Dear Diary, I'm In Love Page 12

  Professionally, since she’d first started working with the Earth Survival League, good fortune, along with her intelligence, enthusiasm and devotion to environmental causes contributed to her continuing success. With top grades and a law degree from Columbia, a year’s clerking in the U. S. Supreme Court, and a conviction that environmental law was for her, she had found ready acceptance by the League. In a matter of months she was firmly established as a promising lawyer. Within five years she was the League’s lead attorney, with a string of successful cases to her credit.

  Today was different, however. The opposition was, to put it very mildly, formidable. The ready agreement allowing her to depose the CEO of SEATEX had surprised her and caught her off guard. The even quicker acceptance of the time and place for the deposition had been equally surprising. She had asked only for a morning session to begin with, reserving the right to further sessions if necessary. No problem.

  What didn’t come as a surprise was the presence of Alyssha Stepnic as Carlson’s attorney. Stepnic was one of the senior partners of Tomlinson, Stepnic, Nowles and Franklin, perhaps the most prestigious law firm in the country, and long the legal resource of choice for SEATEX.

  The two sitting across the table from Cynthia in the law firm’s conference room were a strangely assorted pair. Carlson, in spite of his white hair, looked younger than his sixties. He was wearing a nicely-tailored dark suit, but not something as expensive as might be expected from someone with his enormous wealth. Stepnic was deceptively matronly in appearance, and dressed as though to emphasize that fact. She was much more apt to pass for a middle-aged suburban housewife than for a brilliant attorney.

  Counting the clerk transcribing the meeting, there were only four people in the large room. To Cynthia it still seemed small and confining, though the meeting began smoothly enough. Carlson went through the usual identification procedures and answered the first innocuous questions without hesitation. As those centered more and more on the oilrig disaster that had led to ESL’s lawsuit, there was still no hesitation. Stepnic seemed relaxed, Carlson even more so. There were no evasions, no “I can’t remembers.” Cynthia found it difficult to believe what was happening. Halfway through the morning, Carlson called for a break, and he and his attorney left the room, leaving Cynthia behind with the expectation of a radically different tenor in the next session.

  When Stepnic returned alone, she asked to speak to Cynthia, “off the record.” Oh, oh, Cynthia assumed. This is it. No more mister nice guy. He’s going to refuse to answer any more questions. She couldn’t have been further from the truth.

  “Randall wants to invite you to lunch—without me there. I advised him against it, naturally.”

  Cynthia raised an eyebrow.

  Stepnic grinned. “If you’re about to ask me what he’s thinking, don’t. I have no idea. Never have, as long as I’ve known him. He’s as unpredictable as he’s rich. What should I tell him?”

  It took a moment for Cynthia to digest the implications and the probabilities. A bribe was her first thought. Too direct. Perhaps the equivalent of a plea bargain? Again unlikely. ESL was certainly not in a sure-win position. In fact, it was looking increasingly unlikely that they were even in a strong position, and the opposition had to be very much aware of that fact. Was he on the make? That seemed like the least likely possibility. What she and Merilee had read about him had certainly produced nothing to indicate any particular inclination in that direction. So the question was, why? Why would someone with a net worth of somewhere between ten and twenty billion want to meet privately with an attorney representing an adverse party?

  Even if a settlement offer, however remote, hadn’t been a possibility, curiosity would have made her agree. The time and place was set. High noon in the restaurant located downstairs on the ground floor of the office building. Not the fanciest eating place in Boston, but convenient and quite adequate.

  The need to cover a lot of ground after the short break kept her from continuing to ponder the reason for the luncheon invitation. And that session was for the most part a replay of the first part of the morning. Again, no evasiveness. Virtually no comment from Stepnic, and the end result provided no justification for additional meetings. Stepnic gathered her papers, the clerk tore off the record of the deposition and closed down his machine, Cynthia slipped her yellow legal pad into her brief case, and all of them stood. Carlson’s smile lifted the right side of his lip slightly and it gave him a suddenly attractive appearance.

  They said little on the way to the elevator, beyond his thanking her for accepting the lunch invitation and her reciprocal thanks for it.

