10

The day I met Sam I made him bleed.

We were at Forester’s house in Lake Forest, at the annual end-of-June barbecue he threw for all his employees and business associates. Everyone was invited-from the execs to the valets.

The weather was crisp and sunny, a brand-new summer day with everyone conscious of how the Chicago climate would soon give way to sticky humidity and biting mosquitoes. Families were invited to the party, and many people rowed their children across Forester’s pond or whacked the croquet balls across his rich, green lawn.

I had already spent the better part of a painful hour sipping a mimosa and listening to Tanner Hornsby talk at his pack of sycophants. Technically, I was one of those sycophants. I was a year out of law school, and although Forester had thrown me a couple of cases, he wasn’t yet giving me the bulk of his files. I understood that my job as an associate was to perform grunt work, to smile about it and to murmur comments of thanks to Tanner for the great opportunity.

Tanner was repeating a story I’d heard ten times before about a caddy who’d given him bad advice on a putt. This story was always told with scathing scorn toward the caddy and a hero’s verbal welcome for Tanner himself, since he’d seen through that awful recommendation and, using his stellar athletic intuition, read the green perfectly and sunk the putt.

That was how Tanner operated-he pumped himself up and up and up, so that his bloating, floating presence seemed akin to a Macy’s parade balloon on Thanksgiving morning. Tanner only talked about three things-sports, the law and, most importantly, himself. The rest of us were supposed to scuttle along after him, guffawing and clapping him on the back. Some people liked getting their butts kissed, others despised it. Tanner thrived on it.

My buddy Grady was there, too, but Grady loved sports stories so he asked Tanner lots of questions and yucked it up. Meanwhile, my only contribution was a few saccharine chuckles, until I couldn’t take it anymore.

“You know, Tanner,” I interjected, “the word caddy comes from the term cadets after the men who attended Mary, Queen of Scots, when she played the game. Caddies are there to merely aid the golfer, not ensure victory.”

This comment was the intellectual sports equivalent of flashing my tits, and Tanner stared at me, verbally stumped for a moment. A few of the other guys raised their eyebrows.

Tanner recovered by ignoring me and launching into a story about how he then went on to birdie the eighteenth hole. I was plotting my escape when Forester stepped up to our group. He was dressed in a cream linen jacket and a yellow tie, with a matching handkerchief tucked in his jacket pocket. His thick silver hair was perfectly groomed. He looked every inch the gentleman he was. Everyone immediately hushed, except for Tanner, who boomed to Forester about the just fantastic party and asked about “the Mouse.”

“The Mouse” was Tanner’s nickname for Forester’s son, Shane, who was one of his best friends from childhood. I hated that moniker, especially since “the Mouse” was the precise reason that Tanner had all of Forester’s legal work.

Forester smiled kindly and pointed to his son Shane-a short man in a seersucker jacket-who was speaking with a few other people on the limestone patio.

Forester turned to me. “Can I steal you away, Miss McNeil? I’d love you to meet someone.”

I saw Tanner’s face flash with surprise, then annoyance. Just as fast, the look disappeared. “Sure, sure,” Tanner said, as if giving permission. “But don’t keep my girl too long. Izzy’s got a big Saturday night ahead of her, working on interrogatories for me.”

Forester blinked a few times at Tanner’s proprietary statement, which made me sound like a little lawyer geisha he only brought out at parties.

“That’s right,” I piped in, unable to stop myself. “I’ll be working tonight, since Tanner will be too busy house hunting.”

Tanner had just gotten a divorce from his third wife, a very public divorce in which she’d forcibly removed him from their home, a home the judge had awarded to her. The story of Tanner being ousted from his own castle had spread rapidly. We all knew that Tanner was living in a temporary apartment on Ohio Street.

I bit my lip as soon as I’d said it. Grady laughed loudly, then when no one joined him, shut his mouth. Tanner glowered.

“All right then,” Forester said, like a dad on a playground. “Izzy will be back shortly.”

Don’t count on it, I thought as I followed him across the lawn.

Forester wore a bemused grin. “You know, you shouldn’t have said that.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not, and I don’t blame you. The man can be insufferable. Has been since he was a kid. But then, I don’t work for him.” He looked pointedly at me.

I felt a flash of panic. I’d probably just set my career back by that jab at Tanner. It was one thing to toss in a random remark about golf history. It was another to attack him personally.

We passed the bar, and I swiped a beer from a tub full of ice. Enough mimosas. I needed something heartier, and I noticed Forester had a beer himself.

I’d just twisted the cap off when Forester stopped and tapped the shoulder of a man who swung around in mid-chuckle. He had blond hair that shone in the sunlight and eyes that were both soft and sparkling, like an olive in a martini glass. He was so yummy I wanted to mop him up with a biscuit.

“Forester, how are you?” the man said. I noticed he was about my age, but he spoke to Forester as if they were old and dear friends. Later, I would learn that Sam viewed Forester as a father figure. Sam’s own dad was a jackass of epic proportions-a hard-partying, fist-flinging man who Sam’s mom had finally divorced when Sam was in high school.

And, apparently, Forester felt the same way. “Son,” he said to Sam, “I want to introduce you to a member of my legal team, Izzy McNeil. Izzy, this is Sam Hollings. Sam is one of my financial advisors.”

Sam turned his gaze my way and held out his hand. He was on the shorter side, but he gave the impression of solidity and strength. He dipped his head slightly as if shy, yet a grin pulled at the corners of his wide mouth. And then the strangest thought occurred to me. I could kiss that mouth. Forever.

I’d really never had such a thought before. I could be hot for a guy, and I could think he might make a decent date to a wedding (i.e., drink enough to be funny, but not enough to embarrass me), but I usually didn’t want to kiss-just kiss-someone so immediately. And I never used the word forever. I knew forever didn’t exist.

I realized suddenly I was staring. I noticed Forester watching us, and it dawned on me that I hadn’t shaken the guy’s hand. I thrust my hand forward and gave him a fierce, tight handshake to cover up my lapse.

“Nice to meet you.” I pumped his hand, squeezing it. “Really…nice.”

Sam winced a little and looked down when I finally let go. There, on the tender pad of skin below his thumb was a small bead of blood.

“Oh my gosh.” I opened my own hand and saw the bottle cap I’d forgotten I was holding, one of its sharp edges tinged red. “I’m so sorry…”

“No problem.” Sam brushed away the dot of red with his other hand. “I’ll live.”

“He’ll live,” echoed Forester. “He’s a tough one. He plays rugby, did you know that?”

Sam smiled. “She just met me, Forester, how is she supposed to know that?”

“I would have thought everyone knew about the great Sam Hollings.” Forester patted Sam’s shoulder. “Now if you two will excuse me…”

When he was gone, I gestured at Sam’s hand. “I’m really sorry.”

His eyes were fixed on mine. “I’m not.”

Sam and I began our “forever” that moment, in the sun, on Forester’s green lawn. Later, it became a ritual of ours-I would ask him if he loved me, and he would say, “Of course. I love you so much it makes me bleed.”