Two Wee Drams of Love, page 3
“I’ll take that,” Jane said, reaching for the bread basket. “And we’re ready to order.”
Cromarty recalled her selections—even the extra potatoes—and chose shrimp for himself.
“I would have pegged you for a beef kinda guy,” she said, peeling off several inches of injera before offering him the basket. “I love this stuff. Love. It. Remember that if you’re ever trying to turn me up sweet and there’s no decent chocolate on hand.”
He accepted the basket and set it down without partaking. “One would never have guessed.”
Rather than return fire, Jane savored a bite of sheer, gustatory satisfaction. “Doesn’t even need butter, and they always bring lots of it.” She hadn’t had any injera since Louise had pulled up stakes to teach at an art school.
A family came in with a baby in one of those baby basket-seats, the handle ergonomically twisted to ensure Junior could be hauled about everywhere without Mom or Dad’s arm getting tired. This model looked like it came equipped with airbags and an entertainment station.
“There goes the neighborhood,” Jane muttered, stuffing another bite of injera into her mouth.
“You don’t care for children?”
“I like children a lot, but the rug rat will start bellowing here directly, as soon as Mom and Dad try to have an adult conversation. They’re always teething when they’re that small.”
The little family trundled by, the baby nothing more than a pink, sleepy face among soft blankets and padding.
“The bairnie’s too wee to teethe yet,” Cromarty said, his tone wistful. He turned a green-eyed gaze on Jane as she inhaled another bite of injera. “I admit to some puzzlement, Ms. DeLuca. You’re having bread with your bread and bread with your extra potatoes, and I heard mention of dessert. Are you the only American female who doesn’t fret about her weight?”
He posed this question without so much as a hint of a wandering eye, a skill necessary if one was to cross-examine witnesses effectively.
Or hide genuine curiosity.
“I like food, Mr. Cromarty, and though I’m usually careful about what I eat, sometimes a good dose of carby bliss can make an otherwise unpleasant chore bearable. Like your wee dram.”
He comprehended the analogy, but—let the record show—did not concede the point. “Is carby a word, then, Ms. DeLuca?”
The baby-family settled in two tables away, and Junior uttered nary a peep.
“There you go being Scottish again. In American, when the punch line is bliss, some leeway is allowed with the modifiers.”
“For a Scot, when the punch line is bliss, no modifiers are necessary. Have you any reason not to send the Almquists to mediation over the custody issues?”
He took the injera in one hand and tore back a strip with the other, the way he might have torn off a strip of paper to jot down his phone number. The gesture was fastidious and gave Jane an entire second to shift from carby-bliss to unpleasant-chore mode.
“Yes, I have a reason for avoiding custody mediation. My guy doesn’t want to waste the money. Why spend four hours in court-ordered mediation if you know ahead of time you won’t get anywhere?”
“A psychic client. How I wish I’d been retained by one myself. I don’t envy you.” He poured his beer into its special beer glass, letting the beer dribble down the side in the exact quantity necessary to form a foamy head without spilling over.
“Not psychic. Broke. Have you talked money with your client?”
“Some. Shall I pour your ale?”
“Please.” Because competence in any regard, but especially when it involved a man’s hands, was a pleasure. “The Almquists are trying to maintain a decent lifestyle on one income, and mediation could cost them a grand they don’t have. Why don’t we at least try to come up with a parenting plan for them? They’ve already parted with the retainers, and they have only the two kids.”
He remained silent while he poured Jane’s ale, as if putting beer in a glass was his equivalent of savoring carby bliss. When the beer ritual was complete, he passed Jane her drink, then touched his own to it.
“To a quick, equitable, durable settlement.”
“Cheers.”
She sipped, because that was what the moment called for, and found…designer beer? “This tastes like flowers.”
“The heather is infused. The results don’t always turn out this well. I’ll ask Doreen if she’s amenable to a four-way meeting on the subject of parenting and try to come up with some proposals before we meet with you. I take it we’re going forward without fault grounds?”