  When they had settled down at the table and placed their order, Carlson asked, “Can we move on to a first name basis now that the formalities are out of the way? My mother used to call me Randy but, for a variety of reasons, I much prefer Randall.”

  Cynthia smiled. “I’ve always been Cynthia. I don’t imagine my mother ever wanted to abbreviate that to Sin.”

  The lunch proceeded amicably, and Cynthia relaxed her wariness enough to enjoy what turned out to be interesting company. Randall was attentive, a quality she had only infrequently encountered in men. Before long they were sharing mutual interests. Kinds of music, films, food preferences. They had in common a surprising number. Over coffee, the tenor changed suddenly. Randall reached into his pocket and brought out a sealed envelope.

  “When you get back to your office, take a look at the contents. I’d rather we didn’t discuss it now. I don’t want to spoil a very pleasant luncheon with business matters. But I’ll call tomorrow, around two, and you can let me know what you think about this.” He handed her the envelope as they rose to leave.

  The content of the envelope was startling. Settling back in her office chair, Cynthia found it hard to believe, harder to explain. Randall was willing to settle and to do so very generously. The Venezuelan government would be reimbursed for its cleanup efforts, though SEATEX had already borne the brunt of the labor costs. ESL would receive a generous amount to cover its legal expenses. In addition, a substantial sum would go into ESL’s environmental protection fund. All of which was far, far more than Cynthia had expected.

  The burning Liberian tanker that had smashed into the rig during a vicious storm had been uninsured, the company already bankrupt. Negligence on the part of SEATEX would have been difficult if not impossible to prove, especially in the light of the morning’s deposition and all the knowledge ESL had accumulated regarding the oil rig’s structure and the safety measures in force at the time of the accident. Cynthia reached for the phone to give the President of ESL the good news, to urge acceptance of the offer—though she was sure no urging would really be necessary—and to arrange for a meeting of the Board for formal approval.

  The arrangements made, she decided to also share the good news with Merilee. The familiar voice at the other end of the line reflected her own astonishment at the unbelievable sequel to the luncheon meeting.

  “I can’t remember ever having been so surprised,” Cynthia said. “I was ready to come back to the Board with a “no case” analysis. I…”

  “There’s not much question about what made the difference,” Merilee broke in. “He’s got the hots for you. Any bets you’ll be invited out to dinner, next?”

  Cynthia broke into a laugh. “Much as I’d like to think that my scintillating personality and physical appearance tipped the balance, that won’t wash, Merilee. He had that agreement made up before he even met me.”

  “Contingency plan.”

  “What?”

  “Yup. There’s no question about it. He must have heard that the opposition attorney was a sexy broad half his age, and he had the agreement drawn up to impress you. So when he calls you this afternoon and asks you out to dinner you just won’t be able to refuse. And don’t! I can see this ripening into something more than just a favorable business settlement. Sheesh! Fourth richest man in the U.S. What more could you ask for?”

  C
ynthia smiled, shook her head at the phone and turned her thoughts to the next day’s meeting with Phil Gould, the President of ESL.

  At the meeting, Gould, a gnome-like figure sitting in a wheel chair behind his desk was his usual effervescent self, something Cynthia could never understand, since she knew he was in constant pain from a twisted spinal column.

  “Amazing… amazing,” he said, waving her to one of the comfortable chairs in his office. “You must have really worked your charm with Randall. I’ve known him for years, and he isn’t an easy man to sway. Needless to say, the Board’s given their unanimous approval. I polled them on the phone, and they’re as pleased and as amazed as I am. What’s your secret?”

  Cynthia protested, and told him essentially what she had reported to Merilee; that the settlement was signed and sealed before Randall had ever met her. Phil shook his head. The smile he gave her belied the words he spoke. “Be careful, Cynthia. In all the years I’ve known Randall, I’ve never been able to quite figure him out. I know he’s shrewd, and he hasn’t become a success in the business world the way he has without having special talents and hidden resources.”

