Finding Me and You: Sequel to The Light Between Us Read online

  He'd always managed to evade the clients who had children, but he hadn't been able to finagle his way out of this one. And really, he had only his ambition to blame. He wanted to either make partner or open his own firm, and he knew that a requirement of either one was to get experience with more kinds of divorce cases. And his resume was seriously lacking in clients who were also parents. So when this case had come up, he'd jumped at the chance to represent Harvey Melin, a bigwig investment banker who was also a major player in the Boston elite social scene.

  Except now, having recently left a meeting in which the Melins' children were present, he found himself rethinking the wisdom of that decision. Watching those kids with their faces pale and drawn as they listened to their parents battle it out -- while he helped their bastard of a father -- he found the whole thing distasteful.

  Which was why he had let his mind wander to the the bright spot of his day. Remembering his midday getaway with Ruth made his lips twitch upward in happiness, his blue eyes light. How impossible that just about a year after he'd met her in the midst of his dissatisfaction with his womanizing lifestyle, and now he was planning on marrying her, of all things? A full smile spread across his lips.

  Derek Stone, husband? Not something he ever expected to describe himself as. But with Ruth, it felt right.

  A brown-haired man appeared in the doorway of Derek's office. "Working hard, I see," said the man, taking in Derek's posture and rather listless expression.

  Derek straightened in his chair, clearing his throat, embarrassed to be caught slacking. "Hey, Ernie," he said to his co-worker, a fellow lawyer in his mid-twenties, about five years Derek's junior. "Just taking a moment to gather my thoughts."

  "That Melin case is a tough one, huh?"

  "Yeah."

  Ernie shook his head. "The ones with kids are always the worst. You're lucky that this is your first one, I've had way too many."

  "Yeah," said Derek again, not sure that "lucky" was the word he'd use to describe his acquisition of these particular clients.

  "Some people just shouldn't procreate. Or get married, for that matter. But then, I guess that'd put us out of a job." Ernie grinned, and Derek fought to hide the disgusted scowl that wanted to purse his lips.

  "Thank goodness for unlucky love decisions," Derek said dryly, arching an eyebrow.

  "And that is exactly why I don't ever plan on getting married." He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "Ernie Rutherford, free agent."

  "Right," said Derek, unsure of how else to reply. Because when he was Ernie's age, he, too, had been an avowed bachelor-for-life. And here he was, engaged.

  "Well, I'll leave you to it," Ernie said, rapping his knuckles against the doorframe. "Thank goodness tomorrow's Friday, right? TGIF and all that."

  Derek sighed in some relief as Ernie departed in the direction of his own office. He couldn't quite fathom how much he'd changed over the last year. Must be something to do with getting older, he thought, turning back to his computer, feeling his spirits drop as he forced himself to attend to the depressing case.

  Ernie was right, he decided. The end of the week couldn't come fast enough.

  When Derek finally let himself into the apartment he shared with Ruth, the warm scent of baking bread met him. He breathed it deep, the homey aroma soothing his nerves. Quickly shedding his suit jacket and shoes in the bedroom, he made his way to the kitchen, unbuttoning his cobalt shirt as he went.

  The kitchen positively glowed. That summer, Ruth had adorned the multiple chandeliers dangling from the peaked ceiling with white twinkle lights, and wound more strands around the door and over the tops of the cabinets. The result now in the ever-earlier autumn twilight, in combination with the delicious baking scent, was both cozy and invigorating. Derek found his mood already lightening.

  Ruth stood at the kitchen island, wearing an apron she'd pieced together from thrifted lacy shirts and denim pants, coaxing a last batch of sticky dough from a gigantic mixing bowl onto the waiting pizza stone. She looked up, meeting him with a smile.

  "Hey, babe," she said, setting the bowl aside and dusting the dough with a bit of flour pinched from an open sack resting on the corner at her elbow.

  "I see you've been busy," he said, nodding at the mess of measuring cups and various bags of flour and an assortment of bowls strewn across the counter tops.

  "I couldn't resist. It's this weather. Something about the fall just makes me crave fresh-baked bread."

