Mistress of Justice

counselor.”
    They clinked glasses but she must’ve winced a bit.
    “What?”
    “ ‘Counselor.’ ”
    “You don’t like that?”
    “My father’s pet name for me. Fingernails on the blackboard.”
    “Noted,” he said. “I can imagine it’s tough being Samuel Lockwood’s child.”
    If you only knew, she thought, echoing the words she’d just directed to her father’s phone message earlier that day.
    They sipped the cognac and talked about the firm, partners, affairs, who was gay, who was on partnership track and who was not. She supplied most of the information and was surprised he knew so little about the gossipy side of the firm and its politics.
    It was more astonishing to her that he knew so little about the merger. Although the lawyers and staffers of Hubbard, White spent more hours debating the merger than billing time for clients, Reece seemed oblivious to the whole thing. She mentioned the rumor that Clayton had a German lawyer inquire about accounts Burdick might have opened in Switzerland.
    “Really?” Reece asked with what seemed unsophisticated surprise.
    “Aren’t you worried about it?” Taylor asked. “About what’ll happen if Wendall wins?”
    He laughed. “No. Doesn’t make a bit of difference to me—as long as I can try cases, good cases, that’s all I care about. Whether it’s Donald in charge or Wendall or John Perelli, doesn’t matter.”
    Together they cleared the dishes. He nodded toward the leather sofa and they walked over to it, sitting and sinking into the deep, supple piece of furniture.
    There was a moment of quiet. The ticking clock. A siren far away. A distant shout.
    That was when he kissed her.
    And she kissed him back.
    They embraced for a moment, his right hand sliding down the side of her face but coming to rest, ambiguously, at her collarbone.
    His palm started downward but it stopped.
    Perhaps because he sensed something coming from her—the reserve, the caution, that she in fact suddenly felt.
    “Sorry,” he said. “I’m impulsive and pushy. Tell me to go to hell.”
    “I would if I wanted to.”
    If you only knew …
    He sat back and after a moment said, “There’s something I wanted to say.”
    “Sure.”
    “It’s nothing really. But it’s been bugging me. Remember when I said I couldn’t have lunch after the cross? Yesterday?”
    “Right.” She found her heart beating hard.
    “I didn’t have a meeting.”
    She pictured the three-hour lunch reference on the time sheet. The flowers.
    “I went up to Westchester.”
    Taylor nodded, said nothing.
    He continued. “There’s something I don’t talk about too much. My mother’s in a home up there.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry, Mitchell.”
    He was stoic but she believed she could see pain somewhere behind his eyes. “Schizophrenia. It’s pretty bad. I go to see her a couple times a week. Sometimes she remembers me.” He smiled. “Yesterday she was pretty good. I took her some flowers and she went on and on about them for a long time.”
    “She’s on medication?”
    “Oh, yeah. And the nurses at the home are real good to her. The thing is, it’s hard for me to talk about it. In fact, you’re the only one I’ve told.”
    She felt a burst of pleasure at this confidence, even more than being singled out by Reece to help him find the promissory note. “I won’t say anything.… If there’s anything I can do—”
    “Hey, how ’bout just a kiss to forgive me for not being honest.”
    She laughed and squeezed his arm. And leaned forward. Kissed him quickly.
    Then eased her arms around his neck and kept kissing him.
    Hard.
    Where are we going with this? she wondered.
    As she kissed and was kissed, as she touched and was touched, her mind counted her marriage proposals (two), the live-in boyfriends (three), the men she’d slept with (thirteen).
    She thought of the ones she felt mere fondness for who’d claimed they were madly in love with her. And the flip side: the ones she’d lusted or pined for who hadn’t cared she existed.
    But maybe
this
time would be different, she thought. Maybe getting older, maybe simply getting by,
surviving
in this world had changed her, made her more discerning, given her better judgment.
    Maybe she’d broken into a different place—that Wonderland where her father and Mitchell Reece resided. Where she was their equal.
    But be careful, she thought. Remember Thom Sebastian’s myth of the beautiful woman? Well, beware the myth of the absolute