The First Law of Love (18 page)

“One of my guitar students has one he's been trying to get rid of, that's why I brought it up,” Case said. “I can tell him that you'd like it, if you're interested. Otherwise I thought I might take it.”

I thought, suddenly, of Clark's story, about Case's terrible father making him shoot a pet dog. What kind of a bastard would do such a thing to his son? My eyes flickered to Case's lips, the scar on his chin, then to the evidence of shadowy sleeplessness beneath his eyes, and then I looked entirely away, back to my beer. I felt all hollow and strange, as though I was actually drunk. Then I realized I hadn't answered his question.

“You can tell him I'm interested,” I said, my voice hardly more than a whisper.

“I'll see him tomorrow,” he said. “Will do.”

“Thank you,” I said, unable to keep my eyes from him. He was thoughtful. He didn't take people's shit, but he was thoughtful, and kind.

Travis, who had been joined by a noisy group of people, mostly girls, leaned around Case again, and said, “Ok, time's up! Tish, lawyer lady, let's go ride that Ferris wheel!”

Case met my eyes and there was the faintest hint of humor in his expression. He seemed to find it amusing how Travis called me ‘lawyer lady.'

“You go ahead,” I said to Travis. “I'm still having a drink.”

Travis held up a crumpled roll of tickets and declared good-naturedly, “Don't make me beg!”

On inspiration, I asked Case, “You up for a couple of rides?”

He finished his beer with two more swallows and said, not meeting my eyes, “I need to get home and feed the animals.”

Disappointment again swamped my body, but I said lightly, “Just thought I'd ask.”

He set a five dollar bill on the bar, then rose smoothly and collected his guitar and backpack from the ground. I watched all of this with a sickly feeling of desolation in my gut. For a second I thought he was just going to walk away without so much as a farewell; he'd shouldered the pack, guitar case in hand, but then he faced me directly and said, “Be careful walking home.”

Stone Creek was close enough it would have been visible, were it day rather than night. His voice was light, but his eyes were momentarily intent, holding fast to mine, as he spoke these words. My heart lurched.

“I lived in Chicago for the last three years,” I said, with the same casual tone, trying to tease a little. “I think I'm good to go.”

He nodded, still studying me somberly.

Offer me a ride, please, oh please, I
'
ll go right now,
I thought.

“See you around,” he said, then nudged Travis's shoulder. “See ya, buddy.”

“Casey! You gotta go already?” Travis complained. “You're getting old, buddy!”

Case grinned a little and said, “Shit happens,” and then he walked away without so much as a backward glance. I watched him until all I could make out was his hat, before he disappeared into the crowd.

Travis asked merrily, “So how about that ride?”

I joined their group for a while; we rode the Ferris wheel and the bumper cars, the tilt-a-whirl, and I laughed with them, even enjoyed myself a little. But I begged off early, despite Travis's protests, and made my lone way back across a plowed dirt field currently in use as a parking lot. Stone Creek was in sight as I wound my way through the rows of cars and trucks. My shoes were irritating me and I had just slipped out of them, carrying them by the heel straps and proceeding cautiously, barefoot, when someone said, “Counselor Gordon. I thought that was you.”

I smelled cigarette smoke then, jumping a little at the sound of a voice where I was not expecting one. I turned to see Derrick Yancy leaning against a black 4x4 with tinted windows, one row over, smoking and watching me.

Not sure exactly how to respond, I heard myself say, “I thought you were from Illinois.”

He tipped his head at me, questioningly. I explained, “Your plates say Colorado.”

“Observant,” he said, smiling at me before drawing long on his smoke. He was dressed much less formally this evening than he had been last night. He skirted a couple of cars and walked over to me, darkly attractive and undeniably intimidating, not that I would dream of letting him see that I felt this way. He inadvertently blocked my path and made an observation of his own: “No shoes this evening?”

I held up my sandals by their straps.

Why the fuck were you on the Spicers
'
land last week at night, you slimy bastard?

I wished I was brave enough to grill him, right here, right now.

You have to tell Case about this
, I realized.
No more excuses
.

“I meant to offer you my compliments last night,” he said then, catching me off guard, and I mentally reprimanded myself. I couldn't afford to be caught that way at all, not with what amounted to my opponent. I drew the mantle of the last three years' worth of training over my shoulders.