  "But, how in the world are we going to eat --" Derek glanced at the kitchen table, which was laden with finished loaves, doing a quick count, "-- seven loaves of bread?"

  "Nine, actually, counting this one," she nodded to the dough that she was shaping into a baguette on the pizza stone, "plus the one in the oven. Besides, there are all different kinds -- white, whole wheat, rye, a couple of pumpkins, which are basically dessert, so they hardly count --"

  "So," said Derek, coming to stand behind Ruth, sweeping the wispy strands of hair escaping from her messy bun aside and kissing her neck, resting his hands on her shoulders gently, "how did the rest of your day go?"

  Her shoulders slumped for a moment beneath his fingertips. "Not that great. I barely got any more work done on my novel."

  "The invitations?"

  She shrugged, putting the finishing touches on the loaf and dusting her hands off before slipping from his touch to wash her hands. "Sort of."

  Derek arched his eyebrows, folding his arms across his broad chest. "Sort of?"

  Ruth pursed her lips into a quick duck face. "Let me finish with the bread and then I'll tell you, okay?"

  "Of course," he said with a smile, eyeing one of the loaves. "Can I eat some of these?"

  She laughed. "Please do. Otherwise all of our friends are getting bread gifts tomorrow."

  "I think they're all getting bread regardless of how much I eat, because there's no way I can make that much of a dent is nine loaves." He retrieved a knife from the block tucked into the corner on one of the counters. Back at the table, he surveyed the selection, then sliced carefully into a crusty-topped round loaf and took a bite. The dry yet warm taste that met his tongue made him think of growing up -- his mother had made all of their bread herself. "Mm, that's good."

  Ruth glanced at him. "That's the whole wheat."

  "Well, it's fantastic. We might not have to gift anything after all." Finishing his first slice, he quickly cut himself another.

  "How was your day?" Ruth asked, checking on the loaf currently in the oven, then pulling on a mitt and opening the oven, cringing for a moment against the blast of heat before extracting a second pizza stone bearing yet another loaf.

  Now it was his turn for his shoulders to droop. Chewing, he tried to find words to express the new dread he felt every time he thought of work, and failed.

  Noticing his silence, Ruth set the hot stone down and turned toward him, her hand without the oven mitt balling on the swell of her hip. "It's that case, isn't it? The one with the children?"

  He nodded. "It's just crap. My client cheated, with multiple partners, and now it turns out that one of the kids walked in on him with his most recent fling."

  A look of slow horror began to descend across Ruth's face. "Walked in on them? You don't mean --"

  "Yeah. In bed. Caught in the actual and very explicit act of fornication."

  "Oh God."

  "Yeah," he said again. "It's awful, looking at those kids, at what that man has done to them. It's bad enough that he cheated on his wife of a decade. But she'll deal. Those kids? Especially that one who caught her father? They're in hell, and probably will be for a long time." He raked a hand through his dark brown hair. "This is why I don't take clients who have kids."

  "Can't you pass it off on somebody else?"

  "Not really. At this point, it'd make the firm look bad to have a new lawyer come in. It'd make me look bad."

  "Ugh," she said, striding to his side and looping her arms around his shoulders. "I'm sorry, hon."

  "Thanks." He squeezed her forearm with a hand, pressing his head into her chest, then raising his chin and planting a kiss on her cheek. "It's really shitty, but it's part of being a lawyer. Anyway, let's not talk about this anymore, it's bad enough that I have to deal with it all day."

  Ruth frowned. "Are you sure? I don't mind."

  "No, it's okay. I mean, it's not okay, but I'm dealing with it. Now I want to eat more of this delicious bread and hear about my gorgeous fiancee's day."

  She paced back to the kitchen island, sliding the waiting pizza stone with its unbaked dough into the oven and closing the door, setting the timer and sliding her hand out of the mitt.

  Ruth turned, looking at Derek with a thoughtful face. "Why don't we just pour some wine and cuddle up on the couch with Rufus and our twelve pounds of bread and watch a movie?"

