Look Closely (16 page)

I read it once more and felt a tug in my heart at the nicknames.

I handed the paper back to Matt. “Has she done this before?”

“Never.” He ran a finger over the note before he folded it and put it back into his pocket.

“And you haven’t heard anything from her?”

“No.”

“Have you cal ed her friends?”

Matt smiled. “You’re looking at him.”

I felt that tug again. “She doesn’t have any girlfriends?”

“Not real y.” He must have caught the surprise on my face. “Don’t look so sad. She became pretty good friends with my buddies, and I’m her best friend. We’ve been happy, until your father screwed it up for us.”

The lettuce in my mouth felt dry and sticky. I had to force myself to chew and swal ow it. I was angry at my father for keeping me away from Caroline, but I stil hated to hear someone malign him. Wil Sutter was an organized, cerebral man who always had a reason for his actions. He did nothing by accident. I wanted to believe that he had a good motive for keeping in touch with Caroline and not tel ing his youngest daughter about it.

“I’m sorry,” Matt said. “I know you lived with your dad, and you probably believe he’s perfect, but if you’d seen Caroline that day…” His words died away for a moment, as if the memory was too painful. “I should have made her talk then. I should have forced her to tel me what was making her act like that and look so scared. But Caroline got jumpy when she was pushed, and I thought there was time. I thought…” He trailed off again, and shoved his plate away. He’d eaten only half his sandwich.

“Shouldn’t you try to eat more?” I asked. “You need to keep your strength up.”

Matt smiled, the first genuine smile I had seen since I met him. “That’s what Caro always used to say. ‘You need to keep your strength up.’”

I returned the smile. It was something I said frequently, too, clichéd words of wisdom I gave to my father when he was on trial or to Maddy when she was drinking too much wine. A glimmer of a memory then. My mom in a pair of shorts and a peach T-shirt, bringing a basket of rol s to the table.

“Del a made them special,” she’d said, placing the basket on the table. “Eat, kids. You need to keep your strength up.”

Suppers during the week were laid-back affairs, with al of us in casual clothes—shorts in the spring and summer, jeans and sweaters during the colder months. The food was brought in whenever it was ready, Del a sticking her head in the dining room to say goodbye before she hurried home to her own family. But on Fridays, when my dad came home, dinner was transformed.

It was as if our father was a celebrity, the one we were al waiting to see. My mother dressed up, put on makeup, and made elaborate dinners without Del a’s help. She even set the dining-room table with linens. In my earliest memories, those dinners were the highlight of everyone’s week, a festive feel lingering at the table.

By the time I was five or six, Dan had become sul en and sat in hostile silence. Caroline, who had alwaysbeenquiet,wasmorewithdrawn,too.Inretrospect, I could see that there was something different about my family during those last years. Or wasIfilteringmymemorybecauseofthenewsthat they’d been separated? No, I didn’t think so. When I’dbeenmuchyounger,maybefourorfive,myparents

would

kiss

in

the

front

hal

when

Dad

came

home,andtheywouldholdhandsoverthetable.But

later,duringthefewyearsbeforemymother’sdeath, they made polite smal talk while I chatted on and onaboutschool,hatingtheoddsilenceintheroom.

And I remembered something else. In the months before my mom died, the Friday dinners didn’t happen anymore. I was al owed to have a gril ed-cheese sandwich in front of the television, while Caroline escaped to her room or the porch swing,andDanfledwithhisfriendsinanoldJeep.

I heard a smal cough, and I realized that Matt was watching me, waiting.

“Want to let me in?” he said.

“It’s nothing real y. I was just remembering how my mom used to say the same thing about keeping your strength up, and that made me think about the times when she was stil around, when I was little.”

“And that’s it?” Matt looked doubtful.

“Actual y, I was thinking about family dinners and how we didn’t have them anymore before she died. I found out recently that my parents were separated in the months before her death.”

“Wel , that’s interesting, isn’t it?” he said. “Al these women running from Wil Sutter.”

“One has nothing to do with the other,” I said in a haughty tone.

Matt shot me a disbelieving look, and I dropped my eyes. I wasn’t so sure, either.

“Did Caroline keep in touch with our brother, Dan?” I asked Matt.