“Don't waste your time,” I said briskly, imitating my father at his most lawyerly.

He chuckled a little, letting his gaze whisk up and down my front, lingering on my breasts, however briefly. He said, “I'd offer you a job, if I thought you were at all inclined.”

“Not in a million years, but thank you all the same,” I replied. I would not fidget, no matter how much my stomach was churning with unease, hearing Professor Torres in my mind. She had maintained the downfall of young lawyers was the unconscious tendency to fidget and therefore inadvertently project uncertainty. I kept my shoulders back and held his increasingly familiar gaze.

“You're much too lovely to be in a career as brutal as law,” he said then, cajolingly.

I almost snorted a laugh at this; did he think he could win points with such condescending flattery? Though I realized he wasn't so much complimenting me as he was pressing his assertion that I was less-than, inferior to his experience and gender.

“And you're far too presumptuous,” I said back, though still on a friendly playing field.

“Just calling things as I see them,” he said, edging one shoulder slightly closer to me, really studying my face. I sensed he was moving in for the kill, bit by bit. Hoping I was maybe just drunk enough to figure it was worth it to do something really stupid, like accompany him back to his hotel. He struck me as a big fan of one-night stands.

“Why are you here, anyway?” I asked. “At the fair. It all seems so
beneath
you.”

Derrick laughed a little at this, shaking his head. He said, “Maybe I was hoping to run into someone specific.”

I felt even more sick inside, abruptly mildly fearful of him. I lifted my chin and said, “Then I'll let you find him.” I moved to step around him and then he caught my upper arm in his grip, very lightly. But I would still have to tug to release myself from it.

“It's early,” he said, his voice far too close to my ear. He smelled overpoweringly of expensive cologne and cigarettes.

“Get your hand off me,” I ordered calmly, not about to let him see my unease. At least, so I hoped.

In what was obviously a nonverbal taunt, he stroked me with his fingers before obeying and letting go, to my extreme relief. I released the breath of air I had withdrawn, prepared to scream for all I was worth, and the sounds of the fair came rushing back to my ears.

“Until next time,” he said.

I simply ignored this, forcing myself to walk rather than run as I resumed my barefoot journey towards Stone Creek. At home less than five minutes later, I paced my little upper balcony, tense with this latest information. I debated calling Case, not that I had his number. I wanted to tell him about the 4x4 that had been on his property. I wanted him to come over, though that was out of the question. Instead I comforted myself with the thought that I would perhaps see him tomorrow.

Restless as hell, I stalked back inside, clicking on more lights and the radio. I changed into a long pajama shirt, and plopped on the couch to reread my notes, adding the new info.

Capital Overland
–
potential trespassers

Derrick Yancy
–
GMC 4x4 from Colorado, uncertain if driving on 7/12

Possible Yancy relative
–
possible landowner
–
cheated?

I chewed the end of my pencil and then set aside my notebook. I leaned and snagged my laptop from the floor, firing it up and giving in, typing
Case Spicer
into the search engine. At least I was home, no one to burst in upon me here. Still, my hands trembled as though I was committing some kind of crime, and sweat dampened my skin as I clicked on the Images link and his pictures spread like a checkerboard across the screen.

More than a half hour passed, but I only realized when I glanced at the toolbar clock and saw that it was after midnight. And still I kept clicking on images of him, punishing myself somehow, especially drawn to the photos of him playing his music. There was one in which he was holding the fiddle (and it was always with the fiddle that he had his eyes closed), tipped just slightly forward, such an expression of concentration on his face, and yet joy was present too, an aching joy. I could tell this just from the set of his lips, the angle of his head, the way his eyes were held tightly shut.

What was he playing just there? I wondered. And then I saw a small triangle in the center of another image, and my heart lodged itself in my throat. I clicked this and cranked up the volume, and heard laughter and chatter; the video was poor quality, slightly grainy and jerky, as though held in the hand of someone half in the bag, sitting to the right of the stage. Case and Garth were both up there, laughing together before the audience quieted and they lifted their instruments, Case on the fiddle. He closed his eyes the moment it was positioned under his chin.

