Kill All the Lawyers

Thirty-Three

Victoria sipped her Chardonnay and began crumbling blue cheese for the salad. Then she stopped. Steve liked grated Parmesan. She would go with that. But first, she checked the oven. The sweet potatoes-Steve's favorite-were coming along nicely, emitting a syrupy aroma.

This should be his night, she thought. A special night. No arguments, not even a debate over whether figure skating qualifies as a sport. Earlier today, Steve had said he wanted to talk. Not about work. Not about the Dolphins. But about them.

"I want to open up, talk about my feelings."

Yep, he used the dreaded "f" word, the two-syllable one. And this just one day after she spied him sitting in church. A quiet, contemplative Steve. Meditating or praying. Or maybe just thinking about their relationship. So rare in men these days.

She sensed a turning point. And just in time. Everything had become so strained between them.

Maybe it was her fault. Steve had been under so much pressure with Kreeger creeping back into his life. Then there were the two assault-and-battery charges.

And Janice, lurking in the background, threatening to file a custody action.

"You should be more understanding and less demanding, dear."

Amazingly, that's what her mother told her last night. She and The Queen had had dinner at Norman's in the Gables, and over mango-glazed snapper and a bottle of Zinfandel, her mother had expressed warm-and-cuddly sentiments for Steve.

"Stephen has a good heart. Sometimes, I fear you're too harsh with him."

"Me? Harsh?"

"And judgmental. And if I may so, a bit fussy and priggish."

"What!"

"I thought I'd raised you to be a bit more fun."

"And when did you do that, Mother? When you were off in Gstaad or Monaco?"

"Don't get huffy. All I'm saying, a woman has to support her man. Steve's in a real pressure cooker right now. And to throw a hissy fit because he happens to chat with an unclothed girl-well, if you ask me, that's a bit priggish."

Victoria had been too stunned to be angry. The Queen seldom spoke about anyone at great length, other than herself. And it was practically unheard of, a solar eclipse of an event, for her to say anything nice about Steve. But this was the second time in a matter of days that she'd taken his side. So what was going on? Bewilderingly, from the crab cake appetizer to the banana creme brulee, her mother practically oozed affection for Steve.

"When are you moving in together, dear?"

"What's the hurry?"

"I have my eye on a charming housewarming gift."

"So, suddenly, you think Steve is right for me?"

"Trust me where men are concerned, dear. Despite that thorny exterior, deep inside, Stephen is a loving, caring man who adores you."

Just what were they putting in the sparkling water, anyway?

But the more Victoria thought about Steve, the more she thought her mother was right.

Meaning I've been right, all along. Beginning that night in the avocado grove-Bruce's avocado grove- when I sneaked off with Steve.

He had so many good qualities. His love for Bobby. His quest for justice, even if the road he took was usually off the beaten path. His quirky sense of humor. And, of course, one more thing, something her mother nailed as she sipped her after-dinner cognac.

"May I assume Stephen's good in the sack?"

"You may assume anything you wish, Mother."

"I always liked lanky, wiry men. Stephen looks pretty limber to me."

Right now, Mr. Limber was in the backyard, squirting fluid on the charcoal, lighting a fire for the steaks. T-bones, sweet potatoes, tossed salad, followed by a discussion of feelings, along with Key lime pie. Yes, this was going to be a special night.

Five minutes later, Steve came into the kitchen and headed straight for the refrigerator. What shoes and purses were to women, Victoria thought, the fridge and the TV were to men. He poked around a second and pulled out a cold Sam Adams.

He liked cold beer and rare steak. She liked white wine and grilled salmon. But tonight none of that mattered. Tonight they would get closer than ever. She just knew it.

"How long until you put the steaks on?" she asked.

"A while. You know I like the coals to be glowing. The secret to a great steak-"

"Is the hottest possible fire. Sear the outside, keep the inside juicy. I know, I know. Make mine well done?"

He made a face. "If you say so. Where's the Bobster?"

"In his room, studying."

"Alone?"

She gave him a bittersweet smile. Bobby had been moping around ever since he'd been exiled from the Goldberg house, and Maria had been forbidden from even setting foot on Kumquat Avenue. All by royal decree of the Munoz-Goldbergs.

Complicating the situation was Janice. Steve had begun allowing her to visit Bobby at home, but so far refusing to let her take him anywhere alone. He'd been afraid Janice would snatch him and run.

Now Steve picked up the salad bowl and shook it, shuffling the lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers, everything sliced thin, the way he liked it.

"You make a great salad," he said.

"Thanks." She sipped at the wine to let him go on without interruption. When a witness is ready to talk, best to keep quiet.

"You're really terrific in the kitchen," he continued. "A lot of women these days just don't take the time. But the way you balance work and everything else- well, it's pretty impressive."

She picked up the cheese grater and went to work. In truth, her culinary skills were limited to a couple of dishes, but she sensed this was just a warm-up, Steve taking a few practice swings. He looked a little nervous. Apparently, stalking a serial killer was not as scary a task as plumbing his own emotional depths.

