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  “We’ve got a few points to discuss, but they’re minor. Basically, I think we’re on the same page.”

  Nodding, Rebecca slowly exhaled.

  Sydney said that she’d ordered lunch to be brought in around noon. “Let’s get started,” Wilson said. Then, heads bent over the agreements, and pages turned.

  Rebecca remained quiet as Sydney took over. That’s how she’d learned when she was a young associate, too. “We’ll start with the Offering Memorandum,” Sydney said. Papers shuffled around the table. “Page by page. Does everyone have copies?”

  As Sydney took the lead, working her way with the group through the pages of the first document for review, Positano rose before Rebecca—the sunshine, the sparkling water, languid days. The romantic nights.

  Then, forcing herself to follow the discussion, Rebecca followed along as Sydney noted each Mangen & Morris change on each page, explaining the reasons and answering questions. Once in a while she made a comment or two, but Sydney was doing fine. She couldn’t wait to talk to Peter, to assure him that she could go.

  When lunch arrived at twelve thirty, they took a break. Rebecca left as the lunch cart rolled into the room. She took the elevator down to sixteen, and alerted Rose Marie that the move to her new office would take place that evening after everyone went home.

  “Everything will be exactly the same when we arrive?”

  “Yep.” Rebecca snapped her finger. “Except the furniture will be new, and my office will be twice as big.”

  “How do they do it?”

  “They take pictures.”

  Rebecca went into her office. Glancing down at the open calendar, she shivered as she saw the appointment with Dr. Roger Matlock jotted on the page for Tuesday afternoon. That worry wound through her again, like a thread, pulling tight.

  It crossed her mind again that perhaps the appointment with Dr. Matlock was unnecessary. But she might as well see the doctor and rid herself of this fear once and for all, so that she could enjoy her weekend in Italy with Peter.

  At three thirty that afternoon, the lawyers completed the review of the bond offering memorandum. The company’s chief financial officer announced that he needed a break for a telephone call, and Sydney directed him to a small conference room down the hall where he could make the call in private. They would all take a thirty-minute break, Rebecca announced, and gradually the group dissipated, checking messages, stretching their legs.

  Rose Marie looked up when Rebecca arrived. “Mr. Bastion’s office called. Everything’s arranged for the move tonight. And Peter called. He said he’ll be very late. The jury selection is going slowly.”

  Rebecca’s smile disappeared. If jury selection was going forward, the trip to Italy was unlikely. Voir dire, the process of selecting a jury, sifting the prospects with questions and observation was a critical and tense process. This was a bad sign. She swallowed her disappointment.

  In her office she checked the stack of pink message slips near the phone, noting that Case Roberts, the CEO of Roberts Engineering had called. She put the rest of the slips down and picked up the phone. Just then, the room began to spin. With the dial tone buzzing, she lowered her forehead to her hand, pressing the phone between her shoulder and her ear. Seconds passed and then she placed the telephone receiver in the cradle before anyone answered and fell back against the tall soft back of the chair, closing her eyes.

  When at last she opened her eyes, the room had quit spinning. This was driving her crazy.

  But she planted her hands on the armrest and said to herself, Self—this is your life.

  With a glance at her watch, she slowly turned the chair around, holding her head very still. Then she picked up the telephone, and dialed Amalise’s office. “How about taking a short break,” she said when Amalise answered.

  “All right. The coffee room?”

  “Yes. Five minutes.” Rebecca hung up the phone and leaned her head against the back of the chair, thinking that maybe she should try again to return Case Roberts’s call before going off to meet Amalise. But another wave of nausea ran through her like a ripple in still water. She closed her eyes, and within a few minutes it disappeared.

  In the firm’s coffee shop on the seventeenth floor she poured a cup of coffee, added a little milk, a spoonful of sugar, and chose a table near the windows to wait for Amalise. From across the room she watched Amalise walk in and reach into the refrigerator for a Tab.

  “I’m glad you called. Work’s still slow and I was getting bored.” Amalise lifted the cold bottle and sipped the Tab, eying Rebecca. “Plus, Jude fixed a huge sandwich for my lunch, ham and Swiss cheese on rye with avocado—a lunch like that tends to make me sleepy.” She grimaced. “Well, I added the avocado and the cheese.” Then she set the bottle down on the table and sat back. “Maybe I’ll start eating salads for lunch.”

  Rebecca snorted. Amalise had been saying that for years, and yet she never gained a pound. She looked at Amalise, smiling. “How’s my best kid doing?”

  “He’s waiting for summer. And he’s the star of his sixth grade class. At least we think so. Jude says Luke’s somehow gotten his genes.”

  Rebecca laughed, since Luke was adopted that was impossible. But despite having a child almost in his teens, Amalise managed to keep up with her fast-paced life both at work and at home. How did she do it? She’d always had the ability to compartmentalize. She prioritized her home life and life at the office. And at work, Amalise took each problem as it came, focused and solved it before moving on to the next.

  The question popped from her mouth. “How do you do it all, Amalise?”

  Amalise wrinkled her brow. “How do I do what?”