The Toothless Wonder stirred to life. A small fist waved above the batting and blankets, and a thin cry sounded.
“That child wants a beer,” Jane said.
“That child wants a cuddle,” Cromarty countered, but softly, and as he spoke, the dad extracted the kid from the space shuttle and cradled him against his shoulder. Junior went immediately quiet.
“Do you have children?” Cromarty wore no ring, but—family law, much?—that didn’t mean he wasn’t a father.
“Cousins, siblings, nieces, nephews.” He drew his finger around the rim of his ale glass. “It’s in the Almquists’ favor that they don’t have fault grounds. Their divorce might not be too bad.”
Fault grounds, meaning adultery usually. On that cheery thought, the yesiga sambusas were brought to the table. The spicy, meaty scent went surprisingly well with the ale.
“Have one of these,” Jane said, holding the plate of sambusas out to him. He was watching the baby, the infant again in charity with the world and grinning over the dad’s shoulder. Jane waved the plate a few inches either direction. “Earth to Cromarty, food’s here.”
That look passed over his features again, a careful non-reaction that pretty much shouted displeasure. In the courtroom, she wouldn’t mind putting that look on his face from time to time. Over lunch, however…
“My name is Dunstan, Ms. DeLuca. Dunstan Lachlan Cromarty.” He put one of the meat pastries on his plate.
“Is that an invitation to use your first name?” In this enlightened age, Jane did not presume with the guys in any manner she wouldn’t want them presuming with her.
And the Laird of Damson County’s Family Law Bar probably wouldn’t take kindly to presuming from anybody.
Dunstan Lachlan Cromarty unfastened his tie tack—a gold unicorn with a blue gemstone for an eye—and undid a button midway down his shirtfront. Next, he slipped his tie into the gap in his shirt, leaving the button undone, Continental-style.
He looked up when he’d finished rearranging his attire to protect his tie from flying gravy, and the sternness remained in the cast of his features, while in his eye…
A goddamn twinkle?
“How does one put it in American? Me Dunstan, you Jane?”
He bit off a tidy corner of the sambusa, while Jane tried not to choke on her ale. Mr. Cro—Dunstan—would be a terror on cross-examination, well prepared, quick, to the point, merciless, and blessed with excellent timing. Poor old Calvin wouldn’t know what hit him—again.
But Dunstan Cromarty would be a magnificent terror.
If they went to trial, Jane would just have to be magnificent-er.
They tossed around various parenting scenarios for the Almquists, speculated about the new hire working for Trenton Knightley, and found that heather ale went equally well with shrimp wat and tikel gomen.
As the finger bowls were brought out, and Jane fished around under the table for her shoes, she tried to put a name to what wasn’t sitting well.
“This is yours,” Dunstan said, passing her right shoe over to her, then scooting around to reach under the table again. “If you’ll give me a moment,”—warm fingers glided over Jane’s ankle and shin—“got it.”
He passed her the left one.
“My thanks.”
While she put her shoes on, he repositioned his tie and tie tack. The moment had an intimate feel, nobody in a hurry, nobody too self-conscious about dealing with wardrobe matters in public, and that was also part of what was wrong with the meal.
“I enjoyed this,” Jane said as they headed for the register. “Only another lawyer can understand what the practice of law entails, and I like talking shop, and yet, those bar association lunches—”
“We wouldn’t be solo practitioners if we craved the constant company of our confreres.”
Missing Louise wasn’t the same as craving constant company, was it?
Dunstan had his wallet out in a single smooth-guy move. One instant, his hands were empty, the next—bam!—silver plastic was proffered from a worn black billfold.
“We’ll split it,” Jane said, fishing in her shoulder bag for her wallet. “Or I can get the sambusas because I ordered them.”
The lady behind the cash register hesitated before swiping Dunstan’s card.
While Jane fumbled around in the depths of a purse-cum-briefcase-cum-gym-bag that Louise had dubbed “The Vast Lonely.”
