Law of Attraction (9 page)

Nick paused.

“Did he hit another car?” she prompted.

Nick rolled onto his back and laced his hands on top of his head. Anna propped herself on an elbow so she could see his face. He was staring at the ceiling.

“No,” Nick finally answered. His voice was soft but tight. “There was a kid on a bike. A black kid, maybe fifteen years old. He darted out from between a couple of parked cars. My dad braked hard and
swerved. I wasn’t wearing a seat belt, and my head went into the dash.”

“Oh, Nick, that’s terrible.” She looked at the scar on his forehead. “You poor thing.”

“I was all right. It was the kid who was hurt. We clipped him.”

“Was he okay?”

“I’m not sure.” Nick swallowed. He turned his head so he was looking at the window. The city lights were dim halos through the sheer curtains. “The last I saw, he was lying in the street near the curb. My dad drove away.”

It took a minute for Anna to process the information.

“Jesus. Did your father get in trouble?”

“Guys like my dad don’t get in trouble for shit like that. He got his lawyer or somebody to get a copy of the police report. Saw that they didn’t have his license plate or the make of his car. It was a bad part of the city. Nobody would be able to track him down. So he got the dents hammered out and the car repainted. And that was that.”

Anna stared at Nick in horror.

“Did you ever find out who the kid was? Or what happened to him?”

“No. I was a kid myself.” Nick closed his eyes. “I thought I saw him a couple times. Once when I was in the neighborhood for a case. Once in the hallway in Superior Court. But it was never him.”

Anna’s chest ached. Nick had been looking for that kid his whole life. Her understanding of Nick lurched for the second time that night. He wasn’t just a pretty boy using his public defender podium to hold court at cocktail parties. He was trying to right his father’s wrongs. He was doing the best he could to escape the mistakes of his family.

Just like her.

Anna wanted to heal Nick somehow, to make everything better for him, to protect him from the world.

She realized that she loved him, too.

She cupped his cheek, gently turned his face toward hers, and kissed his scar.

•  •  •

On a sunny Saturday in August, Nick told her he scored tickets to see Wilco playing a sold-out outdoor concert at Wolf Trap that night.

“Oh no, I can’t go,” Anna cried. “I have book club tonight.”

“Book club? I’m with a woman who would give up Wilco for a
night of reliving AP English class?”

“Well . . . we do have wine. And cheese.”

“Oh, cheese—now it all makes sense. All right, I understand when I’ve lost to a bunch of women wearing trendy glasses. I’ll let the tickets go. But for this afternoon, at least, you’re mine. Pack for a day at the pool.”

Anna wore a bikini under her tank top, and tossed a paperback novel, sunglasses, and a tube of Coppertone into a bag. Nick loaded some snacks into his car, lowered the convertible’s top, and drove north on River Road into Potomac, Maryland. Her hair blowing in the breeze, Anna gawked as they passed mansion after mansion on sprawling, perfectly manicured lots. The front lawns, covered in elaborate flower beds and the occasional fountain, looked like cover pages for
Martha Stewart Living.

Nick turned his car down a long, tree-lined driveway, which brought them to a huge house with a stately circular drive. The house was made of red brick, with a slate roof, blue shutters, and three chimneys. Anna supposed it would be described as a “colonial,” although it was ten times larger than anything a colonist would have built. The lawn was the texture, color, and size of a football field. Centuries-old oak and maple trees bordered the property on both sides, and two deer were grazing on the lawn.

“My parents are in Europe for the summer,” Nick said, as he began unpacking the car. “But I had the housekeeper open the pool. It’s all ours today.”

She gathered her beach bag out of the backseat. “Are you sure this house is big enough for us?”

He laughed and took her hand. “Come on.”

Anna followed him into the house, trying not to reveal how out of her league she felt. She had recently seen a magazine spread with pictures of the interior of the White House; it could have been this home. Oil paintings hung in elaborate gold frames; Persian rugs lay under antique furniture; crystal vases perched on the mantel of a marble fireplace. Everything smelled of leather ottomans and lemon-scented furniture polish, and felt perfectly untouchable. Anna slowed down to look at photographs in silver frames atop a grand piano. She held on to Nick’s hand, tugging him back to her.

“Is this you? You’re so cute in braces!” she exclaimed, pointing to a picture of a coltish twelve-year-old Nick holding a lacrosse stick and
flashing a silver grin.