"You're good at so many things," Steve went on. "You're amazing with Bobby; the kid adores you."

"It's mutual."

Okay, now we're moving in the right direction, though at the speed of a manatee. C'mon, Steve. Let's go from the nephew's feelings to the uncle's feelings.

"Maybe you and I can talk a bit while Bobby's still in his room," Steve said. "About personal stuff."

She stopped grating the cheese in midstroke. "Sure."

"There are things I've wanted to say to you for a long time, but you know how it is. . "

He plucked a tomato slice out of the bowl and let the words dangle in the air. Tongue-tied. Not his usual state. His dark hair was messed, and there was a smudge of charcoal on his cheek. He looked like a kid, she thought, in part perhaps because of his T-shirt: "I Am Not Infantile, You Stinky Butt Poophead."

"Go ahead, Steve. It won't hurt."

"So why does it feel like opening a vein?"

"When you're in a relationship, you've got to trust the other person. You can share feelings, expose your fears, your weaknesses." She reached over and wiped the smudge from his face.

He took a breath and sighed, as if to say, "Here goes."

She picked up her wineglass and waited. It was a two-sip wait. There was so much she wanted to hear. Words like "love" and "plans" and "future," and even "marriage" and "children." Sure, she knew he was conflicted. Men were like that. They yearn for the love of a woman, and then when they get it, they break into a cold sweat.

"You remember how I always told you about the College World Series?" Steve said.

That puzzled her, but she went with it. "U.M. down by a run in the ninth inning. You got picked off third base to end the game."

"What else? What do I always say?"

This must be some sort of metaphor, she thought, but what could it be? Steve was bringing back the most humiliating day of his life. He'd let his teammates down. So maybe he wanted to say: "I want us to be a team forever, Vic, and I'll never let you down."

"You always say you got in under the tag," she replied. "The ump blew the call."

"Yeah, maybe the photos make it look that way. But the thing is, I felt the third baseman's glove swipe my hand when I dived for the base. All this time, Vic, I've been lying to myself and everybody else. The damn truth is, I was out."

Okay, Steve, you were picked off. Your team lost. What's it have to do with us?

But she didn't want to appear critical. What was it her mother had said?

"A woman must support her man."

She wrapped both arms around his neck and moved so close, their noses nearly touched. "I understand, sweetheart. You feel your life has been a lie."

"Well, not my whole life. But I feel so much better telling you what really happened."

"So that our relationship can move to a new level?" Prompting him, trying to make it easier.

"What level is that?"

"I thought you wanted to open up, discuss feelings, remember?"

"Yeah. I was feeling bad and now that I told you the truth, I feel better."

"You feel better?" She took a step back, astonished. "What about us? What about words like 'love' and 'plans' and 'future'? Where do I fit into your life now that we know you were picked off fair and square?"

Steve seemed startled. He took a gulp of his beer, then moved toward the window. In the yard, white smoke billowed from the hibachi. Either a new pope had been selected, or it was time to put on the steaks.

He turned to face her. "Vic, all these years, I never told anyone else what really happened in that game. I couldn't have told you if I didn't love you."

"Keep going, partner. What else?"

"I'm sorry I've been such a jerk about moving in together. I figured everything was good the way it was. We each had our own space, and I was afraid that if something changed, we'd be headed for the great unknown. So I guess I was scared."

"And now?"

"Life is the great unknown, isn't it? If we shy away from risks, we're running from life."

"So you do have plans? For us, I mean."

"My mind's full of plans, except I call them 'hopes.' When we met, I didn't dare plan you'd want to be with me. But sure, I hoped you would. Even when we got together, my hopes all came with fears. The biggest one, you'd wake up one morning and realize you'd made a gigantic mistake. So I couldn't talk about any of this. Even now it's hard for me to believe you want to live with me and help me raise Bobby. As for the future-well, I've got hopes there, too."

She didn't know how far to push him, but she couldn't leave that hanging. "What sort of hopes?"

"You know, permanent stuff."

"Yeah?"

"Marriage. Kids." His voice a whisper.

"Is that what you really want, Steve?" Asking ever so gently, trying not to frighten him.

"Someday," he said quickly. "If all goes well."

Okay, a tiny retreat. But he'd moved a mile forward and only one step backward. Once you say "marriage," the word can't be erased.

Victoria took both Steve's arms and wrapped them around her waist, because the poor guy seemed incapable of movement. Then she cupped his face in her hands and kissed him. As their lips touched, she murmured, "Those are my hopes, too."

She kissed him again and their bodies folded into each other, the contours fitting perfectly, a yin and yang of man and woman. "And by the way, I've studied those photos from the game. You did get in under the tag."

"No, Vic. I remember the glove hitting my hand."

"You remember wrong, lover. You were safe. You've always been safe."