Dunstan leaned closer, close enough that the difference in their sizes became more apparent than usual.
“Jane, cease yer frettin’,” he said quietly. “Next time we have a working lunch, you can have the tax deduction.”
Jane stopped rummaging in the depths of her shoulder bag, though she did not cease her frettin’.
This informal meal between Me Dunstan and You Jane, this experimenting with heather ale and sharing of courthouse gossip, hadn’t felt like a working lunch, though some work had been accomplished.
This meal, with Dunstan ordering, Dunstan passing over her shoes, and Dunstan now holding the door for her, had felt like that most rare and precious of all surprises…
An enjoyable date.
* * *
“I tend to favor mediation,” Dunstan said. He’d taken a place across the conference table from his client, the better to protect himself from the aggravation of the scent she wore. “You and Mr. Almquist know your children better than the judge does, you know the family situation better than anybody else, and you are the ones who’ll have to live with any parenting schedules included in the court order.”
Doreen wore a teal silk blouse—and the teal nails—but her pantsuit was russet, putting Dunstan in mind of… he could not recall what, and it didn’t matter, because Doreen had once again accessorized her ensemble with indignation and hurt.
And a baby-powder perfume that made his nose twitch.
“You want us to come up with a parenting schedule,” she said, drumming those nails on the conference table. “If it’s parenting, then it’s down to me. My yogilates class is full of women who get every other weekend off from the parenting schlepp, and I’d be happy to have that much time to myself.”
“The children are in school, aren’t they?”
“Subtle, Dunstan.” The drumming increased in tempo. “Yes, they’re in school, and that means I have little more than six glorious, fun-filled, action-packed hours of the day to do the housework, the yard work, the grocery shopping, the laundry, fit in my classes, get dinner started if I’m doing anything besides leftovers, and handle whatever else that might come my way—I’ve told Cal for the past year we need to replace that water heater, and lo and behold, yesterday morning was wasted waiting for the delivery guys. And then I put on my chauffeur hat.”
“While Calvin does what?”
He asked because she needed to tell this story to somebody, and no real work could be accomplished until she had.
“Hell if I know. He goes down the road each morning, and comes home when he comes home. Traffic on I-270 is the other woman in our marriage when tax season isn’t holding him hostage.”
“So your parenting proposal is every other weekend with Dad. What about holidays, school breaks, vacations, that sort of thing?”
this was why Dunstan favored mediation, because prodding tired, heartbroken, scared people to think about their children, about how the divorce would affect those helpless to prevent it, was in itself wearying and heartbreaking.
His lower back agreed, so he got up and adjusted the blinds in his small conference room.
“The boys gave up on Cal years ago,” Doreen said. Around the conference room, Dunstan had hung poster-size sticky notes, a twenty-eight-square grid marked out on each one in black. The squares were filled with red M’s and green D’s, for Mom and Dad. “And I’m not a dad, Dunstan.”
The sight of those damned squares never failed to bother Dunstan. “What if you had a different schedule for tax season and the rest of the year? Mightn’t Calvin find more time for his children?”
Her nails stopped drumming for the space of three quiet seconds, then resumed. “He’s scared of those boys. They’re loud, they’re messy, they forget to put the seat down, and they’re interested in girls.”
“They have something in common with their father, then,” Dunstan said, resuming his place at the table to copy the schedules on the wall onto his legal pad.
“Gonads? Gorillas have those. I hear more about junk, packages, and—if it weren’t for the Dictionary of Urban Slang, I’d hardly know when to scold my own sons.”
And yet, she didn’t make the effort to talk to her husband, or had given up trying, and refused counseling. Dunstan was reminded of the quote about happy families being all the same, but troubled ones each having their own tale or woe.
Which thought was interrupted by a prodigious sneeze, followed by a terse “bless you” from Doreen.
