Finding Isadora(3)

“Sorry I’m late,” I said, stretching up for a quick kiss.

He’d had his thick dark hair cut even shorter, and smelled of a fresh application of Calvin Klein cologne. “I had a busy day, too. Barely made it home to change.”

Two years younger than my twenty-seven, he was a corporate lawyer, called to the Bar last year and now a junior associate at a high-powered firm. I still had to suppress the tiniest shudder when I thought the words corporate lawyer, and I knew his work was one of the things my parents held against him. Richard had chosen that area of law because it fascinated him. Go figure. We had nothing in common when it came to our careers except the very most important things: we both loved what we did, and we valued the financial security afforded by a steady job.

As he drove the few blocks to the Hotel Vancouver, I told him about *willow.

“Good for you, Iz. That must have been gratifying.”

“It was.”

“I had a good day, too. Got a new client. He’s unhappy with his company’s lawyer, had dinner last night with a client of mine, the client recommended me. The guy e-mailed me at work this morning, then we talked on the phone. Not bad for a Saturday, eh?”

“That’s terrific.” He’d told me that the associates were competitive, struggling to impress the partners and to set their own feet on the partnership track. Bringing in new clients was an important step. “So we both had a rewarding day. Wish we could relax and celebrate alone.”

“Sorry, but this is important because—”

“I know,” I broke in. “I’ll just be glad when it’s over and we can be alone.”

“Me, too,” he said in a heartfelt tone. He pulled into the valet parking area. “Tonight’s on the firm, and we’re running late.”

At the moment, I was less concerned with expense and timeliness as with my own anxiety. Fancy social functions were definitely not my forte. Richard was here representing his firm, so I wanted to make a good impression, but I had little confidence in my ability to do that among these high-flyers.

Inside, we strode across slippery marble, then onto dignified carpet. From a dimly lit lounge came the sound of piano music and a woman’s smoky contralto singing that she really didn’t know love at all.

I smiled, recognizing Both Sides Now. How many times had Grace played the Joni Mitchell version of that song? Too bad Richard and I couldn’t snuggle up in the cozy lounge, sip wine, listen to music, and gloat smugly because we really did know love.

He tugged my hand and speeded up. “Come on, Iz.”

We stepped onto marble again, my thin soles skidding. I grabbed his arm. “These shoes aren’t made for running.”

“Sorry.” He slowed so abruptly that I lost my balance.

As I clung to his arm, he shoved his glasses up his nose, a sure sign of nervousness. “By the way”—his voice was tight—”I should warn you about a couple of people who might be here.”

“Like who?” I asked anxiously.

“Um, well, one’s the senior partner of my firm.”

“Richard! Why didn’t you tell me before?” My nerves coiled tighter. I knew I’d have to meet his big boss one day, but he could’ve given me more warning. I might even have worn lipstick.

He blinked a couple of times, avoiding my glare. “Sorry. Guess I didn’t want to make you nervous.”

“Aagh!” I was tempted to take off one of my uncomfortable shoes and whack him with it. “So, who’s the other person? The CEO of your biggest client?”

He shrugged. “Well, yeah, he may be here, but—” He broke off. “Let’s just see who shows up. There’s a good chance you won’t even have to meet … anyone.”

Great. Now he was embarrassed to introduce me. But his world of big companies was foreign to me. I had no idea what to say to these people. Not for the first time, I thought Richard should be with a woman who could enhance his career.

But he’d chosen me. Meekly, I followed him into the elevator, feeling as strung out as a baby bird facing its first flight.

A few seconds later, we stepped out at the conference level. I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders. Remembering that Richard, too, was feeling anxious, I threaded my fingers through his. “Everything will be okay, sweetheart.”

He squeezed my hand. “Sure glad you’re here, Iz.”

I could have been at the clinic, keeping company with Martin and Felipe and miscellaneous animals, wearing my comfortable clothes, eating veggie lasagna. But now, for the first time, I was glad to be at the Hotel Van. The man I loved needed me.

The babble of voices guided us. We turned a corner and paused to survey the scene. More than a hundred people stood in clusters, and straggly line-ups pointed the way to two bars.

“The banquet will be in that ballroom,” Richard said, pointing through an open door. I saw chandeliers, a host of round, white-clothed tables, and a few uniformed busboys fine-tuning the table settings. Next door was a room marked Silent Auction, with a slow stream of people moving in and out of its door.

Everyone was formally dressed, and Richard blended right in with his designer tux—even though he’d bought it second-hand. When you’re saving for a down payment on your first house, you don’t buy brand new Armani.

Embarrassed to be wearing my old trench coat, I hurriedly undid the buttons. Richard said, “We’ll check that,” and hooked his hand in the collar. Gratefully, I shrugged out of it. My cocktail dress might have come from a consignment store, but it too bore a designer label.