senseless, like a stampede of cattle into the slaughterhouse.
Mitchell met her as she debarked. He wore his unbreakable lawyer's smile, a Rolex, a tailor-cut pinstriped suit, shoes so gleaming that he could check his dark, curly hair in them. Perfect Mitchell. Still perfectly, utterly the same as when she had last seen him, as when she had first seen him. He didn't age, only accumulated thicker layers of sameness.
As he headed toward her at the luggage conveyor, she wondered why she couldn't be grateful for the stability he offered. All she had to do was say "Yes," and she could be Mrs. Austin by April. Sure, he would irk her from time to time, would grant only the perfunctory four minutes of intercourse before rolling over to call his stock broker, would pat her on the hand and call her his "Little Woman," would smother her with boring endeavors like tennis dates and new window treatments. But he would never, ever create a bad memory for her. In fact, she was quite sure that, after a lifetime with him, she would have very few memories at all.
And that might not be such a bad thing.
They hugged stiffly, him looming over her, trying to press her breasts against him. He kissed her cheek before finding her lips. No tongue, and she didn't offer hers. His cologne was musky and sweet.
"You're looking great," he said, letting his eyes roam over her figure. If he noticed the weight she'd put on, he didn't say anything, but he might have been calculating its effect beside the country club's pool, and how a small bulge around the bikini lines might affect that complex formula of social standing. Arm candy couldn’t eat candy, at least not too much of it.
"You're looking perfect, as usual," she said.
"I work at it," he said. Truer words never spoken. Another thing about Mitchell, he was pretty honest for a lawyer.
"Did you find out anything about my dad’s case?" she asked.
"A little, but can't it wait? I got us reservations at The Blue Note, and it wasn't easy, let me tell you. Even Mitchell Austin has to grease a few palms to get a good seat in this town."
Now he was referring to himself in third person. How the mighty had risen in her absence.
He pointed to her hand. “Hey, where’s the rock?”
She mulled the short list of lies and came up with a tired one. “I was cleaning the stove before I left and didn’t want to tarnish it. I was in such a rush packing, I forgot to put it back on.”
“Jesus, Julia, do you know how much that cost?”
She supposed in the five-figure range, but she merely said, “Don’t worry, I left it in a safe place.”
“You’re not waffling, are you?”
Lying got easier with practice, and she served it up with one of Mitchell’s pet phrases. “No, Mitchell. I’m sticking with the game plan.”
He smiled but the gesture didn’t reach his eyes. He took her hand and dragged her toward baggage claim.
They caught a cab downtown, Julia gawking at the skyscrapers like a tourist as Mitchell possessively put his arm around her. He helped her out when the cab pulled to the curb. The muggy air on the sidewalk settled around Julia like a second skin. The car exhaust, the noise of traffic and evening commerce, the kaleidoscopic neon and flashing lights all kept her off balance. How had she survived this sensory overload for so long?
They had a cucumber salad for openers, Mitchell ordering wine, Julia sticking with lemonade. "So, tell me what you found out about my father," she said.
Mitchell arranged his napkin with a flourish. "Later. This meal is costing a small fortune. You can pay me back by gazing into my eyes and melting."
She gazed, but didn't melt. She hoped someday soon she would be able to melt again, but not tonight. "It's important, Mitchell."
He sighed and drained his glass, tapped it until the waiter brought more. "It's like I told you, not much new. I got hold of the detective who worked the case, a Lieutenant James Whitmore, he's retired now, but I served on a Chamber
Mitchell met her as she debarked. He wore his unbreakable lawyer's smile, a Rolex, a tailor-cut pinstriped suit, shoes so gleaming that he could check his dark, curly hair in them. Perfect Mitchell. Still perfectly, utterly the same as when she had last seen him, as when she had first seen him. He didn't age, only accumulated thicker layers of sameness.
As he headed toward her at the luggage conveyor, she wondered why she couldn't be grateful for the stability he offered. All she had to do was say "Yes," and she could be Mrs. Austin by April. Sure, he would irk her from time to time, would grant only the perfunctory four minutes of intercourse before rolling over to call his stock broker, would pat her on the hand and call her his "Little Woman," would smother her with boring endeavors like tennis dates and new window treatments. But he would never, ever create a bad memory for her. In fact, she was quite sure that, after a lifetime with him, she would have very few memories at all.
And that might not be such a bad thing.
They hugged stiffly, him looming over her, trying to press her breasts against him. He kissed her cheek before finding her lips. No tongue, and she didn't offer hers. His cologne was musky and sweet.
"You're looking great," he said, letting his eyes roam over her figure. If he noticed the weight she'd put on, he didn't say anything, but he might have been calculating its effect beside the country club's pool, and how a small bulge around the bikini lines might affect that complex formula of social standing. Arm candy couldn’t eat candy, at least not too much of it.
"You're looking perfect, as usual," she said.
"I work at it," he said. Truer words never spoken. Another thing about Mitchell, he was pretty honest for a lawyer.
"Did you find out anything about my dad’s case?" she asked.
"A little, but can't it wait? I got us reservations at The Blue Note, and it wasn't easy, let me tell you. Even Mitchell Austin has to grease a few palms to get a good seat in this town."
Now he was referring to himself in third person. How the mighty had risen in her absence.
He pointed to her hand. “Hey, where’s the rock?”
She mulled the short list of lies and came up with a tired one. “I was cleaning the stove before I left and didn’t want to tarnish it. I was in such a rush packing, I forgot to put it back on.”
“Jesus, Julia, do you know how much that cost?”
She supposed in the five-figure range, but she merely said, “Don’t worry, I left it in a safe place.”
“You’re not waffling, are you?”
Lying got easier with practice, and she served it up with one of Mitchell’s pet phrases. “No, Mitchell. I’m sticking with the game plan.”
He smiled but the gesture didn’t reach his eyes. He took her hand and dragged her toward baggage claim.
They caught a cab downtown, Julia gawking at the skyscrapers like a tourist as Mitchell possessively put his arm around her. He helped her out when the cab pulled to the curb. The muggy air on the sidewalk settled around Julia like a second skin. The car exhaust, the noise of traffic and evening commerce, the kaleidoscopic neon and flashing lights all kept her off balance. How had she survived this sensory overload for so long?
They had a cucumber salad for openers, Mitchell ordering wine, Julia sticking with lemonade. "So, tell me what you found out about my father," she said.
Mitchell arranged his napkin with a flourish. "Later. This meal is costing a small fortune. You can pay me back by gazing into my eyes and melting."
She gazed, but didn't melt. She hoped someday soon she would be able to melt again, but not tonight. "It's important, Mitchell."
He sighed and drained his glass, tapped it until the waiter brought more. "It's like I told you, not much new. I got hold of the detective who worked the case, a Lieutenant James Whitmore, he's retired now, but I served on a Chamber
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