Page 17 of More Than Pen Pals

She’s not wrong, but I say, “Despite the way I acted this afternoon, and regardless of my Grouchy Smurf nickname,” I shake my head at my surprising admission, “I try not to make a habit of being unkind to people, whether I think they deserve it or not.” I wait until she looks me in the eye to add, “I’m sorry for the way I treated you.”

Tears fill her big brown eyes. “You don’t need to apologize. I do.”

A lone tear trails down her face, and my hand twitches. I’m annoyed by my desire to reach across and brush the tear away, and I move my hand from the table to my leg to ensure I keep it to myself.

The waiter arrives with our drinks, and we’re both silent as he pours wine into Leslie’s glass. He waits for her to taste and approve it. As soon as he leaves, Leslie takes a gulp of wine and almost chokes on it. Her eyes water, and she dabs them with her napkin. She finally looks at me with eyes full of trepidation. She appears to be on the verge of breaking down, and I suddenly can’t bear the thought.

“Listen, Leslie,” I say while inwardly cursing myself, “this conversation won’t be easy for either of us, and after it’s over, we might not want to be in each other’s presence.” I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I continue, “So how about we save the explanations until after we eat? Then if one of us storms out”—namely, me—”at least neither of us will leave hungry. I’d like to enjoy the meal, since Wendy went to the trouble of getting us a table here. How does that sound?”

nine

Wendyisgood. I don’t doubt she expected Ash would do his best to make me feel comfortable, even if he’s mad at me. I can’t decide if his idea is wise or not, because I’m almost too nervous to eat, but he makes an excellent point. I may never get another chance to eat here, and Wendy made a huge sacrifice for us, though I still can’t fathom why.

Instead of directly answering, I tease, “So … Grouchy Smurf, huh?” I hope it isn’t the wrong thing to say.

It’s not. Ash barks out such a loud laugh the people at the neighboring tables turn to glare. He covers his mouth, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. I giggle in response.

“Who calls you that?” I take a tiny sip of wine. I need to pace myself, if it’s going to be at least an hour before my confession.

“Our receptionist.”

“Annette?”

His head jerks. “How do you know her name?”

“Wendy might have mentioned it.”

“Ah, yes.” He rolls his eyes. “Is she one of Wendy’s spies?”

“I will neither confirm nor deny your accusation.”

He grins and points at me. “Which is a confirmation.”

I shrug and smile. His blue eyes really pop with the navy suit he’s wearing, and they linger on my mouth longer than they should. I lick my lips without intending to, and Ash’s pupils dilate before his gaze skitters away from me. His physical interest surprises me, and I realize I could use it to my advantage. I immediately chastise myself for having such a thought, especially concerning Ash. A pit forms in my stomach as I consider whether I truly am a terrible person, regardless of what Aunt Star said earlier.

I clear my throat. “Speaking of Wendy, she told me you’ve already been practicing law for two years. But I know how old you are, so you should be graduating from law school this month. How did that happen?”

“As you know, Randall and I both went to a local Jesuit school through eighth grade, and then we attended a prep school in Connecticut for high school.”

I nod. “I thought that was very fancy, you know.”

He tilts his head. “Did you?”

“Oh, yes. I had to ask my dad what a prep school was. Not many of those where I come from.” I shrug.

Ash chuckles. “I guess not. Anyway, after I took the entrance exams, the school told my parents I should start as a sophomore. Mom was against it, because it meant Randall and I would be in the same grade. She didn’t like the idea of us competing with each other. But Dad was all for it—thought the competition would be good for us—so it happened.”

“And was competition an issue?” I ask.

“No. Randall never cared much about academics, and we didn’t play the same sports. I was the valedictorian, and he skated by with grades good enough to get into a decent school, but not an Ivy. Dad could’ve …” he trails off, and I detect a hint of a blush above his shirt collar.

“Your dad could’ve what?” I prompt. I want to know what he was going to say, even if he doesn’t want to say it.

Ash sighs. “He could’ve pulled some strings and thrown enough cash around to get him in anywhere, but Randall didn’t care where he went to college. For some inexplicable reason, Dad didn’t force him into an Ivy. I think he knew if he did, my brother might refuse to go at all, which would kill his plan of the Hamilton boys taking over the firm someday.”

“What about Murphy and Walker?” I ask. “Aren’t they partners, too? Are their kids not in the business?”

“No, and neither is Walker anymore. He died last year.”

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