Six
They got along too well, she thought, both
pleased and disconsolate. Pleased because she liked getting along
well with people, especially smart, handsome men, and very
especially someone whose intervention had helped keep kept her
career from plummeting off a cliff. Disconsolate because Caleb had
agreed to let her treat him to dinner only to settle a debt.
She was settling that debt in a rather
unorthodox way, though. If all he’d wanted was payment for getting
rid of her citation, he could have sent her a bill. His explanation
about not wanting to run her case past his partners… She supposed
that was plausible. But he was a lawyer. He’d voided a ticket for
her and refused to bill her. Her father and brother billed their
clients in fifteen-minute increments. They were not above accepting
a free meal—in fact, they were both wined and dined by their
wealthy clients quite often. But being wined and dined was never a
substitute for being paid in cold, hard cash.
The seafood platter before
her was delicious, but a larger portion than she could handle. Her
mother would probably scold her for requesting a bag to take home
the luscious-looking shrimp still sitting on her plate—the Benoit
matriarch considered requesting a take-home bag gauche in the
extreme—but among the things that made Meredith the family rebel,
along with moving north and reaching her thirtieth birthday without
a diamond solitaire on her ring finger, was that she thought taking
home what she couldn’t finish from a restaurant meal was more
sensible than letting food go to waste. Caleb had polished off
everything on his plate except for a few lonely lettuce leaves, but
she couldn’t offer him her shrimp. That would be
too… familiar.
She asked him if he wanted dessert, but he
patted his flat tummy and shook his head. “I’m stuffed. That was
great.”
“It was.” She handed the waitress her credit
card and decided that, take-home bag notwithstanding, her mother
wouldn’t fault her too much for her behavior over dinner. She’d
conducted herself demurely. She and Caleb had exchanged pleasant
chitchat about his affinity for ocean beaches, a recent client he’d
successfully defended against an erroneous drug charge, and his
courage—or perhaps recklessness—in remaining a Yankees fan while
living in Red Sox territory. She’d refrained from questioning him
about anything personal. Was he married? Attached? Divorced like so
many of her neighbors in Brogan Heights? If he was divorced, was
there a good reason, as there was with the neighbors she’d
dated?
She hadn’t asked. She couldn’t. Bill or no
bill, he was her lawyer. She was his client. And rebel or not,
she’d been raised to know where the line lay between polite
conversation and prying.
The waitress returned with her charge slip
and her shrimp in a small container. Meredith added a generous tip,
and she and Caleb left the restaurant.
The sky still held a bit of daylight. June
evenings stayed light so late—much later here than in Georgia,
she’d learned, just as she’d learned that during the winter months,
darkness arrived earlier in Massachusetts than in Georgia.
“It’s finally cooled off a little,” Caleb
said. He had his jacket clutched in his hand. Meredith stifled the
urge to shake it out and drape it neatly over his arm so it
wouldn’t get wrinkled. “Want to take a walk down the dock?”
She shouldn’t want to, but she did. As Caleb
had noted, the day had finally lost its scorching heat, and the
breeze rising off the water felt refreshing. Given how full she
felt, she could use a stroll before returning to her car.
They ambled side by side down the concrete
pier, Caleb holding his jacket, Meredith her leftover shrimp.
Between two docked fishing boats, he paused and peered north, where
a beach stretched out along the water’s edge, the sand pale and
undulating, a day’s worth of wind and footprints molding gentle
ripples into its surface. “Was that
They got along too well, she thought, both
pleased and disconsolate. Pleased because she liked getting along
well with people, especially smart, handsome men, and very
especially someone whose intervention had helped keep kept her
career from plummeting off a cliff. Disconsolate because Caleb had
agreed to let her treat him to dinner only to settle a debt.
She was settling that debt in a rather
unorthodox way, though. If all he’d wanted was payment for getting
rid of her citation, he could have sent her a bill. His explanation
about not wanting to run her case past his partners… She supposed
that was plausible. But he was a lawyer. He’d voided a ticket for
her and refused to bill her. Her father and brother billed their
clients in fifteen-minute increments. They were not above accepting
a free meal—in fact, they were both wined and dined by their
wealthy clients quite often. But being wined and dined was never a
substitute for being paid in cold, hard cash.
The seafood platter before
her was delicious, but a larger portion than she could handle. Her
mother would probably scold her for requesting a bag to take home
the luscious-looking shrimp still sitting on her plate—the Benoit
matriarch considered requesting a take-home bag gauche in the
extreme—but among the things that made Meredith the family rebel,
along with moving north and reaching her thirtieth birthday without
a diamond solitaire on her ring finger, was that she thought taking
home what she couldn’t finish from a restaurant meal was more
sensible than letting food go to waste. Caleb had polished off
everything on his plate except for a few lonely lettuce leaves, but
she couldn’t offer him her shrimp. That would be
too… familiar.
She asked him if he wanted dessert, but he
patted his flat tummy and shook his head. “I’m stuffed. That was
great.”
“It was.” She handed the waitress her credit
card and decided that, take-home bag notwithstanding, her mother
wouldn’t fault her too much for her behavior over dinner. She’d
conducted herself demurely. She and Caleb had exchanged pleasant
chitchat about his affinity for ocean beaches, a recent client he’d
successfully defended against an erroneous drug charge, and his
courage—or perhaps recklessness—in remaining a Yankees fan while
living in Red Sox territory. She’d refrained from questioning him
about anything personal. Was he married? Attached? Divorced like so
many of her neighbors in Brogan Heights? If he was divorced, was
there a good reason, as there was with the neighbors she’d
dated?
She hadn’t asked. She couldn’t. Bill or no
bill, he was her lawyer. She was his client. And rebel or not,
she’d been raised to know where the line lay between polite
conversation and prying.
The waitress returned with her charge slip
and her shrimp in a small container. Meredith added a generous tip,
and she and Caleb left the restaurant.
The sky still held a bit of daylight. June
evenings stayed light so late—much later here than in Georgia,
she’d learned, just as she’d learned that during the winter months,
darkness arrived earlier in Massachusetts than in Georgia.
“It’s finally cooled off a little,” Caleb
said. He had his jacket clutched in his hand. Meredith stifled the
urge to shake it out and drape it neatly over his arm so it
wouldn’t get wrinkled. “Want to take a walk down the dock?”
She shouldn’t want to, but she did. As Caleb
had noted, the day had finally lost its scorching heat, and the
breeze rising off the water felt refreshing. Given how full she
felt, she could use a stroll before returning to her car.
They ambled side by side down the concrete
pier, Caleb holding his jacket, Meredith her leftover shrimp.
Between two docked fishing boats, he paused and peered north, where
a beach stretched out along the water’s edge, the sand pale and
undulating, a day’s worth of wind and footprints molding gentle
ripples into its surface. “Was that
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