Until I Saw Your Smile (22 page)

Huh?
“You don't trust yourself... to do what?”

“Good night, Matthew,” Angela said. “See you soon.”

“Of course.”

Angela eased the door shut.

Matthew pushed gently on the door. “You know, you can't drop something like that at the end of a date.”

“It
wasn't
a date,” Angela whispered.

“Okay, okay, it wasn't a date,” Matthew said. “We race-walked together and ate half a pizza.” He shook the box. “You want the rest of it?”

Angela shook her head.

She didn't like it. No black olives next time.
“Angela, what did you mean by ‘I'm not sure I trust me'?”

“Can I plead the fifth?” she asked.

“A-ha! So you'd incriminate yourself if you gave an explanation.”

“Not necessarily,” Angela said.

Matthew sighed. “Angela, I am an open book. Ask me anything you want to know, and I will tell you.”

“Will you give me an honest answer?” she asked.

“I will.”

“Any question?” Angela asked.

“Anything you can think to ask me,” Matthew said.

Angela nodded. “Okay. Matthew Mark McConnell, have you ever truly been in love?”

Wow. I didn't expect that question.
“I thought I was. With Joy. But . . . no. I don't think so. I don't think I've ever truly been in love.”

“Neither have I.” She looked down. “Good night, Matthew.” She closed and locked the door.

“Wait,” Matthew said.

Angela turned to face the door.

“Thank you for allowing me to use the best booth in the shop for my office,” Matthew said.

Angela put her palms on the door. “It's not the best booth. You can't see the street from that booth.”

“Maybe I don't want to see the street.”
And I don't.

Angela turned away smiling.

“See you in the morning.” He waved his free hand, but Angela had already walked through the shop and around the counter, turning out lights as she went.

As he walked back to his apartment, Matthew gave himself a grade of C–.
I
should have at least tried to hold her hand as we walked. We would have looked ridiculous, though, with her dragging me along and the pizza box flapping in the wind. Hmm. Maybe I'm pacing myself for the first time in my life. Yes. I'm pacing myself. Maybe I deserve a C+ instead.

Alone in his apartment, relaxing in his easy chair, he thought about everything Angela had said during the “not-a-date.”
She said, “I don't trust myself.” What does she mean by that? Is she worried how she would act around me if we were on a real date? We've been alone quite a bit in her shop. She never seems worried then. And what's up with “Have you ever been in love? Neither have I.” What does that mean? Does that mean she's as scared as I am about relationships? Or is she trying to see if any of those other women meant anything to me?

He opened his phone.

I
should
call her.

He closed his phone and turned it off.

He closed his eyes and saw her smile. He saw her eyes.

Matthew laughed.

But Matthew couldn't sleep because of the stream of unanswered questions in his head, each blended into one overwhelming question:

Chapter 17

A
crowd greeted Matthew at Smith's Sweet Treats and Coffee at

6:30
AM
on Sunday morning.

Black, brown, and white people filled all but his booth “office,” and only a scattering of chairs around the tables was empty. Most people were sipping coffee and eating pastries and turnovers, and Angela never looked busier serving coffee and bagging sweets.

To avoid the dozens of eyes looking at him, Matthew looked at the beat-up briefcase he carried and hoped he had brought enough legal pads and pens. He waited in line behind several customers before standing in front of Angela. “What day is it?”

“Sunday,” she said.

“I know that,” he said. “What holiday is it?”

Angela consulted her little notebook. “Random Acts of Kindness Day.”

Matthew widened his eyes. “Appropriate.”

She slid a large cup of coffee toward him. “I'll bet they've never known a lawyer who had Sunday morning hours. Why'd you dress up?”

“I had a hunch.”
I was really trying to impress only Angela.
Matthew took a sip. “Mmm. You added a touch of chocolate today.”

“Thought you might need a little extra sugar,” she whispered.

“Thanks.” He glanced again at the crowd. “I'm sure they're here because of the free consultation,” he whispered.

“And what you did for XS.”

He sniffed the air. “Cherry?”

Angela nodded. “I'll bring you two. You better get to work. Some of these people need to get to church.”

Matthew tried to smile, turned, and addressed the crowd. “Good morning.”

A few people returned the greeting. The shop filled with silence.

“I'm glad you're all here,” Matthew said. “To expedite our consultations today, I'm going to take everyone first arrived, first served.”
And if this keeps up, I'll have to get a “take-a-number” dispenser.
“I will leave that up to you. Some consultations take minutes, and others may take longer. Thank you in advance for your patience. Make sure you drink lots of Angela's world-famous coffee, and always remember to tip her generously.” He pointed at the tip jar. “Who's first?”