“Not often that I know of. She told me her brother had sent money a few times when she first moved to Portland, but I can’t remember them having any contact since we’ve been married.

We made our wedding plans at the last minute, and I asked her if she wanted to wait so that she could

invite some family. She said no.”

“Did she say why?”

The corners of Matt’s mouth raised a little. “She said that I was her family now.” He looked around the restaurant. He seemed to remember again that his wife wasn’t here, that his family was gone, and the happy expression evaporated.

14

The next morning, back in Manhattan, I treated myself to a cab to work, figuring that if I went into the bowels of the subway, the darkness would send me straight to sleep. The red-eye had left on time the night before, but I couldn’t rest on the plane. My mind churned with too much information, too many things to do and the lingering memory of my brother-in-law’s haunted face.

Matt and I had talked for a few more hours. We fil ed in the details of our lives, got to know each other better. At times, the conversation veered to Caroline, to where she might be, to what we could do to find her. Matt kept asking me for my father’s number. I told him I would have better luck speaking with my father than he would, and I promised to do that. I dreaded it.

Framed in the cab’s window, the city flew past. The morning sun hid some of the dirt; the high-rises climbed upward. I organized the day’s to-do list in my head. First, I would put out fires on any cases other than McKnight. Next, I would cal an emergency meeting about McKnight, and I’d ask two attorneys to be permanently assigned to the case, including Magoo Barragan and at least one other lawyer who could devote a crazy number of hours over the next month. But there were other things I had to do today, things that didn’t involve my quickly spinning legal world. I had to talk to my father and I would try to find my brother, Dan. Learning that Caroline was missing had come too soon on the heels of getting that letter—
Look
closely
—and now my family wouldn’t or couldn’t leave my brain.

“Morning, Hailey,” the receptionist said as I walked out of the elevator and onto the thirty-third floor. Behind the woman’s high, mahogany desk, the words Gardner, State & Lord were spel ed in burnished gold on the glass wal that overlooked a large conference room. Soothing classical music played from hidden speakers. This was the image our firm wanted outsiders to see.

“Hey, Tina,” I said.

I slipped my key card in the slot by the side door and stepped into the true Gardner offices, where secretaries clacked away on computers, swore at printers and answered constantly ringing phones. The attorneys’ doors were al open and the sound of their phone conversations blended with the other voices. Meanwhile, mail and copy people hurried through the hal ways, making deliveries and picking up stacks of documents.

I cal ed hel o to a number of employees as I made my way down the hal . Everyone looked pale to me today, as if they hadn’t seen the outside of this building in years. It was nearly true.

I was lucky enough to have what was considered a large associate office with a window, which, unfortunately, looked upon nothing but the building next to it. But at least I had some fugitive sunlight sneaking in, unlike some of the other associates who were strapped with internal offices and nothing but a fluorescent glare for their twelve-hour workdays. I even had room for a smal love seat, although now it was stacked with large red McKnight file jackets.

Amy, a smal woman with a cap of dark hair, bustled in after me. As usual, she wore a too-short skirtwithatrim,matchingjacket.“Youlooktired,” she said, frowning.

“Thanks,” I said in a sarcastic tone. But both Amy and I knew that I needed occasional mothering, that I liked it.

“Eat breakfast yet?”

“It’s almost eleven.” I unpacked my laptop and files. “I’l wait for lunch.”

“Nope. I’l get you a bagel.”

I didn’t argue. I told Amy to bring in the Your New Home files and any other cases that had to be dealt with immediately, and then to schedule a lunch meeting with al the cyber-law attorneys for one o’clock.

I worked for the next couple hours, absently pickedatacinnamon-and-raisonbagelbetweeninterruptions.Myphonerangincessantly,asifclients and other attorneys had sensed I was back in town.

I had just picked up my Dictaphone to dictate a Motion to Dismiss on a new file, when I heard Amy speaking to someone outside my office. “Hailey’s busy,” she said.

“Oh, I’l just pop in,” said a sugary voice.

I groaned.

Paige Amboy, my least favorite attorney at the firm, stuck her head in my office. Her lustrous blond hair swung with the movement. “Welcome back, Hailey.”

