Do This For Me Read online

  “I am sorry, Raney,” Aaron said. “I am so sorry. I intend to spend the rest of my life telling you how sorry I am, and trying to make it up to you—if you’ll let me.”

  I glanced out the window. Rain was falling again.

  “Are you listening? I am so, so sorry.”

  This was the Aaron I knew. Not ranting and raving. Not a phony or a liar. He was sorry. I could hear it in his voice, the way his words came tumbling out.

  “This morning was awful, and that was my fault. I was exhausted, panicking about what had happened…but none of that matters. We have to find a way through this. I can’t lose you.”

  Step back, I thought.

  Step away from the brink.

  He did a horrible thing. But he’s sorry. And didn’t you get your revenge?

  Don’t let a solitary lapse ruin almost sixteen years of happiness.

  “There was one thing you said, and I have to tell you again, to make sure you know. I love you, Raney. I never stopped loving you. I couldn’t.”

  Sixteen years of happiness. More—twenty years since we met at that party. Since we fell in love. Twenty years, and Aaron did this to me. He lied. He presented a version of himself—an honest man, a faithful husband—that was deliberately misleading.

  I should forgive? I should let it go?

  “What I did was the worst. But people get over this, Raney. We can get over this. We’re strong. If you—”

  “I have to go.”

  I hung up. I tilted my chair back and gazed at the ceiling.

  I was confused.

  I had assumed Aaron’s betrayal meant he was rejecting me. Now he was saying he still loved me, and I believed him. If he wanted to leave me, he wouldn’t be begging my forgiveness. He’d be off with Deirdre, doing whatever cheaters do. Having intercourse. Reading love poetry. Slurping champagne from each other’s orifices.

  So, fine. Love triumphs. Then why did he cheat?

  And what was I supposed to do about it?

  There was a knock at the door. Amanda poked her head in. “They’re here.”

  * * *

  —

  When we arrived in the conference room, Marty was chatting with two other men.

  “There she is!” he cried, in his cheerful, Martyish way. “Raney, this is Michael Singer, from Hyperium’s legal department. Michael, meet my partner, Raney Moore.”

  One of the two men held out his hand. “Call me Mickey.”

  His colleague stepped forward, fresh-faced and eager. “Xander Corwin. It’s a pleasure.”

  Mickey and Xander. I felt like a guest on Mr. Bobo’s Clown Show.

  “We’ve actually met before,” Singer said. “I used to work at Brown and Taft. You deposed a witness of mine in the Permasoft litigation, about five years ago.”

  “Did I? I don’t remember.”

  “I wish I could forget. You destroyed him.” Then he laughed, without a trace of bitterness. I was so surprised. I could never be that amicable with a lawyer who’d outgunned me. But then, Singer didn’t seem like a typical New York litigator. No sagging gut, no purplish eye bags. No aura of impenetrable malaise. He was my age, maybe a few years older. His blond hair was scruffy around the ears. He seemed relaxed, slightly mischievous. I wondered why I didn’t remember him.

  “Congratulations on Gaia Café by the way,” he said. “I read about it this morning.”

  I thanked him, and we all sat down. Amanda readied her legal pad. I glanced at the memo she’d written.

  “Why don’t you start by telling me how Hyperium managed to make a mortal enemy of Mrs. Maxine Tierney of Babylon, New York.”

  “You bet.” Xander hitched up his chair. “Mrs. Tierney is a customer of Long Island HighSpeed, one of our cable subsidiaries. A few years ago, LIHS offered a promotion to new customers. It was basic stuff: sign up now, get fifty percent off your first two years of service. After that, the rate reverts to normal. Mrs. Tierney subscribed—as did about nine hundred other people. Two years pass, the promotional period ends and her monthly bill increases. She calls to complain. She says she was promised the rate would never change, we’re cheating her, so forth and so on. Chances are, she forgot what she was told. LIHS explains but says they can’t adjust her bill. Two months later, this lawsuit lands on our desk.”

  “What was the increase in her rate?”

  “Forty dollars per month,” he replied.

  I shot Marty a glance: Are you hearing this? No reaction.

  “As you can see, it’s a proposed class action,” Singer noted. “Her lawyer obviously hopes to find other disgruntled customers and earn a nice fee.”

  “A class action,” I said. “Consisting of, at most, nine hundred people.”

  Xander nodded, eyes darting to Singer.

  “Each of whom could claim damages of, at most, forty dollars a month.”

  Xander nodded again. I paged through the complaint.

  Finally, he asked, “Do you have any other questions?”

  “Only one.” I pushed the document away and smiled at them. “Do you gentlemen have me confused with someone else?”

  “Raney,” Marty said. It was a warning. I ignored it.

  Because how dare they? How dare these clueless lawyers waltz in here and offer me this ridiculous case like it was some kind of gift? In normal circumstances I would have swallowed my annoyance and declined their munificence with every appearance of regret.

  But these weren’t normal circumstances.

