Two Wee Drams of Love, page 2
* * *
One of the law clerks had asked Jane why she preferred to work in the law library when she’d already memorized the entire Family Law Article of the Annotated Code of Maryland.
“Because you never know when you might need to start on Courts and Judicial Proceedings.” She’d memorized only certain articles because she referred to them constantly.
The kid had backed away. Backed away.
“I was told I’d find you here.” Dunstan Cromarty stood before the table Jane had taken over in the Damson County law library, his battered leather case in hand.
“I like books,” Jane said. She was prepared to not like Dunstan Cromarty, though he nicely filled out a medium-blue three-piece suit that had to have been hand-tailored. “Stop looming. If you must interrupt me, then take a seat.”
He folded long limbs into a sturdy wooden chair that had likely been in the county courthouse when the Confederate Army had marched by on their way to Gettysburg. “Don’t suppose you’re working on the Almquist divorce complaint.” His burr made even his oh-so-casual question sexy.
She could fence with him, but she’d been talking with other attorneys who practiced family law in Damson County. With Dunstan Cromarty, battles should be chosen, not engaged in for the hell of it.
“And if I were working on the Almquist filings?”
He slouched back. “The case will not be pleasant.”
Beneath the table, Jane fished for her shoes, but one didn’t surreptitiously slip into stilettos. “Domestic cases are seldom pleasant.”
His aftershave was pleasant. Subtle, fresh, spicy. An outdoorsy scent that went with his burr, which—Jane admitted—she did like. Rather a lot. Judges and juries were said to like that burr too.
“The Almquist divorce will be a right stinker,” Cromarty said. “I’m hoping you’ll accept service of process, though I’m perfectly happy to serve dear Calvin at the gym, in his office, or at his Toastmasters gathering.”
Any accent originating in the British Isles gave its speaker an advantage in matters of irony—dear Calvin, indeed. Jane put her computer into sleep mode and folded down the screen.
“Why don’t I serve dear Doreen at her gym, or her garden club, or in the privacy of her fifty-five-hundred-square-foot marital home?” If Jane had had her shoes on, she would have stood to pose that query.
“Because Dorie—I’m to call her Dorie—would take it out on her lawyer, as would Calvin, should he suffer the humiliation of public service with a divorce complaint.”
Cromarty had directed his irony at himself, or possibly the entire legal profession, while Jane’s sweet little smart-pad with a mighty battery gave a soft, cyber-sigh.
“Sometimes, I think having the client accept service in person is better,” Jane said, when a simple yes or no might have done. “They need to take the litigation seriously, need to know it will wreck their lives.”
“Is that a warning, Ms. DeLuca?”
Drat him. A glimmer of collegial commiseration, followed by a sneering jab. Except Cromarty was smiling. One corner of his mouth had tipped up, and green eyes regarded Jane with as much humor as challenge.
Had she ever seen him smile before? “I’ll accept process if you will.”
“We are agreed, then. Will you be at the bar lunch on Tuesday?”
Good Lord, was it already time for that monthly ordeal?
“I should be there, though rubber chicken on wilted lettuce isn’t exactly my speed.” Particularly not if Elvin Gregory plunked himself down beside her again and began with one of his infamous “I once had a case…” monologues.
“We can trade complaints then, maybe do a bit of strategizing.”
Her right toe snagged a heel strap, and Jane began wiggling her foot into the shoe. “I’m opposing counsel, Cromarty. What will we strategize about?”
“Scheduling, if nothing else. This case will fall across the winter holidays, and I like to go home to Scotland for Hogmanay.”
A little bend, a yank with her index finger, and the right shoe was on. Now for the left.
“What’s Hog Many?” And where was home, exactly? Scotland, but where in Scotland? Where, for that matter, was her left shoe?
“Hogmanay. New Year’s. We set great store by new beginnings in Scotland. So many of us have had to make them. Did you just caress my foot with your toes?”
She had. “Of course not. Your foot got in the way while I’m trying to find my shoe.”
He reached a long arm under the table and—“Watch it, Cromarty!”—came up with Jane’s left shoe in his hand.
