Mountain Top(248)

“Could we go to the jail later today? I promised Vince that I’d have lunch with him. We tried to get together several times last week, and it kept getting pushed back. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

“Hurt his feelings? What kind of lunch is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you talk to your mother about Vince Colbert?” Zach asked.

I felt my face flush. “No. He didn’t ask me to.”

Zach looked up at the ceiling for a few seconds before lowering his eyes and meeting my gaze. “For a laid-back California guy, I’m not doing very well,” he said. “Have a good lunch with Vince; then check with me. I’ll carve out at least two hours for a trip to the jail to meet Mr. Jones.”

In the hall outside Zach’s office I ran into Gerry Patrick.

“Hope your first week wasn’t too dull,” she said cheerily. “We have some events planned that will liven things up.”

“No ma’am. It’s been very stimulating,” I replied. “Much more than I’d guessed.”

“Good. I’m here if you have any questions.”

I returned downstairs to finish a memo for Bob Kettleson. In double-checking my research, I discovered that one of the cases I relied on had been seriously criticized in a recent appellate court opinion. After offering a quick prayer of thanks, I pointed out the potential pitfall in an extra two paragraphs of the memo before sending it to the senior associate. No one came into the library until Vince, the ubiquitous notebook computer in his hand, arrived at precisely 11:50 a.m.

“Are you still available?” he asked.

“Yes.”

I noted my time on a log and closed the folders.

“Julie is in a big meeting with several of the partners and associates,” Vince said as we checked out at the reception desk.

“I was there when Myra Dean asked her to come.”

We walked outside into the hot sun. The slight coolness I enjoyed during my early morning runs didn’t last past the point most people in the city were sipping their first cup of coffee.

“How does Savannah compare to Charleston?” I asked.

“Same and different.”

We walked in silence. A lunch with Vince might be similar to my morning quiet time. He unlocked the passenger door and held it open for me. Before he reached the driver’s side, the car’s engine started and the air conditioner started blowing warm air.

“I’ve never been to Charleston,” I said. “Does your family live near the Battery?”

Vince smiled. It was a nice smile without a hint of mockery.

“No. I have a great-aunt that lives south of Broad Street, but I grew up in a newer area. My father is a chemistry professor at the College of Charleston. He also holds several patents in the plastics industry.”

I thought about my daddy working at the chicken plant in Powell Station. He was more into biology than chemistry.

“Would you like to go to a café I found before you and Julie arrived?” Vince asked.

“Sure.”

Without Julie around to interrupt, I found Vince capable of holding up his end of a conversation. During the drive, I learned that he had two older sisters: the one who was married in Savannah and another who lived in Boston.

“Did you think about going to Harvard?” I asked, expecting him to say that he’d not been accepted for admission at the older institution.

“Yes, it was a tough choice,” he replied. “Both Yale and Harvard are good schools.”

I stifled a laugh. He glanced over at me.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, you know, the dilemma of having to pick between two of the finest law schools in the country. At least you didn’t have to worry about Virginia, Michigan, and Stanford.”

“Virginia and Michigan accepted me, but I didn’t apply to Stanford. I didn’t want to be on the West Coast.”

I looked out the car window. Vince parked on the street.

“The café is a block north,” he said. “I hope you’ll like it.”

The restaurant was in the downstairs of an older home near Greene Square. A hostess wearing a black skirt and white blouse placed us at a table for two where we could look through a window into a garden much more elaborate than the one at Mrs. Fairmont’s house. Everything about the place, from wall decorations to furniture, had a French flavor.

“This is really nice,” I said after I’d had a chance to look around.

“The food is good too.”

I opened the menu and didn’t recognize a single entrée by name. Only when I read the ingredients could I partially decipher what was offered.

“It really is a French place, isn’t it?” I said.