CHAPTER 10
Cate
Just as I expected, Joe didn’t call after that day on the beach. I think Curtis, who had already begun to plan my wedding makeup, was more upset than I was. I was definitely disappointed, but told myself that it was a much-needed reality check and a great reminder not to get my hopes up. What had I been thinking, anyway? Obviously, Joe Kingsley was from a different world—and it seemed pretty clear that he had gone home and concluded the same. My work might put me on private beaches in the Hamptons, and in proximity to a certain class of people, but that didn’t mean I actually belonged with them.
It was probably a blessing in disguise. I knew Joe had a reputation for being a bit of a playboy, and I had no interest in being his flavor of the month. A fling with a man like him could only break my heart, something I had so diligently avoided.
When I shared all of this with Curtis, he gave me his usual speech about how I was not a second-class citizen just because I hadn’t grown up with a silver spoon. He also reminded me that Joe had dated “that train wreck Phoebe Mills.”
“Gee, Curtis. Are you trying to say that I’m a train wreck, too?” I said, smiling.
“Oh my God! No!” Curtis said, objecting a little too much. “I’m saying that I saw what I saw. That man was drawn to you. Like a moth to a flame.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, thinking that Curtis might be right about our attraction, but that there was still a massive difference between wanting to sleep with someone and wanting to date them. Joe clearly had no interest in the latter, and apparently not enough interest in the former to even make a phone call.
A few weeks later, my theory was confirmed when I saw in the tabloids that Joe was, in fact, still dating his college girlfriend. I couldn’t decide whether that made him a bad guy for getting my number in the first place—or a good guy for not having called me. In the end, it didn’t really make a difference, but I found myself perusing more of those magazine articles, searching for clues in the photos. I was especially interested in the ones of Joe and Margaret doing all their preppy activities: sailing, skiing, rare-book browsing. It made me a little ill, but I refused, on principle, to be jealous of a woman with an uninspired bob haircut who wore Fair Isle sweaters and pearls, sometimes at the same time.
What I was jealous of, though, was the respect that came with Margaret Braswell’s credentials, from her Harvard degree to her work in the Peace Corps to her noble teaching profession. There was no way I could compete with a woman like that. It made me think a bit more than I usually would about who I wanted to be, other than just a survivor. As Daisy had told me years before, my modeling days were numbered, and it was clear that my mom was never going to leave Chip, no matter how much money I made or help I offered. The end game had changed, and it was time to make a move. For myself.
—
That fall, an opportunity came along when Wilbur Swift, an up-and-coming British fashion designer whom I’d befriended during his Burberry days, offered me a role at his new label. I said yes, quitting modeling for what I hoped would be for good.
Initially, Wilbur hired me to work on the creative side, but he ultimately moved me to sales, praising my people skills and deciding that I should have a more “visible role.” As I traveled back and forth between our Madison Avenue store and our flagship in Sloane Square, he had me working with our most prominent clientele. I styled socialites and actors, dressing them for parties and weddings and charity balls, as well as editorial shoots and red-carpet appearances. It was a pay cut from modeling but a huge step up in my quality of life, and I felt more respected and valued than I had before. Don’t get me wrong, I still had massive insecurities about my lack of a formal education, but by that time, I had seen enough of the world and been around enough wealthy, high-profile people to know how to fake it. I think it also helped that I began to develop relationships with some of my clients and to see that no matter how rich or successful someone was, they still had problems. As the expression goes: more money, more problems. I didn’t think that was true—they were just different problems.
I found myself remembering my high-school days in Montclair—when I’d used clothes to feel better about myself—and how I’d ultimately created a new identity—or at least masked my real one. I channeled that energy when dressing my clients, especially the ones who seemed depressed or worried about something. I’d usher them into my dressing room, sit them down on a comfortable chair, and hand them an espresso or a glass of champagne. Then we’d have a chat—and I’d ask them questions about what they were looking for. Sometimes they didn’t know. But I’d find out, putting them at ease before assembling a great outfit. The moment when they looked into the mirror and smiled filled me with satisfaction and a sense of purpose. There was so much that was shallow about the fashion industry—but it could also be transformative.
—
About six months into my gig, Wilbur and I were flying from New York to London together, enjoying cocktails in first class, when he asked me, out of the blue, who would be my dream client. Without hesitation, I said Princess Diana. In the middle of divorcing Prince Charles, she was technically no longer in the British royal family, but that didn’t diminish her star power in any way whatsoever.
