End of the Innocence Page 2

  “Oh my goodness, dear, I am sorry.”

  I smiled and moved to the trash, dumping the filter and hoping she would leave.

  “That is quite a ring. What does your fiancé do?” She moved closer, officially entering my personal bubble.

  Aw crap. “He’s an attorney,” I said offhand, washing my hands as noisily as possible, then started opening and closing cabinets, trying to put as many items and sounds between Beverly and me as possible. “I really can’t chat, Beverly. I’ve got to get this coffee on.”

  “An attorney!” She beamed proudly. “Well, I know lots of attorneys. You know, I’ve been here thirteen years, and our cases involve firms from all over the city. He’s got to be a new attorney, maybe he interned here. What’s his name?”

  I filled up the water reservoir, making a face and pointing to my ear, as if the pathetic pressure from the faucet was a gushing flow of Niagara proportions. That didn’t work. She waited patiently by the sink, and the minute I turned the faucet off, she spoke. “What’s his name?”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. I was out of options. “I think you probably know him,” I said brightly, adding the water container to the coffee pot, and scooping out fresh grounds. “He works in the East Wing. His name is Brad.”

  I really didn’t want to look at her, didn’t want to see whatever expression crossed her face, but my eyes were drawn to her without bidding, as if they had flipped my subconscious the bird and did exactly what they wanted to because ohmygodthiswasgoingtobetoogoodtomiss. She tilted her head, probably trying to think what peon in the East Wing was named Brad, because it couldn’t possibly be the Brad, and I watched with slow horror the moment her mind came up blank and rested on the only possible conclusion.

  She stilled, her sturdy body freezing, and teetered a bit, sticking a hand out and grabbing the counter. Her face took on an odd expression, somewhere between smelling something sour and being constipated. It contorted for three long seconds, in which her mouth opened and closed twice, no words coming out. Finally, she swallowed hard and tried again.

  “Brad De Luca?” Her voice still held a glimmer of hope, a possibility that she might be mistaken, that there was some new guy, some pencil-pushing nerd stuck in a small corner of divorce, who she hadn’t yet heard of. Some Brad Smith, or Taylor, or anything other than De Luca. I hated to squash that hope, almost felt a civil duty to lie. Almost.

  I finished the damn coffee-making process and pushed START with an almost proud finality. Made it through that alive. Then, I turned back to Beverly. “Yes. Brad De Luca. Good, you do know him.” We did this weird country line dance shuffle where I tried to get around her, and she unintentionally kept getting in my way, and then I finally escaped, and was halfway out the door when I felt her iron grip on my arm. I turned, pasting a bright smile on my face. “Yes?”

  I was yanked backward so hard I think one of my heels partially came off. Unsure, confused Beverly was gone, and in her place was a court marshal of Judge Judy proportions. She shut the kitchen door in a swift motion—I didn’t even know the kitchen had a door—and stuck both hands on her hips, squaring off to me. “You. Are Engaged. To Brad. De Luca.” She spoke slowly, drawing out the sentence excruciatingly, and seemed to physically grow bigger with every word.

  “Yes.” I tried to maintain a cheerful disposition, but the air in the room was thick, and I was a little worried she might eat me for lunch instead of whatever was in her polka-dotted lunchbox.

  “The Brad De Luca. The man who thinks it’s his God damn calling to screw each and every hot female in a twenty-mile radius? The man who chews and spits out poor little divorcing husbands like it’s a blood sport? The man who, in some ridiculous, dotted-line way, is both my and your boss?” Her voice rose with every sentence, until I was certain that every person in our wing could hear her shouts. I had never heard the woman yell, much less curse before.

  “Ummm ... yes?” I was terrified of feeding this fire. The woman had morphed into a Doberman right before my eyes. I was trying to formulate a more intelligent answer when the kitchen door flew open, almost smacking Crazy Beverly in the back. I felt a momentary burst of relief at my rescue, until I saw the individual holding open the door. Sheila. Oh shit.

