unnervingly polite, feminine way.
“Juice?” she asked.
“Power. Clout.”
She nodded. “Do you think Mr. Felton is
innocent?”
He laughed. She definitely wasn’t a
shrinking violet. “I’m his attorney. My job is to defend him. More
than that I’m not going to say.” He glanced at the menu, pondering
whether to order a boiled lobster, messy though that would be. He
noticed a cold seafood platter and decided to go for that, instead.
Let the chef pull the lobster out of the shell for him. Besides,
with all that fire burning inside, he’d just as soon eat something
cold.
The waitress arrived with a plastic basket
of rolls and a dish filled with foil-wrapped pats of butter.
Meredith ordered the cold seafood platter, too, and a glass of
Pinot Grigio. Caleb opted for a beer.
Meredith said nothing until their drinks
arrived. She had a stillness about her, something Caleb admired
because stillness was so lacking in himself. Even when he was
relaxing, his brain churned constantly. There was always some
puzzle to solve, some fact to deconstruct, some argument demanding
refutation. His thoughts unspooled in strings of words. He couldn’t
just think. He thought in sentences, in italics, in arguments.
Meredith’s brain might be churning, too—but
if it was, she gave nothing away. She sat serenely, her pretty blue
eyes drifting to a trite painting of a sailboat hanging on the wall
above their table, to the fishing net draped from the ceiling above
the hostess station, to Caleb, to the clock—shaped, of course, like
a boat’s steering wheel—and back to Caleb again. She seemed so
enviably calm. He wondered if she could maintain her calmness when
standing before a classroom of rowdy teenage students. If she
could, her school ought to tenure her in immediately. Any high
school teacher who could remain so apparently unflappable was a
treasure.
She lifted her glass to him and said, “A
toast to you, for getting my ticket tossed. I hope there’s nothing
underhanded about what you did.”
“Totally legal.” He held up his hands, as if
to demonstrate that he had nothing to hide. “I just pointed out to
Officer Sulkowski that penalizing you for something that wasn’t
your fault didn’t seem fair. I tossed in a few lawyer words for
good measure. That’s it.”
“I wish you’d send me a bill,” she said.
“Taking you out to dinner… I feel as if I owe you more than
this.”
“No, it’s fine. Really.” He absorbed her
message: she would preferred to have settle her debt to him in a
more businesslike fashion, rather than in this informal, friendly
way. This wasn’t a date. Caleb got it. “Billing you would have
complicated things,” he explained. “I’d have to run your case past
my partners. They’d have told me it was too minor and I shouldn’t
waste time on it.” He took another sip of beer. “Besides, I like
this place. Great food, no atmosphere. My kind of joint.” He helped
himself to a roll. “So, where are you from? That’s not a Boston
accent.”
She smiled. “Savannah.”
“Georgia? You’re a long way from home.”
“This is home for me now” She smiled. “I
like it here. I guess I’m the true rebel in my family, living among
the aggressors in the War Between the States.” She fell silent as
the waitress appeared with their meals—heaping platters filled with
shrimp, a slab of cold poached salmon, a mound of what appeared to
be crab salad, and a full lobster tail, open and inviting, all
sitting on a layer of romaine lettuce.
Meredith thanked the waitress. She might be
living among the victors of the Civil War, but she still displayed
Southern manners.
As soon as they were alone,
Caleb said, “I can’t believe people down in Georgia would consider
you a rebel.” When he thought of rebels, he thought of people who
weren’t so… nice .
She focused on lifting the lobster meat out
of its shell, slowly and neatly. Then she smiled at him. “Here I am
in New England.
“Juice?” she asked.
“Power. Clout.”
She nodded. “Do you think Mr. Felton is
innocent?”
He laughed. She definitely wasn’t a
shrinking violet. “I’m his attorney. My job is to defend him. More
than that I’m not going to say.” He glanced at the menu, pondering
whether to order a boiled lobster, messy though that would be. He
noticed a cold seafood platter and decided to go for that, instead.
Let the chef pull the lobster out of the shell for him. Besides,
with all that fire burning inside, he’d just as soon eat something
cold.
The waitress arrived with a plastic basket
of rolls and a dish filled with foil-wrapped pats of butter.
Meredith ordered the cold seafood platter, too, and a glass of
Pinot Grigio. Caleb opted for a beer.
Meredith said nothing until their drinks
arrived. She had a stillness about her, something Caleb admired
because stillness was so lacking in himself. Even when he was
relaxing, his brain churned constantly. There was always some
puzzle to solve, some fact to deconstruct, some argument demanding
refutation. His thoughts unspooled in strings of words. He couldn’t
just think. He thought in sentences, in italics, in arguments.
Meredith’s brain might be churning, too—but
if it was, she gave nothing away. She sat serenely, her pretty blue
eyes drifting to a trite painting of a sailboat hanging on the wall
above their table, to the fishing net draped from the ceiling above
the hostess station, to Caleb, to the clock—shaped, of course, like
a boat’s steering wheel—and back to Caleb again. She seemed so
enviably calm. He wondered if she could maintain her calmness when
standing before a classroom of rowdy teenage students. If she
could, her school ought to tenure her in immediately. Any high
school teacher who could remain so apparently unflappable was a
treasure.
She lifted her glass to him and said, “A
toast to you, for getting my ticket tossed. I hope there’s nothing
underhanded about what you did.”
“Totally legal.” He held up his hands, as if
to demonstrate that he had nothing to hide. “I just pointed out to
Officer Sulkowski that penalizing you for something that wasn’t
your fault didn’t seem fair. I tossed in a few lawyer words for
good measure. That’s it.”
“I wish you’d send me a bill,” she said.
“Taking you out to dinner… I feel as if I owe you more than
this.”
“No, it’s fine. Really.” He absorbed her
message: she would preferred to have settle her debt to him in a
more businesslike fashion, rather than in this informal, friendly
way. This wasn’t a date. Caleb got it. “Billing you would have
complicated things,” he explained. “I’d have to run your case past
my partners. They’d have told me it was too minor and I shouldn’t
waste time on it.” He took another sip of beer. “Besides, I like
this place. Great food, no atmosphere. My kind of joint.” He helped
himself to a roll. “So, where are you from? That’s not a Boston
accent.”
She smiled. “Savannah.”
“Georgia? You’re a long way from home.”
“This is home for me now” She smiled. “I
like it here. I guess I’m the true rebel in my family, living among
the aggressors in the War Between the States.” She fell silent as
the waitress appeared with their meals—heaping platters filled with
shrimp, a slab of cold poached salmon, a mound of what appeared to
be crab salad, and a full lobster tail, open and inviting, all
sitting on a layer of romaine lettuce.
Meredith thanked the waitress. She might be
living among the victors of the Civil War, but she still displayed
Southern manners.
As soon as they were alone,
Caleb said, “I can’t believe people down in Georgia would consider
you a rebel.” When he thought of rebels, he thought of people who
weren’t so… nice .
She focused on lifting the lobster meat out
of its shell, slowly and neatly. Then she smiled at him. “Here I am
in New England.
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