CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MASON
PRESENT DAY
“You’re out of your fucking mind. You know that?” Selena shakes her head at me, handing me a short stack of documents.
She’s right, but I’m grinning like a fool anyway.
“Maybe, but my mind feels clearer than it has in a very, very long time.”
I rifle through the pages, checking the forms and signing where appropriate.
It’s early afternoon and we’re in a curved booth at Pousse Café. She’s got her dirty Gibson in hand, but I have no need for Scotch today. So many nights we’ve spent here, bitching about clients, shitty cases, and one-night stands gone wrong… It’s the end of an era.
“You know, you could just walk away. You don’t have to disbar yourself. It’s so permanent. Even if you passed the bar again, which, okay, maybe you could, but even if you do, no one is going to hire you. No one except maybe Legal Aid. You’re committing career fucking suicide, Mason.”
I nod happily. “That was kind of the point. No more safety net, no more opportunity to get dragged back into this. Besides, chances are the Grahams would have come after me once the little prick’s trial ends anyway. I’m simply beating them to the punch, saving us all the time and hassle.”
She looks exasperated. “Would it have killed you to enter the appropriate plea and then go on your righteous crusade?”
“Yes… I think it just might have,” I say, honestly.
The Grahams found someone else to withdraw the plea by the next morning, but it was never about them. Sure, I’d love to see that sniveling shit rot, but it wasn’t about them, it was about being able to look myself in the mirror again, getting my integrity back. It was about proving to myself there is a chance I really can be a better person.
“Drama queen,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“Make that a happy drama queen,” I say, signing the last page and flashing an easy grin.
“I don’t see what’s so happy about signing away your livelihood,” she says, quickly draining her cocktail glass.
“Lots of things,” I say cryptically.
“Alright, big boy, I’ll take the bait. What’s next? You send this into the Bar Association, ruin your career, destroy your reputation, then what?”
I take a deep breath, close my eyes and think of the drive ahead. “Fresh air.”
“Fucking crazy…”
I stand to leave. We say our goodbyes, but she stops short.
“Oh shit, I almost forgot, I have something for you… and I don’t want any shit from your crazy ass on this,” she warns, before pulling out a vellum envelope from her sleek black leather suitcase.
It’s cream with cherry blossoms printed on it and smells faintly sweet. My name is a golden embossed swirl of loops and curves.
“What’s this?” I ask, confused by the flowery, feminine look.
For what is possibly the first time in history, Selena Carter blushes. Two pink splotches debut on her angular cheeks.
In a hushed voice she leans in and tells me, “It’s a wedding invitation. Liza and I are getting hitched.”
“Whoa...”
“I know, I know, apparently this career has driven us both to the edge of sanity.”
“Hey, I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks. Funny part is, I’m the one who pushed for it. Liza wasn’t thinking that direction at all. Something about a good girl…”
“Say no more.”
We part ways. I go back to my car, boxes lining the back seat. Pulling up to the nearest drive-through post office, I open the glove compartment and grab the two manila envelopes inside, addresses and stamps already applied.
I slip the disbarment paperwork into the first and seal it. Reaching into the backseat, I grab the red folder, the one whose content has haunted me all these years and slide it into the second envelope, the one addressed to C. VanMeter.
They both drop in the mailbox, heavy with the burdens I’ve carried with me for so long.
After I had divulged everything I knew to Madeline’s mother, she had teetered between rage and relief. There was no assurance of immunity. She might well come after me when she receives the pictures and my notarized affidavit, but it’s a risk I have to take.
The only way forward for me is to let go of the secrets of the past and hope that making amends, doing what I can now to right the wrongs of my old life, is enough to earn her forgiveness.
But she’s not the only one to whom I’m hoping to redeem myself.
Heading out onto the open freeway, the car hums with the sound of Garth Brook’s voice, a song that played a hundred times in the garage while Jeanie hummed along in the shop.
*
Eight hours and one lead-footed drive later, I’m pulling into Silver Springs, quiet and lit with the soft, glowing light of the lampposts.
