Love Proof (Laws of Attraction)

Twenty-one

By the time Sarah returned to the hotel, her muscles felt like mush. She forgot how exquisitely painful and wonderful it was to have someone dig their fingers into her sore back and shoulders. And the Missoula massage therapist had fingers like thick wooden dowels, which made her work on the bottoms of Sarah’s feet particularly cruel and wonderful.

She lay on the bed in her hotel room for a while, still basking in the aftereffects of the massage, and enjoying the fact that for once she didn’t need to rush. Her next flight wasn’t until the morning. Unlike the previous weeks of depositions, these next ones were in cities too small to have more than a few flights a day. So they would all stay put wherever they happened to be every night, then catch the first flight out every morning.

Sarah had to marvel again at the insane schedule Paul Chapman devised. If it were up to her, they would have taken depositions all over the country, drawing from a larger sample, instead of deposing only a few people at a time in these towns all across the west.

But then, she didn’t agree with so much of how Paul Chapman ran his case, so that was nothing new.

And besides, she reminded herself, the only reason she had this job in the first place was because the schedule was so crazy. Mickey’s boss didn’t want to waste one of his own in-house lawyers on traveling hither and yon five days a week. So in a way, Sarah had Paul Chapman to thank for her nicely increasing bank account.

That made it a little easier to stand the man. Just a little.

But it wasn’t Chapman she was thinking about at the moment, and it certainly hadn’t been his hands she imagined working out the knots in her tense shoulders, kneading the muscles up and down her legs—

“Just between you and me? I wish a man would look at me that way.”

“Stop it,” Sarah said out loud. She never should have let the conversation with Marcela get that far. And she definitely didn’t need her own thoughts to spin out the irrational fantasy further.

What she needed to do was work. Hard. Now.

She took a moment to order a baked potato and a bowl of vegetable soup from room service, then she booted up her laptop. The purchase orders and other internal documents she started reviewing the week before were beginning to form a picture.

Every time she found some new piece of the puzzle, no matter how small, she felt a thrill, a buzzing all along her skin. Her eyes softened, and a smile tugged at her lips. It felt a little like lust, she had to admit, which maybe no one but another lawyer would understand. But she couldn’t deny the thrumming sensation in her nerves whenever she uncovered something she knew no one else had found—that no one was even looking for yet—and here it was, in her hands, ready to take advantage of whenever the time was right.

She was sure Joe didn’t know about it—why would he? And Chapman? The man was completely clueless.

But beyond the shear pleasure of discovery, Sarah felt something else: hope. Because if she was right—if she could prove this—then she felt certain she could save her career. What had begun as a temporary job—a job in purgatory, as Joe saw it—could turn into Sarah’s ticket back.

Sarah spent the next hour drafting a lengthy e-mail to one of the other attorneys in Mickey’s office who was also working on the case. She provided him with a list of the kinds of information she needed. She would have preferred preparing the interrogatories and requests for documents herself, but she knew it wasn’t practical during a week with so much travel. She only hoped that Mickey’s colleague could follow her detailed instructions, and get her the final, damaging proof she needed.

Then everything would change.

***

Chapman was in an unusually jolly mood. Sarah and Joe exchanged bewildered glances every now and then as the man chuckled and joked and teased his way through the morning deposition. At one point it seemed as if he were actually trying to flirt with Joe’s client, which was made all the worse by the look of horror on her face.

“What was that?” Sarah muttered to Joe when they finally took a break. They weren’t finished with the deposition yet—Chapman still had more questions, and then it was Sarah’s turn—but their flight from Missoula back to Salt Lake City had gotten them there mid-morning, and now it was already time for lunch.

Joe’s client stood beside him, so the most he could give Sarah was a quick, wry smile. But that was enough. It was the first time he had shown her any kind of friendliness at all since their drive back from the ski area the last time they visited that city.

Sarah felt strange being back at the same hotel. She was given a different room than the one where she had been cooped up for so long, but everything else about it felt like déjà vu.

There were a few restaurants nearby, and Sarah found one that served a gourmet sandwich of roasted vegetables and pesto. Now that she had the clothes for it, she decided to sit outside. The day was cold, but sunny. She zipped up her raincoat to keep out the wind, then pulled on her blue fleece hat. She ate by herself, gazing up at the mountains.

What was she doing with her life?

This wasn’t where she expected to be a year ago.

She tried not to think too much about what the day meant, but that was difficult.

Today was her birthday. She had just turned thirty. Nothing was the way she planned.

***

The weeper was back.

Sarah had forgotten her impression of Joe’s client the last time she saw her: that the woman would be great in front of a jury.

Once again, as she had that morning before Sarah had to flee the room, the plaintiff cried as she recounted how long and lux and beautiful her hair once was, and how devastated she was to see nearly half of it go up in flames.

Sarah cringed at the woman’s detailed description. The product really was dangerous. Now that she had a theory about exactly what happened between her own client and Chapman’s client, the primary manufacturer, she felt even more sympathy for the woman than before.

But when it was Sarah’s turn to ask questions, the woman turned on her.

