Plain Truth Read Free Page B

said, amazed, “when I interviewed there five years ago, you told me you couldn't have a relationship with a woman that worked at your firm.”
    He shrugged. “Five years ago, Ellie,” he said, “things were different.”
    He was right. Five years ago, I had still been building my career. Five years ago, I believed that the main beneficiary of an acquittal was my client, rather than myself. Five years ago, I could only dream of an opportunity like the one Stephen was offering in his firm.
    I smiled at him. “So what time's the meeting?”
    Later, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. An attendant was there, waiting patiently beside a tray of complimentary makeup and hair spray and perfume. I went into a stall and started to cry—for those six little girls, for the evidence I had successfully suppressed, for the attorney I wanted to be years ago when I first graduated from law school—one so full of principle that I would never have taken this case, much less worked so hard to win it.
    I came out and ran the water to wash my hands. I hiked up the silk sleeves of my suit jacket and began to scrub, working lather between my fingers, into my nails. At a tap on my shoulder I turned to see the bathroom attendant handing me a linen towel. Her eyes were hard and dark as chestnuts. “Honey,” she said, “some stains ain't never gonna come clean.”
    There was one more child in my nightmares, but I'd never seen its face. This was the baby I hadn't had, and at the rate things were going, never would. People made fun of biological clocks, but they were inside women like me—although I'd never seen the ticking as a wake-up call, but rather as the prelude to a bomb. Hesitate, hesitate, and then—boom!—you'd blown all your chances.
    Did I mention: Stephen and I had lived together for eight years.
    The day after the principal of St. Ambrose's was acquitted, he sent me two dozen red roses. Stephen walked into the kitchen as I was stuffing them into the trash.
    â€œWhat did you do that for?”
    I turned to him slowly. “Does it ever bother you? That once you've crossed the line, you can't go back?”
    â€œHoly Christ, you're talking like Confucius again. Just say what you mean, Ellie.”
    â€œI am. I just wanted to know if it gets you. Right here.” I pointed to my heart, still hurting. “Do you ever look at the people sitting across the courtroom, the ones whose lives were ruined by a person you know is guilty as hell?”
    Stephen picked up his coffee mug. “Someone's got to defend them. That's how our legal system works. If you're such a bleeding heart, go work for the DA.” He pulled a rose out of the trash can, snapped off its stem, and tucked it behind my ear. “You've got to get your mind off this. What do you say you and I head out to Rehoboth Beach and bodysurf?” Leaning closer, he added, “Naked.”
    â€œSex isn't a Band-Aid, Stephen.”
    He took a step back. “Pardon me if I've forgotten. It's been so long.”
    â€œI don't want to have this discussion now.”
    â€œThere isn't one to have, El. I've already got a twenty-year-old daughter.”
    â€œBut I don't.” The words hung in the air, as delicate and arresting as a soap bubble the instant before it bursts. “Look, I can understand why you wouldn't want to have the vasectomy reversed. But there are other ways—”
    â€œThere aren't. I'm not going to watch you poring over some sperm donor catalog at night. And I don't want a social worker going through everything from my tax records to my underwear drawer trying to decide if I'm worthy enough to raise some Chinese kid who was left on a mountaintop to die of exposure—”
    â€œStephen, just stop already! You're out of control!” To my surprise, he quieted immediately. He sat down, tight-lipped and furious. “That was unnecessary,” he said finally. “I