“Dream male client?” Wilbur asked.
I shrugged, finding men’s fashion significantly less interesting, then said, “I don’t know. Robert Redford…Paul Newman…maybe Brad Pitt.”
Wilbur took a sip of his Kir Royale (he traveled with his own crème de cassis, adding it to the airline champagne). “What about Joe Kingsley?” he asked.
My heart skipped a beat as I shrugged, squeezing more lime into my gin and tonic, feeling relieved that Joe hadn’t crossed my mind for a while.
“Yeah. He’d be up there, too, I guess.”
“Cate,” Wilbur said, smiling and shaking his head. “Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me that you know Joe Kingsley?”
“What?”
“I ran into him at a party—he told me he knows you. You’re my director of celebrity sales, and you don’t mention that you know the most famous man in the world?”
“Well, first of all, I don’t know him. Not like that,” I said. “And second of all, there are plenty of men more famous than he is.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know…plenty of people.”
“Name them.”
“As I said: Robert Redford, Paul Newman, Brad Pitt.”
“Rubbish,” Wilbur said. “Nobody knows those guys’ parents. Or cares about their baby pictures.”
“So what?” I said. “All that means is that those guys are self-made—they came to fame later in life—whereas Joe is famous because he was born into a rich family. He was famous at birth.”
“Exactly,” Wilbur said, as if I’d proven a point for him.
“That’s not impressive,” I said. “He hasn’t accomplished anything on his own.”
“Well, neither has Diana. All she did was marry into a family.”
“Touché,” I said.
“So?” Wilbur said. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew him?”
“Because I don’t really. We just met once. In passing. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Well, you made an impression on him,” Wilbur said, smirking.
“How do you know that?” I asked, a little perturbed with myself for feeling flattered.
“Because he told me, girl! He told me how you two met in the Hamptons…on the beach…. He said he lost your number, but he somehow knew we worked together…and he wants to come in for an appointment.”
“Oh. Cool,” I said, nodding and doing my best to feign professional nonchalance. “What’s he looking for? Casual stuff? Business attire? Black tie?”
Wilbur grinned. “He didn’t mention clothing. But he did ask me whether you were single.”
“And?” I said, getting a funny feeling in my stomach.
“And I told him you were.”
“Oh my God, Wilbur. You know I have a boyfriend,” I said.
I’d been seeing a British soccer player named Arlo Smith for a couple of months. Jocks weren’t really my type, but with tattoos and spiky hair, Arlo had something of a rock-and-roll vibe that I loved. We had fun together, and things were going well.
“You’re going to turn down Joe for a third-rate footballer?” Wilbur said.
“Wow, Wilbur. Don’t be such a snob.”
“Guilty as charged. I am a snob.”
“Well, I’m not,” I said, reaching for my lavender eye mask, ready to recline my seat and doze off. “And I’m happy to sell Joe Kingsley a boatload of clothes. But I’m not entertaining any of the rest of this.”
“The rest of what?”
“You know what.”
“And whyever not?”
“Because,” I said, feeling resolute. “I don’t need that kind of nonsense in my life.”
—
About ten days later, Joe strolled into our new SoHo store right in the middle of a busy trunk show. I spotted him out of the corner of my eye but was with a client and pretended I hadn’t seen him. For more than thirty minutes he hovered nearby, turning down help from my sales associate, clearly waiting for me.
When I was finally free, he tentatively approached me and said, “Hi there, Cate.”
“Oh. Hi, Joe,” I said with a bright but detached smile. “Are you here for the trunk show?”
Joe put his hands in his pockets, shuffled his feet a little, then said, “Um. Well…I’m here to see you, actually.”
I laughed and said, “Well, that’s a shame. I would rather you be here for the trunk show. It’s amazing.”
“Well, yeah. That, too,” Joe said with a shy smile. “Will you show it to me? Please?”
I gave him a brisk nod, then launched into my sales spiel, pretending he was just another client with a lot of money. It was a professional opportunity. Nothing more. Joe listened intently, and when I suggested he try a few things on, he agreed.
“Lovely,” I said, ushering him over to a fitting room, intentionally choosing the smaller of the two available.
Over the next hour, Joe tried on various items that I selected while I waited outside for him, along with Yolanda, our seamstress. Every time the door opened, and he walked out and stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror, I felt a little breathless. His body was made for clothes, but it occurred to me that I didn’t often see him dressed so nicely. At one point, he said as much, fiddling with the lapel on a jacket and asking if it looked right.