“Interesting.” He studied the shoe, an elegant aubergine four-incher Jane had bought for a steal at a consignment shop in Rockville. “These cannot be comfortable. One wonders how you march about the courtrooms in them with such apparent ease. Bad for the knees, these things, and they lead to bunions.”
The shoes were dead sexy. Not do-me shoes, but I-might-let-you-do-me-if-you’re-really-good shoes. That Dunstan Cromarty was inspecting Jane’s shoe at eye level was not comfortable.
Jane used the law library because people frequented the place. People who might pass the time of day with her, or need a hint where the Atlantic Second Reporters were shelved. People who made quiet, comforting people-nearby noises without troubling her. She’d have to find somewhere else to work that didn’t leave her open to attacks from Highland shoe pirates.
“Give me my shoe.”
He hesitated a single instant before passing over the shoe, the smile becoming a damned dimple in his left cheek. “We aren’t truly about to wreck the Almquist’s lives, are we, Ms. DeLuca?”
She jerked the shoe on, though the strap was twisted when she straightened. “No, we are not. They’ve already seen to that themselves. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a complaint for limited divorce to draft.”
He rose, the only guy in the Damson County bar association who carried off a three-piece suit, matching tie tack and French cuffs as if that was simply what one wore.
“I’ll be at work on the complementary accusations from Mrs. Almquist and look forward to seeing you Tuesday.”
He sauntered off, the view from the back being elegant, strong, and… Elegant and strong were bad enough. Cromarty played fair, but he played to win. Mrs. Almquist had chosen her advocate well.
Mr. Almquist had chosen better, though, because when it came to divorce litigation, Jane wasn’t playing. She’d make it a point to sit next to Mr. Cromarty at lunch on Tuesday, the better to impress that upon him.
She collected her effects and rose, then nearly fell on her backside when the strap to her left shoe broke.
* * *
Scotland was usually five hours ahead of Maryland, which meant Dunstan often talked to his mother directly after lunch. Mum liked to watch her shows on the telly, and yet, if she didn’t periodically get in “a good natter” with her prodigal son, she fretted.
“So mind you don’t embroil me in one of your appellate arguments,” he told Trenton Knightley, another family law practitioner whom he occasionally opposed. “I’ve work to do this afternoon, unlike you lot.”
Knightley got the door to the Steak and Anvil, where the bar association gathered for its monthly lunches. “Do you think my brothers would allow me to malinger here over expensive beer and tough steak when I could be back at the office, clocking billable hours?”
Rubber chicken and wilted lettuce for some.
“The shoe is likely on the other foot, Knightley. You herd your brothers back to the office, though why we must have a speaker each month is beyond fathoming.”
Knightley wiggled dark brows. “We’re supposed to finish planning the details of the bar association’s Christmas party today too. Have you been a good boy, Cromarty?”
Americans and their endless self-disclosure. “Very good, though it’s none of your ruddy business. Shall you do the motion on the Baxter guardianship or shall I?”
The hostess waved to the banquet room, which was about the size of Dunstan’s garage.
“You consent to naming the daughter guardian of Baxter’s person?”
“I defer to the court. Any one of the children would serve competently. Send me the draft order before you file the motion, though.”
“You have issues with trust, Cromarty,” Knightley said as they reached the banquet room. “I’ll have the order to you by the end of the week.”
Every competent attorney had issues with trust, as well as a fine command of language, at least when on the clock. Trent Knightley was a good fellow, and yet, two heads were better than one when it came to drafting court orders.
“Your brothers are waving you over, Knightley.” James and MacKenzie Knightley, the corporate and criminal specialists in the Knightley brothers’ law firm, were drinking imported beer at the end of the middle table. Both were agreeable men and superbly competent in their fields.
“Sit with us. We’ll break into a chorus of Jingle Bells when Elvin Gregory starts holding forth on.”
They would, too, and probably make it harmonize.
“I’m promised to Ms. DeLuca, though thank you.”
“Poker on Saturday,” Knightley said, saluting his brothers. “Mac’s springing for the pizza, and it’s your turn to lose.”
