An hour later, the two women were sitting at a table for five at the Coconut Grove Yacht Club, a pleasantly aging relic of a more genteel era, just yards from the marina. The sun was just setting over the Everglades, but Victoria and Jacqueline already had downed two martinis each. Knowing how much Steve was depending on her, Victoria was starting to feel the pressure. She also had doubts about her mission: How on earth could she reverse whatever lousy impression Steve already had made? She signaled the waiter. Maybe another drink would settle her nerves.
“This time,” Jackie said, “I've really sworn off men. That's why I'm reading Life Without Dick.”
“That's a book?” Victoria said.
“In the self-help section, right next to Slouching Toward Celibacy.”
“This doesn't sound like you.”
“All these years I've been looking for a genius with a penis. Then I figured I'd settle for either one. Now I'm torn between flying solo and muff diving.”
“No way.”
“You don't think I'd make a good lesbo?”
“Definitely not.”
“It's that or nothing. Unless the Bad Boy turns me on.”
Two more martinis arrived. Victoria was feeling a pleasant buzz, and the tension started to ease. Sure, she could wow this doctor. Just bring her on. Outside the yacht club windows, the moored sailboats were bathed in a pink glow.
“Tell me more about him,” Jackie said.
“Solomon? He's incredibly competitive and hates to lose.”
“Gee, who does that sound like?”
“No way.”
“In the second set, why'd you smash an overhead right at my big butt?”
“An accident.” She sipped at her drink. “Solomon's a loner. Stubborn and independent.”
“No wonder you can't stand him. You're just alike.”
“I am not a loner.”
“Then why won't you play with me in the Christmas tournament?”
“You know why. I don't like doubles.”
“Because you hate depending on anyone else.”
Victoria thought about it. True, she wanted to win or lose on her own. Preferably win. What's wrong with that?
“Solomon's stubborn, bossy, and never admits he's wrong. And he loves the spotlight. You should have seen him at the press conference after the bail hearing. He's surrounded by these bimbos he says are his law clerks, but they're really South Beach models he's dated.”
“Another guy who's a modelizer? Jeez, I gotta lose weight.”
“The bimbos are fighting for face time, and Solomon's spouting off about how we're going to kick the prosecution's butt. It was unseemly and borderline unethical.”
“C'mon, he sounds like a hoot.”
Solomon did something else, too, something Victoria didn't mention because she was still processing it. With cameras rolling and questions firing, he'd veered into a soliloquy about the natural law and the sanctity of the marital bedroom and other riffs that none of the reporters cared about or understood. Then he noticed Victoria standing off to the side, out of camera range. He pulled her over and wrapped an arm around her shoulder.
“Don't forget to mention my partner,” he told the reporters. “Victoria Lord. Not ‘Vickie.' Victoria. She's gonna be the best trial lawyer Miami's ever seen.”
Solomon had surprised her again. Sure, he could be arrogant and a total jerk. But sometimes it seemed that his jerkiness was an act, that the nice guy underneath slipped out when he wasn't looking. The opposite of most men, who worked hard to conceal their truly disagreeable traits.
“In a word, Solomon is maddening,” she said.
Jackie nibbled at an olive. “Maddening is first cousin to enchanting.”
“Not to me.” She vowed to reject any cuddly thoughts of Solomon that might have been brought on by his press conference flattery.
“Does he ride a Harley?” Jackie asked. “I love Harleys.” She opened her black satin evening bag and took out her compact. Examining her face in the mirror, she smoothed out the lines in her forehead. “He better show up before we lose that magic hour glow.”
“Trust me, Jackie, he's not your type.”
“Why not? I won't like him or he won't like me?”
Victoria thought about it and came to a startling conclusion. In all likelihood, they would like each other. They had the same ribald sense of humor, the same breeziness. How could she not have seen it? And now that she had, why was she still reluctant to play matchmaker?
“I don't know, Jackie. It's just hard to fix people up.”
“Okay, I'm not gonna beg. But if I can't have the Bad Boy, can you clone Mr. Perfect for me?”
“Sometimes I wonder if I even deserve Bruce.” Victoria felt a pang of guilt. She hadn't even thought about her fiance, Solomon being the prime topic of conversation.
“Stop or I'll hurl.” Then Jackie's eyes flickered with a mischievous look. “I'll bet Bruce really makes your sheets sing.”
“It'll take another martini before I go there.”
“Waiter!” Jackie called out. “The way I figure, Bruce tries so hard at everything, he's gotta be great in the sack.”
Why were her lips going numb? Victoria wondered. “The only thing I'll say, I'm usually sore for two days.”
“He's hung, too? I hate you.”
Just then, Steve hurried to the table, looked at Victoria, did a double take, and said: “Wow! You look outstanding.”
“Solomon, meet my haid of monor, Jackal. I mean, maid of honor, Jackie.”
Jackie bounded out of her chair and threw her arms around Steve, running her hands across his back.
“Where is it?” she demanded.
“You think I'm wearing a wire?” Steve said, bewildered.
“Your fin. Where's the damn fin?”
Victoria was laughing so hard she snorted, which caused Jackie to melt into a paroxysm of giggles. The only one not laughing was Steve.
“When did you two start drinking?” He counted the toothpicks, circumstantial evidence of their guzzling. “I can't believe this.”
“Uh-oh,” Victoria said. “We violated one of Solomon's Laws.” She mimicked his voice. “Never imbibe until sundown.” Then, hoisting the martini glass: “But just like Katrina said, it's gotta be dark somewhere in the world.”
“I didn't expect this from you,” he said.
“If the law doesn't work, jerk off the law.”
“Where's Bigby?” Steve asked, unamused.
“Trying to fit into his underpants,” Jackie said, convulsing in laughter, breasts heaving. She grabbed a baguette from the bread basket, waved it at Steve. “Hey, white shark, how's your package? Are you as big as Bigby?”
“Aw, Jesus,” Steve said.
The waiter showed up with a tray of martinis. “Would you like to catch up with the ladies, sir?” he inquired.
“I'd like to horsewhip the ladies.”
“Me first,” Jackie said.
“Take away the drinks. Bring a pitcher of ice water and a pot of coffee,” Steve ordered.
Victoria pouted. “Why so uptight, Solomon?”
“This is important to me, okay?”
“Don't worry, Stevie.” Victoria patted his hand. “I can carry this off. And if not, there's nobody I'd rather do jail time with than you.”
Twenty-four
HOW GREEN IS MY DAIQUIRI?
Steve spotted Bruce Bigby headed across the dining room.
Suntanned and smiling, Bigby made his rounds, smacking pals on the back, braying “Evening, Commodore” to an older gent, strutting toward their table in a black cashmere blazer, the breast pocket emblazoned with the yacht club seal. He grinned hellos to Jackie and Steve, then turned to Victoria. “Heavens, what's that you're wearing?”
“Do you like it?” she asked, extending her bare arms, swiveling to show off her mesh singlet and nearly naked back. She'd had a glass of ice water and three cups of black coffee, and best Steve could tell, was as sober as a judge. Actually, more sober than most judges he knew.