  “Let me dispel your confusion,” I said. “I am a highly experienced litigator. I specialize in complex commercial lawsuits, multidistrict securities fraud cases and white-collar criminal appeals. I’ve argued before the Supreme Court three times. I’ve won twice. In other words,” I controlled my temper with effort, “I’m not some solo practitioner operating out of the back of a shoe repair shop, which is more or less the caliber of lawyer you need to bring this penny-ante nuisance suit to a successful conclusion.”

  Xander looked terrified. I wasn’t finished.

  “But you must know this. It can’t actually be a surprise to you. So I’m curious: Why are you insulting me by offering me this joke of a case?”

  That, I figured, should do it. They would leave, angry or shamefaced. Marty would rebuke me. Then I could go back to tending the charred wreckage of my personal life.

  That’s not what happened.

  “Insulted?” Singer said. “You should feel flattered.”

  The nerve of this guy. “And why is that?”

  “We’re here because we’re reconsidering our relationship with Rayburn Walsh.”

  I was about to let rip with another tirade. That stopped me.

  Rayburn Walsh was Hyperium’s main outside law firm. They ran the corporation’s major litigations—work that earned them tens of millions of dollars in fees every year.

  Hyperium was shopping for new outside counsel. This was a test case, a low-stakes matter that would allow them to see how we perform.

  Why had I not figured that out? What was wrong with me?

  I wasn’t focused, that’s what.

  Aaron’s fault.

  “Rayburn botched a document production in a trademark case a few months ago,” Singer explained. “But we were already thinking about making a change. Our CEO wants new energy. Someone incredibly important and extremely impressive.” He smiled, all innocence. “Naturally, we came to you.”

  He was mocking me! But I had it coming.

  “Then why give me this dog of a case?” I complained. “How about something fun?”

  I got that big, friendly laugh again. “We just need to assure the board that we’ve done our due diligence. Keep it simple and make it snappy. Crush them with discovery, or work out a decent settlement. Then we can move on to the good stuff. What do you say?�
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  I said yes, of course. We spent half an hour discussing logistics. My new clients prepared to leave. Xander still looked traumatized. Not Singer.

  “Shoe repair.” He raised his eyebrows. “This is going to be interesting.”

  Amanda showed them out. Marty folded his hands over his belly.

  “Well,” he said. “That was bracing.”

  Now I understood his mysterious behavior the day before. “You might have warned me, you know.”

  “They wished to raise the topic themselves. If it was a test, you passed.”

  I pulled Amanda’s legal pad toward me. Her notes were orderly and thorough. “Still, Marty. This case.”

  “It’s a stinker,” he agreed. “But if we can steal Hyperium away from those know-nothings at Rayburn?” His eyes gleamed. Then they went soft.

  This was the part I’d been dreading.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “Do I need to worry?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well I do,” he said. “I worry.”

  “Don’t, Marty. I’ll be okay.”

  He stood up and came around the table. “Anything you need, Raney Jane. You know I’m here.” He gripped my shoulder and left.

  * * *

  —

  At five o’clock, I finished a call and pressed the intercom. Renfield entered.

  I leaned back in my chair. “Tell me what you found out.”

  She flipped back a few pages in her steno pad. “Number one thing people do when they’re sad? Get drunk.”

  I was afraid she’d say that. “Number two?”

  She pulled a stubby pencil from behind her ear and made a note. “Take pills.”

  “Also no good.”

  “I know, I know.” She crossed it out. “Number three. Listen to sad songs.”

  “What, like funeral dirges?”

  “Thought you’d ask.” She bustled around the desk. “I made you a playlist.”

  I moved aside so she could sit down at my computer. “You know how to make a playlist?”

  Renfield clucked her tongue. “You don’t have the right program. I gotta download it.”

  I watched her work her magic. “I’ve never made a playlist.”

  “You don’t say. Here we go.” She pressed a key. We listened to a few songs.

  “What is this supposed to be doing for me?”

  She scratched her ear with her pencil. “Hearing someone else express their sadness might help you get in touch with your own.”

  Exactly what I was trying to avoid. “Let’s move on.”

  She took up her notebook with a martyred air. “Number four. Talk to a therapist.”

  A therapist. Sarah saw a therapist. So did Rahsaan, one of my associates. I reached for my phone.

  He loped into my office a few minutes later. Rahsaan was brilliant, elegant, impossibly handsome and profoundly neurotic.

  “Explain therapy,” I said.

  He sank into a chair. “My shrink is the greatest. I tell her everything.”

  “Has she helped you with a specific, concrete problem?”

  Rahsaan placed a finger over his lips, pondering. “Our discussions are usually more global than that, but sometimes. She’ll drop an insight that clarifies a situation I’ve been stressing over, or offer a fresh perspective. When Glen and I were having problems, she gave me some exercises that helped us—”

  “Exercises?”

  “Yeah. Kind of like homework.”

  I thought therapy was all talk—I didn’t know there were activities. Things to do. This sounded very promising.

  Rahsaan gave me a few more details. When he left, I summoned Renfield back in.

  “Find me a therapist,” I told her. “The best in Manhattan.”

  EIGHT

  “Honey, I’ve been so worried! Come in, come in.”

  Sarah pulled me through her front door and into a fierce hug. I relaxed in her arms, momentarily forgetting why I’d come.