Dunstan did not wave to Ms. DeLuca, who’d taken an end seat at the far table. She had her little computer out of its pink case, not a laptop, but one of the smaller varieties made for people with small hands, perfect eyesight and untreated compulsive tendencies.
“Ms. DeLuca, I have it on good authority this gathering will degenerate into a planning session for the annual bar Christmas party, which I will not be attending. Might I convince you to join me in an elopement?”
She slapped her computer closed and jammed it in an oversize shoulder bag, from which a pair of manila legal briefs peeked, one of which was labeled “Almquist, Calvin.”
“You didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” she said, rising. “You can’t help that you still don’t speak American, but yes, I’ll elope with you. Just don’t tell our clients.”
She preceded him through the private dining room, and yes, Dunstan watched the part of her a gentleman shouldn’t watch in public. A glance around the room confirmed that the Damson County Bar Association was sadly lacking in gentlemen, and the ladies present were not surprised to find it so.
Both Dunstan’s mum and Wallace would have been ashamed of him, but his brothers and cousins would have understood.
He held the door for Ms. DeLuca, a short exercise in confusion on her part and patience on his, and then they were outside on a pleasant autumn day. Yellow leaves scraped along the sidewalk, and sunlight slanted sharply through bare branches overhead.
“Where are we eloping to?” she asked. “I have the Complaint for Limited Divorce, but I’m also hungry.”
She wasn’t simply American, she was Jane DeLuca: Here’s your lawsuit, I’ll take fries with that.
“I have Mrs. Almquist’s too, though I’m not sure filing this soon is the appropriate approach. Will you share an Eritrean meal with me?”
Because Eritrean fare—a rare treat in rural Maryland—done right was a wonderful break from sandwiches consumed standing up in the kitchen after the cat had been fed. Even Ms. DeLuca’s dubious company couldn’t douse Dunstan’s longing for a culinary change of pace.
“Haven’t had Ethiopian since I moved out here from DC,” Ms. DeLuca said, marching off across the street. “A good dose of carbs sounds perfect, and why shouldn’t we be filing complaints, getting the ball rolling, starting discovery?”
He hauled her back by the strap of her purse as an orange scooter came barreling around the corner, and in her fancy shoes, she teetered for a moment, then righted herself.
“A simple, ‘watch your step’ would do, Mr. Cromarty.”
“I beg your pardon.” The dratted woman would injure herself in those ridiculous shoes, and why did she bother with them, when even in her heels, she came only to Dunstan’s shoulder?
This time, she looked both ways before proceeding, and let him hold the door for her when they reached the restaurant.
“A table or a booth?” the hostess asked.
“Table,” from Ms. DeLuca, of course.
“I’d prefer a booth, for privacy, and in case we have to spread out any paperwork.” Also to be contrary, because exploring the other side’s weaknesses was good strategy and half the fun of being an attorney.
“A booth will do,” Ms. DeLuca said. “Though you’d better not spill anything on my files, Cromarty.”
Or she’d what? Hit him with her Lawyer Barbie computer?
“I’ll be quite tidy,” Dunstan said, because he was always tidy. The other benefit of a booth—or detriment, depending on a fellow’s perspective—was that it mooted the whole dilemma of whether to hold the lady’s chair.
“Would Madam like silverware?” the waitress inquired, when they’d settled in a corner booth. She had a musical, slightly French accent, four gold hoops in her right ear, and a friendly smile.
Ms. DeLuca slung her shoulder bag off with the same weary competence Uncle Donald hung up his game bag after a morning’s shooting. Instead of bloodstains, her gear sported a pattern of carousel horses in brown, turquoise, and rust.
“We’ll be fine without silverware,” she said. “Just bring plenty of bread and some spare napkins. Lemon with the water would be lovely too. No ice.”
Ms. DeLuca had thoughtfully waved off Dunstan’s cutlery, but he wasn’t about to admit a partiality to knives, forks, and spotless ties before opposing counsel.
