Paul Levine - Solomon versus Lord

Over herbal tea and sugar-free rice pudding, Bruce had said: “General counsel and executive vice president of BRV. How does that sound, sweetie?”

Like a sellout, that's how.

Maybe Bruce was trying to tell her something in a roundabout way. Maybe he thought she didn't have the chops to be a trial lawyer. What if he was right? Maybe she'd get shit on in every trial, one way or another. Maybe she should just do what Bruce wanted. Which meant relying on him, being totally dependent, emotionally and financially. And that meant, she realized, violating a promise she had made to herself when she was twelve years old, just after her father died.

I will never depend on any man. I swear I won't.

She remembered the very first to-do list she'd written on her very first note card.

1. Study hard.

2. Stay away from boys.

3. Make lots of money.

Okay, so she'd only gone one for three. She'd pocketed a summa cum laude parchment. As for the boys, a girl's gotta have fun, right? And her net worth, well, that was printed in red ink.

Still, she had her membership card in the Florida Bar. She would rebound from getting fired. She wouldn't be like her mother, who had relied so totally on Victoria's father and had been let down so hard. A man who spent lavishly on his wife and only child. A man who could, on a moment's notice, swoop up the family for an impromptu cruise, his valet racing aboard with their bags while the ship's horn bleated visitors ashore.

Victoria remembered her father as a barrel-chested man with a mane of wavy, silver hair and a joyous, rippling laugh like a stream pouring over boulders. Even now, she could smell the rich leather of his handmade Italian shoes, the tang of his cologne, the worsted wools of his tailored suits, laced with cigar smoke.

“What's Daddy's little girl want for her birthday?” he once asked.

“A horse,” she answered.

Poof. Like magic. A Shetland pony with a silky white mane.

A dollhouse? Poof. The size of a bungalow, it was fit for a princess, the daughter of a king.

Fireworks? Poof. Rockets soaring from the front lawn, turning the neighborhood into a carnival.

Until it all went to hell, to use her mother's expression.

How could it have happened? Lord-Griffin Construction Company was booming. Her father and his partner, Harold Griffin, were building high-rise condos on both coasts of Florida, making tons of money, living in a pate and white wine world. The two couples-Harold and Phyllis Griffin, Nelson and Irene Lord-were best friends. Their two children-Hal, Jr., and Victoria-were inseparable from the time they were toddlers. The future seemed preordained. Private jets, Caribbean villas, a life of privilege and comfort.

“Until your father cracked.”

Another one of her mother's expressions.

There had been a grand jury investigation. A scandal in the Broward County Building and Zoning Department. Allegations of code violations and payoffs, bribery and extortion. Nelson was subpoenaed to testify.

Then, one horrible night, the call to Victoria at boarding school. Her mother's voice: “Your father's gone.”

Gone where? For how long?

Gone forever.

The fall was twenty-two stories from the roof of a condo under construction in Lauderdale-by-the-Sea.

Now, thinking back, Victoria realized how those experiences pushed her toward a man of moderate sensibilities. A clearheaded man, and if he was a tad boring, well, that was the trade-off. We don't get to choose our fathers, but we can learn from them in choosing our husbands, she believed. Of one thing she was certain: Bruce would never bail on her or himself. He was as safe and comfy as a terry-cloth bathrobe. She didn't need fireworks on the lawn, and as for fireworks in the bedroom, that never lasted, anyway, right?

In Bruce, she had a man of solid normalcy. A straight-arrow of a man who adored her. So even if he didn't comprehend how getting fired had crushed her self-confidence and wounded her pride, even if he didn't say precisely the right things, she forgave him.

Victoria banged the palm of her hand against the side of the printer. It didn't say “Ouch,” and the green light still didn't come on. Dammit, she had to get her resumes out. How long could she go without a paycheck? She was afraid to look at the monthly statement from the bank.

No problem. I can always find the hidden diamonds.

The thought brought a rueful smile to Victoria's face. It's what her mother always said when money was tight. The “hidden diamonds” reflected The Queen's dreamy personality, Victoria thought. Her apartment-now Victoria's-was on an upper floor of the first high-rise built on Brickell Avenue, overlooking Biscayne Bay. Victoria remembered her mother telling her tales about the apartment's first tenant, long before the building converted to condo and the street turned into a forest of ritzy skyscrapers.

“Murph the Surf lived here,” her mother had said, with a tone of awe.

She explained that Jack Murphy was a surfer, violinist, tennis pro

… and amateur jewel thief. Victoria listened with wide eyes to the tale of Murph pulling a massive heist-breaking into a New York museum and spiriting away the Star of India, the world's largest sapphire, plus a bunch of diamonds.

“They caught Murph, got back the Star of India and most of the other jewels,” her mother told her. “Most, but not all.” This is where The Queen would lower her voice, as if people in the next apartment were listening through the walls. “He hid the rest of the diamonds right here, right in this building. If things get tough, no problem. I can always find the hidden diamonds.”

From time to time, usually after a bit of sherry, The Queen would chisel holes in the stucco walls, pop open recessed ceilings, and pry the covers off old light fixtures. But the diamonds, if they existed at all, seemed destined to be hidden longer than the treasures of King Tut.

These days, Irene Lord's diamonds came from a succession of wealthy, older suitors. She chose not to marry any of them, content to be escorted to various glam spots around the world. The last time she had called, The Queen was happily ensconced in a fancy spa in Johannesburg, recovering from her latest installments of plastic surgery. She informed Victoria she wouldn't be home for Christmas, something about a side trip to Zurich for injections of sheep hormones.

Victoria believed she had a more practical streak than her mother. At least, that's what she told herself as the TROUBLE light on the printer flashed red.

Damn the printer and damn the legal profession and damn Steve Solomon.

Yep, thoughts of Murph the Surf had morphed into thoughts of Steve the Sleaze. He'd gotten her fired.

No. Strike that. It wasn't Solomon's fault. He had warned her, even while he taunted her for her inability to act spontaneously.

“Sometimes you have to wing it.”

And he'd been right, damn him. If only she had a second chance, she could handle it. She would slough off his stunts with a patient smile and a wry comment. The judge would admire her aplomb. The jury would sympathize, poor girl having to put up with such an obnoxious prick. But there would be no second chance. What was it about Solomon that so provoked her?

The ringing doorbell interrupted her thoughts.

“Who is it?”

“George Clooney!” cried a woman's voice. “Naked and bearing gifts.”

Victoria unlatched the door. “With a three-day beard?”

“Just enough to chafe your inner thighs.” Jacqueline Tuttle laughed and breezed in, carrying a cardboard tray from Starbucks. “Which reminds me, do you have any Monistat in the medicine chest?”

“I don't think so.”

“Damn. Last time I sit in the Jacuzzi for three hours.” Jacqueline placed the tray on the kitchen table. “Frappuccinos, extra whipped cream, carrot cake with double icing.”