  “Beverly! What in God’s name has gotten into you! We have clients in the lobby, for goodness sake!” Her cultured, dignified tone was as perturbed as I’d ever heard it, and she pierced Beverly with an appalled stare. I expected Beverly to deflate slightly, acknowledge her scorning—to apologize. But she stood firm and met Sheila’s stare head-on. She raised a finger, pointing to me. No. Please no. It’s Monday for Christ’s sake. Go easy on me.

  “Julia, tell her.”

  I died a little, right there, on the kitchen floor. My distress grew when I heard a click and looked up to see the kitchen door, once again, closed. Sheila now matched Beverly, her hands on her hips, her iron gaze drilled into mine. Beverly had a smug look on her face that I wanted to smack right off.

  Chapter 4

  “Julia? What’s this about?” Sheila’s voice was kinder, but firm. She probably thought I had forgotten to order copy paper again.

  “Nothing.” I smiled brightly, my face beginning to hurt from all of the fakeness. “Beverly had noticed my engagement ring, and I was just sharing with her the good news. That is all.”

  “Yes. Julia is engaged. Wahoo. Guess to who, Sheila?” Beverly’s voice had lost its anger and was now evil in intent, almost gleeful at my upcoming demise.

  “This is what you are standing here yammering about? Yelling about!” Sheila threw up her hands in disgust. “Julia, congratulations on your engagement. But we have a business to run, and can’t stand here gossiping all day. Beverly, you should know better.” She turned, wiping her hands on her pants, and reached for the doorknob.

  “Brad. De. Luca,” Beverly’s voice crowed in the small kitchen, causing Sheila to pause in her exit. She turned, eyes sharp.

  “What? What about Brad De Luca?”

  “He is who Julia is engaged to. Brad De Luca.” Beverly gestured to me with the motion someone might use to display a flat tire. Disappointed, irritated. What are we going to do about this damn Julia?

  Sheila brought a hand to her forehead, squared her shoulders, and stood even straighter. “Beverly, please leave us. There are clients in the lobby, please attend to them. Also, let Mr. Burge know that I have Julia, so that he does not wonder where she is. And don’t ever raise your voice in this office again. I don’t care what the reason.” She spoke quietly, which scared me even more than Beverly had.

  Beverly, somewhat subdued, left the kitchen, and we were alone. I backed up in nervous anticipation.

  “Is this correct, what Beverly said? You are engaged to Brad De Luca?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is a new event?”

  “Yes. As of last night.” The situation felt eerily similar to being questioned by police.

  She blew out a breath and looked sharply at me, her wrinkles enhanced by her stern expression. “I may be confused, but I feel like you and I had a conversation about Brad. A conversation where I told you his reputation, and warned you not to fall victim to him. You don’t want to be like that other intern, Julia. This will ruin your reputation, both with this firm and any other.”

  I bristled slightly. “I’m not sleeping with a firm partner, Sheila. I’m marrying him. I think there is a big difference.”

  Her brows knitted together. “Are you pregnant?”

  I physically gasped at that. “What? No!”

  She scoffed. “Well, Brad De Luca is not the marrying sort. Not to anyone, much less an intern who he has known less than ... well, I don’t know how long you two have been carrying on this secret. But less than two months. If you’re not pregnant, then why? Why would he settle down?” Her steely gaze left no possibility of evasion.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “We’re in love.” Even to my ears, it sounded weak and pathetic.

  She actually
laughed at the statement. Then she shook her head and stepped forward, clasping my hands in hers, her tone turning condescending. “Julia. That man doesn’t love anyone but himself. I don’t know what is going on, or why he would toy with you, but you do not want to marry Brad De Luca. Find a sweet, caring boy who will treat you like the prize you are, and let men like Brad grow old, alone and miserable.” She patted my hand, her palm brushing against my ring, and she recoiled at the contact. She dropped my hand and stepped back, opening the door and leaving me alone in the kitchen.

  Behind me the coffee pot dinged.

  Coffee. That hateful liquid that had certainly not been worth the last five minutes of hell. I looked back at the open door, my mind going through the other inhabitants of our wing, envisioning the next eight hours and the additional hell they would bring. It was even worse than I had imagined, an assault of disapproval mixed with a side of haughtiness. It soured whatever good feeling I had, and I hated them for marring my excitement.