“Hi, Paige.” I refrained from sighing, and sat up in my chair, aware that I’d worn my oldest, most unflattering gray pantsuit. Paige, meanwhile, looked stunning in a lemon-yel ow dress just tight enough to be sexy but stil conservative enough for Gardner, State & Lord. I was rarely able to pul off that effect.

“I heard about your arb,” Paige said in an overly sympathetic voice. She advanced into the room, eyeing my clutter with disdain. “You win some, you lose some, I guess.”

“I consider this a win.”

Paige’s eyebrows shot skyward. “Of course,” she said soothingly.

“What can I do for you, Paige?”

“Oh, I just wanted to check up on you.” She said this as if she were babysitting a four-year-old in a sandbox.

“Everything’s just fine, thanks.”

“Getting ready for the partnership election?” She had final y stopped prowling and now stood in front of my desk.

I didn’t ask her to sit. “Sure.”

“Did you write the essay yet?”

“What essay?” I said this to see if I could draw a reaction. Paige, two years my senior, was also up for partner this year, and she’d probably wondered, as I had, if she was the only one who had to craft such a sil y document.

“You weren’t asked to write an essay about what it would mean to be partner?” Paige’s face tightened, her eyes narrowed.

I took a moment to think and draw out Paige’s confusion. “Oh,
that
thing,” I said at last.

Paige recovered her composure. “Wel , have you done it yet?”

“Weeks ago,” I lied.

“Real y?”

“You should get yours to Werner soon. I heard they’re taking timeliness into account.”

Paige’s mouth formed a smal O before it was taken over by a distrustful frown. Paige was always concerned that I was getting inside information from my father. “I better get going on that then,” Paige said.

“Yes. You better.” I was too tired to spar anymore, so I glanced down at the documents on my desk. Luckily, she took the hint and left.

I forced myself to ignore my sagging eyelids and continued to plod through the work on my desk. At twelve forty-five, I pul ed out the McKnight file again, and began to get ready for the lunch meeting.

“Oh, hi, Mr. Sutter,” I heard Amy say. My stomach lurched.

“Cal me Wil ,” my father said, as he always did.

“I’l try,” she said.

My father stepped into my office, and for a second, the sight of his silver hair, his kind eyes and his warm smile made me forget the last few days and everything I’d learned.

“Welcome back,” he said. The smooth tones of his voice fil ed the office, carrying to al parts of the room. The perfect voice for a trial lawyer. He wore an olive suit with a creamy shirt and lightly patterned tie. His cuff links matched his tie clip, his brown loafers buffed to a high shine. He always dressed to perfection, even on weekends.

“Hi, Dad,” I said, nervous.

Hewalkedtomydeskandheldouthisrighthand. I grasped it with my left, and we squeezed. It was thegreetingwehaddevelopedwhenIstartedworking at the firm. We decided it wouldn’t be professionalforustohugintheoffice,andsothehandclasp was our secret sign of affection. I held on a little longer than usual, not wanting to break the bond.

“Anything wrong?” He looked down at our stil -gripped hands.

I let mine drop. “No. Of course not.”

“Congrats on the arbitration award.” He sat on one of the chairs in front of my desk.

Final y, someone who understood. “Thanks.”

“Tel me about it.”

This was our usual custom—rehashing a dep, a trial, a mediation. Picking over the testimony, deciding what could have been done differently, what other choices there were to make.

My father agreed that Gary’s testimony had hurt, but nothing I could have done would have changed it. He liked my trial strategy, and gave me the names of some recent law-review articles that discussed intel ectual property in the Internet world.

This bantering of ours, this legal give-and-take, comforted me. I let myself get lost in it. I pretended that this was any other day.

Too soon, our talk slowed.

“Wel ,” my father said, “I better get going. I’ve got a settlement conference in half an hour.” He moved forward in his seat.

“Dad,” I said, a little too loudly apparently, because he turned his head to the side ever so slightly, as if he’d heard a sound outside. It was a mild gesture to anyone unfamiliar with him, but I knew it as a look of wariness.

He sat back in the chair and nodded, an invitation to continue.

“Ineedtoknowsomething.”Myeyesweredown towardmydesk,notmeetinghis.Iforcedmyselfto look up and saw him staring at my hands. I was uncurling a paper clip and twisting it around my finger.Idroppedtheclipandfoldedmyhandstogether.