Dunstan tended to pinch his nose together when he sneezed, which his mother claimed would cause his eyeballs to explode, though it saved him the great honk of an escaped sneeze. He put his handkerchief to use and scooted his chair back.
“Think about parenting options you can offer your husband, Doreen, the more the better. We’re brainstorming now, trying to be creative. I’ve been looking at your budget, and at the statement of assets and liabilities. You should still consider counseling. Single parenting is hard, even harder than the parenting you’re doing now.”
She rose swiftly. “Counseling costs money when we’re broke enough as it is. I’m not good at numbers. That’s why I married an accountant.”
And if Calvin thought he was valued only for his accounting, how was he to know the missus was longing for a family picnic or wild, monkey, laundry room sex?
“Money is always a delicate topic when a marriage ends. How do you and Calvin manage it?”
While Doreen wandered around the room studying the various schedules as if they were displays in some contemporary art gallery, Dunstan cracked the window and drew from her a picture of family finances as rigid and distant as the parties themselves.
“So you pay all the household bills from the account in your name, while Calvin manages the investments?”
“I don’t understand all that SEP, T-whatever stuff, and Cal thrives on it. He puts a chunk of cash in the household account, and I pay the bills. That way, he doesn’t bother me about every little carryout order or heating bill. It’s one part of our marriage that hasn’t caused problems yet.”
She was either ashamed, lying, trying not to cry, perhaps all three.
“If you can have only one part of the marriage functioning smoothly, finances are a good one to have. What does Calvin do for spending money?”
Doreen paused before the window, which looked out over a long, narrow backyard, the office being a renovated row house a block away from the courthouse.
“That is a beautiful oak, out behind your office.”
The tree was huge, probably centuries old, and at present a luminous yellow in its autumn plumage. The weather was changing, though, the temperature dropping, the wind tearing at the leaves remaining on the branches. Then too, the increasing chill had turned Dunstan’s back twinge-y again.
“Aye, it’s pretty, but those falling leaves clog every gutter and downspout for half a block. You were telling me about Calvin’s spending money.” Or she was avoiding talking about it, though she could linger by the window all morning if it would spare Dunstan another sneeze.
“He has his own credit card, probably one of those business cards in some impressive, glossy finish. I don’t bother him over it. All he does is buy gas with it unless he’s off to some accounting conference.”
Uncle Donald claimed that hunting had less to do with good aim and more to do with the ability to sit still and shut up. Game wandered into view sooner or later, if the hunter could be patient.
“We’ll need to have a look at all the bank statements, Doreen. Every bill, every credit card statement. Calvin is an accountant, he’ll understand why verification is needed for what’s on the accounting filed at the courthouse.”
She put her hand on the window glass, her teal nails spread against a backdrop of golden oak leaves soon to fall. “He’ll fuss. Is that really necessary?”
Dunstan stayed where he was, enduring a pang of sympathy for Doreen Almquist while an eddy of chilly autumn air rescued him from another sneeze. She was disappointed in Calvin—or disappointed in life and attributing more than a fair share to her husband—but she believed Calvin was a basically decent fellow she was no longer attracted to.
“Calvin is a CPA, Doreen, and he’s keeping a separate account you never see, and though most men in his position would expect to handle the household bills, he’s turned that over entirely to you, and he never—not at Christmas or birthdays, not for the yard work or the new water heater—double-checks your work or second-guesses your decisions. That makes me nervous.”
She pushed away from the window and retrieved a shimmery, silky, taupe overcoat from the coat rack in the corner. That coat was pretty and likely felt lovely on, but it wouldn’t keep her warm when the weather changed, which this time of year was inevitable.
“Good,” she said. “I’m paying you to know when to be nervous. I’ll meet you here at nine thirty Tuesday morning and go over my parenting proposals with you before Calvin and his lawyer arrive.”
“Until Tuesday,” he said, getting to his feet. “And please compile copies of the household bills and bank statements, Doreen. The parenting schedule might be easy, but the money could get interesting.”