  Cynthia returned the smile. Except for the promised afternoon phone call, she never expected to see or hear from Randall Carlson again. She couldn’t have been more wrong.

  The entire matter had vanished from her mind as she moved on to wrestle with the next pending ESL case. Engrossed in her work, she was mildly annoyed at the ringing phone and the voice of her secretary announcing a call from Mr. Randall Carlson. Readjusting her mental set from the documents before her, she quickly stated to her caller that the offer was accepted, and she went on to thank him for his generosity, making no attempt to hide her surprise at his largesse.

  There was a moment’s hesitation on his part, and then Merilee’s prediction came true. A dinner offer! Her own hesitation lengthened into a protracted silence. Why not? she asked herself. Unable to think of any good reason for refusing, the arrangements were soon made for the following evening. A car would pick her up at her apartment. Strange date!

  Cynthia smiled at the phone as she hung up. On impulse, she immediately dialed Merilee’s office phone. “Guess what,” she said as soon as Merilee answered.

  “I don’t have to. He wants you to go out for a weekend on his yacht.”

  Cynthia guffawed. “Now you’re overdoing it. I just called to feed your ego. You hit it right on the nose about the dinner.”

  “Zowie! Liveried chauffeur driving a stretch limo—white with gold trim. Top-flight restaurant, Nineteenth Century wine, a dozen long-stemmed roses, theatre afterwards, then that Beacon Hill apartment he owns to see his multi-million-dollar art collection. You’ve got quite an evening ahead of you. But hold out for that weekend on the yacht.”

  No stretch limo! The car that arrived promptly at seven was an ancient but well-cared for Lincoln—comfortable, quiet and skillfully driven by a chauffeur who most certainly was not liveried. Manley, who introduced himself by that name, was black, had the longest and most elaborate dreadlocks Cynthia had ever seen, wore a worn but clean pair of dungarees and a T-shirt announcing reggae Fridays at the Esplanade. A nice set of teeth, a charming smile and a very Caribbean-British accent greeted her as he stepped around the car to open the door for her.

  While the car and chauffeur seemed out of place, Chez Henri measured up to expectations, and more. Cynthia had heard of the exclusive restaurant, along with tales that reservations were not only essential but that not everyone was honored with acceptance. With only five tables for seating, there could be little question but that the prices were outrageous. Cynthia preferred not knowing what they were. The treatment they received was extraordinary for its unostentatiousness. No one hovered, but dishes appeared as though by magic. It was also obvious that the patrons were invited—and even expected—to stay the entire evening.

  It was difficult not to believe in magic, since the meal consisted of her favorite foods, magnificently prepared, yet she hadn’t made any selection—having left the choices to her host. And he hadn’t ordered. The food simply arrived.

  Now, no longer an adversary, Cynthia felt free to ask Randall why he had been so quick to settle, and why so generously… readily admitting that ESL had virtually given up the thought of pressing the case.

  Randall’s down-turned lip turned upwards. “It’s a long story. Let’s make the most of the meal Henri has prepared for us. He’ll be shocked if he sees us engaged in serious conversation and not giving full attention to what he spent hours preparing.” It wasn’t difficult to follow the suggestion. Small talk, exclamations over the quality of the food, and long moments of comfortable silence.

  Neither of them opted for brandy. Rich, dark coffee in a silver carafe and fragile porcelain cups replaced the last of the dessert dishes on which only a few crumbs remained. Cynthia peered questioningly over the edge of the fragrant brew. Randall seemed uncertain where to begin. Finally, he said, “I guess it’s time for a confession, and I’m not very good at confessions.”

  The tone of his voice made her put down her coffee. She said nothing. The lip turned downward even more, a sign she already recognized as an indication he was troubled. “The day of the deposition wasn’t the first time I saw you,” he began. “I imagine you remember the Lake Swinamish hearings.”

  Cynthia nodded. She had good reason to remember the hearings. A particularly egregious case of waste dumping had produced serious illness, especially for children among the surrounding residents, which included a large number of Native Americans. She had become so emotionally involved in the case, she had been afraid she would botch it and had almost turned it over to one of her colleagues. She hadn’t. She won handily, and though the case was now on appeal, there was little doubt but that the lower court decision granting a substantial settlement would be upheld.

