Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [33]
“Did you go to law school around here?” he asks.
She nods and says, “Yeah. I went to Harvard,” instead of the usual way she avoids that word, not out of a sense of feigned modesty the way so many of her classmates say, “I went to school in Cambridge,” but because she still doesn’t feel quite worthy of the name.
But with Nick, it is different, perhaps because she knows he went there, too—that he is as accomplished as they come. Sure enough, he nods, unfazed, and says, “Did you always know you wanted to practice law?”
She considers this—considers the truth—that she had no real passion for the law, but simply wanted to achieve for the sake of achievement. Especially after Charlie was born, when she desperately wanted to earn a good living and be able to provide for her son. Do something that Charlie could be proud of so that she might somehow compensate for his not having a father.
But, of course, she does not divulge any of this, and instead says, “No, not really. I was a paralegal for a couple of years, and realized that I was as smart as the lawyers at my firm . . .” Then she smiles and goes out on a limb with a joke, her first in ages. “Probably what the nurses around here are saying about you.”
“Probably so,” Dr. Russo says, smiling modestly back at her. “Oh, come on,” she says. “You don’t believe that. You even told me how good you are.”
“I did?” he says, surprised. “When?”
“When we first met,” she says, her smile fading as she remembers that night.
He stares at the air above his head, as if he, too, is reliving the night of Charlie’s accident. “Yeah, I guess I did, didn’t I?”
Valerie nods, then says, “And so far ... I’d have to agree.”
She gives him a look as he leans across the table and says, “Just you wait. Give me a few months and a couple more surgeries. . .”
To this, Valerie says nothing, but she can feel her heart racing with gratitude and something else she can’t quite name, as she silently grants him all the time in the world.
9
Tessa
It is Friday night, and I am sitting in the family room with my mother, brother, and sister-of-law, all in from Manhattan for a weekend visit. We are dressed for our eight o’clock dinner reservations, enjoying a bottle of wine in the family room while the four cousins, freshly bathed and fed, play upstairs under the supervision of a babysitter. The only thing missing from the picture is Nick, who is now twenty minutes late and counting, a fact that is not lost on my mother.
“Does Nick always work this late on the weekends?” she asks, crossing her legs as she glances purposefully at the Timex watch she now wears in lieu of the Cartier my father gave her for their last anniversary.
“Not usually,” I say, feeling defensive. I know her question likely has more to do with her frenetic personality, and her inability to sit still for any length of time, but I can’t help taking it as a covert affront, a question along the lines of, Are you still beating your wife? Or, in this case, Are you still letting your husband beat you?
“He just needed to check on a patient—a little boy,” I say, feeling the need to remind her of just how noble Nick’s profession is. “He’s having his first skin graft on Monday morning.”
“Damn,” my brother says, cringing and shaking his head. “I don’t know how he does it.”
“I know,” my sister-in-law agrees with an admiring look.
My mother is not as impressed. She makes a skeptical face, then folds her cocktail napkin in quarters. “What time is our reservation?” she asks. “Maybe we should just meet him at the restaurant?”
“Not until eight. We still have thirty minutes. And the restaurant’s very nearby,” I say tersely. “We’re fine, Mom. Just relax.”
“Yeah. Chill out, Mom,” my brother says teasingly.
My mother puts her hands up, palms out. “Sorry, sorry,” she says, humming under her breath.
I take a long