Dear Rita. Simona Taylor
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satin, he wasn’t even aware he was sighing. He was drained, not just from the pressure of having to discuss so many different cases with so many different prisoners in one day, but from the emotional toll that delving into the lives of these men took on him. He needed to remind himself that it was worth it. Sometimes his work brought disenfranchised fathers joy. Often, though, in spite of everything he could do, all they suffered was more heartache and rejection. Most nights after leaving Elcroft Green, all he wanted to do was go home, sip a solitary drink, shower and pull the covers over his head.
But the occasion demanded good cheer, so he listened attentively as Rita led him through the array of dishes, describing each one as though she had memorized the menu. Tofu rolls, fish in cucumber sauce, steamed seafood salad, roasted duck smothered in cashews, chicken in green curry, wild boar simmered in coconut milk, assorted vegetable dishes, two kinds of rice, two kinds of noodles and cups generously filled with rice wine. He wondered how poor Clark was managing. His joking advice about chugging antacid seemed inadequate. After a meal like this, Clark would need a medic.
“Are you sure there aren’t four more people coming to help us finish this?” He piled his plate with food kept warm by small heating trays under each platter.
Rita smiled, and he noticed how perfect her teeth were and how white they appeared, even though she wore no lipstick to throw them into contrast. Alluring, he mused, but as he glanced at the perfectly made-up face of her friend, he wondered how it was that she had not used so much as a little lip color or blush. He wasn’t the sort to expect that women be exquisitely painted at all times, but he was an observant man, one who made his living trying to get to the bottom of a person’s personality, discerning their motives and characteristics. Was the lack of makeup a matter of artlessness, disinterest or a political statement? His mind went back to her columns, and the men-are-dogs, women-are-goddesses spirit of them, and decided that the reason was probably behind door number three.
Again, he glanced across at Cassie, trying to get a handle on her without being too obvious about it. He’d known Clark for ten years. First, Clark had been his professor at law school. Then, when Clark grew bored with teaching and returned to private practice, Dorian had moved from summer intern, to wet-behind-the-ears employee, and finally, to full partner and trusted friend. In all that time, he didn’t remember Clark ever acting so impulsively.
She didn’t seem to be his type. The racial difference between the two was not surprising, even though he had never known Clark to date black women, because Clark was one of the most unbiased and unbigoted people he knew. It was more a matter of the age difference, which was twenty years if it was a day, and the vivacity that rolled off her in waves. Even though it was obvious that she was trying to dress older than she really was, he could sense by the way she moved and talked, the arresting color of her hair and the aura she had about her that she was much more unconventional than she was trying to look.
But the two were entranced by each other, chatting away and laughing as though they were alone. He couldn’t remember when last he’d seen Clark so animated. Even though from time to time he remembered his role as host and tried to encourage Dorian and Rita to take part in the conversation, it was obvious that he had eyes and ears only for the lovely, curvaceous young woman across from him.
Dorian wished him well.
He returned his attention to Rita, who was staring intently down at her plate, and kicked himself for having the bad manners to let his mind wander and leave her out of the loop. He tried to initiate some idle chatter. The only thing he knew about her was her work, so he decided that that was as good a place as any to begin.
“Do you just write your column, or do you do other things as well?”
She seemed relieved to have something to talk about. “Mainly the column, but I write commentaries and investigative pieces for Niobe as well, when I come up with an idea they’re willing to buy.”
“Pieces about what?”
She shrugged. “Women’s issues. Relationship articles, stories about families, and the difficulties they have staying together. Or how hard it is when things go wrong.”
“So, your background is in counseling or psychology?”
She looked at him in surprise, as though she had never considered that. “No. Actually, my college degree is in classical literature.”
He thought again about some of the cutting remarks he read from her that morning, and his brows lifted. Shelling out advice to the lovelorn without a solid backing was like dispensing medicine without a permit. What made her think she had the right to tell other people how to conduct their love lives? Unable to stop himself, he probed. “I always thought of agony aunts as being matriarchs in their sixties, who have a whole lifetime of experience—good marriages, bad marriages, kids and grandkids, fights and breakups—to rely on when they give advice. What do you base your advice on? You hardly look old enough to be a shoulder for the lovelorn to cry on.”
She bristled visibly, and he couldn’t help but notice how cute she looked doing it. The color in her cheeks made the absent blusher unnecessary. “I’m not that young!”
Maybe not, but she was hardly the Oracle of Delphi. Her indignation was endearing. Like a cat with an irritated mouse, he tweaked her some more. “Besides, it seems to me that your advice hardly ever gives the man in question a fighting chance. Women’s magazine or not, I’d have expected a column like that to be less biased.”
“Most of the women who write me know that their men are bastards. They don’t need me to tell them that. They just want someone to agree with them.”
“So you think your role is to confirm their poor opinion of men, rather than to provide them with a more balanced view?”
She twirled her noodles around her fork, but didn’t bring it to her mouth. “They want confirmation, not balance. And anyway, if their men were nicer to them, they wouldn’t need to write me.”
“Don’t you get letters from women who, despite the problems they’re having, beg you to help them find a way to keep their men?”
“Sure.”
“And what do you do?”
“Help them see the light. Try to show them that, if they’re being disrespected, they need to assert themselves. And their men need to shape up or ship out. No sense clinging to something if it’s only going to do you harm.”
“And do you ever get letters from men who are the injured parties? Men whose women have done them wrong?”
She thought about it. “I guess.”
“And what do you do?”
“I try to be fair.”
He doubted it.
She added hurriedly, “Look, I don’t hate men.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“You’re thinking it,” she insisted.
“I’m thinking nothing of the sort,” he assured her smoothly, although that was pretty much the idea he was forming. “I was just trying to get an idea of what your work was like. It’s not often I get to meet a real writer. I’m fascinated.”
The flattery worked. She seemed mollified. “Okay, I just didn’t want you to…” She didn’t finish her thought.
He pressed again, curious to penetrate her mind even further now that her defenses were down. “And what about the men, these husbands and boyfriends who were put in their place on your say-so?”
She looked perplexed. “What about them?”
“Do you ever get letters from these rejects? Doesn’t anyone ever complain or react to your role in their downfall? Hasn’t anyone ever threatened to get even?”
She flinched as though she’d been hit, and immediately he regretted his flippant question. “I…I guess so. Sometimes they’re…angry…” She rubbed her temple as though it were sore.