Risking Ruin (8 page)

Two beers later, and the men had polished off the second bottle of bourbon.  The ribs were gone, coffees were circulated, and they had moved on to dessert.  She bet none of them could even taste the bourbon baked into the Club’s signature pecan pie.   While Marisa didn’t necessarily adore drinking bourbon because it burned her throat, its fragrance absolutely intoxicated her.   She greedily inhaled the pie, scraping the edge of her fork against the white china plate.

“Still hungry?,” said Trip with his blue eyes dancing.

“I could probably eat an entire one of these pies,” Marisa confessed.  “I’m such a sucker for bourbon in pecan pies.”

“I’m just a sucker for bourbon.  I noticed that you’ve been very polite today and forced yourself to enjoy precisely two glasses of one of the most sought after bourbons.  John, did I not pull out all the stops with the Pappy?”

“You certainly did.  And I appreciated every drop,” languidly remarked John.  “I’ve never been able to educate Marisa’s palate to appreciate liquor.  Perhaps now, you’ll be able to change her tastes.  Just make sure she treats you to as many drinks as General Counsel as she did me.  I suppose that she’ll now want me to pick up my own bar tab,” said John with a fake hangdog expression.

“You know that is not true.  I’m happy to buy you guys drinks anytime.” 

“You hear that, Jimmy?,” said John, momentarily livening up to nudge Jimmy with his elbow.  “Next round is Marisa’s treat.  Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

“You’ve never steered me wrong before, John,” said Jimmy, pushing up to his feet and slightly swaying.   Marisa internally rolled her eyes at these captains of industry in their native state.  She playfully shook her head.  She wasn’t going to dampen anyone’s spirits.  This was John’s celebratory send off and she would hang until the party was over.

Chapter Fourteen

They piled back into the car, and George drove them back downtown.   More relaxed from the drinks over the previous few hours, Marisa let herself relax in the backseat of the car. 
I’m not a teenager.  We’re crowded in a car.  It’s not like I’m going to cop a feel, but if my leg happens to touch his, so be it.
  As the car drew closer to downtown, Marisa was accustomed to Trip’s thigh being pressed against hers and was sorrowful when the car arrived at its destination.

As George slowed the car to the curb, Marisa turned her attention to their destination.  John spoke, “Since Jimmy and Trip are buying, I thought we should go someplace Marisa likes to thank her for putting up with us two old men for all of these years.”

Cal’s! 
Marisa was happy to be on her home turf.  While the Memphis Country Club was prestigious and the dinner pleasant, it wasn’t exactly comfortable.  She had been worried they would end up in some cigar bar’s walk-in humidor and backroom, where she’d be enveloped in oppressively fragrant smoke and repeatedly wondering exactly when her life had gone wrong. 
Wouldn’t be the first time a client dinner had taken such a turn.
  She just prayed a stripper wouldn’t be involved. 
Now that would be unpleasant
, thought Marisa
, but also not the first time. 
Cal’s was a relief.

“Speak for yourself, pensioner. In comparison to you, John, I’m a spring chicken,” retorted Jimmy.  “Now, as for making Marisa happy, nothing would give me greater satisfaction.”

Great
. 
Now they are all in a pissing contest over who can direct more sexual innuendo at me.
 
I need a beer.  Just one, and then I’ll gently excuse myself, somehow, and walk the three blocks home.  Easy peasy.

“Hey, baby!,” boomed Cal, as Marisa walked through the door with the men trailing her.  “Marisa, excellent.  You’ve brought John and your homework.”

Oh, shit.  He actually remembers me looking through the dossier on Trip that Jane made for me? 
Marisa just prayed to God that Cal wouldn’t say anything else.  There wasn’t anything wrong with doing due diligence, but she didn’t want Trip to get the idea that she’d been spying on him.

Cal extended his bear paw of a hand across the narrow bar and greeted them all warmly.  “My favorite customers together!  Did I die and this is really my wake?  Drinks coming up.”