“And I’d like to see your liquor menu,” he said, before Ms. DeLuca excused the wait staff as well. “If it wouldn’t be too much bother.”
He made the request because good drink was an indulgence available even in the wilds of Maryland, but the greater pleasure was seeing Ms. DeLuca’s surprise.
“You drink alcohol during the workday, Mr. Cromarty?”
“You don’t? For most of us in solo practice, the workday encompasses lunch and dinner, if not breakfast. A wee dram helps the time pass agreeably.”
In the time it took Dunstan to open the menu, Ms. DeLuca castled her mental chess pieces. She clearly did not imbibe during the workday—alas, the Puritans had arrived to these shores in substantial numbers before the Scots—and yet her response was verbal sleight of hand.
“For me, whether to have a drink depends on the selection,” she said. “We’re close enough to DC that a good wine list isn’t rare, but rural enough that it’s not a foregone conclusion, either. Now, what shall we have?”
Dunstan knew what he’d have—anything as long as it wasn’t ruddy chicken or tuna fish—but as he stared at the menu, no particular dish caught his fancy.
He was too busy wondering if, beneath the table, Ms. DeLuca had already divested herself of her ridiculous shoes.
Chapter Two
* * *
The Annotated Code of Maryland contained no requirement that an attorney bear personal animosity toward opposing counsel in a lawsuit—just the opposite, in fact. Attorneys were at all times to show civility to parties, witnesses, court personnel, and each other—probably to cranky Scotsmen, too—and yet, Jane was nonplussed to find herself enjoying Dunstan Cromarty’s company.
His charm was subtle and easily overlooked, bless his wee Scottish heart.
When Jane walked with him, he did not tear along at a speed intended to broadcast to the world, “I have places to go, people to see, snappy repartee to be overheard exchanging!” as many attorneys did. He sauntered along, because whatever places he had to be or people he had to see, they’d wait for him to arrive.
He’d sauntered along on the outside, closest to the street, where an old-fashioned gentleman knew to position himself when escorting a lady. Jane’s grandma had probably found that bit of arcana on the Rosetta Stone.
Jane liked that Dunstan Cromarty troubled over his appearance—that suit was not JC Pen-wah—though he carried a battle-scarred leather briefcase that looked as if some uncle or grandparent might have passed it down to him.
“I’ll have the yesiga sambusa and tikel gomen,” Jane said. “With lots of potatoes, and don’t spare the bread.”
“You’ll not be having a salad?” Mr. Cromarty asked. “And am I to order for you, then?”
And there was more of his subtle charm, in the guarded quality of his questions. He was curious, but unwilling to offend, though his manners were probably everything his mama hoped for.
“If you order, then I can start planning dessert. What are you having to drink?”
“They’ve Fraoch here, a heather ale brewed in Alloa, right along the Firth in Clackmannanshire. Goes with anything, and you don’t come across it every day.”
That was dessert. That bouquet of Scottish places and terms, served up on a bed of casually rolled r’s, enunciated d’s, fading g’s, and softened vowels.
“Where?”
“Clackmannanshire, up the River Forth from Edinburgh. Very pretty, like most of Scotland. Would you like to try the heather ale?”
Because the rest of the Damson County bar was off planning a Christmas party, the restaurant remained relatively quiet. The few other patrons wandering in wouldn’t notice Jane’s professional detachment turning to mush at the hope in Dunstan Cromarty’s voice.
The man was beer-proud of his homeland. “Why not? Is that where you’re from, that Cluck-whatever place?’
He didn’t wince, but neither did he approve of her mangling the home of his favored brew.
“Clackmannanshire? No, though my younger brother worked there for a bit. My parents hail from Perth, though my grandparents are all from the west of Scotland.”
He put about three extra vowels and a spare syllable in Perth. Paireth. Any juror with ears would be spellbound by that accent, though they might not understand some of what was said—not that juries understood everything they heard, regardless of counsel’s accent.
Conversation stalled as the waitress appeared with their water and the bread basket. The scent of the warm, vinegary injera was a pleasure for the nose every bit as delightful as Cromarty’s accent was for the ear.
