Borrowing Trouble (3 page)

Chapter Four

Showtime
.

I stepped out of Trip’s silver convertible and he took my hand in his.

“And this,” he said, wiggling our hands back and forth, “this, unlike at your parents’ house, is fine.” I raised my eyebrows. “Seriously. You’re fine. Don’t sweat it. Dad knows you and likes you and my mom is super excited to meet you.”

“I feel badly about asking them to move dinner back a night.”

“Really, don’t sweat it. If anyone is a pro at dealing with changing plans due to work conflicts, it’s my mom. I think it just gave her more time to get everything perfect for you. She called me again today to confirm that you don’t have any food allergies.”

“And it just gave me more time to worry about a hostess gift.”

“I will never understand the ritual of the hostess gift, but I’m sure my mom will be gracious in accepting whatever it is you have in this little bag,” noted Trip, shaking the cellophane bag lined with tissue paper in his hands.

“It’s some chocolates from Dinstuhl’s.”

Trip nodded with approval. “You know, maybe we should start serving their chocolate somehow at Pig and Barley. It’s local.”

“Not a bad idea. You really are always thinking about business.”

“Not
always
, Marisa,” he growled with a wolfish smile as we walked to the front door of his parents’ house. Instead of ragged marigolds along a gravel walkway, the gray flagstone footpath was flanked with immaculately maintained purple, white, and blue flowers.

“Mom, Dad!” His voice echoed through the double-height foyer of the imposing French chateau style home off Shady Grove Road.

Yup. Definitely not my family’s Foursquare farmhouse that could use a new coat of paint.

An impeccably chic woman in navy trousers and a crisp white Carolina Herrera-style blouse swept into the room.

And here is the famous Bitsy.

“I’m so glad you are here,” she said, taking Trip into her arms. Trip pulled his mother in close and kissed the top of her head.

“Mom,” said Trip, pulling back but not releasing her, “let me introduce Marisa Tanner.”

“Oh, Marisa!” sighed Bitsy. “We are so thrilled that you’re joining us for dinner.” She took both of my hands in hers. “Just so happy. Can I get you an iced tea?”

“Tea would be wonderful.”

Trip shook his head. “I’m going to pour you both big glasses of wine. I don’t want to watch this Kabuki theater. Iced tea. Like either of you wants iced tea.” He rolled his eyes. Bitsy’s gentle laughter filled the room.

“Oh, here, Marisa,” continued Trip, passing me the small bag of chocolates before disappearing further into the house.

I handed the small present to Bitsy. “Just a little thank you for inviting me into your home.”

“This is totally unnecessary,” said Bitsy, quickly peeking at the bag, “but I do love chocolate. Thank you. It is very kind of you. Now, let’s go find Trip and that wine.” She set the bag on a round marble table that stood in middle of the room and took me by the arm. “He’s going to be with Jimmy in the living room at the wet bar. I’m sure of it. They are my angels, but they love their bourbon.”

“Yes, Trip’s been trying to convince me to learn to enjoy bourbon, but I’m not sure I’ll ever really acquire a taste for it.”

“Let me tell you something about Brannon men, Marisa. Don’t let them run over you. We girls have to stand up for ourselves. Trip, have you fixed this poor girl a glass of wine yet?” she called, leading me into the white and gray living room. The back wall was entirely glass and showcased yet another pristinely kept garden complete with orderly boxwood hedges surrounding a modern and minimalist fountain. The cool gray walls were crowded with art. One of Erica’s large pastels stood watch over the fireplace.

“Your home is so lovely, Mrs. Brannon.”

“Please,” she said, patting my arm before letting go. “You must call me Bitsy.” She swanned over to a Berger chair and sat.

“Mom, your white wine,” offered Trip. “And Marisa, I made you a bourbon and soda.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking the heavy cut crystal tumbler from Trip’s hand.

“Marisa,” scolded Bitsy in a playful manner. “What did I just tell you about them? Trip, please stop forcing bourbon on Marisa. Please go get her a glass of wine.”

“Yes, ma’am,” responded Trip, snatching the glass from my hand. He took a sip and eyed me over the glass’s rim. “Don’t know what you’re missing. Wine’s coming up.”

“Really, Bitsy, Trip, the drink looks lovely. I’ll keep it.”

“No, you won’t. Trip, wine.” Trip tipped back the glass and drained it before stepping to the wet bar to pour me a glass of wine.

Because this isn’t awkward at all.

“Marisa!” Before I could fully turn to the welcome, I was enveloped in a bear hug from Jimmy Brannon.

Now this is officially weird. Jimmy Brannon is hugging me. With both his arms. This is not the Jimmy Brannon I’ve known for years. And he knows Trip and I are sleeping together. I bet his mom knows. Great. I’m a slut who is sleeping with their son.