The four bellied up to the bar, amazed to find seats together in a bar that only had eight stools.  Marisa found it curious that Cal had toddled off without taking drink orders.   He returned and placed four glasses on the scuffed bar.  A lager for Marisa, a gin martini for John, and two bourbons for the Brannon boys. 
What is going on here?

Marisa cocked her head, raised an eyebrow and asked Cal, “Wake?”

“Yeah, I didn’t know you guys all knew each other.  I’m not going to tell a soul how often you’re here and John’s often at your side.  Trip and Jimmy,” continued Cal, gesturing toward the two Brannons, “they’re my Tuesday night regulars.”

Marisa’s head swiveled to Jimmy and Trip, who were seated next to each other on her left.  The familiar similarity was striking.  Handsome men.  Trip was a bit blonder, but otherwise he was his father made over and thirty years younger.   “Y’all come here on Tuesdays?,” she said in disbelief.

“Yes, m’am,” replied Jimmy with a slight slur in his words, as he took another drink of amber liquid.  “I’ll admit that it isn’t exactly a Boy Scout Jamboree, but we still manage to have a decent time.”

Trip rolled his eyes at his father’s remark.  Marisa realized that Trip, while not precisely sober, was definitely less intoxicated than Jimmy.  “I have dinner with my parents every Tuesday,” he explained to Marisa in a clear voice.  “George drives my mom home, and my dad and I come here.  We have a couple of drinks and then head home.  Perks of being an only child, I suppose.”

“Speaking of your mother, I fear we’re going to be quite in trouble or at least I will,” said Jimmy, quickly downing the contents of his glass and signaling for Cal.  “She has some sort of party tomorrow and I know I’m supposed to be on good behavior.  If you know what is good for you, you’ll be there, too. Bright eyed and bushy tailed.”

“You’re probably right,” said Trip following his dad’s lead, washing down his drink and pushing back from the bar.  “John, Marisa.  It’s been lovely.  My dad’s right.  Tomorrow is a big day.  Marisa, it’s been a pleasure as always,” he said shaking her hand for a smidgen longer than necessary while holding her fondly in his eyes. 

“John, you want a ride home with me?  I understand from my son that Marisa lives near Trip,” interrupted Jimmy.

“Nah, I’m good.  And, if Ms. Tanner would kindly indulge me, I’d like to stay for another drink.”  John subtly kicked at Marisa’s bar stool. 

“Absolutely,” said Marisa, nodding in agreement.  “I’m going to spend some one-on-one time with John and catch up with Cal.  It’s been a whole two days or so since I’ve occupied one of these bar stools.”  She’d sat through enough meetings and depositions where either she or John had deployed their emergency signal that a private conversation was immediately required.  She just hadn’t expected a chair kick at Cal’s.

The Brannons took their leave.  John munched an olive and raised an eyebrow at Marisa. “Cal,” he bellowed.  Cal glanced in their direction and John gestured with a pointed finger to the glasses in front of them.  “Another round, please.”  Cal nodded in acknowledgment and set to work.

“I suspect that you’re going to want another glass of beer shortly or perhaps something that will give you a little more fortitude.  For the record, I don’t want to know anything and I’m not going to ask you anything. I’m going to share my observations, and you do with them as you like.”

Marisa nodded and steeled herself for the incoming onslaught by taking a big gulp from the longneck she was enjoying.  Instead, John surprised her. 

“Trip’s an interesting and not so easy person, much like a woman I’m fond of.  I’ve known him since he was a child.  I think he’s grown into a lovely man.  But again, that isn’t my place to give you any opinion on that topic.”

Cal set down the fresh drinks, and John brushed him off with a firm but polite “Thank you.”  When Cal was once again out of earshot, John resumed in a confidential and confessional tone.

“Jimmy’s wife, Bitsy, went through a really bad spell a few years ago.  Without disclosing things that aren’t my place to share, she had a hard fight with cancer.  Jimmy has loved Bitsy since they were in their twenties.  He was devastated and nearly a complete wreck.  He was probably drinking too much, truth be told.

