of
generations. We watched the children on horses bob up and down and wave to
their parents at each turn, both a greeting and farewell. After sampling the
aromas from the strip of vendors and gorging on caramel popcorn and lemonade,
we walked down to the beach. The sun hovered low and a breeze blew over the shimmering
water. He stood behind me, and I nestled into him, enjoying his warmth. When he
wrapped his arms around me, I put mine out to each side like Rose on the Titanic fully aware of, but not caring
about, the absurdity. Rose had the right idea. With the wind pushing against
me, it felt like flying. I closed my eyes.
He bent his head down, his breath tickling my neck. “I
don’t want just sex,” he whispered in my ear.
“Neither do I…but sometimes that’s all I want.”
“I know. Me too.”
I turned to look at him, and this was part of the magical
part. Amid the distant calliope sounds and the dizzying lights of the carousel
in the dusk, he kissed me, his lips soft and tasting of caramel. If you had
been in my place, you probably would have ended it there—the setting sun, the
perfect kiss, the end. But, no, the sordid scenario with Simon had been nagging
me all afternoon, a pesky dog nipping at my feet while I tried to kick it free.
I seized the moment. “Can I tell you something as an
attorney? I mean, attorney-client privilege and everything?” He was still a DA
after all and would have been duty bound to report my crime spree. The
attorney-client privilege would prevent him from disclosing any confession
involving past acts and would relieve him of any moral dilemma. It would also
protect me, in case he didn’t entirely appreciate my methods.
“Now what?”
“Just humor me.”
“Okay,” he said. “The privilege is hereby invoked.”
“Scout’s honor?” I added, a belt and suspenders never
having hurt anyone except in a fashion sense.
“Scout’s honor,” he repeated, signaling with his hand.
We walked along the water, and he listened to me unburden
myself piecemeal, offering snippets, fully and frightfully aware of how crazy I
sounded even though I tried to control the spin. He was silent, so I kept
talking, filling the void with more details and justifications, glancing at him
now and then to gauge his reaction, until my need for his response became
greater than my need to continue. I stopped and confronted him.
“Is this some kind of interrogation technique? Say
something.”
He put his hands on my shoulders. “I didn’t realize it had
gotten that far. You should have told me at the time.”
“And what would you have done?” I challenged.
“Not what you did.”
“Obviously.” I paused while the mental image formed and made
me laugh. He laughed, too. I took his hands from my shoulders, and we resumed
walking. “I don’t want anything from you,” I continued. “I just wanted to let
you know.”
“Good thinking about the privilege,” he said.
“It’s what I do.” We walked in silence, my mind debating
the wisdom of my rash confession as I watched the water advance and retreat,
mimicking my turmoil.
“Thank you,” he said finally. “Thank you for trusting me,
even if you couldn’t then.” This time he stopped and faced me. “I want you to
feel that you can confide in me and know that I have your back.”
“Well, you have all of me now,” I said.
Sweeping a strand of hair from my face, he kissed me, his
lips at first brushing mine, before deepening, while my sense of relief also
deepened to a satisfying calm, a contrast to the hurricane of the past weeks.
* * * *
Within the week John Hawkins had interviewed at the firm
and been offered and accepted the position as Simon’s replacement with a caveat.
My boss, like some Nostradamus with a twisted mind, decided to implement a new
policy of banning intra-office relationships. I did not know where he came up
with this brilliant idea, but thought Simon may have had some part in it. I
ventured an
generations. We watched the children on horses bob up and down and wave to
their parents at each turn, both a greeting and farewell. After sampling the
aromas from the strip of vendors and gorging on caramel popcorn and lemonade,
we walked down to the beach. The sun hovered low and a breeze blew over the shimmering
water. He stood behind me, and I nestled into him, enjoying his warmth. When he
wrapped his arms around me, I put mine out to each side like Rose on the Titanic fully aware of, but not caring
about, the absurdity. Rose had the right idea. With the wind pushing against
me, it felt like flying. I closed my eyes.
He bent his head down, his breath tickling my neck. “I
don’t want just sex,” he whispered in my ear.
“Neither do I…but sometimes that’s all I want.”
“I know. Me too.”
I turned to look at him, and this was part of the magical
part. Amid the distant calliope sounds and the dizzying lights of the carousel
in the dusk, he kissed me, his lips soft and tasting of caramel. If you had
been in my place, you probably would have ended it there—the setting sun, the
perfect kiss, the end. But, no, the sordid scenario with Simon had been nagging
me all afternoon, a pesky dog nipping at my feet while I tried to kick it free.
I seized the moment. “Can I tell you something as an
attorney? I mean, attorney-client privilege and everything?” He was still a DA
after all and would have been duty bound to report my crime spree. The
attorney-client privilege would prevent him from disclosing any confession
involving past acts and would relieve him of any moral dilemma. It would also
protect me, in case he didn’t entirely appreciate my methods.
“Now what?”
“Just humor me.”
“Okay,” he said. “The privilege is hereby invoked.”
“Scout’s honor?” I added, a belt and suspenders never
having hurt anyone except in a fashion sense.
“Scout’s honor,” he repeated, signaling with his hand.
We walked along the water, and he listened to me unburden
myself piecemeal, offering snippets, fully and frightfully aware of how crazy I
sounded even though I tried to control the spin. He was silent, so I kept
talking, filling the void with more details and justifications, glancing at him
now and then to gauge his reaction, until my need for his response became
greater than my need to continue. I stopped and confronted him.
“Is this some kind of interrogation technique? Say
something.”
He put his hands on my shoulders. “I didn’t realize it had
gotten that far. You should have told me at the time.”
“And what would you have done?” I challenged.
“Not what you did.”
“Obviously.” I paused while the mental image formed and made
me laugh. He laughed, too. I took his hands from my shoulders, and we resumed
walking. “I don’t want anything from you,” I continued. “I just wanted to let
you know.”
“Good thinking about the privilege,” he said.
“It’s what I do.” We walked in silence, my mind debating
the wisdom of my rash confession as I watched the water advance and retreat,
mimicking my turmoil.
“Thank you,” he said finally. “Thank you for trusting me,
even if you couldn’t then.” This time he stopped and faced me. “I want you to
feel that you can confide in me and know that I have your back.”
“Well, you have all of me now,” I said.
Sweeping a strand of hair from my face, he kissed me, his
lips at first brushing mine, before deepening, while my sense of relief also
deepened to a satisfying calm, a contrast to the hurricane of the past weeks.
* * * *
Within the week John Hawkins had interviewed at the firm
and been offered and accepted the position as Simon’s replacement with a caveat.
My boss, like some Nostradamus with a twisted mind, decided to implement a new
policy of banning intra-office relationships. I did not know where he came up
with this brilliant idea, but thought Simon may have had some part in it. I
ventured an
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