Windows down, the warm night air streams in carrying the sound of crickets and whippoorwills. I canceled the lease on my bungalow, and the hotel in Bakersville held no appeal.
I follow the one-ways, heading to Jefferson, back to the shop. I’ve still got a spare key. I’ll crash in the storage room and figure the rest out tomorrow.
Turning the block, I glance down Lexington and see the light still streaming out of the diner. It’s 10:15—plenty of time to go in for a bite to eat.
Jeanie might be there.
For a moment, I hesitate, wondering if I should hold off and think through what I’ll say when I see her again.
I park across the street, in front of the light post where I first kissed her. Fireflies are dancing in the air. When I look through the windows of the diner, I see her there, bending over a table, a sweet, warm smile on her face.
I suck in air, but it’s doing me no good. Watching her move, brushing a stray hair out of her face, her lips working as she chats, everything about her devastates me.
I can’t wait. I need to see her now. My feet are already carrying me across the street, desperation and need surging through my veins, her letter tucked in my jacket.
I walk in and look for an open booth. The place is surprisingly busy for this late at night, but now I’m inside, I don’t see Jeanie. The tinkling sound of her laughter rings from within the kitchen and my chest tightens, forcing me to swallow a lump that is rapidly rising in my throat.
Sitting at the cold linoleum of the table, my palms are sweaty, the odd fluttering in my stomach unsettling. I drop my head to my hands, searching my mind for the right things to say. I felt so confident, so assured as I drove, burning up the miles between us, but now I’m here I feel suddenly unsure.
I look up at the sound of the kitchen door swinging open. She walks through, the emerald green of her eyes panning the room until they freeze, meeting my own. The smile melts off her face and for a minute I wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake.
How could you think she would ever trust you again?
All the times I tried to convince her I wasn’t the kind of guy she should want come back to me like a slap in the face as she stares me down, not moving.
She looks away and I can’t see her face. I consider getting up and leaving. Maybe she’s found a way to let go of what had flared to life between us, despite her insistence she couldn’t. I deserve as much, after everything. But still, something in me can’t help but hope.
Suddenly, she’s turning back, striding to my table, her face carefully blank.
“Welcome to Lexi’s. What can I get you?” she asks innocently.
I decide to test the waters. “What’s your special tonight?”
“Catfish po’boy with fries and house pickles,” she replies, hand on hip.
“That any good?” I ask.
Her eyes narrow, her soft lips press into a line, and she crosses her arms. I’m not sure if she’s holding back venom or a smile, but either way, it feels good to spar with her, to know I can still rankle her feathers.
“It keeps people comin’ back,” she finally retorts.
“Sounds like my kind of dinner then,” I say, looking her meaningfully in the eyes.
The corner of her mouth lifts a little. She turns to take my order back, but I reach out and catch her forearm. The contact feels so good. I’m straining at attention beneath the table, wanting so desperately to touch her in other places, to see the passion in her eyes again.
The smooth delicate skin on the inside of her arm prickles with goosebumps. She looks back at me, eyes wide but not pulling away.
“You forgot to ask if I’m thirsty,” I say. I meant to sound cheeky, but instead I’m fighting to get the words out.
“Are you?” she asks breathlessly.
I let my gaze prowl over her body slowly, before I finally answer, my voice low, “Very.”
She swallows, silent for a moment.
And then, tugging her arm gently free, she quirks an eyebrow. “Well? You gonna tell me what you want to drink, or do I have to guess?”
“Coffee—hot,” I say, smiling.
She starts to smile back, a small hesitant smile. “Awfully late for coffee… Gonna keep you up all night.”
“That’s the plan,” I say, and she walks back to the kitchen, putting the ticket in the window.
She moves around, carrying out other orders, and chatting with other customers. I watch her intently, gaining me a few looks from the other diners, but I don’t care who sees me.
Finally, the bell dings in the kitchen window. She walks up and grabs the steaming plate, heading towards me.
Setting it down, she leans over me and whispers in my ear, “I get off at midnight, if you’re sticking around.”
Lost in the sweet intoxication of her nearness, I reply quietly, “I’m back… for good.”
This time the smile reaches all the way to her eyes. “I know.”