“Trip was in his first year at Stanford, working on his joint law-business degree, but left to be near his parents.  So, he transferred to Arkansas.  He spent every weekend in Little Rock or Memphis with Bitsy and Jimmy.   I’m a proud Ole Miss grad myself and being a Razorback isn’t the end of the world.  But Stanford, you know, has the absolute top program in the country.  Jimmy had talked with me at length about how much Trip had to prove himself to get admitted.  Jimmy was incredibly proud.  Puffed up like a peacock for several weeks, bragging about Trip being admitted to everyone whose path he crossed.

“It’s no secret that Trip is eventually going to run Branco.  Jimmy was proud of him not only for getting admitted to Stanford’s program, but for showing some stick-with-it-ness.  Ever since college, Trip’s just kind of floated between business opportunities.  I know.  I’ve set up the corporations for him.  I’ve also advised when the businesses were later sold.  It’s the Brannon family business model – find a small family-owned company in an obscure market that is doing well, buy it, and make it even more profitable.

“Trip didn’t have a problem with finding or growing the companies.  Heck, he even got Whole Foods to stock nationwide some fancy organic mushrooms that a company in Pennsylvania grew.   He is really talented in spotting and then exploiting business opportunities.  But, after he gets the initial pop in the profits, his focus shifts to the next opportunity.  I’d hazard to guess that in the almost twenty years since he graduated college, he’s been involved in at least ten companies.  It just never stops with him.

“While his mom was in the hospital, he got really interested in fashionable hospital gowns.   Apparently his mom insisted on wearing some hospital gowns that were homemade by a woman in Minnesota and that were more to his mom’s tastes, but also functional for her ports and whatnot.  Trip bought the lady out, kept her on as the designer, and launched the product.  He’s selling tens of thousands a year.  The Mayo Clinic, MD Anderson, and the Cleveland Clinic now sell the darned things in their gift shops.  The man has an uncanny ability to see opportunities.

“So, my dear Marisa, he’s not the trust fund child that you may have thought.  I think he’s going to serve very admirably for Branco as its General Counsel.   He’s smart and dogged when he needs to be.  I’ve seen that first hand.  You’ll enjoy working with him.  He just needs to prove to himself and Jimmy that he can stay focused and not be distracted by novelty and the next great big thing,” concluded Jimmy, gently shaking his glass and clinking together the ice cubes.   “And you definitely look like an opportunity Trip is interested in.”

Marisa blushed, averted her eyes, and took a gulp of beer.  They’d come to the part of the conversation that she dreaded.  “John, I . . .”

John released his glass and held up his hands in submission.  “I’m not looking for a comment from you.  I’m not asking.  I’m just telling you what I’ve seen.  I also don’t know a thing about his personal life, but the way you two have been acting all evening, it’s clear that neither of you are interested in a purely professional relationship. You’ve been too scrupulous in avoiding him.  ‘The lady doth protest too much,’ as it were.

“Also, you’re quite the catch Marisa.  If I were thirty years younger.  .  .”

“Please do not finish that sentence,” whispered Marisa prayerfully, as she drank down another sip of beer.  She savored its anesthetic purposes now, not just its taste.  “I’ll neither confirm nor deny anything regarding my relationship or lack of relationship with Trip, but please remember that he’s a client.”

“Marisa,” scolded John.  “He isn’t some poor vulnerable divorcée, looking for comfort in his attorney’s arms.  I know what the ethical rules say.  No sex with a client unless you were having sex before he became your client”

“Exactly,” said Marisa, feeling vindicated.  “He’s a client.”

“Have you actually read the rule, Marisa?  Nothing in the world of lawyers is that black and white.  We live in a world of grays.  You’re an excellent lawyer.  You are an expert at getting around rules you don’t like.  It’s also not like you to give up when you want something.  That is, if you really want it.”

“John, right now all I want to do is enjoy this beer with you.”

“Excellent decision, but I’m here if you ever want to talk about young Brannon or anything else.  Now, tell me what you’ve found out about Susan’s lawsuit.”

