Grace, you wonderful client, you.
“I enjoyed talking to you yesterday,” I said. “Brief as it was.”
He laughed. Nice laugh, to go with the shoulders. “Would you like to have dinner, and talk at length? How's Wednesday night?”
He didn't sound too doubtful about my answer, but then he didn't have to be. I made a pretense of checking my calendar.
“Wednesday's fine.”
“Five-thirty?”
“That's a little early …”
“Indulge me,” he said. “The restaurant I have in mind is a bit out of town.”
“Okay. Wednesday at five-thirty.”
And that was how I discovered a miracle cure for headaches. I called Lily back, just to share my medical breakthrough.
“Guess what? Our long national nightmare is over. I've got a date.”
Lily laughed at me, but then she often does. “OK, who is he?”
I told her about Holt. I tried not to gush, but I must have tried too hard.
“Let me get this straight,” she said. “He's not actually handsome, he's just tall and curly-haired with amazing greeneyes. And he's a hotshot lawyer, but that's nothing special. And he asked you out for dinner, but of course he's not really interested in you. Have I got that right?”
“Okay, he is handsome, and maybe he's sort of interested. I just don't want to get my hopes up.”
“I can understand that.” Lily sighed. “I've been burned before. So I don't suppose you want me to look him up in Martindale-Hubbell?”
“Oh, could you?”
She laughed again. Martindale-Hubbell is a Who's Who of attorneys. It couldn't hurt to know something about Prince Charming's background. “I'll call you from work.”
Librarians are so great. Lily called me Monday morning, right after Eddie and I had muttered our apologies for that childish argument on Friday afternoon.
“No word yet on Mary,” she announced, “but Holt Walker is hot stuff. Rhodes scholar, Harvard Law School, with a year at Oxford at some special international program. Practiced in Chicago, now here—he's migrating west—both times at big corporate firms. He's thirty-eight, has a penthouse apartment downtown and a time-share condo on Maui. Goes rowing on Lake Washington every morning for exercise, does pro bono work for a senior citizen group. And half the women at Voigt, Baxter, McHugh have a crush on him.”
“It says all that in Martindale-Hubbell, does it?”
Lily guffawed. “Well, it just so happens that the legal librarian at VBM is a friend of mine.”
“Lily! You didn't tell her why you were asking?”
“Are you kidding? I said I'd been referred to a Harold Walker, a really boring old guy who writes wills, and she spent fifteen minutes telling me why Holt Walker couldn't be him. Smart, huh?”
“Brilliant. What else did she say?”
“Well, he's a widower. His wife died in a boating accident a couple of years ago and he hasn't really dated much since then, except for taking female friends to benefits and office parties. Lots of women at VBM would like to help him back to the land of the living. Are you still there?”
“Hmm?” I was off in a reverie. So Holt had been solitary since losing his wife, keeping up a good front but not getting close to anyone new. And now he'd taken a chance and asked someone out: me. I was flattered, and touched.
“Listen, Carnegie, I've got to get back to work. See you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks, Lily. You're a peach.”
“You bet I am,” she said.
W ITH W EDNESDAY NIGHT BECKONING ON MY CALENDAR , Monday and Tuesday flew by in a blur of checklists. The lists were designed and printed out by Eddie and then covered with my scribbled notes about typefaces, foreign postage, bridesmaids’ hats, videographers, ring engraving—someday I'd have to count up how many decisions and telephone calls go into a wedding. Three or four hundred, anyway. Eddie noticed the lump on my temple, but I played it down as a minor fall at the Parry estate.
Nor did I mention that curious remark my mother had made about the
“I enjoyed talking to you yesterday,” I said. “Brief as it was.”
He laughed. Nice laugh, to go with the shoulders. “Would you like to have dinner, and talk at length? How's Wednesday night?”
He didn't sound too doubtful about my answer, but then he didn't have to be. I made a pretense of checking my calendar.
“Wednesday's fine.”
“Five-thirty?”
“That's a little early …”
“Indulge me,” he said. “The restaurant I have in mind is a bit out of town.”
“Okay. Wednesday at five-thirty.”
And that was how I discovered a miracle cure for headaches. I called Lily back, just to share my medical breakthrough.
“Guess what? Our long national nightmare is over. I've got a date.”
Lily laughed at me, but then she often does. “OK, who is he?”
I told her about Holt. I tried not to gush, but I must have tried too hard.
“Let me get this straight,” she said. “He's not actually handsome, he's just tall and curly-haired with amazing greeneyes. And he's a hotshot lawyer, but that's nothing special. And he asked you out for dinner, but of course he's not really interested in you. Have I got that right?”
“Okay, he is handsome, and maybe he's sort of interested. I just don't want to get my hopes up.”
“I can understand that.” Lily sighed. “I've been burned before. So I don't suppose you want me to look him up in Martindale-Hubbell?”
“Oh, could you?”
She laughed again. Martindale-Hubbell is a Who's Who of attorneys. It couldn't hurt to know something about Prince Charming's background. “I'll call you from work.”
Librarians are so great. Lily called me Monday morning, right after Eddie and I had muttered our apologies for that childish argument on Friday afternoon.
“No word yet on Mary,” she announced, “but Holt Walker is hot stuff. Rhodes scholar, Harvard Law School, with a year at Oxford at some special international program. Practiced in Chicago, now here—he's migrating west—both times at big corporate firms. He's thirty-eight, has a penthouse apartment downtown and a time-share condo on Maui. Goes rowing on Lake Washington every morning for exercise, does pro bono work for a senior citizen group. And half the women at Voigt, Baxter, McHugh have a crush on him.”
“It says all that in Martindale-Hubbell, does it?”
Lily guffawed. “Well, it just so happens that the legal librarian at VBM is a friend of mine.”
“Lily! You didn't tell her why you were asking?”
“Are you kidding? I said I'd been referred to a Harold Walker, a really boring old guy who writes wills, and she spent fifteen minutes telling me why Holt Walker couldn't be him. Smart, huh?”
“Brilliant. What else did she say?”
“Well, he's a widower. His wife died in a boating accident a couple of years ago and he hasn't really dated much since then, except for taking female friends to benefits and office parties. Lots of women at VBM would like to help him back to the land of the living. Are you still there?”
“Hmm?” I was off in a reverie. So Holt had been solitary since losing his wife, keeping up a good front but not getting close to anyone new. And now he'd taken a chance and asked someone out: me. I was flattered, and touched.
“Listen, Carnegie, I've got to get back to work. See you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks, Lily. You're a peach.”
“You bet I am,” she said.
W ITH W EDNESDAY NIGHT BECKONING ON MY CALENDAR , Monday and Tuesday flew by in a blur of checklists. The lists were designed and printed out by Eddie and then covered with my scribbled notes about typefaces, foreign postage, bridesmaids’ hats, videographers, ring engraving—someday I'd have to count up how many decisions and telephone calls go into a wedding. Three or four hundred, anyway. Eddie noticed the lump on my temple, but I played it down as a minor fall at the Parry estate.
Nor did I mention that curious remark my mother had made about the
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