  I poured Burge a cup and carried it to his office, bringing it on a tray with cream and sugar. I knocked on the door gently, and then pushed it open. He was typing, and looked up at my approach, a smile crossing his face.

  “Good morning,” I said. “How do you take your coffee?”

  “Just black. Thank you.” He stood, taking the coffee from the tray and straightened his glasses. “This is your first week of the fall semester, is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir. Classes start this Wednesday, so I’ll only work on Tuesdays and Thursdays after today.”

  “What are your plans after graduation?” He sat, gesturing to an empty seat.

  “Law school, sir.” I sat, clasping my damp hands in front of me, covering my ring with the palm of my other hand.

  “Will you go to law school here?”

  “Yes. Assuming I am admitted,” I said with a smile. It was a decision that Brad and I hadn’t discussed. But my plan, all along, had been to stay here. To maintain the roots I had put down and keep my alma mater.

  “Right. One of the things on Broward’s desks was a form to complete for your professor. It asks about your conduct and work product, and asks for a recommendation letter.” He moved the form underneath the desk lamp and squinted at it.

  “Yes. That will be crucial to my law school application.” My leg shook nervously, and I stilled it, pushing down on the floor with my toe.

  “The problem is, I haven’t been here. I’ll have Sheila complete it and type up something for me to sign.” He moved the paper dismissively and was on the verge of saying something else when I shot to my feet.

  “Sir. I would really prefer Sheila not complete the form for me.” My conduct?

  He frowned at me over the desk. “Why not?”

  Yes, Julia. Why not? “Sheila and I recently had a ... disagreement. I worry that she won’t be impartial.”

  His frown remained, etched into his face with the staying power of stone. “I doubt that. Sheila seems very capable, and not one to hold grudges.” His blue eyes hardened behind his glasses. “But, I will let you know that I have very little patience for office drama.”

  The statement, almost comical after the kitchen standoff, hung in the air, my mind unable to conjure a response. I nodded, a ridiculous movement that didn’t respond to his comment at all, and stood, picking up the coffee tray and exiting his office. I didn’t bother returning it to the kitchen, instead bee-lining for my office and shutting the door. I set the tray on an empty chair and unlocked my computer, trying to focus on anything, everything, but the disaster this day was quickly becoming.

  I could physically feel the buzz outside my door. Feel the energy. It fought in the hall and pushed at my closed door. Whispers. Chatter. Gasps and scoffs. The good news is that I wouldn’t have to go around and tell each and every person about the engagement. The bad news is that eventually I would have to leave my office.

  Chapter 5

  Brad pulled up to the guard gate of his family’s estate, waving to the guards and waiting while they went through the ridiculous procedure of making sure that he wasn’t carrying anything of concern in his trunk or under his car. The iron gates in front of him finally parted, and he pulled in, rounding the curves of the drive until he came to a stop in front of the imposing home.

  Oddly, his father opened the door, and Brad glanced around for the staff.

  “This needs to be quick, Brad. I have items to attend to.”

  Brad nodded, meeting his father’s eyes and walking past him to the formal living room, which had not changed since his childhood. He stopped next to the massive stone fireplace. His father closed the front door, and the room darkened considerably. With his hands in his pockets, he turned to face his father, who eyed him warily, skipping right to the point. “You mentioned a wrinkle in this situation?” his father prompted.

  “Yes. Last night I asked Julia for her hand in marriage. She accepted.”

  His father’s eyes closed briefly, and he took a few slow steps forward and sat in a cream, wing-backed chair, gripping the arms tightly as he leaned back. “Sit.”

  “I don’t have much time. Like you, I have business to attend to.” He sat on the chair across from his father and studied him across the space.

  His father sighed, a raspy, exasperated sound. “Is this you being stubborn? I’m assuming this Julia you speak of is the intern who has been so troublesome?”

  “Yes, that is Julia. And no, I am not being stubborn. I love her.”

