Crazy in Love
bathroom sink. She smiled sternly.
    “I appreciate your concern, but I will not go to the hospital. It is that simple. Now, where can we get a taxi?”
    I had to marvel at the tyranny of this frail, wounded blonde. She would make a fine lawyer. During the ride to the club, she sat in the front seat chattering about the wonderful experience Hubbard, Starr had provided so far. It was as though the accident had been a mere hiccup in her plan to bowl over the partners and senior associates. Nick and I sat in the backseat, astonished. To me it seemed the perfect metaphor of the cutthroat Wall Street spirit: that a woman would risk concussion and maybe brain damage to ensure a job offer at Hubbard, Starr. Nick whispered that he planned to find the hiring coordinator and suggest that she force Michele to have her head examined, yuk, yuk.
    The cab sped up a long drive bordered with mountain laurel and rhododendrons. Through the bushes, we glimpsed emerald fairways and grass tennis courts. All tennis players wore white; even the balls were white. This was, after all, Long Island’s North Shore, home of Jay Gatsby. I had been here on many summer outings. I knew just when the clubhouse, a rambling white clapboard building with green shutters and trellises of roses, would come into sight. The cab stopped at the main entrance.
    Couples dressed in white strolled past. Barn swallows swooped down from the eaves. Michele bid us farewell and went off in search of more-influential members of the firm.
    “That woman is a first-class maniac,” Nick said, watching her extend her hand to Greg Gerston.
    “You’d better tell someone about her head,” I said. “I can just imagine her keeling over in the middle of cocktails and you getting blamed for not getting medical help.”
    “I suppose so. I’ll be right back.”
    I sat on a white bench beneath a tall elm. A cab discharged a group of associates. Two of them approached me.
    “Hello, Jean, Pete,” I said. Stocky Pete Margolis was dressed to play golf, his bag swung over one shoulder. Jean Snizort, the most beautiful of Nick’s colleagues, wore a stunning off-the-shoulder red blouse and full print skirt. It looked sensuous and bold.
    “Well, hi, Jessie,” Jean said, smiling sweetly.
    “It’s Georgie,” I said, correcting her, the way I always did.
    Jean touched her forehead. “I am so sorry. Why can’t I get that straight?”
    “You have a rather unusual name,” Pete said, kissing my cheek. I smiled at him, recognizing the private joke. Pete had once occupied the office across from Nick’s, and we had gotten friendly on the Saturdays I spent at the firm. He was irreverent and had once confessed to me that he purposely forgot people’s names to throw them off guard. He had said it was common practice among lawyers.
    “Where’s your fellow?” Jean asked.
    “Oh, he went to find someone,” I said, telling them the story of Michele.
    “Sounds demented,” Pete said.
    “Yes, but I must say she did the right thing, coming here,” Jean said. “Any summer associate who fails to show up here, I don’t care if her father just died, is dead meat. Kiss the job offer goodbye. Anyone planning to play tennis?”
    Pete and I said no, and Jean walked away. “Do you agree with her about Michele?” I asked, watching Jean enter the clubhouse. Suddenly, in my white sundress, tinged red along the hem by Michele’s blood, I felt drab. My simple outfit broadcast the fact that I was a wife, not a lawyer, that I lived on Connecticut’s shore, not in New York. I imagined Jean finding Nick, convincing him to play tennis with her.
    “That’s a tough question,” Pete said. “I think she’s right about Michele not getting an offer if she didn’t come here. But what does that say about priorities? I mean, Michele should care more about her health than one legal job.”
    “And the firm should be more understanding.”
    A slight breeze rustled through the leaves overhead. Sunlight filtered

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