Rachel to the Rescue by Elinor Lipman

Author:Elinor Lipman [Lipman, Elinor]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Eye Books
Published: 2020-10-13T15:56:36+00:00

21

Three’s a crowd

As I walked past her desk Monday morning, Sandra said, eyes on her screen, “He’ll be late.”

I stopped, back-tracked, and asked, “And how are you?”

“Me? Why?”

Had no assistant ever addressed her in friendly fashion? “I just thought that was overdue. We hardly ever see each other during the day.”

“I’m quite well, thank you.” And then, with what sounded like a reach into some rusty can of manners, “And you?”

I said, “Good. Really good.”

She sighed. “I suppose you want to elaborate.”

I said, “I don’t want to jinx anything, but I had a very nice weekend.”

“How so?”

“A date.”

“Which night?”

Odd question? It seemed so until I realized why she’d asked: She must’ve known her brother was stepping out Friday night with an unnamed companion. All innocence, I asked, “Saturday. Why?”

“Just wondering. Do I know him?”

I answered with a murmur that deliberately gave nothing away.

“Did you meet him — if it is a him — online?”

“No. In real life. At his workplace.”

I could see she was steeling herself for her own next question. “And is that workplace here?”

I pretended to be both startled and appalled. “You weren’t thinking — I don’t even want to say it — that I had a date with Mr. Champion?”

“Can you blame me? All of a sudden you stop and tell me about a date, as if it somehow related to me.”

“Because it’s the first date I’ve had since I started working here. And you’re…a fellow woman.”

“How nice for you,” she stated so primly that I knew she meant just the opposite.

I said, “It won’t happen again.” I headed for the elevator, pressed the button, then called back — “I mean the conversation won’t happen again, but the date will.”

What had gotten into me, chatting up the inscrutable Sandra, who might still have a say in my upgrade from trial to full-time? I made a note when I got to my cubicle: bring Sandra cookies next time Yasemin bakes.

I heard the elevator ping, then a not particularly cheery “Morning.” I waited the customary interval it took Kirby to settle in, then went to his office, notepad in hand.

When he didn’t look up, I coughed.

“Yes?”

“Friday night! Veronica! Did it happen?”

“Yes, it did.”

I helped myself to the visitor’s chair and said, “I’m dying of curiosity.”

He shook his head.

“No? Not good?”

“Not good and — sorry — can’t talk about it.”

“That bad?”

“No. Just that I had to promise our conversation was off the record.”

“But I’m not on the record. I’m on the project.”

He answered with a look I recognized, his eyebrows raised: give it a try.

“And aren’t I the one who brought the Hyde-Whites into this enterprise?”

“True...”

“How’s this: I’ll ask you softball questions.”

“Maybe. Like what?”

“Where did you meet?”

“Let’s leave it at ‘a hotel bar.’”

“What was she wearing?”

“A suit? Black? A big pin here,” pointing to his shoulder.

“Did she talk about Trump? Did she say what’s happening between them since Melania ran away? Will that speed up her own divorce?”

“Those aren’t softball questions. The answers are all no. We didn’t talk about any of that in front of him.

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