  “I thought you were too intelligent to allow love to dictate your life.”

  Brad laughed. “It isn’t a dictation. You are thinking in terms of power, which this isn’t about.”

  “Isn’t it? You’ve played the only hand that could win this game. And twisted my arm in the process. You’ve won this match, Brad. But signed yourself up for a lifetime of servitude in the process.”

  “It’s not a lifetime of servitude.”

  The old man laughed sharply, the quick action causing his chest to clench, and he stifled the outburst, coughing and staring grimly at Brad. “Right. Because you can just divorce, right? My son, the king of destroying marriages, of ripping apart families.” He shook his head bitterly. “You disgust me.”

  Brad stood, his hands clamped in fists. “Because you are my father, and I still respect the head of this family, I won’t respond to that with what is in my heart. But know that I find it despicable that, of all of your sons, I would be the one that you find shameful. Thank you for reminding me of why I cut off contact with you.”

  He strode past the old man’s chair and opened the door, the harsh sun filling the room with light.

  ♦♦♦

  Word jumped, like a bloodthirsty flea, from our wing to the rest of the firm, spreading through the East Wing within five minutes of Beverly leaving the kitchen. By the time Brad stepped off the elevator, there was not a person in Clarke, De Luca, & Burge who hadn’t received word of the train wreck engagement of the fourth floor. He pushed open the heavy door to the East Wing, and silence fell, cloaking the space with thick, palatable tension. He smiled, welcoming the change and what it meant. Julia must have told them. He strode into the lobby, meeting his secretaries’ tense greetings with an easy grin.

  He certainly wasn’t new to disdain, gossip, or disapproval. He was expecting that, but—as he walked through the space—this mood felt different. He settled into his office, leaning back in his desk chair, trying to decipher the atmosphere. It was almost hostile, as if from a swarm of irate, overprotective fathers, instead of faithful and loyal staff. Fathers. The oversight hit him squarely, and he sat quickly forward, cursing his lack of attention. Grabbing his phone, he dialed Julia’s extension.

  ♥♥♥

  I exhaled with relief when I saw Brad’s number light up on my phone’s display. Thank God. He was here, and for once, I needed his protective, overbearing self. “Hi,” I whimpered into the phone.

  He ignored the pitiful tone of my greeting, barging right
into a question. “What’s your father going to think?”

  I sat up, my attention refocusing. “My father?”

  “Yes. Have you told him?”

  “About our engagement?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. I haven’t told anyone. Other than Beverly and Sheila, who, I assume, have told everyone within a three-mile radius.” I sighed dramatically. “Brad. It’s horrible. They were so mean to me when they found out.”

  The infuriated response I expected didn’t come. His storm to my rescue, threats to fire everyone, his mandate that ‘everyone be nice to Julia’ didn’t even enter his thought process. The damn man chuckled. “Babe. You’ve got to have thicker skin than that.”

  I frowned into the phone, trying to formulate an appropriate withering response when he spoke again.

  “So, you haven’t told your father.”

  “No. I just told you that.”

  “Okay. Let’s go to Centaur for lunch. We can discuss it then. In the meantime, don’t tell anyone else.”

  Like that was a remote possibility. “You act like I’m running around waving a big ass sign! I’m the one who wanted to wait to share the news. Speaking of fathers, did yours take the news well?”

  There was a brief moment of silence, which definitely wasn’t a good sign. “He’s fine,” Brad bit out. “You are officially out of danger. But he will want to meet you. He didn’t say so, but he will. Thanksgiving is soon, so you can meet everyone then.”

  Meet the entire Magiano line, the family responsible for killing my boss and putting a hit out on my own head? Sounded super fun. “I don’t know if I can take a lunch. This is Burge’s first full day.”

  “So. I’ll tell them I need you for something.”

  I glanced in the direction of Burge’s office. “That’s not going to work. Especially now that everyone knows we are together. Just wait and see me after work.”

  “No.”

  I frowned. “This is not how our marriage is going to work.”

  “Our marriage?”

  “Yeah. You know, that thing after engagement? To have and to hold, and all that?”