A Southern Girl 310 We press against each other in electric urgency. I lean away to ask, “Want to hear my theory?” “Your theory of what?” she murmurs, pulling me back and kissing me below the ear. “Of you.” She raises her eyes to mine. “Go ahead.” “I don’t think you came south to right wrongs. I think you came looking for something soft and forgiving.” The balance of my theory is smothered in her sublime embrace and kisses. “You realize the irony here,” she says. “Tell me,” I whisper. “Had I gotten my wish, and you had agreed to become my client, we couldn’t be doing this.” j 31 i I cannot be taller on the morning after my evening with Natalie, yet I feel so, alert and alive in ways I haven’t felt in what seems like forever. Her scent lingers in my facial stubble. I am brewing coffee when Allie enters the kitchen. “Did I hear whistling?” she wants to know. “I don’t know, did you?” “I thought I did,” she says, placing her books on the counter. “You’re up early . . .” “Some paperwork backed up at the office. Thought I’d get in before the phone starts ringing.” “For coming in so late.” She is eyeing me expectantly. “I . . . got tied up.” “That’s a good one,” she says skeptically. “I’ll remember that one— I got tied up. Want to tell mamma Allie about it?” “I do not wish to tell mamma Allie.” “That’s okay, Adelle will tell me.” “No! You’ll . . . embarrass her. Don’t say anything to Adelle.” “So, it’s Natalie. Geez Dad, is she old enough?” Flow 311 “Will you get out of here? Go to school.” Miss Open Book of the Orient also reads palms. “But I have half an hour,” she reminds me. “You’re the one leaving early.” “Yeah, I know.” I grab my coat from the back of my chair and start for the door. Her back is to me as she stands at the counter slicing a banana as a topping for yogurt. I return, and kiss her on top of her head. “I love you, sweetheart.” I stride for the door. “Dad,” she calls, still facing away. “It’s fine by me if it’s Natalie. Just so you know.” I stop, my hand on the door knob. “Some things are private.” “It is Natalie. Cool. Maybe I should invite her over. Popcorn, videos . . . maybe a sleep-over.” This is the reason I never play poker. I leave before she can quiz me on exactly what Natalie and I did last night. With keys jangling I approach the car. For the second time in this young day, a fragrance distracts me. This time, wisteria. I will walk. The city is drawing back the curtain to unveil its spring line, and though the fashions here never change fundamentally, the nuances are worth savoring on foot. Azaleas are still a week or two away from peak but the dogwoods are in bloom and Bignonia abound. A pollen-laden mist coats cars and mailboxes, as if the neighborhood is being dusted for fingerprints. Allie’s razing on my way out is a good sign, well worth my temporary discomfort. It signals another tentative step back toward our old closeness, absent now long enough, I hope, to exact a price from her. Suddenly, I am glad to have said nothing to disabuse her of the notion I was with her ally Natalie. Then, just as suddenly, I wonder if last night could be linked to the St. Simeon. Have I, unwittingly, used Natalie as a bridge to Allie? No, I conclude instantly, and it feels right. A note from Harris sits atop my messages. He is in trial this morning but needs to see me about the Arts Center “at your convenience.” Dictation consumes me until ten, when I place a call to Natalie, who is out. More dictation, an interview with a prospective summer intern, and a latemorning conference call keep me buried. Not until after lunch do I have a moment to reflect upon the strategy formulated over dinner the night before. I take a legal pad from the drawer and list the Board members. [23.22.23.162] Project MUSE (2024-03-29 16:08 GMT) A Southern Girl 312 Though much has happened since that night in February when I went before the board to request the exemption, my estimate...