  Then she released me and squinted into the dark street. “What time is it?”

  “A little after four,” I said.

  “In the morning?” Her sleepy eyes widened, and she glanced fearfully over her shoulder. “Oh Jesus. The kids.”

  Sarah lives in a narrow brick town house in Cobble Hill, a few miles from the house on Park Place. I’d been awake all night, waiting for a report from the firm’s research librarian. When I got it, I rushed right over.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t sleeping, and—”

  “No no, it’s fine. But keep your voice down, okay?” She ushered me through the foyer. “I must have tried calling you every ten minutes yesterday. What happened?”

  “Why’s Auntie Raney here?”

  “Oh no,” Sarah murmured. “Jesus please no.”

  Della and Mercer were watching us from the top of the stairs. Sarah smiled brightly and made herding motions at her children.

  “Everything’s fine, babies! Go back to bed.”

  “But what’s she doing here?” Della persisted.

  Della is smart and serious and dogged. She looks like her father, Tad: tall and red-haired. She’s nine. Maybe ten.

  “I need your mom’s help with something,” I explained. “It’s urgent.”

  “What’s ‘urgent’ mean?” Mercer asked.

  Mercer is sweet and sensitive. He looks like Sarah: plump and comfortable, with curly dark hair and dark eyes. He’s five. Maybe six.

  “Requiring immediate action or attention,” I said.

  “Like my need for you to go back to bed,” Sarah added. “I’m serious, babies.”

  They disappeared. She tightened the belt of her robe and headed down the hall. In the kitchen, she put her arms around me again. “What can I do?”

  “Call your therapist for me.”

  “Doctor Feuerstein?” She released me and wandered over to the stove. “Do you want to start seeing him?”

  “No. I want to see Doctor Bogard.”

  “Who’s Bogard?”

  Sarah’s kitchen was a mess—sink overflowing with dishes, counter strewn with crumbs. I opened the dishwasher. “Bogard is the therapist I want to see. Renfield found him, but he’s not accepting new patients. I need Feuerstein to persuade him to take me on.”

  “Are they in the same practice?”

  “No. They went to school together.” I rinsed a glass and slotted it into the dishwasher.

  “Graduate school?”

  “Grade school.”

  She’d been rooting around in a drawer. She looked up. “How do you know that?”

  “I did a little research.”

  “Into my therapist? That’s kind of creepy, Raney.”

  Kind of? She had no idea. When I realized I needed help getting to Bogard, I zeroed in on Sarah. She has an army of medical professionals tending to her every need. She must know someone who knows someone who…et cetera. I called Norton, my favorite librarian. He has ways of gathering intelligence about people. I don’t ask too many questions. But at some point I’d have to warn Sarah that her dentist had an alarming history with law enforcement, and her podiatrist was up to no good online.

  Not now, though. I needed her to focus.

  Della and Mercer wandered into the kitchen. “Oh, babies!” Sarah groaned. “No!”

  “We couldn’t fall back asleep,” Della said.

  “This is a disaster. The entire day is shot.” Sarah slumped at the table and covered her face. “I’m not going to make it!”

  Mercer put his arms around her. “Sorry, Mommy.”

  I finished loading the dishwasher, found the soap and started a cycle. The children climbed onto stools at the breakfast bar and looked at me expectantly. I opened the refrigerator and pulled out
a loaf of bread, butter, jam and milk.

  “You’re always telling me I need a therapist,” I said. “Now I’ve found one, but I need your help getting to him.”

  “Why this particular guy?”

  “He’s the best.”

  “Therapy is about communication styles, Raney. How well your personalities fit. It isn’t a competition.”

  I slammed the refrigerator door. “This is New York City, Sarah. Everything is a competition.”

  I washed and sliced strawberries. I poured milk. I toasted bread, spread it with butter and jam and cut off the crusts. I put plates and cups in front of the children. I grabbed a sponge and attacked a hardened glob of ketchup on the countertop. I rinsed the sponge, leaned back against the counter and crossed my arms.

  “Do this for me,” I said.

  Sarah sighed. “You’re never going to let up, are you?”

  “I will hound you until your dying day.”

  She reached for her phone. “I’ll leave a message with his service.”

  The children ate. I began organizing Sarah’s cupboards.

  “Thanks for breakfast, Auntie Raney,” Della said.

  “You bet.” I flattened a stack of boxes and threw them in the recycling bin. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you guys. What’s new?”

  “No, it’s not an emergency,” Sarah said into the phone, shooting me an annoyed look.

  “I like dinosaurs,” Mercer offered.

  “Yeah? Which is your favorite?”

  “T. rex!” he roared.

  “Nice. What about you, Della?” I tugged on a drawer handle.

  “I’m really into outer space,” she said. “We’re studying it in school.”

  “Is that right? Astronomy and astrophysics are fascinating. Keep it up. Don’t let anyone discourage you.”

  “I’ve been a patient for fifteen years,” Sarah said. “I promise you I’m in the system.”

  “Why would anyone discourage me?” Della asked.

  I tugged harder on the handle. It wouldn’t budge. “Because you’re a girl.”

  “I can’t do science because I’m a girl?”