Myron closed his eyes, silently cursed himself. “Terese.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I know. It’s okay. Really.”
“I love you.”
“I know,” she said. Then Terese turned to face him. “But are you good with this?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not what you wanted.”
“You’re better.”
“You always wanted the wife, the kids, the picket fence, the family barbecues, the kiddy sports league—”
“Terese.”
“You can’t have that with me.”
“I know.”
“You did not plan for this.”
“Do I have to say it?” Myron asked.
“Ugh,” Terese said, doing her best Myron impression. “Please no.”
“Der Mensch Tracht, un Gott Lacht.”
She handled the translation. “Man plans, God laughs.”
“It’s not what I planned. It’s better. I love you, Terese. I want this. I want you. Okay?”
“Okay.” He wasn’t sure she believed him. “Myron?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t make love to Emily.”
“No interest.”
“Yeah, you do. That’s why you said something, and I didn’t. You still have feelings for her. It’s how you’re built. You give someone your heart, they always have a little piece of it.”
“And you don’t feel that way about Charles?”
“Not even a little bit.”
Myron considered that. “Can I still punch him in the face?”
“No,” she said. “But I’m glad you want to.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Myron slipped out of bed at five a.m.
He often lived out of the main guest bedroom in Win’s apartment, the one that overlooked Central Park near 72nd Street. There was an eight-foot-tall Chagall — yes, a real one — on the wall between two windows that faced the park. From the George III — era antique four-poster bed of Jamaican mahogany, Myron’s view (from left to right or right to left) was window overlooking Central Park, gorgeous Chagall, window overlooking Central Park.
There were worse places to stay.
Win was already awake, fully dressed, and reading a newspaper — a real-life actual newspaper made from paper — in the parlor. He drank his Earl Grey from a fine bone china teacup with the family crest on it. Myron took the burgundy leather chair next to him.
“How was your night?” Win asked.
“Pretty awesome. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Probably because your night was — how did you so skillfully describe it? — ‘pretty awesome.’”
Win was a night owl. He took walks in the wee hours. He drank a bit too much and womanized, if that was still the term people used, to all hours, but somehow, he always woke up early looking fresh and ready. Or he used to. Not that it would be noticeable to anyone else, but Myron could feel the years starting to surface just a bit on his old friend. The eyes were slightly more lidded. The hand lifting that cup of tea wasn’t quite as steady. Maybe that was Myron’s imagination. Or maybe Myron was projecting — he wasn’t getting younger either — but he didn’t think so.
“Did you, uh, use your app last night?” Myron asked.
“I did,” Win said.
Win had a super-rich, super-exclusive, super-anonymous, super-luxurious sexual hookup app — Tinder for the uber-wealthy kinda thing. Myron didn’t know all the details — didn’t want to know all the details — but in sum, two mega-rich people match, meet in a clandestine gorgeous penthouse somewhere in midtown, and, well, do the sheet mambos.
“Don’t ask for details,” Win said.
“I won’t.”
“Everyone on the app is sworn to secrecy.”
“Terrific.”
“I mean, I could tell you about it without giving names. Make it a hypothetical.”
“Hard pass.”
“Why did you ask in the first place?”
“I was just wondering that myself.”
Win smiled, turned the page of the newspaper, and refolded it. He did this with great precision, like a mathematician working geometric shapes or Myron’s aunt Selma dividing a lunch check.
“Esperanza needs to see you this morning,” Win said. “Her office. They’re waiting for you now.”
Myron glanced at the fancy Louis the Something clock on the marble fireplace mantel. “Kinda early.”
“Yes.”
“You said they’re waiting,” Myron said.
“So observant.”
“They. As in plural.”
“Not in today’s world.”
“Fair enough, except I know Esperanza’s pronouns are she/her. Ergo she’s not the ‘they’ to which you refer.”
Win smiled, nodded approvingly. “The ‘they,’ my clever boy, refers to both Esperanza and Sadie Fisher.”
Sadie Fisher was the founding partner of the FFD law firm — the first F, as it were, where Esperanza was the D.
“So Sadie wants to talk to me,” Myron said.
Win didn’t reply.
“Why didn’t Esperanza just text me?”
“Because she didn’t want to interrupt you and Terese in flagrante delicto.”
Myron shook his head. “How old are you?”
“She preferred that I give you the message in person.”
“Any idea what’s up?”
“Some,” Win said. “But it would only be conjecture.”
An hour later, Win’s limo pulled into the special entrance below the Lock-Horne Building. They entered the private elevator. Myron got out alone on his old floor. Back in the days when MB Reps ruled this land, this foyer had been painted in the we-are-serious-professionals neutrals of gray and beige. When Fisher, Friedman and Diaz moved in, they painted the walls a harsh rouge seemingly inspired by the lipstick color Esperanza and Sadie both now sported.
The law firm’s receptionist was a young man named Taft Buckington III, who looked exactly like his name. Taft’s father, Taft Buckington II — and this won’t shock anyone, what with a name like that — was a member of Win’s ultra-exclusive golf club on the Main Line known as Merion. The FFD law firm was all-female. When Win, an investor in said law firm, suggested that Sadie hire a token male attorney, her response had been blunt: “Shit, no.” Instead, she hired young Taft to be both a receptionist and paralegal. It seemed to be working.
“Hey, Taft,” Myron said.
“Good morning, Mr. Bolitar. I’ll let Sadie and Esperanza know you’ve arrived.”
“No need.”
It was Sadie speaking. She and Esperanza strutted toward Myron side by side, heads high, shoulders back, as though on a runway, Myron thought, which was undoubtedly sexist thinking, but there you go.
Esperanza greeted Myron with a kiss on the cheek. He didn’t know Sadie very well, but she did the same. They moved into what had once been Myron’s office. It belonged to Sadie now. She had kept his old desk, but that was about it. The minifridge that held Myron’s Yoo-hoos had been replaced by a printer stand. Gone were all his Broadway musical posters and sports artwork and keepsakes from his own playing career. Instead there was nothing on the walls. Nothing on the desk.
“Feels weird, right?” Sadie said.
“A little.”
“I don’t like having anything personal in here,” she explained. “I’m not trying to make an impression. I don’t want them to think I have a personal life or any life outside of this office. When a client comes in here, I want nothing to distract them. I want them to think I only exist to help and represent them.”
Sadie took Myron’s old seat behind the desk. Myron sat across from her. It was weird, this view. Esperanza stood and paced, metaphorically and nearly literally sitting on the fence. Sadie adjusted her librarian glasses and said, “Our firm is now handling Greg Downing’s defense.”