“Glad you could join us for dinner.”

“Thank you so much for inviting me, Jimmy.”

“Our pleasure. Please, sit. Let’s visit some before we eat.” Jimmy held out his hand, gesturing toward a large cream sofa dotted with needlepoint pillows. “Trip said he took you down to St. George this weekend.”

“Yes, it was lovely. It was very kind of him.” I lowered myself demurely onto the sofa’s soft cushion and remembered to keep my knees together and ankles crossed so that my silk navy wrap dress didn’t show too much leg.

This must be what it feels like to go to the White House. So proper.
Trip passed me an overly generous glass of white wine.
Bless him.

“What did y’all do down there? Anything special?”

I froze at Bitsy’s question and looked at my wine.
Oh dear God.
My cheeks began to flush.

“Played checkers, rode bikes, flew kites, drank beer and ate oysters. You know, beach stuff,” interjected Trip, flopping on the sofa next to me.

“Did he make you stay at the cabin or did you get to stay at one of the houses?” she asked with a sympathetic and knowing look in my direction.

“We stayed at the cabin. It was nice.”

“Well, I hope he let you have the bedroom with the view of the water. If you go again, you should stay at one of the houses. All of the bedrooms have
en suite
baths.”

Wait. She thinks we sleep in different bedrooms? The conversation just needs to end. Now.

“Uhm, Mom, so how is your event coming for St. Jude?”

Bless you again, Trip Brannon, for changing the subject.

“Oh, it is going well. It’s at the Brooks Museum and the catering is all set. The committee is still struggling with the floral design and tablescapes.” She turned toward me and offered, “It is in November, just before Thanksgiving, so we’re trying to strike a balance between fall and it leaning too harvest-themed. You know how hard that can be.”

I nodded in agreement.
Of course I can totally commiserate with this very challenging situation
, I thought sarcastically
.

“You and Trip will sit at the table with us. Even if he’s out of town for work, we would love for you to join us. And we should go out just the two of us before then for lunch and a little shopping.”

Crap. I’m supposed to go
shopping
with her? I hardly even go shopping with
my
mom. Now I’m supposed to go shopping with his mom? Need to get her thinking about something else before we end up at a day spa.

I opened my mouth and the words fell out. “That would be so nice. I noticed all of the lovely art in your home. Did you know that Erica Levitz is my best friend? Her pastel looks so perfect above your fireplace.”

“I didn’t know that! What a small world.”

“Yes, we’ve been friends since junior high.”

“She is very talented and we like to support local artists.”

“Is the photographer also local?” I asked, gesturing to three stacked black and white portraits over a side table. “Trip, is this the same artist who did the ones in your kitchen and the ones outside your dad’s office?”

“Ha!” exclaimed Jimmy. “Yes. And that photographer is certainly local. In fact, he’s in the room.”

“Wow, Jimmy. That’s a really amazing hobby to have. It looks like you shoot on actual film. How long have you been interested in art photography?”

“Not me,” said Jimmy, clinking the ice together in his otherwise empty tumbler. “That’s all Trip.”

“I didn’t know Trip was into photography!” I turned my head to look at the person next to me who I still didn’t truly know.

“Yes, he even took several classes at Brown. Cost me a pretty penny. Those pictures might be the most expensive in the house. Anyway, I’m hungry and when I walked through the kitchen earlier, Ophelia was working on a pot roast. Let’s go eat.”

Chapter Five

I slapped the speaker button on my office phone Thursday during lunchtime. “Marisa Tanner,” I spoke into the air before shoving the last bite of my pimento cheese sandwich into my mouth.

“Darling, it’s John. I hear that you’re up to no good and I’m to keep my eye on you.”

“I’ve got a deposition tomorrow and I’m up to my neck in documents getting ready for that. Can I call you next week and we can chat then?”

“No phone call necessary. I will see you at Cal’s at seven o’clock. However, to ease the pain, drinks are my treat.”

I leaned back in my desk chair and stared at the ceiling. “There is no way I’m going to be able to avoid this, is there?”

“No. You are an adult and this was your decision, so no whining or trying to make me into the bad guy. I’m not.”

“Okay. See you at Cal’s at seven.” I switched off the speakerphone and stared past my computer monitor to the Branco building that dominated my view.

I guess I made my bed and now I have to sleep in it, even if there wasn’t much sleeping last night.

***

“Well, hello Miss Tanner!” John rose from a barstool and pulled out a neighboring stool for me.

“Hey, baby!” called Cal from behind the small bar tucked in the back of the package store that was only a few blocks from my condo. John grazed my cheek with a kiss and then plunked himself back on his stool with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

“Please be kind. It’s been a long week.”

“You are in so much shit, young lady, and I’m delighted!” boasted John.

