Eleven

A troubled Mary charged off the elevator into the firm’s reception area, which looked friendlier than it had the night the furniture was trying to kill her. Chairs covered in taupe cloth curved around a buttery leather couch, on which clients who didn’t look psychotic read magazines. Marshall Trow, the firm’s receptionist, was seated at the reception desk wearing a pink cotton sweater with a tan skirt. Her brown hair, which she used to weave into a hippie braid, had been cut and shaped since Rosato amp; Associates had moved uptown and become a good hair office.

“Where have you been all morning?” Marshall asked, her voice low.

“Did we hear from Premenstrual Tom?”

“Only four times today.”

Mary tensed. “So what did you do?”

“What I’m supposed to do, record the messages.”

“Shouldn’t we be going for a restraining order? Or buying bazookas?”

“Peace. Judy’s working on a TRO, with Bennie supervising from afar.” Marshall handed her the morning mail and a slew of yellow phone messages. “That man on the couch is a reporter from the Philly News. He’s been waiting for you since nine o’clock.”

“For me?” Mary took the messages, puzzled. She had never been interviewed in her life, and something else was pressing on her mind. It was Marshall ’s infant daughter that her mother had been baby-sitting. “Marsh, did you notice my mother getting thin?”

“Actually, yes.” Marshall ’s smooth forehead creased. “I mentioned it to her last week. She said it was nothing. Why?”

“Tell you later.” Mary couldn’t say more because the reporter was already getting off the couch and crossing to her. He struck her as incredibly good-looking, with dark eyes and a confident grin, dressed in khaki slacks and a soft blue work shirt.

“Jim MacIntire,” he said when he arrived, smiling and shaking her hand. “You must be Mary DiNunzio. Do you have a sec to talk to me? It’s about Amadeo Brandolini.”

“Amadeo? How do you know about Amadeo?” Mary asked, surprised. Nobody else knew about Amadeo, especially nobody this hot.

“I’d like to write a feature about him, maybe shed some light on his plight. Shine a spotlight on him and history, so to speak.”

“Before you answer, Mary,” Marshall interrupted, pretending to consult an appointment book, “I did tell Mr. MacIntire that you had a deposition in half an hour, and you might need the time to prepare.”

Huh? Marshall was giving her an out, because Mary didn’t have a dep. She probably needed permission to be interviewed. Still, Bennie wasn’t around, and she was intrigued.

“I’ll finish before the dep,” she said and led the reporter to her office, where he settled into one of the new navy cloth chairs opposite her desk. Mary glanced self-consciously around, relieved to see the place remained in order. Telephone and stacked correspondence on the right, accordion files and closed laptop on the left, clean space in the middle. Bookshelves lined the far wall, full of dust-free law casebooks, the Federal Rules, and two bound volumes of the University of Pennsylvania Law Review with her name pompously embossed in gold. On the near wall hung a pastel patchwork quilt, the girl part of the girl lawyer thing.

Mary went around the desk, set down her bag and briefcase, and took her seat. “So how did you find out about Amadeo Brandolini?” she asked. DiNunzio on the case. Cross-examination our specialty.

“My barber, Joe Antonelli, mentioned it to me.”

“Uncle Joey!” Mary felt a rush of familiarity. So the reporter was a guy with an Uncle Joey haircut. The Executive, unless she missed her guess.

“Joe’s been cutting my hair for three years. He’s a great guy.”

“He sure is.” Except he chews with his mouth open, but what are you gonna do? People are people.

“He’s very proud of you. Your job here and your accomplishments. You’re the star of the family. The neighborhood!” MacIntire grinned. “He didn’t say he was your uncle, though.”

“He isn’t, technically. I have about three hundred eighty-two aunts and uncles in South Philly, all of them fake. In fact, I have two fake Uncle Joeys, but you’re talking about Skinny Uncle Joey as opposed to Fat Uncle Joey, because he’s the barber, if you follow.”

MacIntire laughed. “You have a terrific sense of humor, Mary.”

“I do?” I mean, I do.

“Sure you do. I love a woman with a sense of humor. I think it takes real intelligence to be funny.”

“Intelligence?” Duh.

“You also have terrific eyes, too, but I bet everyone tells you that.”

Everyone. “I mean, they’re just brown. One on each side.”

The reporter laughed again. “By the way, you don’t mind if we record this.”

“Of course not.” Mary wasn’t on tape anywhere except her answering machine, but she tried not to let it show. The reporter was already reaching into his knapsack, a black Jansport, and extracting a silvery tape recorder, which he set between them on her desk.

“Cool. You know, I Googled you before I came over today. Got your bio on the firm’s site. The photo doesn’t do you justice.”

“Thanks.” Mary knew she was being flattered, but it was about time. She found herself wondering if he was married. He didn’t wear a ring and he was so good-looking. Not that she was attracted.

“Okay, let’s get started.” MacIntire looked up eagerly, and she noticed that the light from the window brought out the dense espresso of his eyes. “Why don’t we start by you telling me everything you know about Amadeo Brandolini. How did you come to get interested in him? I’m fascinated.”

“Okay,” Mary began, warming to being fascinating. Besides, it was fun to talk about Amadeo to someone who actually wanted to listen and who also happened to be totally handsome. The reporter told her his nickname was Mac, and she found herself telling Mac about the FBI memo from the National Archives and the circle drawings. He asked such good questions that she ended up telling him about the clothesline and the gift house, too, and by the end of their conversation, she had decided that Mac’s eyes were more French roast than espresso. They’d such a great time that she couldn’t help but wonder if he was going to ask her out.

“Well, thanks so much,” Mac said, switching off the tape recorder. The little red light went out, and he slipped the tape recorder back into the Jansport. “I have the making of an incredible story, thanks to you.”

“Really?” Are you going to ask me out?

“I called for a photographer to get a picture. He should be in the waiting room right now. That’s cool with you, isn’t it?”

“Now? Okay. Sure.” Mary figured she looked okay and she knew her eyes were terrific, both of them.

“Sweet. So you know what’s going to happen next, don’t you?” Mac rose with a smile and zipped his backpack closed.

Mary flushed. You’re going to ask me out? “No, what?” she asked, suddenly dry-mouthed.

“There is only one logical next step in your investigation.”

“My investigation?” Mary repeated, then held her tongue while Mac told her something that wasn’t asking her out at all and was so unexpected that for a minute she couldn’t speak. Then all she could say was, “Really, you think?”

“Of course. Why not? Don’t think about it, just do it. Keep me posted if you find out anything more.” Mac hoisted his heavy backpack onto his shoulder and went to the door, which was when Mary realized he had forgotten to ask her out.

“Wait a minute!” she blurted out. It was her heart talking.

“What? I’m kind of on a schedule. I have another assignment.”

Mary blinked, mortified. He wasn’t even thinking of asking her out. She considered asking him out, but she had never done that in her life and was sure it qualified as a venial sin. She felt suddenly like a fool. “Uh, what about the photographer?”