Now, as the waiter served pre-appetizer snacks like little party favors sent from the kitchen-a bite-size flan risotto flaked with lemon and a griddled masa cake topped by a tomatillo sauce-Junior surprised her with a question. "So, you and Solomon, law partners and how much more?"
She told him the story. How months earlier she'd called Steve "the sleaziest lawyer she'd ever met." How they'd shared facing jail cells after being held in mutual contempt for bickering in court. How he'd tricked her into a mistrial, which got her fired, and then how they'd teamed up to try a murder case. She left out the bit about making love in her fiance's avocado grove. Wildly romantic at the time, it just seemed tawdry in the telling. But as she spoke to Junior, that night kept coming back to her. A snowstorm in Miami, a hurricane in her heart. She could still smell the black smoke of the smudge pots, could see the twinkling Christmas lights warming the trees. One indelible image: Steve's face. Startled. . because she had made the first move. He had resisted-well, hesitated, anyway. The tough guy had been afraid of getting hurt. She was, after all, engaged to someone else.
So I must have fallen in love with Steve, right?
Or was that just her rationalization for what she had done? Now she wondered, had things happened too fast? And that nagging thought returned: Were her first instincts about Steve-the cutthroat, corner-cutting competitor-correct? Were the two of them just too different?
But now, another scary thought whipped through her like a chilly wind. Was she about to do something tawdry again?
"We've been together since then," Victoria told Junior. Giving away none of her concerns. Or was she? Was just being here in a darkly lit romantic restaurant in her ruffled top with the bare shoulders. . was that some signal that she was available?
He nodded and gave her a little smile with a raised eyebrow. As if it just didn't compute, Steve and her. But what he said was: "He's a lucky guy."
"Steve's charms are not always readily apparent. He has a real affinity for the underdog, and he's truly fearless. He doesn't care what people think of him, and if he believes in a client, he'll do anything to win, including risking disbarment and sometimes dismemberment."
"Yeah, he seems a little aggressive."
"Steve actually has a tender heart." Why did she feel the need to defend him? To justify her choice in a man, maybe? "You should see him with his nephew."
"Let's not talk about Solomon," Junior said, even though he was the one who'd raised the issue. "A toast."
He hoisted his glass and swirled the tequila. Victoria held the stem of her martini glass, the Cosmo glowing crimson in the candlelight.
"To old friends," Junior proclaimed, his eyes a deep azure pool. "And new beginnings."
And self-knowledge, Victoria thought. Awareness of who I am and what I want.
She felt her face heat again and sipped her Cosmo, hoping it would cool her, erase the blush from her neck. Then, like an attentive beau, Junior focused the conversation on her.
Not the Marlins, the Dolphins, or the 'Canes, like what's-his-name?
It was fun answering Junior's questions, his eyes never straying from hers. "Tell me about Princeton." Then Harvard Law. "Wow. Competitive, right?" Then, prosecuting criminals in Miami. "Wow, that takes some cajones." Asking how she'd kept her femininity. Those balls-to-the-wall lady prosecutors he's seen on Larry King seemed like man-eating sharks. She told him about the murder case she'd handled with Steve, drawing another "Wow" from the Wow-zer.
By the time his third tequila arrived, along with her second Cosmo, Junior was telling her how deeply his father had been affected by her father's suicide. When the Griffins moved to Costa Rica, his father was practically catatonic. Then, a year later, Junior's mother died of a particularly vicious form of stomach cancer. After another year of semiretirement, Hal Griffin got back in the game, building hotels in the Caribbean, then off to the Far East, and back home again. Junior was never able to sink roots, never found a woman he'd want to settle down with. Oh, how he'd missed Florida and his closest companion from childhood.
"I thought about you a lot." His look earnest. "I know we were just kids then, but we had such a natural rapport. Everything was so easy."
"How hard could it be when the biggest issue is ten o'clock curfew?"
An old defense mechanism, she knew. Using humor to deflect serious insight into feelings. So conflicted. Junior seemed to want to unburden himself of his pent-up feelings. Part of her wanted to hear him; part of her was afraid of what he would say.
He smiled and said: " 'Let us go then, you and I. .' "
She finished the line: " 'When the evening is spread out against the sky. .' "
They both laughed. "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." They'd read the poem as children and tried to memorize it, but it was too long. That Junior would remember the opening stanza just now touched her. It was their poem. Did she have a poem with Steve? No, but if they did, it would probably be "Casey at the Bat."
Junior reached across the table and placed a powerful hand gently over her forearm, his thumb making tiny figure eights just above her wrist. "That's why this is such an opportunity," he whispered. "It's horrible, the mess Dad's in, but somehow, it's almost like fate brought us back together." He took a sip of his drink as if to fortify himself for what he had to say. "I've been thinking about this ever since I saw you the other day, and what I want you to know, Tori, is this. You're the only. ."
He paused. Did he need another drink to say it? No, he was looking over her shoulder at someone. Who?
Then, a male voice, hearty and loud: "Well, well, look who's here!"
Oh, dammit. Dammit to hell!
"My law partner and the lobster poacher!" Steve exclaimed, with mock surprise.
He headed to their table, flanked by those twin blond bimbos, Lexy and Rexy from Les Mannequins. Lexy (or maybe it was Rexy, who could tell?) was dressed in a shimmering, low-cut, red silk dress that would have been ankle-length, had it not been for the flapping pleats-as wide as rubber flaps at a car wash-that opened at the waist, and curled around her long legs with each step. Rexy (unless it was Lexy) wore a simple black tube dress that stopped a foot north of her knees. Both had silicone breasts that were too mammoth for the twins' bony frames. Both were perched on the latest Jimmy Choo skyscrapers, with hundred-millimeter heels, and both moved with that hip-shot, glide-in-the-stride walk of accomplished runway models. Or hungry lionesses.
Victoria painted on a smile like the chef painted rum sauce on the grouper. "Hello and good-bye, Steve."
"What do you mean? Junior, you don't mind if we join you, right?"
"Well. ."
"Great!" Steve turned to the nearest waiter and cried out, "Garcon. Camarero. Three more menus. Pronto, si'l vous plait."
Mixing his languages like a fish stew.
Steve introduced his two props to Junior, then signaled the waiter to take a drink order. Cristal champagne, and sure, put it on Mr. Griffin's check. He positioned Lexy and Rexy on either side of Junior and took a seat next to Victoria.
"Isn't this cozy?" Steve asked.
"And quite a coincidence," Junior replied.
"I eat here all the time," Steve said.
"Hah," Victoria exhaled.
Junior looked at Victoria and shrugged, as if to say: "What can we do?" In that moment, she liked him even more. So calm, so confident in himself, he didn't need to rebuff Steve or toss him headfirst across the bar.