“How would you know what it’s like?” she snapped. “Pretty little thing like you? I’ll bet you just love running your fingers through that thick red hair of yours. How do you think you’d look with half of it burned off? Think you’d be so pretty then? Men would still look at you, but only because you’re a freak—”

“Ms. Tiburon,” Sarah said calmly, “please answer the question. What other hair products and equipment were you using during this same period of time? That would include blow dryers, curling irons, gels, pomades . . . ”

“Everything,” the woman answered. “I’ve tried everything, I use everything, I’m not going to list them out. Do I have to list them out?” she asked Joe.

“To the best of your ability,” he said.

The woman sighed dramatically. And Sarah started thinking she wouldn’t look so good in front of a jury after all. Ordinary citizens appreciated real emotions, but not melodrama. Maybe if Joe worked with his client, the woman could learn to keep her performance in line. But Sarah could already see that the more she pushed this plaintiff, the uglier the woman’s temper became.

By the time Sarah got through her questions, she felt tired and worn out. Some depositions were easier than others, but this one went into the pain-in-the-ass category.

As she gathered up her notes and packed away her laptop, Sarah couldn’t help lingering in the room. Wondering if she’d see some sign of recognition from Joe that he remembered what day it was.

Why would he? Sarah scolded herself. It was one day six years ago—you really think he’d remember? And so what if he does? she had to add. Would that make up for anything?

No, she thought, but it might at least make her feel good to know that someone besides her parents remembered. So far, their phone call that morning while she waited in the Missoula airport had been the brightest part of her day.

“Good night, everybody,” Sarah said, looking at Marcela and no one else. She heard a few mutters in response, then left to return to her room.

It was a little before five o’clock. She could work out, order room service, and review more documents for a few hours. The flight to Billings, Montana the next morning was scheduled to leave around seven-thirty, so she wanted to get to bed early.

But somehow the idea of doing any more work that night, especially after the hostile encounter she had just had, left her feeling completely uninspired. It was her birthday—couldn’t she think of better ways to spend it?

When she packed this time, she included a travel-sized bottle of expensive bubble bath from home, on the off chance she might be in a hotel that week that had a decent-looking tub. The one in her current hotel wasn’t particularly nice, but maybe it would do. Stick a shower cap over her hair, roll up a towel for her neck, and soak in the scent of vanilla and lavender while she thought about her life.

She had just sunk into the bubbles when she heard the phone in her room ring. Anyone she wanted to talk to would have called her cell, she reasoned, and so she made no effort to drag herself out of the water to answer. She did, however, get up to turn off the light in the bathroom. She wished she’d thought to bring a candle. But lying in hot, delicious-scented water in the dark was as close to luxury as she was going to get.

***

When the bath was finally too cold to be comfortable anymore, Sarah climbed out, turned on the light, and toweled herself off. She wrapped herself in the familiar white robe that hotel had to offer, then headed for the phone to order room service.

The message light was blinking. Sarah pressed the button and listened.

“Hi. I thought I’d have dinner downstairs tonight,” said Joe’s voice. “If you’re interested, I’ll be there around six-thirty.”

Sarah glanced at the bedside clock. She had about fifteen minutes to get ready, if she wanted to.

If.

She rested the phone back in its cradle, then sat on top of her bedspread. There was nothing wrong with staying in, and potentially many things wrong with going out.

But she couldn’t help her curiosity. And, she admitted, couldn’t ignore the heavy layer of loneliness that settled in on her while she bathed in the dark. Maybe it was all right to have dinner with him, just this once. How could it be any more awkward than her fainting up at the ski area and him having to carry her to a clinic? Or, for that matter, what could be worse than him cleaning up after her when she’d been sick all over the bathroom?

The more she thought about it, maybe this was exactly what she needed to balance things out again. Buy him dinner, be pleasant, leave feeling like she was as much of an adult as her thirty years said she should be.

And you’re lonely, a voice inside dared to remind her.

But that wasn’t a good enough reason. She had been lonely for a long time, and hadn’t felt the need to do anything stupid yet. She would allow herself to go if she could maintain a certain distance—just like Joe said they should.

Sarah went to her luggage to find something to wear. And knew she brought the perfect thing.

***

“It isn’t real silk,” her mother told her as Sarah opened her birthday gifts over Thanksgiving. “I think it’s rayon or polyester.”

“It’s beautiful, Mom—really beautiful. Thank you so much.” Sarah held the royal blue kimono top in front of her for her mother’s inspection. The pajama top crossed over the chest in the center and tied at the side. It came with a matching pair of pajama pants.

“That almost looks good enough to wear out,” her mother had said.

Yes, Sarah thought now, it did.

Especially when she paired it with her black pumps, earrings, and a thin gold necklace. She smiled at her reflection, thinking how fun it was to have this as her own private secret. As soon as dinner was over, she could simply return to her room, brush her teeth, and climb into bed. It was almost as easy as wearing sweats.

The dining room downstairs looked like every other restaurant she had been to in any of the chain hotels. This one had a bar, and unfortunately, Paul Chapman was sitting at it that moment.

Sarah hid at the side of the hostess’s station until someone came to seat her.

“Away from the bar,” Sarah requested. “Far away.” Then she followed the hostess, watching Chapman the whole time as he guzzled his drink, shoveled nuts into his maw, and stared at the TV above the bar. If she could just get past him, she could relax again.

But she sat in her booth for only a few minutes before she realized she wouldn’t be relaxing at all. Because suddenly Joe stood beside her, two glasses of red wine in hand.

Sarah looked up, saw what he was wearing, and immediately said, “No.”