Guilt

Mark Dooher could not tell his wife that he'd had enough of the man he'd been pretending to be for so long. Something had to change, was going to change. 'I don't think that's it. I've been known to have fun without Wes Farrell

'Not as much, usually.' Teasing him.

'Well, thanks for that,' he said. Then, as she began to apologize, the doorbell rang. Dooher looked at his watch. 'That'll be the band.'

He turned on his heel and left the room. His wife looked after him, her face wistful, saddened. She sighed.

The guests had been arriving through the teeth of the storm, and Dooher and Sheila were greeting the early arrivals in the spacious foyer. They'd hired a staff of five to handle the food and drinks and there was of course the band, cooking away early on the first of what would probably be twenty or thirty takes of When the Saints Come Marching In.

Dooher's palms were sweating. He didn't know for sure if the woman in the restaurant had, in fact, been Avery's girlfriend. She might be anything to him – sister, cousin, financial adviser, architect. But he did know Avery was coming, bringing a guest.

He hadn't pla

But she was.

Dooher was moving forward, Sheila at his side, putting his hand out, shaking Avery's as the woman shrugged out of her raincoat, passed it to one of the staff, shook the wet from a French braid. She wore a maroon faux-velvet dress with spaghetti straps. There was a tiny mole on the swell of one breast. Her body was already subtly catching the rhythm of the music. Avery was introducing her, first to Sheila, then…

'… and this is Mr Dooher, er, Mark, our host. Mark, Christina Carrera.'

He took her hand and then – without consciously intending to – briefly raised it to his lips. A scent of almond. Their eyes met and held, long enough to force her to look down.

No one noticed. Other guests were arriving. He realized he was still holding her hand, and let it go, including Avery now in his welcome. 'Thank you – both – so much for braving this New Orleans monsoon.' He lapsed into a drawl. 'Sheila and I had ordered a couple dozen degrees of humidity for… for verisimilitude's sake, but this is takin' it a bit farther than I'd hoped, wouldn't you say?'

He had struck the right tone. They laughed, at home, embraced by the host. Sheila had her arm on his, appreciating the return of his good humor. He nodded again at Avery. 'Go on inside, get yourselves some drinks, warm up. Have fun.'

Now that she was here, he could be gracious. After his earlier apprehension, an almost narcotic calm settled over him. There would be time to meet her, get to know her. If not tonight, then…

She was in his house now. He had her name – Christina Carrera. She would not get away.

They had remodeled their kitchen five years before, and now it was a vast open space with an island cooking area. A deep well, inset into the marble, provided ice and a continual supply of champagne bottles. Across the back of the room – away from the sinks – a twelve-foot table was laden with fresh-shucked oysters, smoked salmon, three kinds of caviar, crawfish, crab cakes, shrimps as big as lobster tails.

The band – cornets, trumpets, trombones, banjos and bass – was playing New Orleans jazz, getting into it. People were dancing throughout the downstairs, but here in the kitchen, the swinging doors kept out enough music to allow conversation.

Christina was standing at the well, alone, pouring champagne into two flutes that she'd set on the marble. Dooher had seen her leave Avery with some other young people from the firm, take his glass and go through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

He came up behind her. 'While you're pouring, would you mind?' He put his glass next to the two others on the counter.

She turned and smiled. 'No, of course not.' Her gaze stayed on him a second. 'This is a super party. Thank you.' She tipped his glass, poured in a small amount of champagne, let the bubbles subside, poured again.

'A woman who knows how to pour champagne,' Dooher said. 'I thought it was a lost art.'

She was concentrating on the task. 'Not in my family.'

'Is your family from around here?'

'No. They're from down south. Ojai, actually.'

'Really? I love Ojai. I've often thought I'd like to settle there when I retire.'

'Well, that'll be a long time from now.'

'Not as long as you think…' She handed him his glass, and he touched hers. 'When I think of the pink moment.'

She laughed. 'You do know Ojai.'

The town was nestled in a valley behind Ventura, and many times the setting sun would break through the fog that hovered near the ocean and seem to paint the red rock walls of the valley a deep pink. The locals set great store by it.

Dooher nodded. 'I tell you, I love the place.'

'I do, too.'

'And yet, you're here.'

'And yet…' Her eyes glistened, enjoying the moment, sipping champagne. 'School. USF' She hesitated a moment. 'Law school, actually.'

Dooher backed up, his hand to his heart. 'Not that.'

'I'm afraid so.' She made a face. 'They tell me it's an acquired taste, though I'm done in June and I can't say I've been completely won over.' She smiled over her glass. 'Oops. I'm saying too much. Champagne talk. I should never admit that to a managing partner.'

Dooher leaned in closer to her, dropping to a whisper. 'I'll let you in on a secret – there are moments in the profession that are not pure bliss.'

'You shock me!'

'And yet…' he said.

'And yet.'

A moment, nearly awkward with the co

'The dutiful woman…' she said, softening it with a half-smile, but there was no mistaking it – some tension with Avery. But she picked up his glass.

'Are you clerking somewhere this summer? Have you applied with us?'

Most law students spent their summers clerking with established firms for a variety of reasons – experience, good pay, the inside track at a job offer.

Christina shook her head. 'Joe would kill me.'

'Joe would kill you? Why?'

She shrugged. 'Well, you know… he's on the hiring committee… he thinks it would smack of nepotism.'

'From the Latin "nepos", meaning nephew. Are you Joe's niece, by any chance? Perhaps he's your nephew. Are you two related to the third degree of consanguinity?' He raised his eyebrows, humorous, but holding her there. 'Love those lawyer words,' he said.

She was enjoying him. 'No. No, nothing like that. He just thinks it wouldn't work.'

'Well, I may have to have a word with Mr Avery…'

'No! I mean, please, it would just…'

He stepped closer again. 'Christina… may I call you Christina?'

She nodded.

'Look, are you going to be a good lawyer?'

'Yes. I mean, I think I am. I'm law review.' Only the best students made law review.

Dooher pounced. 'You're law review and…' He put his glass down, started over more slowly. 'Christina, listen, you're not doing yourself a favor, nor would you be doing our firm a favor, by not applying if you think there might be a good fit. A woman who is on law review and…' He was about to make some comment about her beauty but stopped himself – you couldn't be too careful on the sexual harassment score these days. 'Well, you'll do meaningful work and you'll bring in clients, which is quite a bit more than half the ballgame, although that's a dirty secret I should never divulge to an idealistic young student.'

'Not so young, Mr Dooher

'Mark. You're Christina, I'm Mark, okay?'

She nodded. 'But I'm really not so young. I'm twenty-seven. I didn't start law school until two years after college.'