“Yes,” I said. “I don’t even think you need any tailoring. Do you, Yolanda?”
“No. He’s perfect,” she said, all starry-eyed.
“Yes. It’s perfect,” I said, correcting her little slip.
—
In the end, Joe decided on a navy suit, two sport coats, three shirts, an orange necktie, and a pair of tan driving moccasins. As I rang him up, I gave him my usual post-sales reassurance about spending a lot of money. You did really well. You got some great, versatile pieces. I think you’re going to be really happy with these.
Joe thanked me and agreed. I walked him to the door, thinking I was in the clear. But at the last second, he said, “So look, Cate. I wanted to say something.”
“Yes?” I said, keeping it light.
“I just wanted to say that…I’m really sorry I never called you.”
I gave him a blank stare, pretending to be confused.
“You know. After we met…” he said. “That day on the beach.”
“Oh. That. Yes,” I said, waving him off. “No worries.”
“I wanted to—so badly—but the timing wasn’t right….”
“Hmm,” I said, nodding, thinking of Margaret.
“But it is now,” he told me.
“Oh, it is, is it?” I said with a laugh, thinking that he obviously meant his timing.
“Yes,” he said, missing my point. “So do you think…maybe…I could take you to dinner some—”
“I’m sorry,” I said, cutting him off. “But I’m dating someone now.”
“Oh, okay…I wasn’t sure…. Wilbur said it wasn’t serious.”
“Well, Wilbur doesn’t know everything about my personal life.”
“Oh, yeah. Of course,” Joe said.
I nodded and gave him a close-lipped smile.
He hesitated, then said, “Yeah…so, um, what about lunch? Could you do lunch? Or coffee? Or take a walk in the park?”
Feeling both empowered and determined, I told him that probably wasn’t a good idea. “But I’ll tell you what,” I added, now just toying with him. “If you want to give me your number, I can be in touch if things with this guy ever change.”
Joe grinned, then reached into his wallet for his business card. He handed it to me and said, “That sounds great. I’m feeling pretty hopeful.”
“Oh? And why’s that?” I said, my voice sounding surprisingly flirty.
“ ’Cause you just called him ‘this guy,’ ” he said. “Not a good sign for the ol’ boy.”
“And you’re assuming you’d be my next choice?” I said, playing it coy and careful.
“What can I say?” Joe grinned. “I’m an optimist.”
—
That evening, Curtis came over with Thai takeout. I gave him and Elna the update, and they had opposite reactions, as usual.
“He had his chance,” Elna said, rolling her eyes.
“He was dating someone!” Curtis said.
“Well, now she is. And Arlo is a great guy,” Elna said.
“I know…but Joe is so gorgeous,” Curtis said.
“He’s too good-looking,” Elna said. “Guys like that are trouble.”
“He’s not a ‘guy like that,’ ” Curtis said. “He’s Joe Kingsley. An American icon. If you grew up here, you’d understand.”
“Something tells me Black folks in this country might also disagree with this icon notion,” Elna said.
“She has a point, Curtis. At the end of the day, he’s just another rich white guy. What’s he actually done to be so famous?”
“He’s famous because he’s Joe friggin’ Kingsley,” said Curtis, the master of circular reasoning. “That’s why.”
“Stop encouraging this shit,” Elna said. “It’s not good for her. She’s happy with Arlo.”
“Arlo’s her boy toy,” Curtis said. “He’s not her final destination.”
I listened as they argued back and forth for a few minutes and then said, “Isn’t anyone going to ask if I have any interest in Joe?”
“Well? Do you?” Elna said.
“No,” I said. “I do not.”
“Ha,” Elna said, gloating at Curtis.
“She’s lying, Elna,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t know if she’s lying to us or to herself, but either way, she’s definitely lying. Everyone is interested in Joe Kingsley.”
—
The following day, I received a bouquet of red roses at the store, along with a note. It read:
Roses are red,
violets are blue.
He waits for her call,
’cause patience is a virtue.
It wasn’t signed, but I knew who it was from, and I have to admit it got to me. No part of me wanted to break up with Arlo, and I wasn’t about to cheat on him, but I found myself thinking of loopholes, ways I could call Joe and still be on the up-and-up. Maybe we could be friends. I could almost picture it, the two of us hanging out in coffee shops, or going to Knicks games, maybe even attending an occasional event when he couldn’t find a proper date. I imagined that Arlo would be cool with it—that Joe would win him over, just as I would win over Joe’s next girlfriend. We could be When Harry Met Sally without all the sexual tension and confusion.