From that moment until eleven, Matthew helped dozens people with questions about the making and executing of wills and estates, and problems with past-due bills, collection agency notices, and eviction notices. Because of the season, however, he mainly looked over tax forms.

“The candles you bought for your church, yes,” Matthew said, “you can deduct those, Mr. Cabrera, but I don't think you can deduct the goat.”

“Why not?” Mr. Cabrera asked.

“It's a goat,” Matthew said. “It's considered livestock. You're not a farmer, are you?”

“No,” Mr. Cabrera said. “I drive taxi. I drive upstate to get goat. One
hundred
dollars.”

“What did the church use the goat for?”
Please say a potluck dinner.

“
Ceremonia
for priests,” Mr. Cabrera said.

For a Santeria sacrifice.
“Was the goat, um, consumed afterward?”

“Oh,
sí.
” Mr. Cabrera smiled. “Delicious.”

Sounds like a potluck dinner to me.
“Well, in that case, I think the IRS might let the goat fly . . .”

“Mr. Quarles,” Matthew said, “you can't deduct the cost of your daughter's wedding just because you handed out your business card at the reception.”

“Isn't there something you can do?” Mr. Quarles asked. “It cost me fifty grand.”

“Ouch.”

“You're telling me,” Mr. Quarles said. “She had to have it at the Eden Palace. Sixty-five bucks a plate at the reception, and two hundred people showed up.”

Geez.
“I wish I could help you, but a wedding is not a business expense.”

Mr. Quarles sighed. “What if I list it as a charitable expense?”

“How did the wedding benefit a charity?” Matthew asked.

“The groom,” Mr. Quarles said. “My daughter is blind. He is an ugly man.
He
is the charity case . . .”

“I can't see the IRS approving your dog as a security expense, Mrs. Bernstein,” Matthew said, “especially if it doesn't patrol or guard your family business.”

Mrs. Bernstein exhaled abruptly. “That dachshund cost me five hundred bucks!”

“That doesn't matter to the IRS,” Matthew said, “and I don't think dachshunds are considered a protective breed.”

“Ducks keeps my husband away from me just fine,” Mrs. Bernstein said.

Your cigarette breath could keep anyone away from you.
“You can't deduct the cost of Ducks.”

Mrs. Bernstein slid to the end of the seat. “What if Ducks barks so much that he scares off burglars?”

“You'd have to be able to prove that,” Matthew said. “Can you?”

“Sure I can,” Mrs. Bernstein said. “
No
one has robbed me since I've owned that dog . . .”

“Can I deduct the cost of Knicks tickets?” Mr. Perrone asked.

“Do you conduct business during the games?” Matthew asked.

“I network a little,” Mr. Perrone said.

Translation: Not really because I'm there to see the game and get drunk.
“Mr. Perrone, I had this problem once before. I tried to deduct the cost of Yankee season tickets because I often did a little business during the game, but the IRS only lets you deduct the national
average
ticket price for a baseball game, which is only around sixty bucks a ticket.”

“What did
you
do?” Mr. Perrone asked.

“I became a Mets fan,” Matthew said. “
Their
season tickets were cheaper . . .”

“I'm sure your cat is an integral part of the family, Mrs. Lotowski,” Matthew said, “but she doesn't have a social security number. You can't list Mrs. Fluffy Tail as a dependent.”

“What if I can get Mrs. Fluffy Tail a social security number?” Mrs. Lotowski asked.

“Good luck with that,” Matthew said. “If you are successful, however, I wouldn't tell
anyone
how you did it . . .”

“You can't deduct the care and cultivation of your marijuana plants as business expenses,” Matthew whispered to a man who wouldn't give him his name.

“Why not?” the man asked.

“You'll be arrested and the government will seize everything you own,” Matthew said.

The man thought a moment, and then asked, “Why else?”

A woman who called herself Tee showed Matthew an elaborate and intricate tattoo of two angels' wings framing the letter T on her lower back.

Now
that
is a random act of kinkiness.
“It's a beautiful tattoo,” Matthew said.

Tee turned and sat. “It didn't hurt too bad. I've gotten lots of attention because of it, but it cost so much. Can I deduct it on my taxes?”

Short answer: no. Judicious answer:
“I don't think so.”

“A friend told me you could deduct tattoos as a medical expense,” Tee said. “It
is
a medical procedure, you know. They puncture the skin, right? And it's like medicine, you know? I feel so much better about myself, you know?”

It isn't gonna happen, you know?
“Tee, you can't deduct the cost of a tattoo as a medical expense no matter how much self-esteem it gives you . . .”

When the shop was nearly empty, Matthew used the bathroom and got a refill. “Angela,” he whispered, “did you tell them I was a tax lawyer?”

“I didn't tell anyone anything,” Angela said. “The article did all this, not me. Why?”

“I'm feeling like one today,” Matthew said, “and I only took two classes in tax law.”