Marisa updated John on what she’d learned so far from her investigation into Susan’s lawsuit:  nothing solid either way.   They were going to be in this for the long haul.  Ultimately, it was going to come down to whom, from a jury’s point of view, was more believable.  The two chatted happily for a bit longer before Marisa helped John into a cab.  Then she strolled the few bustling blocks home to her condo.

Chapter Fifteen

The next morning Marisa donned her pink Lululemon ensemble and smiled when she recalled starting off that evening with Trip wearing the same outfit.   On Saturday mornings when she wasn’t running in a local 5K or 10K charity race, she cruised the streets of downtown Memphis aimlessly, allowing her mind to wander with her feet.   She stepped outside her building and started a slow jog, glad she had paced herself throughout the unexpected and long evening.

She couldn’t believe that John’s tenure at Branco was over.  It would be odd working with someone else, but she was sure she’d adjust fine.  Too bad that someone else had to be Trip. Based on what John told her at Cal’s, Trip wasn’t the screw up she’d initially imaged.  It sounded like he was really talented at business, but just lacked the ability to commit, which fit him perfectly.

It’s been two weeks since we had sex and I haven’t heard a word from him other than him implying that he’d set up John’s retirement dinner as a ruse to see me.   Sure, he was cute and charming last night, but he made no effort to make a real connection with me. 
Her feet began to hit the pavement more quickly. 
If that was just an attempt to get me drunk and back in his bed, then he is incredibly screwed up.

She mulled over her Trip problem.  He was smart, he was talented, and she really enjoyed his company. He was passionate about things he cared about.  His vision of handcrafted heaven in Pig and Barley. Turning ideas into thriving businesses.  She was really impressed that he would leave California and school to be with his parents.  She’d do the same for her parents, but God willing, she wouldn’t be in that position for many more years.  But the fact he was able to manage school, a sick mother, and a father in pain while at the same time growing a niche business in designer hospital gowns really blew her mind.

He’s really an impressive person, but that doesn’t keep him from being a hound dog
, thought Marisa as she found herself back in South Bluffs.   Her run was nearly over, but she wasn’t going to let Trip govern how she lived her life.  She headed for her typical cool-down loop through the neighborhood’s fancy streets.

As she turned on to Magnolia Mound, Marisa’s eyes were not admiring the large houses with their impeccable landscaping perched high above the Mississippi River.  Rather, they were at her feet.   She was going to reclaim her cool down route.  She lived here too and she was going to actually live here.  She wasn’t going to stop her life due to lingering embarrassment over one night of Bacchanalia.

“Marisa!”  Marisa heard her name faintly and was pretty sure who was calling it. 
Really, I decide to be brave and embrace being a strong woman, and look, I step in it.   The guy probably thinks I’m stalking him.  Way to go, once again!

“Marisa!”  Now, it was impossible to act as through she had not heard the voice. 
Well, shit.

Marisa paused her long stride and came to a stop. Sure enough, it was Trip.  He was backing his silver Mercedes down his driveway with the top dropped. 
Amazing timing.  Thirty seconds earlier or later and this wouldn’t be happening.

“You got a minute?,” he called. 

I’ve got no excuse
, thought Marisa.

“Sure.  Just ending my run.  What’s up?”  
Be cool.  Be cool. Be nonchalant. Be friendly.

From behind dark aviator sunglasses, Trip looked at her.  “I’ve got something for you and haven’t found the right time to give it to you.  I was just heading out to my parents’ house, so if you’ve got a minute, can you come in?”   He propped his glasses up on his head and she was taken by how downright handsome he was. 
What in the world does he have for me?

She must have paused a second too long, because he sweetened the invitation.  “I’ll throw in a glass of ice water or PowerAde and, if you like, drive you home on my way out.”

There is no way out.
  “Sure.  Now works for me.”

What the hell does he have for me?  And why do I only see him outside of work when I’m a sweaty mess? Hell, at this point, I’d take bumping into him at Kroger on a Sunday morning in my sweat pants over actually being sweaty
, mused Marisa as she walked up to Trip’s front door while he drove his car up the drive to the garage.