Deep down, though, I knew I was just rationalizing, and that I couldn’t hang out with Joe, even as friends. I also knew that he’d move on to someone else soon enough.
But the following week, I received another flower arrangement at the store—even more spectacular than the first. He raised his game on the poem, too, this time offering a limerick:
There once was a girl named Cate.
Around her he couldn’t think straight.
She sold him some pants while he begged for a chance,
Then prayed that she’d go on one date.
I cracked up, then found his business card in his file, calling him on the spot.
“You’re nuts,” I said, grinning into the phone.
“What do you mean?” he said, playing dumb.
“The flowers. And this ridiculous limerick—” I said.
“You didn’t like my poetry?”
“It’s ludicrous,” I said. “And you bought more than a pair of pants.”
“No doubt,” he said. “I broke the damn bank in that store.”
I smiled, then said, “How are you enjoying your new clothes?”
“I love them…. I’m actually wearing my loafers right now. They’re very comfortable.”
“Good,” I said. “I’m glad you’re happy.”
“I’d be happier if you went on a date with me.”
“Yeah…well…I still have a boyfriend,” I said, feeling a wistful pang, wishing I could say yes. “But maybe we could do something, as friends…like that lunch you mentioned?”
“Hell, yeah! When? Tonight?”
I told him that the last time I checked lunch didn’t happen at night—and that I already had plans anyway.
“Okay. How about tomorrow? The day after?”
“I really can’t,” I said. “I’m leaving for Fashion Week…and I still have so much to do to get ready.”
“Where are you going?”
“Paris.”
“Awesome. I love Paris. Where are you staying?”
“At the Bristol.”
“Hmm…Maybe I’ll show up and say hi.”
I laughed and said, “You’ll just hop on a plane and head over to Paris, huh?”
“I might…. You never know,” he said. “Would you have dinner with me? Or lunch? If I flew to Paris?”
“I don’t know,” I said, smiling into the phone.
“But you’re not saying no?”
I shook my head, now full-on grinning. “I guess you’ll have to fly to Paris and find out.”
—
Three days later, when I checked in to the Bristol, the lady at the front desk handed me an envelope with my name written on the front, informing me that it was from a gentleman guest. I nodded and thanked her, thinking it was probably from Wilbur. But the look of restrained glee on her face made me wonder.
There’s no way, I told myself as I declined the bellman’s offer to help with my bag and took the elevator up to the tenth floor, eyeing the envelope the whole way. When I got to my room, I started to open it but felt so foolishly hopeful that I made myself put it down on the bed and wait a little longer.
I went to work unpacking and getting organized for the week. It was a ritual that never got old, especially when I was in an upscale hotel. I arranged my makeup and toiletries in the marble bathroom; hung my dresses and skirts in the closet; filled the dresser drawers with my knits, nightgowns, and underwear; lined my shoes against one wall; and placed my handbags, clutches, and belts on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. Last, I put my jewelry in the safe, setting the code to 3005, my childhood apartment number in Hackensack.
At that point, I sat on the bed and picked up the envelope, feeling a bit more in control. It probably wasn’t from Joe anyway, and even if it was, I didn’t have to get swept up in one of his grand romantic gestures. I owed him exactly nothing. But as I opened the letter and saw his initials at the bottom of the page, I could feel my heart beating faster. Then I scanned up to read:
Dear Cate, I know you’re going to be very busy this week, but I took my chances that you might have an opening in your schedule. I’m in Room 1010 if you want to reach me. If I don’t hear from you, no worries. Paris is never a bad idea. Fondly, JSK
I put the letter back down on the bed as it started to sink in that Joe was not only in Paris but also in my hotel, and on my floor—which I didn’t believe for one second was a coincidence. It was just further evidence that he could get anything he wanted. Whether a room in a sold-out hotel or a girl. Any girl. Honestly, my mind was a little blown, but I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered by his effort or suspicious of his intentions. I ruled out the former, telling myself there was no way he’d come just to see me. At the very least, he had a backup plan—another woman he could call and wine and dine. His spontaneous trip to Paris wasn’t romantic—it was about the thrill of the chase, and the fact that he couldn’t take no for an answer. The second he got what he wanted—which undoubtedly was sex—he’d move on to his next conquest. I’d been down this road before, just never with stakes this high or a man this famous. I told myself it was all the same thing, though, and as long as I knew the deal up front and didn’t cross any lines, I could play along with his game. So I picked up the phone and dialed his room.
