Lily White by Susan Isaacs

Author:Susan Isaacs [Isaacs, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-0-062-02875-4
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 1996-09-27T04:00:00+00:00

When we first started seeing so much of each other, the man in my life and I recognized that such an alliance of two trial lawyers could be problematical. Unless we invited a judge along to hand down rulings on the almost daily basis we saw each other, our friendship could become one endless litigation, the first thing in the day one of us would say to the other being: Now, about the issue you raised on January fifteenth last. Let me enumerate the reasons why you were so pathetically misguided, to say nothing of lamentably wrong.

So we made a pact to listen to each other: really sit and hear, without structuring a response. We’d each get five minutes or whatever to state our case and after we’d both spoken, we’d work together to find a solution. This worked pretty well, except for occasional moments. Like when he threw a fit because I’d planned a vacation without consulting him. Without inviting him, to be perfectly honest, but it truly had not occurred to me that he would want to go to Disneyland. Or when I took one of the many, many jars of his mother’s heinous corn relish that, like his mother, seemed threatening to take over my pantry, my dinner table, and my life, and threw it—at him.

Our other resolution was not to talk too much law, on the theory that, inevitably, my neighbors would report a strange smell and the medical examiner would rule that our deaths were simultaneous, due to acute boredom. So while we kept each other up to speed on our more interesting or troublesome cases, we usually spent our evenings doing normal-people things: watching TV, listening to music, reading, talking about life outside the law.

But that night, I was so upset about the Torkelson case I couldn’t have talked about it even if I had wanted to. I made a lovely salmon tandoori style and basmati rice and couldn’t eat a thing. Believe me, I had never been one to lose my appetite when under stress. With me, one small worry equals one thousand calories. And I was worried, big time. I couldn’t distract myself. I picked up the novel I was reading and kept reading the same paragraph over and over; I tried crocheting but kept dropping stitches. I felt as if I had a tuning fork inside me, and its barely discernible, relentless hum was agitating every cell in my body.

“Lee? Where did you hide those oat bran pretzels?” my guy called out. He had just come in from the garage, where he was sanding an antique music stand he’d bought at a yard sale. Then I entered the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I told him. I opened the pantry door and handed him the pretzels, which, naturally, were right in the front, at eye level.

“Torkelson case?”

“Yes, but I’m so … I don’t know. I can’t talk about it.” If he had tried to pull it out of me, I might have spilled everything, but he said he understood, and was off like a shot, back to his sandpaper.

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