  Rebecca set the coffee cup down on the table, longing to confide the fear that was haunting her right now. In her mind, she tried to put the fear into words—responsibility.

  No. It wasn’t that. But, a baby would bring her life to a screeching halt. Her dreams would disappear like smoke. She’d always thought that Peter agreed with her that a child would be an encumbrance, but—for the first time, now really thinking the question through, she found she wasn’t certain. The only thing she knew for sure was that, unlike Jude, Peter would never give up his work to stick around the house and help raise a child.

  When she looked up, Amalise was studying her.

  “How do you manage being a mother and . . .” She chewed on her lip, casting about for words—“And handling a demanding career like ours; working nights, weekends, traveling?” With a self-conscious shrug, she added, “Do you ever have time for yourself?”

  Amalise tilted her head. “That doesn’t sound like you, Rebecca. You know as well I do that the reason this works for me is Jude. With his own company he has a flexible schedule that he can arrange around Luke’s. He picks Luke up at school, takes him along with him to work. Cooks when I’m not there. He goes to the soccer games. And the housekeeper’s around for the times when Jude’s not free.”

  She gave a little shrug. “I wish I could do it all. But you and I both know that superwoman doesn’t exist. We all have to make choices. And, even then, you’ve got to have a plan . . . and a back-up plan.”

  Rebecca nodded, leaning back. That was the sum total of the answer, of course. At least for Amalise. Rebecca had fallen for Jude years ago, before he and Amalise had finally recognized what had been right before their eyes since they were children: that they were meant for each other.

  Rebecca thought of Peter, bound by his deadlines in court, so engrossed in each case. So dedicated to his work. What was possible for Jude would be impossible for Peter, no matter how much he wanted to be involved. “What if you didn’t have Jude?” she pressed. “Would you still be practicing law?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so. But lots of women do.” Amalise clasped her hands and leaned her chin on her knuckles, still watching Rebecca. “And some don’t have a
choice. And then, think of all the women with children in other jobs who have to work; and single mothers with no one at all to help. Some working shifts, sometimes two jobs at a time.” She dipped her chin and looked up at Rebecca. “So, what’s going on?”

  “Oh, I was just wondering how you managed.” She smiled, feeling foolish. Peter had gotten it right—she did live in a gilded cage. “I’ve always thought I didn’t want children, because they’d interfere with my plans, my career.”

  “Nothing wrong with that, if that’s what you and Peter want. That’s certainly a valid choice.”

  Amalise turned the bottle sitting on the table before her, watching it. “I’ll admit something, Rebecca. I’ve curbed my ambitions some because of Luke. Like I said, we make choices. But I’m happy this way.” With a little smile, she tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’ve finally managed to obtain some balance in my life.”

  But, balance takes compromise, Rebecca mused, and she’d never been good at that. She’d learned early and well from Mama that no compromise, no sacrifice, would ever be enough . . . you just had to keep on plowing. Since those days, since Elise had died, she’d figured it out for herself. You had to win to be best, and whatever it was you were shooting for, you had to win it on your own and then learn how to keep it.

  “Now you, on the other hand . . .” Amalise was saying. Amalise’s eyes sparkled as she pushed back her chair. She stood and picked up the empty bottle. “I fully expect that one day you will hold the office of managing partner of Mangen & Morris.”

  With a stiff smile, Rebecca glanced at her watch. Suddenly she realized that she was late; the meeting in the conference room upstairs had started long ago. They continued chatting as they moved toward the elevator.

  Rebecca pressed “Up,” and Amalise pressed “Down.” With relief, Rebecca realized that the nausea was still gone. Maybe this time it wouldn’t return. When Amalise’s elevator arrived and the door opened, as if sensing that something was still wrong, she turned and gave Rebecca a quick little hug before stepping on.

  6

  On Tuesday morning the jury was empaneled. Peter gave his opening argument, and the defense offered theirs.

  The testimony moved quickly. The State’s case was strong, the evidence clear and tangible. The jury seemed entranced. The missing witness showed, to Peter’s great surprise. The detective had dispatched a team to find him. Several other witnesses testified that they’d been present when the shooting took place and one identified the shooter. And, they all held to their stories even under cross-examination. Peter was elated. If things kept up this way, he anticipated resting the State’s case in a day or two.

  So it was no surprise when the defendant’s attorney Johnny Wilcox wandered up to him at the beginning of the lunch recess and asked if they could talk. They used an empty witness room for the discussion. When at last they agreed and announced this to the court, the judge left the jury outside the courtroom while he went through the motions with the defendant and Wilcox confirming the deal, and the defendant’s understanding. The defendant was subdued, but Peter knew that twenty years without probation or parole wasn’t a bad deal for the State.

  Afterward, Peter took the elevator up to his office, thinking that he would call Rebecca immediately and tell her they could pack. The trip this weekend was on. Striding through the outer area, feeling good, he said hello to Molly Brown, his secretary.

  “Detective McAndrews left something on your desk,” she said.

  “Thanks.” She handed him a slew of messages and he went into his office.

  The large brown envelope was sitting on his desk. He hung his jacket on the coat rack in the corner, set the briefcase down on the floor beside his chair, and dropped the messages on the desk. Picking up the envelope, he saw that Mac had attached a note with Hand Deliver scrawled across the front in red.

