States of Grace by Mandy Miller (top 100 books of all time checklist .TXT) 📕

off remember? For now, I’m doing what I have to, to survive.” I take a deep breath to compose my thoughts. “That’s why I’m here. I have a proposition for you.”

He puffs out his cheeks. “Grace, I’m not in the deal-making mood. And you’re in no position to bargain.”

“I’m not?”

A flash of anger sparks in his eyes, no doubt as bright as the one he just ignited in mine. “No, you’re not.”

“I’d say that puts us both in the same position.”

He presses his palms on the table, as if he’s counting to ten to calm himself. “Anger in Armani” is what my friend Rita used to call him when his temper got the better of him.

“Hear me out. I’m not here to argue. The opposite, actually. You’d be doing us both a favor,” I say, my tone purposefully breezy, unlike the weight of the fear rising in my chest that he’s about to walk out.

“I’m not sure you’ve got any favors left in the favor bank at this point,” he says, reaching for his briefcase.

“Wait. Maybe you need a little incentive.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Meaning?”

I dig my fingernails into my thighs and forge ahead. “Meaning how would it look if I happened to let it slip, let’s say to some tabloid, that City Commissioner Martinez has been doing more than the mambo with the wife of one of the county’s most prominent citizens?”

The color drains from his face.

“Wouldn’t go over well with your conservative constituents, would it? The ones in those big houses on the water who contribute so generously to your campaigns and for whom you appear at Mass every Sunday, even though you don’t believe in God?”

He juts his chin out, a ropy vein pulsing in his forehead. “Neither of us is without blame for what happened to our marriage, and you know it.”

“True, but I don’t have a reputation to protect.”

“Anymore.”

“Touché, but I do have one I need to rebuild, and that’s where you can help, given your relationship with Mrs. Slim.” I’d make air quotes with my fingers around the word “relationship,” but my hands are shaking so hard I keep them anchored under my thighs.

I steel myself, determined to keep any hint of self-doubt out of my voice. “The way I see it, what I’m proposing is a win-win for everyone. Zoe Slim gets a good lawyer. I get a payday and some much-needed good publicity. And you? Well, I think I’ve already made myself clear on that.”

Without taking his eyes off mine, he brushes some non-existent crumbs from his pants.

“And one last thing. I’d appreciate your returning my car,” I say, referring to Percy’s British racing green Jaguar E-Type roadster. The car I learned to drive in. The one he picked me up from boarding school in to go leaf peeping. The car we were in on September 12, 2001, when I told him I’d enlisted in the Army. “That was a mistake,” he’d said. Maybe he was right. While my father believed in doing one’s civic duty, his idea of service was more upscale, less hands on. Maybe the State Department and a nice posting to London. The Peace Corps, even. But enlist in the Army and in war time? A mistake, for sure.

He sighs. “You finished?”

“Maybe. Do we have a deal?”

A tug on the tie, his classic tell when he’s on the ropes. “Whoever represents Zoe isn’t up to me.”

“Technically, you’re correct. But, come on. Like I said, you can make it happen. Or at least, Gretchen can, and I think she will come to understand it’s in her best interest to use her powers of persuasion on her husband.”

“Soon-to-be ex-husband.”

I glance at the folder. “There’s a lot of that going around.”

He fingers the bulbous University of Miami class ring I gave him to remind him of home when we were at Columbia together—me in law school, Manny in business school.

“And no, we are no longer involved, in case you were wondering, although I no longer owe you an explanation for anything.”

“Did I ask?”

He ignores the question, staring off into the distance. “She’s not a bad kid. No way she did what they’re saying.”

The wistful look in his eyes punches me in the gut. It’s the same one he got every time we visited his seven brothers and sisters in Miami. How I’d relished his family’s backyard barbecues, so different from my parents’ stuffy soirées attended by politicians, business moguls, and famous artists. In Miami, with Manny, I’d felt hopeful for the first time since returning from Iraq. Racing around with his rambunctious nieces and nephews as the older generations watched with pride, it was easy to imagine that we would have a brood of our own, and that they would be watched over by grandparents saying, “Sí, eso es. This is what life is all about. This is why we made the journey on a raft of sticks.” But none of that was to be.

“She was adopted. From a Russian orphanage when she was six. Like lots of adopted kids, she’s had some problems. But kid stuff. Not murder, for God’s sake.”

“Maybe she did it, maybe she didn’t, but she is facing the death penalty, so she does need a lawyer. I think you’d agree, I fit the bill.”

He’s chewing his upper lip, the way he always does when weighing the pros and cons of a business deal. A picture of calm, but the flush rising up from his neck gives him away. He knows he has no choice.

“And it would be what’s best for Gretchen too, don’t you think? Dr. Slim seems like the kind of man who wouldn’t think twice about leveraging your little entanglement against his wife. Rich people are like that. And, of course, there is an election in your future, isn’t there?”

He raises his hands in surrender. “If I can convince her to hire you, you’ll sign the divorce papers?”

“And I’ll be out of your hair forever. Do we have a deal?”

He picks