Chapter 22: Katie

Conner had planned a wonderful dinner, catered by The Wharf, a local restaurant that he claimed had the best seafood on the island. After tasting their food, I had to agree with him. They brought everything to his house and set it up in the dining room.

We feasted on fresh Maine lobster and New England crab that had been caught and flown in that morning. We had steamed veggies and a bottle of expensive white wine, followed by a decadent Tiramisu that literally melted in my mouth.

After dinner, we put on our warm coats and went down to the beach. Conner built a fire in the sand while I spread out a blanket. He had brought along a thermos of hot chocolate and he poured us both a cup after we settled in. We cuddled by the fire and watched the moon rise over the Atlantic.

“This is lovely,” I said, cupping the hot chocolate between my gloved hands to take a sip. The air was cool, but the fire gave off a warm glow that, along with Conner’s arm around me, kept me toasty warm. “I’ll bet it’s even lovelier in the summer time.”

“You’ll have to come back and see,” Conner said. “The water is like a warm bath in August and September. And this is a private beach, so we can swim and run around naked and make love on the sand without worrying about getting arrested.”

“I’d love to come back in the summer,” I said, watching him from the corner of my eye. “Do you think we’ll still be friends by then?”

He gave me a sideway glance. “Friends? Is that what we are, Katie O’Hara? Just friends?”

“Friends with potential,” I said. He gave me the smile that made me tingle on the inside. He looked so handsome in the glow of the fire.

“Friends with potential,” he said, scratching his chin. “I like that.”

“Can I ask you something?” I asked.

He took a sip of his hot chocolate and sighed. “Sure. You can ask me anything.”

“What’s the deal between you and Cassandra Leone?”

He watched the fire rather than look at me. “Who said there was a deal between me and Cassandra Leone?”

“Well, I don’t mean to pry, but…”

He smiled. “But you will.”

I bumped him with my shoulder. “It’s just that, well, according to Google…”

“Ah, according to Google,” he said, shaking his head. “My favorite words. I miss the good old days before Google wasn’t around to track my life or provide fodder for the tabloids.”

“Sorry, I’ll shut up,” I said.

“No, no, finish your thought, Katie O’Hara,” he said. “You’ve opened the can of worms. We might as well fish with them.”

“You sound like my father.”

He gave me a sideways grin. “That’s something my old man says.”

“Ah, all Irish dads must pull from the same cliché pile,” I said.

“Anyway, go ahead. According to Google…”

“According to Google, you and Cassandra Leone were engaged once,” I said.

“On that point at least, Google is correct,” he said, the cup poised at his lip. “We were engaged. Once. A long time ago.”

“What happened?”

“Google didn’t tell you that?”

“Google was somewhat vague on that point,” I said.

He shrugged with his eyes. “Let’s just say that Cassandra is not the marrying kind,” he said. “She prefers to play the field rather than commit to one specific team.”

I stared at him, trying to catch any hint that he wasn’t being honest with me. He seemed sincere. I said, “So, you wanted to get married, but she didn’t?”

“Something like that,” he said. He glanced over and shrugged. “Do you find that too hard to believe? That the man would want the commitment while the woman wanted to remain free? Not all men are afraid of commitment, you know. And not all women are looking for Mr. Right.”

“Let’s just say that it’s been my experience that it works the other way around,” I said. “Usually, it’s the woman wanting a ring and the man wanting to play the field.”

“Yep, usually, but not in this case,” he said seriously.

“So, what happened?”

“We had dated for a couple of years. My parents loved her. Her parents loved me. We moved in together. We got along very well. So, one day I proposed, and she accepted.”

“And then?”

“And then her feet turned into solid blocks of ice.”

“So, she backed out of the engagement?”

He nodded with the cup at his lips. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and looked up at the moon. “Without warning, she gave me back my ring. She said she would rather be honest with me up front rather than do something stupid later. She was simply not the monogamous kind. She loved sex. And she loved men. Plural. She didn’t think it was in her to love just one man.”

“Wow,” I said quietly. “That’s just… wow.”

“Yes, that is just wow.” He poured himself another cup of hot chocolate from the thermos and took a careful sip. “But, it was for the best. She would have ended up cheating on me, and I probably would have done something completely stupid like killing them both in my bed.”

I giggled inappropriately. “That wild Irish temper would have gotten the best of you?”

He smiled. “Yes. Anyway, we split up, but somehow managed to remain friends and it worked out for the best.” He leaned his head onto mine. “I’m here with you now. That might not have happened if I had married Cassandra. I’d probably be embroiled in a bitter divorce and flat broke now.”

“Well, thank goodness she was honest with you,” I said. I thought about the way they acted around each other at dinner. One more thought kept gnawing at my mind. “Do you still sleep together?”

