read me when I didn't want to be read and, more to the point, she couldn't help it.
Her teenage son, Brian, was struggling to find his place in a world of divided loyalties where I was one more competitor for his mother's affection. Alan wanted her back and Henry was rooting for him. She didn't want to leave their firm, didn't want to encourage Alan, and didn't want to alienate him for fear of how that would affect Brian. Both told her I was a bad bet.
She said that I cared too much whether people thought my movement disorder was real or bad enough to cost me my career since I didn't shake all the time or whether people thought it was all in my head, making me a crazy freak instead of just a freak. I worried that my world was too small for her, that she would come to resent that I couldn't do all the things that she was used to doing and enjoyed, the travel, the nights out at the theater, the symphony, or the ball park. We weren't there yet, she said, and besides, it was her life and that decision was up to her.
We navigated our way around these land mines, stepping on a few, staying together because what we had was so much better than what we'd come from and we knew too well what it was like to be alone, both of us struggling with being in love.
Kate had been on the road the last few weeks pitching prospective corporate clients, so busy we'd not seen each other or said more than good night or good morning over the phone. I was glad to see her when she picked me up for dinner at seven Saturday evening. I preferred not to drive at night when I was more likely to spasm and contort my way into a plaintiff's lawyer's payday.
"I made a reservation at Axios," she said when I got in her car.
"That place off of Fifty-fifth and Brookside?"
"Yes. It's French. Fine dining encourages two things we haven't had enough of lately—quiet conversation and intimacy."
"We can talk all you want but they better have a hell of a dessert menu because I prefer my intimacy served at your place or mine."
"Brian is with his father this weekend so you might get lucky if you clean your plate."
We sipped the wine, lingered through dinner, and talked. It was quiet and intimate. I led off, telling her about Lucy Trent, Ammara Iverson, and the envelope from Wendy.
"What do you think was in the envelope?" she asked.
"I've got no idea. Could have been anything from a card to a confession."
"I'm sure Ammara will tell you if they find it."
I nodded. "Trouble is, she'll wait until it's all over before she tells me."
"And you don't like being shut out in the meantime."
"Not so much."
"But you have to accept that because the FBI has the people and resources to do the job and you don't and you don't need the stress."
"Not so much," I said with a grin that she didn't reciprocate. "Okay, yes."
"I know it's hard, but it will be easier on you if you let Ammara handle it."
Her concern was legitimate and genuine but that didn't make it welcome. It was another reminder of limitations I resented more than I accepted. There was no point in having this argument since we both knew that I couldn't and wouldn't sit on the sidelines. I decided to change the subject before telling her about my job for Milo Harper.
"How's Brian?"
She let out a long sigh. "His grades are down and his barriers are up. I want him to see a therapist but his father says to give him time to figure things out on his own. I'm the disciplinarian and Alan is the laid back retro-hippy. Guess which one of us Brian prefers?"
"No contest, but take it from me, you can't make a teenager do anything. Any luck on your trip?"
"No. Our business went into the tank six months ago and isn't getting any better. I've spent the last three weeks smiling while being turned down."
"The economy catching up to you?"
"Maybe. We've reduced our salaries and laid off some staff but if things don't get better soon, I don't know how long we can keep the doors open."
"What would you do if you didn't have the
Her teenage son, Brian, was struggling to find his place in a world of divided loyalties where I was one more competitor for his mother's affection. Alan wanted her back and Henry was rooting for him. She didn't want to leave their firm, didn't want to encourage Alan, and didn't want to alienate him for fear of how that would affect Brian. Both told her I was a bad bet.
She said that I cared too much whether people thought my movement disorder was real or bad enough to cost me my career since I didn't shake all the time or whether people thought it was all in my head, making me a crazy freak instead of just a freak. I worried that my world was too small for her, that she would come to resent that I couldn't do all the things that she was used to doing and enjoyed, the travel, the nights out at the theater, the symphony, or the ball park. We weren't there yet, she said, and besides, it was her life and that decision was up to her.
We navigated our way around these land mines, stepping on a few, staying together because what we had was so much better than what we'd come from and we knew too well what it was like to be alone, both of us struggling with being in love.
Kate had been on the road the last few weeks pitching prospective corporate clients, so busy we'd not seen each other or said more than good night or good morning over the phone. I was glad to see her when she picked me up for dinner at seven Saturday evening. I preferred not to drive at night when I was more likely to spasm and contort my way into a plaintiff's lawyer's payday.
"I made a reservation at Axios," she said when I got in her car.
"That place off of Fifty-fifth and Brookside?"
"Yes. It's French. Fine dining encourages two things we haven't had enough of lately—quiet conversation and intimacy."
"We can talk all you want but they better have a hell of a dessert menu because I prefer my intimacy served at your place or mine."
"Brian is with his father this weekend so you might get lucky if you clean your plate."
We sipped the wine, lingered through dinner, and talked. It was quiet and intimate. I led off, telling her about Lucy Trent, Ammara Iverson, and the envelope from Wendy.
"What do you think was in the envelope?" she asked.
"I've got no idea. Could have been anything from a card to a confession."
"I'm sure Ammara will tell you if they find it."
I nodded. "Trouble is, she'll wait until it's all over before she tells me."
"And you don't like being shut out in the meantime."
"Not so much."
"But you have to accept that because the FBI has the people and resources to do the job and you don't and you don't need the stress."
"Not so much," I said with a grin that she didn't reciprocate. "Okay, yes."
"I know it's hard, but it will be easier on you if you let Ammara handle it."
Her concern was legitimate and genuine but that didn't make it welcome. It was another reminder of limitations I resented more than I accepted. There was no point in having this argument since we both knew that I couldn't and wouldn't sit on the sidelines. I decided to change the subject before telling her about my job for Milo Harper.
"How's Brian?"
She let out a long sigh. "His grades are down and his barriers are up. I want him to see a therapist but his father says to give him time to figure things out on his own. I'm the disciplinarian and Alan is the laid back retro-hippy. Guess which one of us Brian prefers?"
"No contest, but take it from me, you can't make a teenager do anything. Any luck on your trip?"
"No. Our business went into the tank six months ago and isn't getting any better. I've spent the last three weeks smiling while being turned down."
"The economy catching up to you?"
"Maybe. We've reduced our salaries and laid off some staff but if things don't get better soon, I don't know how long we can keep the doors open."
"What would you do if you didn't have the
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