Angela stared at him. “What was that Puerto Rican girl showing you?”

She was Puerto Rican? She could have been from Trinidad.
“Her self-esteem,” Matthew said. “She wanted to know if she could deduct her tattoo on her taxes.”

“That wasn't all she was showing you,” Angela said.

“Are you making cracks about her crack?” Matthew asked softly.

“So you
did
see her crack,” Angela said.

“The life of a lawyer is occasionally fraught with peril,” Matthew said.

“
Right
.” Angela winced. “Do you think tattoos back there are sexy?”

“Some are nice,” Matthew said.

“Right above the crack like that?” Angela whispered.

Don't answer. Don't say something stupid like, “Well, sometimes it's nice to have some art to look at when you're back there.”
“Do you have a tattoo?”

“No,” Angela said. “It's just me back there.”

Matthew smiled. “I know.”

Angela smiled and put two toasted bagels on a plate, slathering them with butter and strawberry jam.

“How did you know I needed more sugar?” Matthew asked.

“These are for me,” Angela said. “I need a snack.”

“Oh.”

She shook her head and handed him the plate. “I'm kidding. How are you doing?”

“I may have some potential future business,” Matthew said, taking a healthy bite of a bagel.

“And you may not,” Angela said.

Matthew chewed and swallowed. “True. What's ten percent of nothing?”

Angela rolled her eyes. “So you've already ‘paid' me my finder's fee.”

“How are you doing?” Matthew asked, glancing at the cash register.

Angela hit a few numbers on the cash register, and a small receipt printed out. “I've already set a Sunday record.” She shook her head. “I can't believe it.”

“I guess I'm
your
pimp now, huh?” Matthew asked. “I'm a coffee pimp.”

“That's not true, Matthew,” Angela said.

“I am what I am.” Matthew carried his plate to his booth, motioning to a tall black woman sitting on the edge of her seat two tables away. “Thank you for your patience.”

“It's okay,” she said. “I'll wait until you finish eating.” She was probably in her mid-fifties, her hair gray, her dark black dress and heels simple and elegant.

“No, please come into my office,” Matthew said. “I'm keeping you from church, aren't I?”

“I've been late before,” she said. “It's quite all right.”

“Please,” Matthew said.

The woman stood and walked quietly to the booth and sat. “I didn't see you charge a single person.”

“I give free consultations,” Matthew said, wiping his lips with a napkin.

“That's unusual, isn't it?” she asked.

“I'm an unusual guy,” Matthew said.

“That's the truth,” Angela said.

The woman smiled at Angela. “Are you two . . .”

Matthew grinned at Angela. “Yes, Angela, are we two . . .”

Angela sighed and went back into the kitchen.

“She's a little shy,” Matthew said. “What can I help you with today, Mrs. . . .”

“Simmons, Gloria Simmons.”

Matthew wrote her name on the top of a new sheet.

Gloria's eyes welled with tears. “I need . . .”

“Take your time,” Matthew said.

“I need your help to get my husband some help,” she said, tears sliding down her cheek. “He's not the same man I married thirty years ago, and I can't bear to see him like this anymore. He needs more help than I can give him.”

“What's wrong?” Matthew asked.

“Timothy has all the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder,” Gloria said, “but the U.S. Army doesn't think so because Timothy wasn't actually in combat.”

Finally. A real case.
He opened a compartment in his briefcase and pulled out a microcassette recorder. “Do you mind if I tape this?”

“No.”

He turned on the recorder as Angela returned from the kitchen to the counter. “I'm talking to Gloria Simmons about her husband, Timothy. Mrs. Simmons thinks Timothy has PTSD, but the U.S. Army doesn't think so. Go on, Mrs. Simmons.”

“Timothy was an anesthetist at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany, you know, where they send the wounded soldiers from Iraq and Afghanistan,” Gloria said. “He saw all those boys coming back without arms and legs, such horrific injuries, and a few years after he left the army and came home for good, it eventually got to him. Our marriage has been for worse and for worser ever since.”

Matthew slid a napkin across to her.

“Thank you.” She dabbed at her eyes. “I didn't think I had any tears left.”

“It's okay,” Matthew said.

“We have tried every kind of therapy we can afford, which means not very many kinds,” Gloria said. “Counseling sessions with our pastor seemed to be helping until Timothy told our pastor that . . . that God
couldn't
exist after all he had seen. He had a decent job at Woodhull Medical, but he, um, had an incident in the OR two years ago.”

Matthew wrote “OR incident?” on the legal pad.

“We've been living off my paycheck and help from our church,” Gloria said. “Our kids help out when they can, but they're just getting started in the world and don't have much to give us. If I can get Timothy on disability and get him some real help, I know we can survive this.”