The Story of Son(20)

6



Three weeks later . . .





Claire stared out of her office window at the painfully clear autumn sky. The sunlight was so bright and the air so dry that the hard edges of the skyscrapers were honed to something like optical knives, the buildings cutting into her sight, giving her a headache.

Man, she was tired.

“What the hell are you doing?”

She swiveled away from the view and looked across her desk. “Oh, Mick. It’s you.”

Mick Rhodes, former lover, partner in the firm, all-around good guy, took up the whole space between her doorjambs. “You’re leaving?” When she just nodded, he shook his head. “You’re not pulling out. You can’t walk away. What the hell are—”

“I’ve lost the burn, Mick.”

“Since when? Back at the end of August you were eating opposing counsel for lunch on the Technitron merger!”

“I’m not hungry anymore.” Which was both a professional figurative and a literal truth. She hadn’t had any appetite for the last week.

Mick yanked his red tie loose and shut the door behind himself. “So take a vacation. Take a month. But don’t throw your whole career in the shitter over what is just a case of the momentary burnouts. So Technitron didn’t go through. There’ll be other deals.”

Absently, she listened to the sound of the phone ringing on Martha’s desk just out in the hall. And the talk of other attorneys as they hurried by her. And the bird-pecking sounds of a printer.

“I’ve always loved your name?” she said softly. “Did I ever tell you that?”

Mick’s eyes popped like she was nuts. Well, natch on that. She’d been feeling nuts ever since Labor Day weekend when instead of working, she’d slept for three days straight.

Truth was, she was worried that she was why the Technitron deal hadn’t gone through. Ever since that lost weekend, she’d been fuzzy. Soft. Anxious and distracted.

“Claire, maybe you should talk with—”

She shook her head. “Except why do you use Mick? I’ve never known you as anything other than Mick. Michael is such a . . . beautiful name.”

“Um, yeah. Listen, I really think you should talk with someone.”

He was probably right. At night, she couldn’t sleep because she was plagued by dreams and during the day she was preoccupied by a depression for which there was no basis. Sure, Technitron had fallen apart, and maybe some of it was her fault, but that just couldn’t account for her prevailing listlessness or the ache in the center of her chest.

Martha knocked and put her head in. “Excuse me, your doctor’s on line two and I thought you might want to know that old Miss Leeds died. Her butler left a message Tuesday that got lost in the system. I only found it now.”

Miss Leeds.

Claire put her hand up to her head as a wave of disassociated hatred washed through her and her temples started to pound. “Ah, thanks, Martha. Mick, I’ll talk to you later. I think Friday’s my last day, by the way. I haven’t totally decided.”

“What? You can’t take off that fast.”

“I’ve drafted a list of my files and clients and the status of everything. I’ll let the rest of you fight over them.”

“Jesus Christ, Claire—”

“Shut the door on your way out. And Martha, please find out the where and when on Miss Leeds’s funeral, please.”

When she was alone, she picked up the phone. “This is Claire Stroughton.”

“Please hold for Dr. Hughes.”

Claire frowned and wondered what she needed to talk to the doctor about. The tests she’d had done yesterday weren’t supposed to be back for several days—

“Hi, Claire.” Emily Hughes was typically to the point. Which was why Claire liked her. “I know you’re busy so I won’t waste your time. You’re pregnant. Which is why you’ve been feeling tired and nauseated.”

Claire blinked. Then rolled her eyes. “No, I’m not.”

“You’re about three to four weeks along.”

“Not possible.”

“I know you’re on the Pill. But the antibiotics you took at the end of August for that cold could have reduced its effectiveness—”

“It’s not possible because I haven’t had sex.” Well, at least not in real life. Her dreams had been hot as hell lately and probably part of the reason why she was so exhausted. She kept waking up in the middle of the night, writhing, covered in sweat and wet between her legs. Try as she might she could never remember what her dream lover looked like, but God, he made her feel spectacular—at least until the end of the fantasies. They always parted at the end and she always woke up in tears.

“Claire, you can become pregnant without technically having sex.”

“Okay, let me be more clear. I haven’t been with a man in over a year. So I’m not pregnant. Your back room must have gotten my blood sample mixed up with someone else’s. It is the only logical explanation. Because, trust me, I would have remembered having sex.”

There was a long pause. “Would you mind coming down and giving another sample?”

“No problem. I’ll stop by tomorrow.”