“Ugh.” He groaned. “That was not my finest hour.”

He tried to pull her away, but she was fascinated with the photos. One showed young Nick wearing a child-sized tuxedo, standing with his parents. His father was a tall, bald man wearing his own tux and a Cheneyesque smirk. His mother looked like Grace Kelly in her Monaco days, with chickpea-sized diamond studs and blond hair swept into an elegant updo. Anna scanned the other family photos: mom holding a tennis trophy, dad in a khaki hunting vest with a rifle crooked over his arm and a dead stag at his feet. Mostly, the pictures showed Nick’s father with a series of politicians: shaking Ronald Reagan’s hand; in conversation with the elder President Bush aboard Air Force One; duck hunting with a group of patrician gentlemen.

“What does your father do?” Anna asked as she studied the photos. She felt Nick’s hand tense in her own. She straightened up and faced him.

“He exploits the poor and pillages the earth, at taxpayer expense. He’s a lobbyist.”

“I sense some hostility,” Anna ventured softly.

“Fuck him,” Nick said. “He’s no fan of my work either.”

Anna could sense the satisfaction Nick felt when he smashed his father’s expectations by joining OPD instead of a corporate law firm. She glanced around at the untouchable furniture and the empty house. Maybe even wealthy kids could have tough childhoods. She squeezed Nick’s hand.

Nick led her to the back of the house, through French doors that opened onto a broad slate patio. Cushy white lounge chairs were scattered around a deep blue pool. A sunken hot tub burbled next to a large stone cabana.

“Wow,” Anna whispered.

Nick grabbed a couple of fluffy white towels from the cabana, and spread them on two lounge chairs he pushed together. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said.

She pulled off her tank top and shorts, and kicked her sandals under the lounger. Nick whistled. She turned to him bashfully, suddenly embarrassed by the skimpy lavender bikini, although he’d seen her in less.

“You like?” she asked shyly.

“
Oh
yeah.” Nick’s eyes were round saucers of appreciation. Every yoga class and jog she’d ever taken was worth the look on his face.

He pulled out a couple of Diet Cokes and a bag of pita chips, and they settled onto the loungers. Nick paged through the
Washington Post
and munched on chips. Anna held her book on her lap, but didn’t read it. She breathed in the clean, grassy air and looked at the beautiful yard. The sun warmed her skin, and the sound of the burbling hot tub lulled her into a drowsy haze. A dragonfly buzzed by her head and landed on her big toe. It fluttered its iridescent wings and then stilled.

Anna reached for Nick’s hand, and he turned to look at her.

“Happy?” he asked.

“Completely blissed out.”

He moved to the edge of Anna’s chair and brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes.

“I love you,” he said softly.

She smiled. She’d been thinking of saying these words for a while.

“I love you, too.”

He leaned over and kissed her. She pulled him closer, losing herself to the feeling of the warm sunlight on her skin and Nick’s chest pressed against hers. She wondered how much happiness one woman could take.

9

A
s Anna lounged on the deck chair a few miles away, D’marco Davis sauntered down the sidewalk to the corner store. It was a beautiful summer afternoon. Pigeons strutted in front of the Chinese takeout place that everyone called Mr. Wong’s. Dandelions grew from cracks in the gum-stained sidewalks. Even the graffiti on the plywood of boarded-up row houses seemed cheerful. D’marco was in a good mood.

He’d meant it when he told Laprea he would change, and so far, he’d lived up to his word. He had stopped drinking, and now he didn’t have to waterload when he went to give his urines. His probation officer had noticed his change of attitude, and said she’d help D’marco get a good job—data entry, behind a real desk—not the usual sandwich-making or barbering apprenticeship. Maybe D’marco would really get out of the drug business this time. He wanted to be around to see his kids grow up. He’d save up, he mused, move to a decent place, ask Laprea and the kids to come live with him. They would be a family. Today, anything seemed possible.

A bunch of guys were hanging out by the Circle B; like D’marco, they all wore long white T-shirts and baggy jeans. They stood talking and smoking; a few sipped from bottles wrapped in brown paper bags. D’marco shook hands with an older man in an electric wheelchair and greeted a few friends. Then he walked into the dim quiet of the little store.