  “I was at the courthouse that day. Alyssha was settling up some of my legal matters. While she was in chambers I wandered into the courtroom where the Swinamish hearings were being held. I arrived just in time for your closing argument. I was impressed. I wanted to meet you, but I have difficulty in approaching women, as you may have noticed. As it turned out, that same day I found out ESL wanted to depose me in the oilrig case. I assumed—as it turned out, correctly—that you would do the deposing. That’s why I agreed to it. Alyssha was opposed. She insisted that we could have the whole case dismissed even before the deposition.”

  Surprises were second nature for Randall, she decided. “And that’s when you made up the agreement.”

  He smiled and nodded. “I enjoyed every minute of the questioning and became more convinced then ever that I wanted to meet you. It was obvious that we had mutual interests. You speak well, you listen well. And not the least of it, I must admit, is the fact that you’re a beautiful woman.”

  Mutual interests. The two words triggered off an unpleasant notion. The tone of her voice was accusing. “It wasn’t just coincidence that you had all of my favorite food served this evening. I told you hardly anything about my likes and dislikes. You…”

  He held up his hand and smiled. “I was sure you would figure that out. You were investigated. But no one spied on you. Alyssha insisted on finding out as much as she could about you, even before we were sure you were going to do the deposition.” He shrugged. “But then she has always been thorough. She always wants to know as much as possible about the opposition, and in this case she knew some people who knew you.”

  Wait until Merilee hears this, was Cynthia’s first thought. Her second was, Where is this all leading to? She put the thought into words.

  The edge of the lip went up. “I don’t know. I do know I enjoy your company. I think you enjoy mine. Can we make the most of that? I’m retiring from all the businesses I’m involved in. Really retiring. Leaving it all behind. I’ll have plenty of free time, and I’d like to have you share it with me.”

  “And we leave it at that?”

  “If you wish. We leave it
that.”

  She raised the cup of coffee and noted that it was now lukewarm. From nowhere a waiter appeared with a steaming replacement. She made the exchange, kept her eyes fixed on Randall’s and carefully sipped the hot liquid. Why not?, she decided, gave a barely perceptible nod, then added, “No commitments.”

  He raised his own cup. “No commitments.”

  Merilee bubbled over on hearing the news at next day’s lunch. “Oh, my! I can see it now. A mansion overlooking the beach at Martha’s Vineyard, a yacht tied up at the dock, servants—maybe a big blond hunk of a chauffeur who would be willing to keep a lady guest entertained. You going to invite me out?”

  Cynthia giggled as she thought of Manley. But, then, Merilee’s legal commitment to affirmative action encompassed her personal life as well. She never lacked for companionship, and she made no distinctions for age, race or—Cynthia suspected—gender. “You’re going to be disappointed, Merilee. From the way Randall describes it, that mansion is a small cottage on Cape Cod.”

  The protestations only produced a sigh. “Some girls have all the luck.”

  Lunch with Randall the following day led almost immediately to a serious discussion—not about personal relationships, but business ones—about principles, about the environment, about world views. Cynthia was the first to broach the topics, and she managed to keep an accusatory tone out of her voice, though the subject matter clearly carried such implications.

  “How do you feel about what happened to the oilrig?”

  “Would you believe me if I said, ‘terrible’?”

  “Perhaps, but I would need an explanation.”

  “I’m sure you must have checked enough to discover that SEATEX was the lowest bidder to build the rig. There was a reason for that, and it had little to do with profit. The Venezuelan government is not exactly overly concerned about the environment or safety for workers. I am.”

  The final statement was made with intensity. “I knew the other bidders. I knew what they were like. I decided to build a rig that would be environmentally sound, since there was no way of stopping the Venezuelans from exploiting that new oil field. You know the quality of that rig. It was built to stand up under a hurricane, but it couldn’t take being slammed by a burning oil tanker. Even so, the safety devices cut in. As you also know there was minimal spill from the rig.