Mistress of Justice

yammering mindlessly in front of her, thought about when she was a teenager and her Labrador retriever would pile into bed next to her and lie against an adjacent pillow until she scooted him off. She’d then lie still, waiting for sleep, while she felt, in the warmth radiating from the empty pillow, the first glimmerings of understanding that the pain that solitude conjures within us is a false pain and has nothing to do with solitude at all.
    Indeed, being alone was curative, she believed.
    She thought about Reece and wondered if he was different, if he was like her father, who sought company when he was troubled—though it was not the presence of his family Samuel Lockwood had ever needed but that of business associates, politicians, fellow partners and clients.
    But that’s a different story, she thought wearily.
    She lay back on the couch and ten hours later opened her eyes to a gray morning.
    She took the next day off and spent much of the morning and early afternoon Christmas shopping. When she returned home, in the late afternoon, there was another call from Reece and a curious one from Sean Lillick. He seemed drunk and he rambled on for a few minutes about Clayton’s death, an edge to his voice. He mentioned that Carrie Mason wasn’t going to Clayton’s memorial service with him and asked if Taylor wanted to go.
    No, she thought. But didn’t call him back.
    Thom Sebastian too had left a message, asking her to phone back. She didn’t call him either.
    She rummaged through the mail she’d picked up downstairsand found, mixed in among the Christmas cards, a self-addressed envelope from a music company. Her heart sank as she felt the thick tape inside and realized what it contained. Ripping the envelope open, she upended it and let her demo tape clatter out onto the table.
    This wasn’t the last of the tapes she’d sent out for consideration—there were still about a half dozen out at various companies—but it was the important one, the only tape that had made it to a label’s Artists and Repertoire committee.
    There was no response letter; someone had simply jotted on her own cover note, “Thanks, but not for us.”
    She tossed it into a Macy’s box with the rest of them and, finally, opened that morning’s
New York Times
. She read the article she’d been avoiding all day, headlined:
    WALL STREET LAWYER KILLS SELF
P RESSURE AT W HITE -S HOE F IRM
C ITED IN D EATH OF P ARTNER , 52
     
     
    Burdick apparently had indeed gotten away with it.
    His artistry was astonishing. Not a word about the Hanover & Stiver case, nothing about the theft of the promissory note. Nothing about her or Mitchell or the merger.
    Burdick was quoted, calling the death a terrible tragedy and saying that the profession had lost a brilliant attorney. The reporter also quoted several members of the firm—Bill Stanley mostly (well, the PR firm)—discussing Clayton’s huge workload and his moodiness. The article reported that in the past year Clayton had billed over twenty-six hundred hours, a huge number for lawyers of his seniority. There was a sidebar on stress among overworked professionals.
    She sighed and threw the newspaper away then washed the ink off her hands as if it were blood.
    At five-thirty the doorbell rang.
    Who could it be? Neighbors? Thom Sebastian assaulting her to beg for a date?
    Ralph Dudley simply assaulting her?
    She opened the door.
    Mitchell Reece, wearing a windbreaker, walked inside and asked her if she had a cat.
    “What?” she asked, bewildered by his quick entrance.
    “A cat,” he repeated.
    “No, why? Are you allergic? What are you doing here?”
    “Or fish, or anything you have to feed regularly?”
    She was so pleased to see him in a playful mood—so different from the shock in his face after Clayton’s death—that she joked back, “Just occasional boyfriends. But none at the moment, as I think you know.”
    “Come on downstairs. I want to show you something.”
    “But—”
    He held his finger to his lips. “Let’s go.” She followed him out to the street, where a limo awaited, a black Lincoln. He opened the door and pointed inside, where she saw three large bags from Paragon Sporting Goods and two sets of new Rossignol skis propped across the seats.
    Taylor laughed. “Mitchell, what are you doing?”
    “Time for my lesson. Don’t you remember? You were going to teach me to ski.”
    “Where? Central Park?”
    “You know of someplace called Cannon? It’s in New