The Chrysalis (14 page)

eighteen

NEW YORK CITY, PRESENT DAY

T
HE NEXT DAY, MARA SNEAKED OUT OF WORK EARLY TO
stroll through Central Park before meeting Michael for the evening he had planned in honor of the anticipated success. They were to have dinner at Daniel followed by the Metropolitan Opera's
Madame Butterfly.
Too apropos to pass up, Michael had said.

Mara floated through the park. For the past twenty-four hours, she had been walking on wispy clouds filled with dreams of a future with Michael and a successful career at Severin. Spring had arrived early this year and left in its wake a kaleidoscopic wash of green buds, blooming tulip tips, daffodils, hyacinths, and the scent of new chances. Throngs of cooped-up New Yorkers responded to the siren call and, despite the lingering chill, filled the park.

Mara made her way to Beazley's, where she registered in the lobby and hailed one of the security guards she'd grown to know. Larry was a former New York City cop, and he always regaled Mara with tidbits of local gossip and renditions of Sinatra tunes as he rode the elevator with her to the twenty-fourth floor. Mara loved it; he reminded her of her great-uncles, men whose brogues and unpolished ways had caused her father no end of embarrassment but whose warmth Mara had always adored.

Michael's assistant, Hannah, took over from Larry when the elevator opened and escorted Mara back to Michael's office. In her typically formal manner, Hannah explained that a meeting outside the office had detained Michael.

“He asked me to have you wait in his office. He plans on meeting you back here no later than seven thirty, in advance of your eight o'clock engagement.” Hannah's voice carried no hint of innuendo. Mara wondered what Hannah really knew or suspected about her relationship with Michael. She was just too efficient to be oblivious but too professional to be suggestive.

Mara looked down at her watch; it was only 6:00. She and Michael wouldn't make dinner before the opera, so she'd just have to entertain herself in his office until he arrived. “That's fine, Hannah. I have plenty of calls to return and papers to review in the meantime.”

“Can I get you a cup of tea while you're waiting? If I recall correctly, Earl Grey with lemon?”

“Thanks so much, Hannah. That'd be perfect.”

Mara relaxed on Michael's couch with her steaming cup of tea. For an hour or so, she returned phone calls and reviewed some research a junior associate had prepared for her. But she grew restless and wandered over to Michael's desk.

She was a snoop at heart. Even as a child, Mara had carefully unwrapped, and then rewrapped, her Christmas gifts weeks before Santa's arrival just so she could begin dreaming about the treasures. Her father still joked that it was this instinct to unearth secrets that made her a successful lawyer. It was the same impulse that had propelled Mara to spend long evenings puzzling out whodunits with her grandmother and to devote long days in college to piecing together medieval mysteries. So when she started looking through Michael's papers and his calendar, she did so casually, almost unconsciously. Her fingers lifted and sifted, not looking for anything in particular but curious about what she could learn. Or at least that was what she told herself—though, if she were being very honest, she wanted to uncover more about Michael's life before and outside her, particularly since he divulged so much less than she in their late-night confessionals.

Sitting in his chair, she hit a button on his computer, and his e-mail screen popped up. Mara knew she should exit the screen, but she could not resist. After all, she rationalized to herself, it was just a list of e-mail headers. For the most part, the subject lines were clipped and official, and Mara's attention wandered as she mused on the differences between the businessman Michael and the Michael with whom she spent her nights. As she delved further and poked around in the e-mail texts, a very shrewd, methodical Michael emerged.

Suddenly, an e-mail folder with the subject “Baum SJ Briefs” snared her attention. She clicked it open and read the e-mails from the bottom of the chain to the top, her curiosity piqued particularly since it contained e-mails from Philip. Now her actions were much more deliberate and self-serving: She was consciously looking for compliments.

I read the summary judgment briefs. It seems your pretty little friend can be quite the clever lawyer when she is persuaded to adopt the right frame of mind. Nice work—your uncle would be proud. I assume the actual papers are safe and sound?

Under lock and key in St. Peter's own hands.

Your dedication to the task has not gone unnoticed. I almost wish that I had kept the courting for myself, though. Why don't you arrange for one more of those romantic dinners? After all, we still have to wait for the judge to rule on the summary judgment motion. There may be more work for her to do if he doesn't issue the opinion we're hoping for.