He frowned at me. “Did Google tell you that, too?”

I smiled. “No, but your body language the other night at the restaurant. You two seem very… chummy.”

“Chummy?” He grinned behind the cup. “Yes, we have remained chummy, but it’s very casual, and very occasional. We are not involved, if that’s the point of your questioning. I am but one in a long list of former beaus on Cassandra Leone’s dance card. Trust me, it’s not something I dwell on anymore.”

“So, you’re just fuck buddies now,” I said. I smiled and held out my empty cup for a refill.

“That’s enough about me,” he said as he refilled my cup. “Let’s talk about you and your fuck buddies.”

“I have no fuck buddies,” I said with a snort. “I’m a good Irish Catholic lass, remember?”

“Were you a good Irish Catholic lass a few hours ago?” he asked with a devious grin. “Come on, Katie O’Hara. Regale me with tales of your deviant past. Don’t make me Google you.”

That made me laugh. “If you Googled me you’d just get a blank screen with the word LOSER in big black letters,” I said. “Trust me, I’m not nearly as notorious as you.”

“Okay then, tell me something about you that I don’t know.”

“Like what?”

“Well, let’s see. I know that you’re a good Irish Catholic girl from South Boston. You come from a big family. You have a dad who owns a pub, and lots of brothers who would probably kill me if they knew what I was thinking right now.”

“That’s about all there is to know,” I said. “I’m pretty boring other than that.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It’s true. There is no more boring an ass on this beach than me.”

“Tell me about your first love,” he said.

“My first and only love was in the tenth grade,” I said. “I let him feel me up behind the bleachers during a basketball game and he told all his buddies about it. They all called me a slut, so I kicked him in the balls and moved on. End of story.”

“That’s not a very romantic story,” he said.

“It’s the best romantic story I have.”

He huffed. “Katie O’Hara, are you seriously telling me that you’ve never been in love?”

“Never,” I said.

“Not even in college or since you’ve been in New York?”

“Nope. Not even.”

“Christ, girl, have you been hiding under a rock? How have you never been in love.”

“I’ve been in extreme like,” I said. “But no, I don’t think I’ve ever been in love. I’ve been too busy focusing on my career.”

He nodded slowly, as if he wasn’t quite sure whether to believe me. After a moment, he said, “Do you like being a lawyer?”

“I do like being a lawyer,” I said. “Do you like being an investment banker?”

“I do, but we’re talking about you now,” he said. “What do you like most about your work? And why did you go into contract law? Why not litigation or criminal defense? No offense, but contracts make my eyes go crossed.”

“I love contract law because everything is so cut and dried,” I said. “I thought about going into corporate litigation and criminal defense, but I didn’t like the kind of people that I would have to deal with on a daily basis. And I couldn’t defend anyone that I knew was guilty of a crime.”

“You mean like Bernie Madoff or Jordan Belfort?” he asked. “White collar criminals. Crooked bankers. Shady investment types like me.”

“Well, not exactly like you,” I said with a smile.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I could not defend someone who would willingly break the law and just lie about it with a straight face.” I sipped the hot chocolate and shook my head. “People will say or do anything to get what they want. Even lie under oath if they had to. I couldn’t represent someone like that, no matter how much money was involved.”

“You couldn’t or wouldn’t? Not for any amount?”

I frowned at the question. “Not for any amount. I mean, money is great and all, and I would love to have a lot of it, but not at the expense of my own dignity or at the expense of someone else. Or if it meant lying through my teeth or cheating someone to get it.”

“I see,” he said, nodding.

I kept ranting. “Before I graduated from law school I clerked for a divorce attorney one semester. Oh my god, talk about liars! Everybody lied! I could not wait to get out of that place and into something that would not keep me up at night.”

He nodded and went quiet for a moment. “So, you went into contract law.”

“Yes. At least in contract law, everything is spelled out in black and white. There are no gray areas. And if you lie in a contract, there is a clear legal recourse. You’d have to be an idiot to try to pull a fast one over on a good contact law attorney.”

“I guess you’re right,” he said quietly. He finished his hot chocolate and put the cup away. He stared at the fire and didn’t say anything for a minute or two.

“You okay?” I asked, watching the shadows dance across his handsome face.

“Why do you ask?”

I snuggled up next to him and rested my head on his shoulder. “You just seem to be running out of steam. You’ve gotten quiet on me.”

He chuckled and pulled me into him. “I’m just tired, I guess. It’s been a long day. Are you ready for bed? It is getting pretty late.”

“Do you mean am I ready to go to sleep?”

“I didn’t ask that,” he said, leaning over to press his lips to my forehead. “I asked if you were ready for bed.”

“Yes,” I said, feeling myself heating up from the inside again. “I am ready for bed.”