“Come around this way,” he called to her.  Marisa tromped over to the three car garage, but the small silver Mercedes was the only car.  The rest of a garage looked like a bicycle store or Greg LeMonde’s dream.  The space was chockablock with bicycles.  Wheels and gears dangled from brackets on the walls.  Two bicycles were up on stands in various stages of incompleteness.  Disused frames hung upside down from the ceiling. Besides being well-lit, it was cave like.  The bicycle parts and tools covered every surface as if they were stalactites, stalagmites, and other intricate stone formations.   So, this was how he stayed so fit and muscular.

“I know you run, but do you ride, too?,” asked Trip, as Marisa gawked at the sheer number of bikes.

“No,” she said, shaking her head.  “I only run.  I started running in high school and ran cross country at Virginia until I tore my Achilles’ tendon.  I’m not an athlete anymore, but I still like to run.  Do you race?”

“Yes. Mainly century rides.  I did a ride across Iowa a few years ago, but that’s not really a race.”

“You rode a bike across the state of Iowa?,” said Marisa in disbelief. 
A whole state?  He is pulling my leg.

“Yeah, RAGBRAI. It’s a thing in the cycling world. The route goes across the whole state. It takes a week.  It’s basically a rolling party for cycling nuts.  Every night there are stops in little towns.  You crash wherever there is space.  Spent two nights on church pews,” he beamed.  “The folks in the little towns sell homemade food along the route.  And there is plenty of beer, but trust me, after riding that much, two beers a night is tops. It’s not a race, but it’s a lot of fun.  Do you run competitively still?”

“I do local and regional five and ten Ks.  I did the St. Jude half marathon a few years back, but I generally just do local Saturday morning races in the fall and spring.  It doesn’t compare to riding a bike across a state for a week though,” replied Marisa still in disbelief that Trip spent a week cycling across Iowa, sleeping in churches, and eating food cooked by farmers’ wives.  Not to mention trekking in Patagonia. 
He likes adventure and a challenge.  Perhaps I should give him one.  No, no. You promised yourself that you weren’t going to sleep with him again.
  “Anyway, you were clearly on your way out, so I don’t want to keep you.”

“Marisa, you can keep me anytime you want,” replied Trip with a sly smile.  “Let’s go into the kitchen.”

Trip led the way through the garage and into his kitchen.  The room was incredibly sleek.  It was all gleaming white marble and white lacquered cabinets.  The walls were the same shade of white in a high gloss, broken up only by scattered black and white photography.  It felt more like a high-end art gallery in New York a than place where you’d chop vegetables or bake muffins.   It was in total keeping with the modern lines of the house.  “So, PowerAde or water?”

“I wouldn’t mind a PowerAde Zero, if you have one.  Any flavor is fine.”

“Easy enough,” said Trip, opening a crisp cabinet door that disguised a refrigerator.  He pulled out a berry flavored bottle of PowerAde Zero and handed it to Marisa.  Marisa allowed her fingers to brush his ever so gently as she took it from him. 
He is just so ridiculously sexy.
Marisa was thankful that Trip was not wearing the same polo shirt and seersucker shorts that she’d ripped off him.  He was wearing khaki shorts and a blue short-sleeve button-down shirt that made his eyes look like a deep portion of the Mediterranean.

“Hang on a second.  I’ll be right back.”

Trip disappeared deeper into the house, and Marisa moved to examine the photographs on the wall while stretching out her legs.  More portraits.  All, of people doing work.  Women at sewing machines.  A cowboy-hatted man on a combine harvester.  A close up of an older man’s hands carving wood.  A welder behind a shield with sparks flying around him. 
Looks like the same photographer as the new additions on display outside Jimmy’s office
, she thought as she touched her toes.

“Ah hem.”

Marisa shot up to standing so quickly that some PowerAde splashed out of the bottle and on to her shirt and arm.

