T. Bunn - Winner Take All

At the boat’s side she finally balked. “That’s not good enough.”

“Kirsten, we’re arguing over a future that hopefully won’t ever come. It’s been an exhausting day. In the morning these things will-”

“What if I can’t learn to trust you?”

Muted light glimmered off her overwide eyes. “What are you saying?”

“What if I shouldn’t be here?”

“Kirsten, I believe with all my heart that you are heaven’s gift.”

His words only pushed her farther back down the pier. “Then you’re not seeing who I truly am.”

“So show me.”

The path’s light seemed too much for her, as she canted away from the illumination and angled off into the grass. “What if I can’t?”

“I will work to earn your trust.” When she only fled more swiftly, he called, “Years, if need be.”

Marcus heard her slam the car door. Gravel scattered like shotgun pellets as she rounded the drive and headed away. He stepped into the boat, burdened by the weariness of just another defeat at the hands of someone he loved.

The night refused to depart of its own accord. Around four Marcus dressed and went out to chase it away. He stretched long and slow, the sea breeze faint as a sleeping woman’s breath, the air so warm he left his sweatshirt on the poolside table as he started his run.

The plank bridge thunked a series of musical wooden notes beneath his tread. He followed the road along the water’s edge but saw nothing save huge stone gates and more floodlit manors. Streetlights cast the willows and sea oaks in malarial tints. Beyond them, where the road turned inland and the houses became less imposing, broad rises of magnolia and elm formed inkstains upon a starlit sky. For a time Marcus was able to outrun even his thoughts. There was a singular purity to a predawn run. Every promise still held the potential of fulfillment. Even now.

Back at the yacht, he took the narrow stairs down into an opulent central cabin. He called both Kirsten’s apartment and her cell phone, but received no answer. Then a thought occurred to him. Marcus dialed the number for Deacon’s home, reflecting that perhaps a shred of joy could be found for someone who needed it almost as much as he did.

Afterward he showered and made coffee in the yacht’s overequipped galley. On the upper deck he was greeted by a soft world quilted together by mist and gray light. From this angle the morning fog appeared as the water’s uppermost layer. Marsh islands hung suspended in both time and space. Overhead a jet painted a long finger-trail aimed straight toward dawn’s rising tide. Across a narrow channel rose Masonboro Island, its high-backed hills the result of dredging the Intracoastal free of silt. The dunes glowed sable and expectant, while overhead gulls sang a sea-born chantey.

Marcus sat there long after his coffee had grown stone cold, until the sun split the horizon into an eruption above and heat below. Whenever possible, he had refused divorce and custody cases. There in the dawn’s light he recalled one particular instance when the work could not be avoided. A longtime client had discovered his wife with not one outside lover, but six. The man had been utterly devastated. Time after time he had asked Marcus how it was possible to live with someone for seventeen years and not know them at all.

Gradually the July sun began searing his skin. But there was a clarity to this position, a pressure to see everything with morning’s purity. Kirsten was the most irritatingly secretive woman he had ever met. She held a huge portion of herself clenched impossibly tight. He would like it otherwise. He desperately wanted her to share all with him, even though he was certain her secret would prove to be appalling.

Here in this gift of quiet Sabbath space, he asked himself the carefully avoided question. What if she refused? Marcus set his cup aside. It was not like he needed a lot of time to think this through. The morning’s importance had lain with confronting the issue. The answer was immediate.

Whatever she chose to give him would be enough. Half of Kirsten’s heart was a thousand times more than he had ever expected, or deserved.

He walked across the gangplank and took the gravel path toward the house. Finally he had an answer for that long-ago client. You lived with someone and never knew them fully because the alternative was unthinkable.

When he crossed the rear patio, Marcus found two men in Dale’s kitchen alcove. Dale Steadman had recovered from the previous day’s binge with well-practiced speed. An older man stood like a wraith beside him, holding himself with the fragility of one guarding eggshells.

Marcus stepped through the doorway and announced, “We need to talk.”

“I hope it is to tell this gentleman that you cannot in any way be associated with this case.” The stranger had a patrician’s nose and the highbrow British accent to match. “A more atrocious set of circumstances I could not possibly imagine than to have this be dragged into open court.”

Dale offered Marcus a half-full pot. “Like a cup?”

“Black.”

“Marcus Glenwood, Kedrick Lloyd. Kedrick happens to be the eighth earl of Tisbury, and my oldest friend. He introduced me to Erin.” He handed Marcus a mug. “Then told me I was a fool to marry her.”

“Which you most certainly were.”

“No argument there.” He bent down and retrieved a bottle of cognac from beneath the sink. “Anybody else feel like a spike?”

Marcus said, “Don’t.”

“You telling me what to do in my own house?”

“If you want me to take the case, I am.”

“Gentlemen, really,” Kedrick Lloyd protested. “Neither of you can possibly be serious.”

Marcus walked around the central station and took the bottle from Steadman. He dropped it into the gleaming waste can. “These are my terms. You are going to be in court every single day this case requires. We have to do everything possible to counteract the impression Erin’s attorney is painting.”

“You’re going for it?”

“I’m not finished. You lay off the sauce and you join a local AA.” Marcus made every word a challenge, half hoping the man would refuse. “You must prove to Judge Sears that the claims against you are false and malicious. And by taking the time to appear you demonstrate a greater commitment to your child than Erin Brandt.”

“This is preposterous!” The hand that rose to wipe Kedrick’s mouth was pale as a linen shroud. “It has obviously escaped your local boy here that international custody cases are notoriously difficult.”

Marcus asked, “Are you an attorney?”

“Kedrick is a patron of the arts,” Dale replied. “He is vice chairman of the board of the New York Metropolitan Opera. Which makes him an expert on everything. If you don’t believe me, just ask him.”

“I know the ways of the world, unlike your hired gun!” He had still not glanced Marcus’ way. “Dale, listen to what I’m saying. Even if you win here, you will lose. Believe me. I have friends who have been tied up in such cases for years. It will rob you of your life.”

“No chance,” Dale replied. “That’s already been taken from me.”

“Hopeless,” Kedrick muttered, starting from the kitchen. “Senseless, preposterous, hopeless. You realize, of course, he will milk you for every cent you have, then vanish.”

“Just a minute, please,” Marcus said. “I need witnesses who will testify on Mr. Steadman’s behalf. Could I ask you to appear Tuesday in-”

Kedrick did not even turn around. “I will not grace this obvious act of prostitution with a single further instant of my time. Good day to you both.”

When they were alone, Dale said, “Kedrick is dying. Leukemia. He’s down here to sell a couple of hotels and start some last-ditch treatment over at Duke.” His voice held the hesitancy of one fearful of hope. “You’re serious about taking me on?”