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“So before all that stuff happened at that hotel?”
“Yeah.” Sam gazes at him from across the table, eyes narrowed, on the razor’s edge of a glare. “Before all thatstuff. ”
Jeff pretends not to notice the sarcastic spin placed on that last word. “So it’s been a while, I guess.”
“It has.”
“And Quincy’s well-being is the only reason you came here?”
I reach out to pat Jeff’s hand. A silent signal that he’s out of bounds, taking things too far. He does the same thing to me when we’re visiting my mother and I get too argumentative about her views on, oh, everything.
“What other reason could there be?” Sam says.
“I suppose there could be plenty,” Jeff replies, my hand still heavy over his. “Maybe you’re seeking some publicity in the wake of Lisa’s death. Maybe you need money.”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
“I hope not. I hope you only came here to check in on Quinn.”
“I suppose that was always Lisa’s wish,” Sam says. “To have the three of us meet, you know? And help one another.”
The mood has irrevocably shifted. Suspicion hovers over the table, humid and sour. Impulsively, I raise my glass. It’s almost empty again, a thin circle of red swirling around its bottom.
“I think we should make a toast,” I announce. “To Lisa. Although the three of us never got the chance to meet, I think she’s here in spirit. I also think she’d be pleased to see at least two of us together at last.”
“To Lisa,” Sam says, playing along.
I slosh more wine into my glass. Then more into Sam’s, even though it’s still half-full. When our glasses clink over the table, it’s too hard, too loud, the crystal a hair’s breadth from cracking. A wave of Pinot Noir breaches the edge of my glass, splashing onto the salad and breadsticks below. The wine seeps into the bread, leaving behind splotches of red.
I let out a nervous giggle. Sam pops out one of her shotgun-blast laughs.
Jeff, not amused, gives me a look he sometimes whips out during awkward work functions. TheAre-you-drunk?look. I’m not. Well, not yet. But I can see why he thinks I am.
“So what do you do for a living, Sam?” he asks.
She shrugs. “A little of this, a little of that.”
“I see,” Jeff says.
“I’m between jobs at the moment.”
“I see,” Jeff says again.
I take another sip of wine.
“And you’re a lawyer?” Coming from Sam, it sounds like an accusation.
“I am,” Jeff says. “A public defender.”
“Interesting. Bet all types of people come your way.”
“They certainly do.”
Sam leans back in her chair, one arm crossed over her stomach. The other grips her wineglass, holding it close to her lips. Smiling over the rim, she says, “And are all your clients criminals?”
Jeff mirrors Sam’s stance. Reclined in his chair, clenching his wineglass. I watch the two of them face off, the half-eaten meal heavy and unsettled in the pit of my stomach.
“My clients are innocent until proven guilty,” Jeff says.