  "I still don't think your cat likes me enough to deign to acknowledge me, much less cuddle with me." He paused, considering his fiancee. "You don't want to tell me about what's up with you?"

  "I will," she said, gaze sliding away from his. "But later, okay? I mostly just need snuggles."

  "Then snuggles you shall have," said Derek, standing and taking her into his arms, smiling, feeling the warmth of her body against his combined with the lingering taste of her bread on his tongue washing away the depressing residue of his workday. "I'll get the wine, you get the glasses, and I'll meet you on the couch."

  "Deal." Ruth's eyes sparkled with a sudden mischief. "First one there gets to pick the movie."

  "You're on, lady," said Derek, grinning now, knowing that he would always, always let her win, even though he knew full well that she didn't need him to. The last thing he wanted after working with his current clients was to be a man who always took whateve
r he wanted, collateral of hearts be damned.

  3

  Ruth elbowed her way into the crowded pub, her skin both thrilling and shrinking as she entered the dim atmosphere, inhaling the aroma of stale cigarette smoke. Eyes scanning the press of bodies armed with mirth and spirits, she spied Padme and their mutual friend Cecilia perched on stools in a table tucked into the back corner. She shoved her way through the Friday night revelers who were busily arming themselves with mirth and spirits, clutching her cloche bag as if it was a life preserver and muttering "Excuse me, oops, sorry," as she went, voice so low that she didn't quite know why she bothered.

  When she finally squeezed her way to the table in the rear, Ruth felt oddly out of breath. "Whoa," she said in greeting, sliding onto a seat, "it's busy here."

  "That's what you get for insisting on going to the bar closest to the theater," Padme said to Cecilia, tilting a glass of pinot noir at the blonde.

  Cecilia rolled her eyes and smoothed her palms over the lap of the ivory colored pencil dress that she wore so effortlessly. "It's not my fault that this just so happens to be one of my favorite places."

  "I still blame you," snarked Padme with a smirk.

  "It's fine," said Ruth, eyeing the server that was making his way through the packed pub, flagging him with a quick wave of the hand when he glanced her way. "I like this place, too." Turning to the server as he drew near, she ordered a Midori sour.

  Cecilia sighed as he went to fill Ruth's order, eyes on his ass, drawing both her friends' perplexed gazes. Noticing, she shrugged. "What?" she said, gently sloshing her gin and tonic. "He's cute."

  Now it was Padme's turn to roll her eyes. "You think every guy's cute."

  "I do not! I mean, I would if every guy was cute -- and nice -- but there are way too many creeps out there."

  "Being a creep has never stopped you from pursuing a man before," Padme countered.

  Cecilia made a sour face. "Unfortunately, my creep detecting senses aren't foolproof. But at least it makes me appreciate the good ones when they happen to come along."

  "Like Derek," said Padme, sliding a glance at Ruth.

  Ruth felt herself blushing as her friends turned to her. "Yeah," she said, gratefully accepting her drink as the server returned with it. She took a long sip, trying to avoid her friends' expectant gazes, and failing miserably. "What?" she finally said.

  "How's it going?" Cecilia prompted. "I mean, you are living the dream, you know. Good girl attracts handsome bad boy and successfully converts him to marriage material? You won the relationship jackpot."

  Ruth wrinkled her nose. "I wouldn't say I converted him . . ."

  "You can call it whatever you want," Cecilia continued. "I just need to know every detail. And my work at the firm has kept me so busy that I'm woefully out of the loop. Not to mention that I'm also in a love desert. So spill."

  "Yeah, spill," Padme echoed, voice wicked.

  "I'm not sure there's really anything to tell," said Ruth slowly, enjoying the warm, wobbly sensation the alcohol was bringing into her muscles. "I'm attempting to write wedding invitations, which is probably the easiest part of planning a wedding, and I'm completely sucking at it."

  "I'm sure you're not sucking at it," said Cecilia.

  "No, she really kind of is," said Padme. Ruth swatted at her friend, who raised her hands in feigned innocence. "What? It's not like I'm making it up, these invitations are freaking you the hell out," she said in response to Ruth's open-mouth expression of aghast. "Anyway, it's not even about the invitations at this point, is it?"