“Sorry to startle you, but that is quite a view to walk in on,” said Trip, reaching into a drawer and extracting an intricately woven and brightly colored kitchen towel.  Marisa felt her whole body turn red and her private area pulse.  Under his careful and appreciative gaze, she mopped herself off and set the towel down on the pristine and empty island. At this moment she wanted nothing more than for him to lift her up on the island and fuck her until she couldn’t think straight.

“Okay,” she said, desperate to change the direction of her thoughts.  “What do you have for me?”

“Anything and everything you want.  But to be specific, this,” he answered in an honest voice, handing her a small package wrapped in soft sage green tissue paper.

Marisa took the package and opened the layers with as much patience as she could muster.  “Oh, my necklace!,” she exclaimed with relief, extracting her chunky rough-cut amethyst necklace from the paper.

“Yeah, I wasn’t sure how to get it back to you.  It’s not like I could send a messenger over to your office with it.  I don’t want anyone from Branco involved and I’d hazard to guess that you’d also like your firm not to be gossiping about you.”  Marisa nodded in agreement and Trip gestured toward the delicate tissue paper in her hands.  “Anyway, there is something else in there.”

Marisa’s eyes returned to the delicate paper and she peeled back some more layers.  A bracelet comprised of large and intricately carved lapis lazuli cabochons emerged.  Marisa set her necklace on the island and admired the bracelet in her fingers.  “This is gorgeous Trip, but if this is your way of apologizing for the other night, you don’t need to.”

“This isn’t an apology.  I don’t think either of us have anything to apologize for other than me being MIA in Broomfield, Colorado since then and not being in touch with you earlier.  To be honest, I wasn’t sure how to contact you short of calling your assistant or emailing you at work.  The only contact information I have is your work number and email, so it’s not like I could text or call your cell. When I got home on Friday, I kept waiting for our paths to cross again. When they didn’t, I talked my dad into having you join us last night.  Carried the damn package in my suit jacket pocket all evening, but couldn’t get you alone.”

“Okay,” said Marisa slowly, trying to digest the volume of information Trip just dumped on her. 
He doesn’t think our last dinner was a mistake.  He wants to see me again. 
“But that doesn’t explain why you bought me a bracelet,” responded Marisa, still struggling to understand why Trip was giving her jewelry.

“Marisa,” chuckled Trip gently.  “I saw the bracelet in a shop window in Santiago on my way back from Patagonia this past spring and thought it was beautiful.  I bought it and kept it, hoping I’d meet someone who would appreciate it as much as I did.  So, was I wrong?”

“No,” exclaimed Marisa, her eyes wide from the story she was being told.  “It is really beautiful.”

“Well, I trust that you’ll wear it well.  Also, I hope you’ll wear it to dinner with me again.”

Marisa shifted uncomfortably on her feet.

“Look, I had a great time after dinner,” Trip continued in the void of conversation.  “I’m not going to lie.  I think you did, too, but can we just start with dinner again?  Planned this time, plus, I’ll keep Bert’s heavy pouring hand at bay.”

How can I not say yes?  I want to say yes.  Seems like he’s willing to keep this on the down low, so as long as I don’t sleep with him again, it’s fine.  Plus, his focus will shift from me soon enough to a new flavor of the month
.

“Or, we can nix Pig and Barley entirely and go to Houston’s?,” spat out Trip, clearly grasping at straws.

“No,” said Marisa, shaking her head.  She saw Trip’s hopeful and open expression wilt like a flower in the midday sun.  “I mean, yes.  Dinner would be great.  And Pig and Barley is always wonderful. No need to go to Houston’s.”

“Excellent!  What about tomorrow night?  I can pick you up at seven.”

“Is Pig and Barley even open on Sundays?,” said Marisa quickly, doing a tally of which downtown restaurants were open for Sunday dinner.

“Ah, there are perks of being an owner,” Trip said with a spark in his eye.  “Now, I really do have to get to my parents’ house before lunch. Would you like another PowerAde for the road?” Marisa declined, picked up her necklace and new bracelet, carefully wrapping them in the sage green tissue paper, and followed Trip back through the maze of bikes to his car.