Joe answered on the first ring, saying a cheerful hello.
My heart pounding, I said, “Hey, Joe. It’s Cate.”
“Cate!” he said. “You got my note! I’m so glad to hear from you!”
“Uh-huh,” I said, cool as can be. “And what brings you to Paris?”
“Umm…I’m here to see you…. I mean, I was hoping to take you to dinner,” he said, sounding the slightest bit flustered.
“So, you really rolled the dice with that one.”
“What can I say? I live on the edge.”
“You sure do.”
“Well? Are you free at all?” he asked.
“Well, let’s see…. I’m pretty booked this week—but I’m free tonight if you are?”
“I am!” he said. “And I’d love to have dinner with you. Where would you like to go?”
“How about Epicure? Right downstairs?” I said, thinking the hotel restaurant seemed like less of a date than going out on the town.
“Perfect. I’ll make a reservation,” he said. “How does seven sound?”
“Make it eight,” I said, figuring I might as well make him wait an extra hour.
—
A long nap and a cold shower later, I was standing before my closet in a plush white towel, a second one wrapped around my head, debating what to wear to dinner with Joe Kingsley. Obviously I wanted to look good, but I didn’t want to flatter him by trying too hard, either. I also wanted to reinforce the point that I was a serious professional woman—and that he was crashing my business trip. In that vein, I contemplated my go-to camel-colored pencil skirt, which I could pair with a black cashmere sweater or a crisp white blouse. Then again, I didn’t have to be quite so buttoned up. I could just as easily play his game while looking a bit sexy, which might be more satisfying, especially when it came time to reject him.
Ultimately, I opted for a clingy but still understated black sheath dress—a sample from our new collection—and four-inch strappy stilettos that would put me at his height, maybe slightly taller. I kept my jewelry simple, wearing only diamond stud earrings and a slim gold cuff bracelet, and pulled my hair back in a low, tight chignon. Finally, I did my makeup with a light hand—as usual—just a little concealer and powder, along with black mascara and my signature red lipstick.
Glancing at the clock, I saw that I still had a few minutes to kill before I hit the “fashionably late” window, so I sat down to call Arlo, who was in Brazil for a soccer match. I was prepared to tell him the truth—that I was having dinner with a pushy client who happened to be Joe Kingsley—but felt a little relieved when he didn’t answer his phone. I would tell him later, no big deal, I told myself as I gathered up my room key, lipstick, and compact. I stashed them all in my small black clutch, then headed out the door.
A moment later, I was off the elevator and walking toward the restaurant. As I gave myself a final pep talk about not, under any circumstances, falling for Joe Kingsley, I spotted him standing by the maître d’s podium in his new Wilbur suit and was freshly overcome by how handsome he was. I stopped in my tracks and took a deep breath just as he looked up and saw me. His face lit up, and I saw him mouth an unmistakable wow as I walked the rest of the way to him at a confident runway pace.
“Wow,” he repeated in a whisper when I reached him. “Hello, Cate.”
“Hello, Joe,” I said with only a hint of a smile.
He hesitated, then placed one hand on the small of my back, the other on my shoulder, and gave me a double-cheek kiss, which can feel a little pretentious coming from an American. But I decided it worked in this case, perhaps because we were in Paris—or maybe because he was Joe Kingsley, after all. American royalty.
“You look stunning,” he said.
I thanked him, debating whether to return the compliment. I decided that he’d heard it enough and simply said, “I like your suit.”
“Thanks,” he said with a broad grin. “It’s new.”
A few seconds later the maître d’ politely interjected with a greeting, then escorted us to a secluded table overlooking the hotel’s interior courtyard. I could feel a few stares along the way and had a flashback to my own first Joe Kingsley sighting, on the beach. I felt a little sheepish remembering how giddy I’d been.
“Finally,” Joe said, once we were seated and settled and alone. He leaned over the table, staring into my eyes.
“Finally what?” I asked.
“Finally we’re on a date.” He smiled, and I saw a dimple in his left cheek that I’d never noticed in photographs of him.
“It’s not a date,” I said, shaking my head.
“Oh, it’s a date, Cate.”
“Look at you and your little rhymes,” I said, trying not to smile.
“Hey, I gotta stick with what works. My poetry got us here.”
I tilted my head and said, “Is that what you think?”
“Yes,” he said, chuckling some more. “I think that limerick did you in.”