“What’s she done now?” asked Cal, placing his meaty hands on the bar and leaning over to look me up and down with feigned suspicion. “Before you answer that, Marisa, what do you want? I’ve got a Wiseacre Oktoberfest on tap.”

“Sounds good.”

“Okay, so, what’s she done?”

“Oh, just decided to sleep with Trip Brannon.”

I blanched. “John!”

“Well, Marisa, it’s true,” replied John, his eyes lighting up. “And, last time I checked, truth is an absolute defense to any defamation claim. So, I will repeat myself so there is no doubt that you understand the severity of what you decided to do – You are sleeping with Trip Brannon, who will one day own your biggest client.”

“Okay, I’m after that beer.” Cal quickly toddled down to the wall of taps and I wished I could follow him in escape.

“You are not my father,” I said, sitting down but avoiding John’s direct gaze.

“No, I’m not your father. I don’t care a bit about who you sleep with. I do care about you and your career.”

“Listen, I know how serious this is and I’ve thought through it.”

“Okay,” said John, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m not going to beat you up about it, but I’m not avoiding the elephant in the room. Especially when it’s accompanied by a big stinking pile of manure. When Harry called and your partners made me a decadent offer to make sure your personal decision doesn’t mess up the firm’s business, I said yes. You may not see it this way right now, but I’m doing you a favor.”

“I don’t need your favors.” Cal placed a golden pint in front of me and wordlessly turned his attention to other patrons.

“Okay, who do you think advised Jimmy regarding Trip’s proposed waiver?” My eyes grew wide. “Yes, I knew about that. From Branco’s perspective, I didn’t have any qualms about Jimmy signing it. You do excellent work. However, as your friend, I am more than a little worried. Then, Harry calls and suddenly I’m back in private practice with my top goal being to make sure your dalliance with Trip doesn’t derail anything.”

“It isn’t a dalliance,” I muttered, taking a sip of beer.

“So, what is it?”

“I don’t know.” I sighed, still avoiding eye contact with him.
Is this what going to confession feels like?

“Well, I’ve known Trip since he was a child and, as I’ve told you before, I’m fond of him. He’s a good man. He just doesn’t have much of an attention span and that’s where I worry. Are you going to be able to work with him after your little affair ends? Are you going to be able to sit together in a tiny airless room mediating a lawsuit all day and make comfortable small talk? And, sure as shit, when he does get married, you know that his wife isn’t going to want a former flame to be the company’s lawyer.”

I kept my eyes forward and took a long sip of beer. “Are you done?”

John took a quiet sip of his martini before thoughtfully savoring an olive. “Yes. You’re an adult.”

“Okay, my turn. I have no idea how this will pan out. I don’t. We get along really well. I didn’t ask him to get the waiver. He did that without asking me. I called him on the carpet for that little move.”

“That sounds like Trip,” nodded John, returning to his gin.

I took another drink from my pint glass. “Yup. He can be very focused.”

“And then suddenly he’s not, and he’s on to something else.”

“I know. I know.”

“As long as you know that.”

“I do.”

“Okay, cheers to the end of that awful discussion,” concluded John, lifting his nearly empty glass. “We needed to have it and we needed to have it over drinks.”

“Agreed and cheers,” I replied somberly, clinking my glass to his.

“Last thing on the topic and then it’s behind us. Be good. And, if you can’t be good, be careful. And, if you can’t be careful, name it after me.”

“Ha.”

“So, on to business. Jimmy still won’t pull the trigger on calling the FBI on Amelia Duquette.”

“Trip won’t talk with me about it. Flat out refused. Only told me that I’m not to do any work on any of those sham lawsuits unless he tells me otherwise.”

“He doesn’t want you involved.”

“Well, that’s too bad because I’m involved.”

“You are. You’re a witness.”

I swirled my half-finished beer. “You’re right. I hadn’t thought about that. The plaintiffs lied to me. I guess my assistant is a witness, too.” I took another large swallow.

John nodded. “It seems that she very well might be. And since the firm is front and center on this, we’re not handling the Duquette issues. I’ve helped Trip hire a New York firm.”

“You what?”

“Listen, Branco is still your client, Marisa. I’m not stealing them from you. They aren’t pulling their work. But it’s my job to continue to look out for their best interests. And their best interest is you not blurring the line between witness and lawyer. Not to mention witness, lawyer, and girlfriend.”

“Fuck,” I muttered, downing the remains of my beer. “So I’m to be kept in the dark and completely shut out?”

“Yes. The files now contain evidence of the conspiracy. The originals will be taken from your cabinets tomorrow and you’ll be left with copies.”

I felt my face grow hot with anger. “Fucking Amelia Duquette.”

“Here, here. Now, let me get you another drink while I tell you about my latest spearfishing dive. You aren’t going to believe the size of the red snapper I shot.”