“So far. That could just be the beginning. Besides, it might not be money that he wants from you. He can want a willing ear, a sympathetic shoulder. A friend. You’re a nice lady, and he’s got nothing but time.”

Marcus interrupted, speaking to Gary, “She doesn’t even consider that he could be lying about being our donor. Why should we even take his word for it?”

“We’re not going to, Marcus,” Gary answered calmly. “When I call Homestead, I’m going to tell them what we know and how we know it, and I’m going to ask them to confirm or deny.”

“Good.” Marcus nodded, sitting back in his chair. “He’s taking advantage of her, and she’s falling for it.”

Christine looked over. “No, I’m not, Marcus.”

“Silenzio.” Gary waved them both into silence. “You two have to get on the same page. You’re in this together. Go out to coffee, talk this over. You’re going to get through this together, you’ll see. Now, meeting’s over.”

“Thank you,” Marcus said, rising, but Christine knew it was only because he finally felt validated.

Her cell phone rang again, so she pulled it out, and when the name GRIFF reappeared, she hit the red button.

Marcus frowned. “I don’t want you to return his call, obviously.”

“Why not?” Christine stood up, getting her purse.

“We’re going to leave Jeffcoat to his own devices. You got him a lawyer, and now you have to wash your hands of him.”

Christine didn’t like being told what she could and couldn’t do. “Griff is not going to represent him if he can’t pay the retainer.”

“It can’t be our problem.”

Gary rose, flashing a forced smile. “Okay, basta! Get out of my office, you crazy kids. Go out, have a cuppa coffee together. You can figure this out. I have faith in you.”

But Christine didn’t.

Chapter Twenty-seven

“That was enlightening,” Marcus said, exhaling, when they were outside the tony brick building that housed Gary’s offices. It was located on the business end of Main Street, which morphed into one of the most expensive shopping blocks in town, containing ritzy boutiques, interior designers, a custom wedding-cake baker, and imported English antiques so exclusive that a sign in the window read BY APPOINTMENT ONLY.

“Marcus, maybe he’s right, we should just go sit down and talk a minute.”

“I can’t, I have to go, my car’s over there.” Marcus gestured to the right, where there was a small parking lot between restaurants that opened only for lunch. Dappled sun shone on the sidewalks, which were neatly swept or hosed down for the day, and the stores were just beginning to open. A pretty young salesgirl unfurled a navy-and-white striped awning over the gourmet chocolate shop, her long hair swinging each time she turned the old-school brass crank.

Christine said, “Let me walk you to your car. We can talk on the way.”

“No, where’s your car? You shouldn’t walk that much, and we don’t need to talk any more.”

“Marcus, please. Don’t you think—”

“I can’t talk right now. I have to get to work.”

“Marcus, you own the firm, you can be late. You’re clearly pissed.”

“Yes, I am. What are you going to do about it?” Marcus eyed her, his lips pursed.

“I can’t do anything about it except help you understand it.”

“I don’t need your help, and I do understand it. I disagree with you.”

“What do you disagree with?” Christine asked, pained.

“Everything you did. That you went there. That you’re fine with that. Even that he’s fine with that.” Marcus nodded in the direction of Gary’s office. “He thinks he understands, but he doesn’t. You think you understand, but you don’t.”

“Then make me. Explain it.”

“How do you think that makes me feel, finding out that you helped Jeffcoat get a lawyer? That the lawyer is calling you? That you call him by his nickname? That you would even consider giving him our money?”

“I wasn’t going to use our money, I was going to use my own, and I didn’t.”

“Still,” Marcus shot back, and the young girl looked over, having unfurled the awning.

“Marcus, I’m sorry if it makes you feel bad.”

“Try humiliated.”

“It shouldn’t be humiliating.”

“Well it is.” Marcus’s blue eyes looked wounded and tired. “Didn’t we learn in therapy that you’re not supposed to tell me how I should feel? Isn’t that what I learned from you and Michelle? What do you want from me?”

“Okay, well, I’m sorry you feel humiliated.” Christine felt for him, because she could see he was hurt, not angry. “I didn’t mean to humiliate you.”

“Fine, but that’s not the point either.”

Just then, Christine’s phone began ringing in her purse. “Sorry, I’ll send it to voicemail.”

Marcus stepped closer. “Check your phone. I want to see if it’s that lawyer.”

“Fine.” Christine bristled, but she slid her phone from her purse. They looked down at her phone screen, which read: GRIFF.

Marcus pursed his lips. “Man, he wants his money. Are you going to help pay for his defense?”

“I don’t know.” Christine’s hands fumbled as she hit the button to decline the call.

“You better not give him a cent, Christine. Not one cent.” Marcus’s tone turned bossy, and Christine looked up sharply.

“Don’t speak to me that way.”

“What way, like a good husband? I’m trying to protect you.”

“I’ll spend my money the way I see fit, and I’ll take the calls I want to. I’ll decide about the retainer, but it’s a bigger issue than that.” Christine tried to think of a way to reach him. “We can’t ignore reality. We used a donor, we agreed to. We know his name now. He exists, and we can’t pretend he doesn’t.”

Marcus stepped away, waving her off. “I have to go to work. Everything blew up this weekend and I have to deal with it.”

“Then we can talk about it tonight?”