When Secrets Die Read Online Free PDF Page B

expenses.”
    I didn’t tell her that would net me about one thousand dollars, if I was lucky.
    She shrugged. “Think about it. Have another attorney look over this document.” She passed an envelope across the table. “There is a confidentiality thing in this agreement, wherein you agree not to divulge the gist of the conversation the two of you had. You and Clayton.”
    â€œI wouldn’t do that anyway.”
    â€œYou did to me.”
    â€œThat’s true. But I wouldn’t to anyone else.”
    â€œClayton is what you might call anal. And he can’t draft an agreement where he doesn’t get some kind of concession. Like you said, he’s a lawyer. Also, I had to let him put that in there so he’d draw up this fee document, between you, me, and the BMW.”
    â€œI’m seriously tempted.”
    â€œI can throw in some free dance lessons, if that would help.”

C HAPTER T WO
    Lately I have taken to smoking cigars, a habit I clearly share with Emma Marsden. It is a terrible habit, especially considering that I can only afford cheap cigars, the kind that will bring everyone in the room to harmonious agreement—be they Democrats, liberals, Republicans, warmongers, pro- or anti-choice, for or against the death penalty—the agreement being that the kind of cigar I can afford is disgusting. If I were smelling it instead of smoking it, I would be disgusted too.
    On the other hand, I appreciate that the cigars have wooden tips, and are slim and black and slightly sweet. Nothing so good as chocolate, but still good. And although they pollute my lungs and the atmosphere, and add certain intriguing elements to the more feminine’ aspects of my personal scent—vanilla lotion and Escada perfume—they do not have calories, they do not make my abdomen swell so that my jeans are tight, and are for these reasons much better than chocolate. This is how women think, and I am a woman. If you are a woman or you know one who is honest, you are not surprised.
    Cigars are good for people like me who eat for three reasons: hunger, boredom, and the need for distracting stimulation, which is different enough from boredom to have its own category, but still close.
    I think it is the ritual of smoking cigars that I like, as well as the rebellion. I had a very southern upbringing, which means that beer and cigars are not the norm if you are female. In my family, even beer was unusual. It was bourbon and cigars, but that was for the men. Mixed drinks were highballs. My sister and I drank beer in college to annoy our parents and prove something, but our parents were fascinated and encouraged us to order beer whenever they took us to dinner. My dad would order a beer too, and my mom would taste ours but didn’t like it. For Mom it was Diet Pepsi or nothing, which is much worse for you than beer, which at least has B-12.
    I was quite delighted when Emma Marsden insisted on me taking the BMW home for the night, so long as I was willing to drop her off at her house. We made an appointment to meet at the courthouse before lunch the next day to transfer the title of ownership from her to me, and for us to sign the letter of agreement in regard to my services.
    Her house was out of my way, but driving the car was what I wanted to be doing. It was a 1999 Z3 Roadster, automatic, with antilock brakes, a CD player, and a power convertible roof. There was a small slit in the plastic rectangular back window, right along the crease where the plastic folded when the top was down. I didn’t much care. We drove out Main Street, away from town, until it became Richmond Road, and we followed it through the strips of restaurants, dry cleaners, and apartment complexes, past Lexington Mall and Home Depot, past the Man of War intersection that led to Homburg Place, where Emma Marsden taught ballroom dance at an independent studio, past the highway access to I-75, past a Waffle House, a Holiday