I tried to zoom in, but it wouldn't let me. I full-screened the shot and started it over; when the music began Garth was singing lead, and I recognized the song from old movie westerns that Grandma and Aunt Ellen liked to watch, “Red River Valley.” Vaguely I recalled singing it in elementary school, once upon a time. Case played the violin with so much skill, such obvious love, the notes sweet and haunting, catching me straight in the heart. He sang harmony with Garth, his beautiful deep voice that made tears form in my eyes. It was the late hour, the lack of sleep, it was the homesickness in my heart…it was all of these things.

The song ended to raucous whistling and applause, and I was about to start it over when, in the video, the woman named Lynnette came to the stage and Case leaned down to kiss her, catching the back of her shiny-haired head in one big hand, holding his fiddle to the side. She put her hands on his shoulders and it was a long kiss, a good fifteen seconds. My stomach tightened and surged the way it did before I was about to vomit.

My eyes scanned frantically for the date of the video, seeing that it was from November of 2009. Newly-married then. Was this when she was still pregnant? What had I been doing that November? Last year at U of M, frantically prepping and reviewing for the looming LSAT exam, sleeping occasionally with Randy, the last of my longer-term boyfriends. In the video, Case hopped from the stage and collected his wife to his chest, his hand still cupped behind her head.

I slammed the laptop closed.

The next day I was the one with sleepless shadows beneath my eyes, though I worked like a champ, drafting minor things for Al, reorganizing files; Dad had always joked that a lawyer's primary work was paperwork. The clock rolled around to noon; Mary and Al went home for lunch, as usual, while I had neglected to bring any food for myself. I sighed and decided I had time to drive home too, not that there was anything to eat there. But I was restless as hell.

Outside under the baking sun I climbed into my car and turned over the engine only to hear a grinding chug.

“Dammit,” I muttered, trying once more; again the Honda didn't start, instead issuing a pathetic wheezing. I slapped my hands on the steering wheel. “
Dammit!
”

Back inside the office, I debated what to do about the car. Clark would probably help me, or maybe Al could recommend someone. Just what I needed right now. I plopped ungracefully into my desk chair and reached for my cup of coffee without looking, bumping the edge of a picture of Camille, Ruthie, Clint and me, knocking it to the floor and shattering the glass in the frame.

“Dammit,” I said for the third time, feeling my headache intensify. I wanted to cry.

I knelt down to check out the damage and then looked around for a broom and dustpan. Shit, I knew Al had one somewhere. I sighed and grabbed an empty file folder, intending to create a makeshift one to scoop up the shards. First I collected the biggest pieces and I had a large handful when the bell above the door tingled. I looked up and received what felt like a lightning bolt straight to the heart. Ironically, Case, holding a white cat in his arms, was standing right beside the AED box on the wall.

He lifted his eyebrows at me without saying a word, that half-grin forming on his lips.

“Hi,” I said, and rose awkwardly, and then immediately gasped, “Ouch! Dammit!”

The glass in my hand tinkled back to the floor at the same moment Case dropped the cat and came at once behind the counter. My palm was dripping blood like a gory instance of stigmata, running all down my wrist.

“Here,” he said, calm and reassuring. “Let me see.”

“Ouch,” I breathed again. Case took my forearm into his hands and inspected the damage.

“I think it looks worse than it is,” he said, still holding me in his big hands. He was so very warm, his fingers gentle on my skin. “There's no glass stuck in there, that I can see.”

“Well it still hurts,” I all but snapped at him, and he met my eyes with amusement.

“Does Al have a first-aid kit?” he asked. He gently released my arm and disappointment stabbed at me.

“I don't know,” I said miserably, and then couldn't help but giggle a little. “Some professional lawyer I am.”

“Here, go wash up and I'll get this glass,” he said.

I left the bathroom door open, just across the office, because I was only washing my hand. Blood spiraled down the sink and the soap stung. I wadded up a bundle of paper towels and pressed them to the wound, then rejoined Case, who had located the dustpan and made short work of the mess. The white cat prowled near and twined around my ankles.

“That's Peaches,” he said, nodding towards the cat as he dumped the glass shards neatly into the garbage. “She's a sweetie. Do you think you might want to keep her?”

I bent, gingerly in my skirt, and scooped her up with my free hand, my other fisted around the paper towels. She was medium-sized, glossy white, with clear, translucent green eyes. She began purring at once and I said, “I do.”

He stashed the broom and dustpan and came near; I kept my eyes on the cat, pretending I didn't feel my heartbeat everywhere in my body, including my injured palm. I couldn't banish the picture of him cupping his wife's head and kissing her.