“Oh, it did me in, all right,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Admit it…you loved it,” he said.
I gave him a close-lipped smile and shook my head.
“You’re lucky I didn’t hit you with one of my world-famous haikus. You’d have melted on the spot.”
I crossed my arms and said, “Try me.”
Joe cleared his throat, then put his elbows on the table, resting his chin on his clasped hands. He stared out over the courtyard, appearing deep in thought. After a few seconds, he turned back to me, cleared his throat again, then began reciting in the deep voice of a Shakespearean actor, “He came to Paris…just to look in her blue eyes…by the candlelight.”
“Not bad,” I said, laughing. “Corny as hell, but not bad.”
“It might be corny, but it’s true,” he said, looking so unbelievably earnest that I almost believed he really had come all this way just to see me.
I started to respond but was saved by our waiter, who arrived to give us a rundown of the menu and wine list. Joe responded in clumsy French, asking a few questions before I took over, in much better French, ordering a bottle of Burgundy and informing our waiter that we needed another few minutes to peruse the menu.
When we were alone, Joe said, “Your French is so good.”
“Thanks.”
“Did you take it in school?”
“No. I took Spanish. I just picked it up from my modeling days. I did a lot of work here.”
“Wow. That’s so impressive. I’m terrible with languages. I took, like, ten years of French and it’s still horrible.”
“It really is,” I said with a laugh, thinking that it was actually a little surprising—and refreshing—as I would have pegged Joe as the kind of guy who would never risk embarrassment and only do things that he knew he was really good at.
Over the next two hours, as we ordered and ate and finished our bottle of wine, Joe continued to surprise me. He was so full of contradictions. On the one hand, he was bold and brash and adventurous, talking about how much he loved flying his airplane and heli-skiing and windsurfing. On the other hand, he seemed introspective and thoughtful and kind—almost gentle. I noticed, for example, that he always made eye contact with the busboy, thanking him every time he refilled our water glasses even when Joe was in midsentence. He didn’t seem to put himself above anyone, and his humility verged on self-deprecation as he told me about his grades in college—and how he’d failed the bar not once but twice.
Of course, I knew this already, remembering the embarrassing headlines, but I played dumb and said, “Oh. Wow. That must have sucked.”
“Yeah. The first time wasn’t that bad…. I mean, it was a huge buzzkill and hassle. But it happens…. The second time, though?” He shook his head and smiled, like it was a fond memory. “That really did suck.”
“Well, at least you can laugh at yourself,” I said.
“Yeah, I try. But my mom didn’t think it was too funny.”
Picturing Dottie Kingsley, I winced and said, “Ohh. Yeah. I bet not.”
“She was beside herself.”
“Why? Is it that big of a deal?” I said, feeling a little defensive about my own academic record. “You can take the bar exam as many times as you want, right?”
“Yeah,” he said. “You can…but let’s just say that that’s not expected of a Kingsley.” He said his last name in an exaggerated, snobbish voice.
“Yeah. I guess not,” I said, thinking it had never occurred to me that it might be kind of a drag to have super successful parents or a famous name. I had also never considered that there was any sort of silver lining to having an abusive stepfather and an arguably not so great mother. I mean, hell, simply by having become a functioning member of society I was something of a success story.
“So, after all of that, do you like being a lawyer?” I asked, wanting to stay off the subject of my own life.
Joe appeared to ponder this question, taking a sip of wine. “Yes and no. Working in the DA’s office can be fun…but it can be demoralizing. I may quit soon.”
“And do what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I need to figure that out,” he said, giving me a look that messed me up a little inside.
I held his gaze, resisting the urge to look away, but said nothing.
“And what about you?” he said.
“What about me?”
“Do you feel like your life is…on track?”
“My life?” I said with a laugh. “That’s a pretty broad question.”
“Okay. Your work?”
“It’s good, I guess.”
“And how about your relationship?”
I hesitated just long enough to have given him my true answer, then tried to recover. “Passion is overrated.”
“You don’t believe that, do you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I do. And I’ve found that it’s better to keep your expectations low in life. About everything.”
“Damn,” Joe said, shaking his head. “That’s kind of depressing.”
I shrugged and said, “Not to me.”
“Were your expectations low for me? Tonight?”
I smiled and said, “Yes. Very.”
“So I surpassed them?” he asked, his face all lit up.
“Un peu,” I said, lowering my voice and giving him my most seductive look. “Mais cela reste à voir.”