila and the backseat of a Skylark.
Cringing inwardly, I refocused on my veal.
“Mom.”
I looked up.
Charlie and Katy were at my side, both flashing copious dentition.
“Mom, this is Charles Hunt.”
“Charlie.” Smiling, I extended a hand.
Charlie took it in fingers long enough to wrap the Toronto Sky-Dome. “Nice to see you, Tempe.”
“You two know each other?”
“Your mama and I went to high school together.” Charlie’s accent was flatter and more clipped than I remembered, perhaps the result of years spent up North, perhaps the product of intentional modification.
“You never let on.” Katy punched Charlie’s bicep. “Objection, counselor. Withholding evidence.”
“Katy’s brought me up to date on al your achievements.” Charlie was stil enveloping my fingers, giving me his “no one in the universe exists but you” stare.
“Has she.” Reclaiming my hand, I glanced narrow-eyed
“No.” Defensive. “But I didn’t expect mind-numbing drudgery.”
I let her vent on.
“I make next to nothing. And the people I work with are slammed by their caseloads and just want to negotiate pleas and move on to the next file. They don’t have time for a lot of interaction with staff. Talk about boring. There’s only one guy with spunk, and he’s got to be fifty.” Katy’s tone changed ever so slightly. “Actualy, he’s bodaciously hot.
If he weren’t so old I wouldn’t mind slipping off his tighty whities.”
“Too much information.”
Katy roled on.
“You’d like this guy. And he’s single. It’s realy sad. His wife was kiled on nine-eleven. I think she was an investment banker or something.”
“I’l find my own men, thanks.”
“Al right, al right. Anyway, half the staff are fossils, the other half are too harried to notice there’s a world outside the PD’s office.”
I was beginning to grasp the problem. Bily was no longer making grade, and no twenty-something cute-boy lawyer was waiting in the wings.
We ate in silence for a few moments. When Katy spoke again I could tel her thoughts had circled.
“So what are we going to do about Summer?”
“For my part, nothing.”
“Jesus, Mom. The woman hasn’t finished forming a ful set of molars.”
“Your father’s life is his own.”
Katy said something that sounded like “cha,” then fork-jabbed her fish. I took another mouthful of veal.
Seconds later I heard a whispered “Ohmygod.”
I looked up.
Katy was gazing at something over my shoulder.
“Ohmygod.”
8
“WHAT?”
“I don’t believe it.”
“What?”
Bunching her napkin, Katy pushed away from the table and strode across the restaurant.
I turned, confused and anxious.
Katy was talking to a very tal man in a very long trench coat. She was animated, smiling.
I relaxed.
Katy pointed at me and waved. The man waved. He looked familiar.
I waggled my fingers.
The two started toward me.
The NBA build. The loose gait. The black hair parted by Hugh Grant himself.
Ping.
Charles Anthony Hunt. Father, a guard first for the Celtics, later for the Buls. Mother, an Italian downhil skier.
Charlie Hunt had been a classmate at Myers Park High. Lettered in three sports, served as president of the Young Democrats. The yearbook predicted him the grad most likely to be famous by thirty. I was voted most likely to do stand-up.
Folowing graduation, I’d left Charlotte for the University of Ilinois, gone on to grad school at Northwestern, then married Pete. Charlie had attended Duke on a hoops scholarship, then UNC–Chapel Hil law. Over the years I’d heard that he’d married and was practicing up North.
Charlie and I both played varsity tennis. He was al-state. I won most of my matches. I found him attractive. Everyone did. Change was sweeping the South in the seventies, but old mores die slowly. We didn’t date.
The Labor Day weekend before our colegiate departures, Charlie and I swung a bit more than our rackets. The match involved tequila and the backseat of a Skylark.
Cringing inwardly, I refocused on my veal.
“Mom.”
I looked up.
Charlie and Katy were at my side, both flashing copious dentition.
“Mom, this is Charles Hunt.”
“Charlie.” Smiling, I extended a hand.
Charlie took it in fingers long enough to wrap the Toronto Sky-Dome. “Nice to see you, Tempe.”
“You two know each other?”
“Your mama and I went to high school together.” Charlie’s accent was flatter and more clipped than I remembered, perhaps the result of years spent up North, perhaps the product of intentional modification.
“You never let on.” Katy punched Charlie’s bicep. “Objection, counselor. Withholding evidence.”
“Katy’s brought me up to date on al your achievements.” Charlie was stil enveloping my fingers, giving me his “no one in the universe exists but you” stare.
“Has she.” Reclaiming my hand, I glanced narrow-eyed
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