It
'
s none of your business!

Never mind that I focused on it half the night.

You
'
re jealous as hell.

You
'
re totally ridiculous,
I raged at myself.

Case cupped a hand around the cat's head and patted her. He said, “I have all the things that my student left for her, including a bag of litter. You want me to put them in your car? I'll bring her back to the shop with me until this evening. I just thought you might want to meet her right now.”

I looked up at him then, unable to help myself, and simply drank in the sight of him, observing that his eyes still bore the traces of sleeplessness. He was hatless, his red-gold hair appearing soft, his cinnamon-brown eyes holding fast to mine. He smelled good and I wanted to lean closer, even though he was close enough that I could almost feel his breath on my cheek.

Oh Case
…
oh God
…

I swallowed and then said, “My stupid car isn't running right now. I'll probably get a ride home from Al and then try to figure it out. And thank you, that's sweet of you.”

“I hate to tell you, there's blood on your skirt,” he said then, nodding that direction.

“Shit!” I muttered.

Peaches squirreled free of my arm and leaped gracefully to the floor.

Case said, “Why don't I run you home right now? You can change and then we can leave all her things at your place.”

“You don't mind?” I asked, all a-tremble at the thought of him in my apartment. But of course I kept all of that from my face.

“Not at all,” he said easily, leaning to collect Peaches. “You look like you just committed a murder.”

I giggled a little at this, regarding my sleek gray skirt, now blood-smeared. I said, “Thank you. You don't have to do this.”

“It's no problem,” he assured me, maddeningly polite, as though I was his little sister. Or a family friend.

You are a family friend!
I yelled at myself, grabbing my purse from the bottom desk drawer and then flipping the sign in the window to CLOSED.
That
'
s exactly what you are. Jesus, Tish.

He held the door for me, which I locked after us, and then he again opened the door for me at his truck, parked across the street. The interior smelled as it had last week when I'd retrieved the fiddle case, herbal and spicy, just like him. His truck was dated, probably early-80s, but well cared for, the bench seat upholstered in sleek beige leather. His cowboy hat was lying on the seat and really quickly I ran my fingertips over it.

I watched him round the hood, sun glinting off his beautiful hair, Peaches prowling all along the floor at my ankles. My heart was jittery. He climbed in beside me and unhooked his sunglasses from the steering wheel where they'd been hanging, settled his hat over his head with an effortlessly graceful motion that reminded me of how he'd saddled Cider the other night.

“It smells so good in here,” I told him as he shifted into first and did a quick u-turn in the road, to head in the right direction.

He tapped a bundle hanging from the rearview mirror, which I hadn't noticed. He said, “Sagebrush. It grows all over in the foothills.”

“Case,” I said in rush, before I completely lost my nerve, startling him a little, as he looked over at me and I could tell his eyebrows were raised, even though his eyes were covered in sunglasses. I gathered myself with effort and said, “Last night I ran into Derrick Yancy at the fair. On the way home. He was in the parking lot. He tried to feed me a bunch of shit about how he wanted to hire me and that I was too pretty to be a lawyer —”

“He said that?” Case asked, low and quiet. “He spoke to you that way?”

“He was being an asshole,” I said honestly. “Asserting his power.”

“He's a bully,” Case said then. “No better than a fucking junkyard bully. He might dress well and have money, but that's all he is. He didn't try anything else, did he?” His voice was carefully neutral as he asked, but his shoulders and jaw were tense.

“No,” I said, though I thought of how Derrick had taken my arm. I added, “But he drives an SUV with Colorado plates.”

Case looked my way again and said, “I'm missing something here.”

“I have to backtrack,” I said, feeling all hot and squirmy again. I looked out the windshield at the sunny day before I composed myself enough to say, “Last Friday, after dinner at the Rawleys' I drove out past your house, since I wanted to see it,” I sensed his surprise like a third person in the truck, but I plowed ahead, “Anyway, I drove a ways past your place and then…I felt like I was going to get lost, and I climbed out of the car and kind-of paced for a while…”

Case was staring at me rather than the road, but I couldn't look at him. I interrupted myself to say, “You missed the turn to Stone Creek…”

“Shit,” he said, pulling over to the curb and then remaining motionless, his hands hanging from the top of the steering wheel as he regarded me. Slowly, he lifted the sunglasses from his face and I braved a look at him. He was utterly stone-faced, an expression I had already learned that he'd perfected.