  Cecilia leaned in close over the table, eager. "What do you mean?" She turned to Ruth. "What does she mean?"

  Ruth sighed, wishing she could have had a night of reprieve from the damned invitations and her related woes, but knowing that her friends would never let her off the hook until she told them what was going on. "Well, we haven't met each other's parents yet and --"

  A squeal from Cecilia cut her off. "Wait. You and Derek are getting married -- you are planning your wedding -- and you still haven't met the parents? And he hasn't met yours?"

  "In my defense, my family is horrible," Ruth pointed out, Padme nodding.

  "Horrible or not, you have to get this over with," said Cecilia, voice rising an octave as it always did when she got excited. "I mean, your family's drama is just one more reason to get it done as soon as you possibly can manage. You don't want to be dealing with this at your wedding, do you?"

  "That," said Padme archly, "is exactly what I said." She turned to Ruth. "Did you talk to Derek about it yet?"

  "Well . . ." began Ruth, trailing her finger through the condensation her drink was weeping onto the table.

  Padme snorted in disgust. "You didn't, did you?"

  "Well," said Ruth again, but her friend cut her off again.

  "No more excuses, you need to talk with him about it." She glanced at the delicate gold watch on her wrist. "Where is he, anyway? Isn't he coming tonight."

  "He'll meet us at the theater." Ruth took a sip of her drink, relishing the sourness, then suddenly straightened in alarm. "Wait. You cannot tell him about this. You will not, understand?" She squinted her eyes pointedly first at Padme, then Cecilia.

  "I wouldn't dream of it," Padme replied, tossing her hair airily. "Unless, of course, you waffle about it for weeks, then we might have to stage an intervention." At her side, Cecilia nodded in agreement.

  "Fine. Good." Ruth smoothed her hair, as if she was smoothing her ruffled feathers. "I'm holding you to that."

  "And I'm holding you to talking about this with him. Tonight, if possible." Padme stabbed a finger in Ruth's direction.

  Ruth raised her glass in response, a kind of salute, before taking a gulp. "Scout's honor."

  "You were never a Girl Scout," teased Padme.

  "Your point?" Ruth shot back, glowering.

  "How many of these people do you think are going to Maddie's performance tonight?" said Cecilia, smoothly changing the subject. Ruth shot her a grateful look.

  "Hopefully not all of them, otherwise we'll be late getting to our seats," said Padme, tipping the last drops of her wine into her red-lipsticked mouth and rising. "So we'd better be on our way to the theater, just in case."

  As one, Ruth and Cecilia tossed the remnants of their drinks into their mouths and rose, too. They shoved their way back across the sea of humanity to the door, bursting onto the twilight sidewalk of downtown Boston. Ruth gulped in the crisp autumn air, feeling its coolness sweep through her.

  Padme linked her arm through Ruth's, a peace offering, and Ruth leaned into her friend, reaching with her free arm to pull Cecilia close on her other side, feeling so beautifully held as their heels pattered a chaotic cadence against the cement that carried them forward along the darkening street.

  Producing tickets from their purses, the three women entered the performing arts center and made their way to the proper threshold. An usher ripped their tickets, directing them up the wide staircase to the main balcony. There, a second usher pressed programs into their palms and pointed the way to their seats, which were front row center -- Ruth's preferred seating for live performances. As they settled in, peeling off light fall jackets and stashing their purses, Ruth was reminded of why she could never fathom why some people preferred mezzanine or orchestra seats. The front of the balcony offered a much fuller view, in her opinion.

  She heaved a deep sigh, of contentment and excitement. There was nothing like a live performance, whether it was a drama or a musical or dance, which was what they were seeing tonight. Their friend Maddie, a professional dancer and dance teacher, was performing with her company tonight -- an "exploration of the complexities of relationship through the grounding yet explosive medium of modern dance," according to the program. The buzz of the people trickling into the house, the open yet intimate environment, the anticipation of encounter -- she adored the theater, and was thrilled to see Maddie in her element.