  Peter loosened his tie and took a seat. The package was labeled “Baby Chasson.” He unsealed the envelope and pulled out the paper and photographs inside, the autopsy photographs and preliminary report from Dr. Stephanie Kand on the infant found in the freezer last week. Photographs were taken all along the way through an autopsy. The forensic analysis would come later.

  Baby Chasson. Just the tag evoked the picture of a healthy child, alert and alive. Peter’s good mood evaporated. With a feeling of dread he set the photographs aside and picked up the report.

  The report was objective and thorough. The infant body, a male—as Glory Lynn Chasson had said—arrived at the coroner’s office in a clear plastic bag to preserve the evidence. The infant had been wrapped in a small blue towel inside the bag. In the report Dr. Kand had set forth her conclusions first, before the details: The decedent was 11.80 inches, crown to heel. Weight, one pound, eight ounces, or 680.4 grams. Probable gestation: 24 weeks. Time of death was uncertain, due to the fact that the time of birth was uncertain—but she estimated that the small body had been found approximately nineteen hours after birth, with a margin of error of one hour.

  Cause of death was respiratory failure.

  Peter picked up the photographs before reading on, bracing himself as he looked at each one, fighting off emotions and attempting to maintain some objectivity, some distance. Photographs of the small body after cleaning showed no obvious evidence of malformation that he could see. But his was a meaningless evaluation. When he’d gone through the stack, he set the pictures down and skimmed through the detailed autopsy report.

  Stephanie Kand had concluded that Baby Chasson had breathed on his own for some time after birth, before he’d died, but as yet she hadn’t pinpointed exactly how long he’d survived. He hoped that she’d be able to come to a conclusion on the time in her forensic analysis. Peter leaned back in the chair when he’d finished reading, closing his eyes. What had happened in the time between birth and death, and how much time had passed? Mac had said Eileen Broussard refused to cooperate, at least so far. He wondered if Mac had been able to talk to the second nurse, Clara Sonsten, yet.

  He placed the reports and photos on the desk, and then, clasping his hands on top of the desk, he looked at the walls before him. The sun outside was going down. Minutes passed, and then he read through the report again. In the gloaming, typewriters and telephones and voices faded, until, at last he was left alone in the silence, still turning the information over in his mind.

  Glory Lynn Chasson’s baby boy had been born alive. That much of her story was corroborated by the autopsy. So, why hadn’t the infant been given medical assistance? It seemed clear to him that even if the clinic didn’t have the facilities on site, they could have called an ambulance to take the preemie to neonatal intensive care.

  Why hadn’t the physician in charge, or one of the nurses, called for help?

  Glory Lynn Chasson was entitled to answers to these questions. He sat there looking at nothing for a long time and thinking of those pictures. Suddenly he smashed his fist down on the desktop. And then he dropped his face into his hands. Dear God, he prayed. Help me understand.

  7

  On Tuesday morning, excited about the office move, Rebecca left home early, before Peter woke. When she walked through the doorway into her new office on the seventeenth floor of the Merchant Bank Building, she halted just inside and looked around. Three long windows across the outer wall let in sunlight. The bookcases she’d used in her old office were there on her left against the wall, stretching from the doorway, around the corner and ending two-thirds of the way toward the windows. She walked to the bookshelves and surveyed the rows of books. Sure enough, they were in the same order as in her old office.

  She turned, inspecting the furniture placed in the corner, as she’d requested. There was a smooth cushioned beige sofa and two chairs. They weren’t exactly what she’d have selected had there been more time, but they matched the carpeting on the floor and she could jazz them up with colorful pillows. There were small square tabl
es at each end of the sofa, and these tables were placed at an angle to the chairs. Someone had placed some of her Lucite transaction mementos on the two side tables and now they glittered, catching the sun. Each table held a lamp. And finally, a small, rectangular glass-topped coffee table was placed before the sofa, atop a pretty blue and white woven rug that tied everything together.

  She stepped back, looking at the area as one would see it through a Spin-it camera lens. The lamps were too plain, she decided. They’d do for the interview tomorrow, but she’d probably replace them. She’d find some pretty antiques on Magazine Street, or down in the Quarter.

  Then, she pressed her hands together, smiling. It was all just perfect for the interview.

  Rebecca turned around, looking at the large desk on the other side of the room, facing the wall of books and the sofa and chairs. Walnut, as she’d requested. There was an elegant blue leather chair behind the desk now, the same shade of blue as in the rug. Behind the desk from wall to wall was a credenza, with cabinets underneath. The telephone was placed in the same spot as in her old office, near the chair behind the desk, along with her open calendar.

  Walking quickly, she rounded the desk and sat in the chair, swiveling this way and that. Minutes passed as she stopped and gazed around in disbelief. She shook her head. The moving teams must have worked all night to get this done. The phone rang and she swiveled. Peter was right, she thought as she picked up the phone. She might be a bird in a gilded cage; but it was a very, very nice one.

  Sydney was on the phone. The group in the conference room had an issue they’d like to discuss.