I actually stuttered as I said, “P…pacing helps me collect my thoughts.” Peaches jumped onto the seat between us and I startled a little. I drew a breath before I continued, “I'm sure I was still on your property and I heard voices, from way out in the foothills. So I waited a little longer and then I realized at least two men were walking out there. They got into a car and drove back to Jalesville, and so I followed them. And I realized just last night that it was Derrick Yancy's SUV I was following. I don't know if he was driving that night, or not. But they were trespassing on your property.”

Case opened his mouth to say something but then seemed to think better of it, as he chewed his bottom lip for a second. He knitted his eyebrows at me, as though trying to process what the hell I'd just said, while I felt sweat pool between my breasts. At last he said, ignoring for the moment just why I had been, for lack of a better term, trespassing on his property too, “That was probably dangerous of you.”

“They had no idea,” I said, with more assurance than I felt. “What do you think they were doing out there?”

I could almost see his thoughts whirling; he looked out the windshield and said, “I knew there was something more to this. I knew it. There's something they're not letting on.”

“What can we do? Should we tell Clark? Hank Ryan?” I asked. Peaches stuck her nose in Case's side and purred, rubbing her head against him. He stroked her absently with one hand.

“Not just yet. I have an idea, though.”

“What's that?” I asked, excited despite everything.

“How do you feel, professionally, about a stakeout?” he asked.

“You mean out on your property?”

“Where else?” he said, but his lips curved into a half-grin as he continued to watch me.

“I better dig out my hiking boots,” I said, feeling a grin nudge at my mouth too.

He smiled then, a wide, genuine smile, and I swallowed hard at the sight, heart thumping almost painfully, my hands curling into tight fists because I wanted to touch him really terribly and I knew I could not do that. The clenching motion hurt my injured palm.

“We better get you home and then back to work,” he said then, growing very businesslike all of a sudden, driving around the block to get back to the right street.

“What could be out there worth prowling around in the dark for?” I pressed, trying to forget about how much I craved another sight of his smile.

“There's a local legend, about gold that was buried back in the 1800s somewhere around here. It's been a tall tale in our area for over a century, so it's plausible that Yancy may know the legend. My pa —” he paused only fractionally, but I knew enough thanks to Clark to have at least a context for understanding this hesitation. Case went on, quietly, “My pa believed in it. When I was a boy he used to spend nights out there in the foothills, searching for it.”

“He did?”

Case's jaw tightened just a little, almost unconsciously, and again I restrained the desire to touch him, his hand or his shoulder…his face…

“He was a drunk,” he said, softly and without rancor. But I could hear pain in his voice, no matter how deeply buried. He added, “But he believed in that gold. After my mom died, he gave it up though.”

I wanted to ask why; especially I wanted to ask him about his mother, Melinda, but he had driven into Stone Creek's gravel parking lot just then, so I shelved this urge for now. I said, “You can pull into my parking spot, right there.”

Case did so and I collected Peaches with my left hand, tucking her against my side as he jogged around the hood to open the door for me. He didn't so much as touch me. Instead he said, “Here, let me take her,” and so I passed Peaches into his arms. He collected her close as I climbed down, and then he leaned back into the truck to grab a few things from behind the front seats.

“I can take something,” I said, as I had nothing but my purse and he was juggling an armload, but he shook his head at me, hat and sunglasses in place. I readjusted the purse strap on my shoulder and dug around for my keys as we walked into the cool interior of the apartment building, where all of the residents' mailboxes were lined up in a row.

“Second floor,” I said, leading the way up the carpeted steps. We were silent on the way to 206, just down the hall, third door on the left. I unlocked it, very heatedly aware of him close behind me. Inside my apartment, I said, “You can put that stuff anyplace. I'll be right out.”

I retreated to my room, all hopped up, as though I'd popped an upper, or a handful of caffeine pills, which I had done exactly one time, second-year at Northwestern. I leaned against the closed door and pressed both hands to my blazing cheeks, hearing him out in my kitchen.

Oh God, the computer!

I recalled slamming it shut last night without closing out the screen. The screen with the dozens of images of him that I had been scrolling through before I went to bed.