Samir, the owner, recognized D’marco and waved at him from behind a wall of bulletproof glass. D’marco nodded back and strolled around, contemplating what to eat. The Circle B wouldn’t give 7-Eleven a run for its money anytime soon, but it had a niche as the only convenience store brave enough to operate in one of D.C.’s worst neighborhoods. It was a narrow room with a concrete floor and three bare lightbulbs. A few flimsy metal racks held boxes of gum, candy bars and chips, and staples like soap, diapers, and shampoo. A
coffeemaker sat on a foldout table coated with a sticky stratum of sugar and powdered creamer. Samir gave coffee free to cops, hoping to entice the police to hang around his store. Bottles of soda and colorful fruit drinks were lined up in the narrow fridge. D’marco grabbed a bag of potato chips and an orange soda.

When he got to the counter, Samir had already pulled down a pack of menthol ultra-lights and three scratch-off lottery tickets. D’marco appreciated that. “Anything else?” Samir asked through the microphone on his side. D’marco looked longingly at the bottles of liquor beckoning from the shelves behind the counter, but he shook his head. He was turning over a new leaf. He slid a twenty through the metal tray, and Samir returned the tray with the cigarettes, lottery tickets, and change. As an afterthought, D’marco pointed to a fabric rose in a clear plastic cylinder. He’d bring something nice for Laprea tonight.

As he walked out of the store, D’marco nearly ran into Ray-Ray, who was walking in. Ray-Ray greeted him enthusiastically. “D!” The two men clasped hands, touched shoulders lightly, and pounded each other on the back. They’d grown up a few houses from each other. They weren’t blood relations, but they were so close, they were like family; D’marco considered Ray-Ray a playcousin. D’marco motioned for Ray-Ray to come outside with him, and the two men stood in front of a stoop a little ways away from where the other men stood. D’marco opened his pack of cigarettes and offered Ray-Ray a smoke. Ray-Ray took a cigarette gratefully.

D’marco studied Ray-Ray as they lit up. Same old Ray-Ray. He was as tall as D’marco, but where D’marco was thick with muscles and moved with a slow confidence, Ray-Ray was skinny as an alley cat and always hyped up on nervous energy. His dreadlocks were tied loosely back, revealing a few scars on his lean neck. D’marco knew the story behind each of those scars—but he didn’t know Ray-Ray’s given name. To D’marco and everyone D’marco knew, he was just Ray-Ray.

“You gonna hit it tonight?” Ray-Ray asked.

“What you talkin’ about?” D’marco smiled and took a long drag on his cigarette.

“That rose.” Ray-Ray pointed at the plastic container that D’marco had rested on the ledge behind them.

“It’s for Pree. We back together.”

“For real? After she got you locked up?”

“Nah, she did good. In the end. She testified that I ain’t done nothin’ to her.”

“Man, I was you, I’d
fuck
that cop up.”

“Man, he didn’t do nothin’. He just doin’ his job after she called the police.”

“Nah, D, not
that
cop. The one who been fuckin’ Laprea when you was locked up.”

D’marco regarded Ray-Ray with slitted eyes. He blew smoke out of his nostrils in two thick gray lines. When he managed to speak again, his voice was low and full of danger.

“The fuck d’you just say?”

Ray-Ray nervously kicked an empty soda can back and forth between his feet. He hadn’t meant to break any bad news. “You . . . uh . . . you ain’t heard? Forget it. Can’t trust no rumors anyway,” he added lamely.

To Ray-Ray, it looked like D’marco stood silently for a moment, smoking his cigarette down to the filter and watching the traffic go by. But inside D’marco’s chest, his heartbeat went from an idling car to a thundering steam engine. His body temperature rose four degrees; what had felt like a warm afternoon suddenly became a scorcher. Waves of heat shimmied in front of his eyes, blurring his vision. He felt sick and furious and dizzy. He dropped the cigarette butt to the sidewalk and ground it beneath his heel. Ray-Ray watched worriedly as D’marco stalked back into the Circle B.

•  •  •

Later that evening, Laprea sat on Dameka’s bed with the twins snuggling on either side of her. She let D’montrae turn the last page of the book. There was a cartoon of a prince and a princess riding two white horses into a sunset. “And they lived happily ever after,” Laprea read. “The end.” Dameka sighed with happiness. D’montrae begged his mother to read
The Cat in the Hat.
“No, sugar, I was for real, that was the last one. Bedtime.” She scooted D’montrae into his own bed and tucked them in, kissing both twins good night.