Due Justice

Chapter 6

Tampa, Florida

Wednesday 8:20 p.m.

January 6, 1999

The women’s room was tastefully decorated for those ladies experiencing a tendency to swoon, or whatever.

Plopped onto the floral chintz loveseat, gratefully slipped off my high-heels. Why hadn’t I worn my Nikes?

Closed my eyes for a moment to discourage socializing by new arrivals.

Shut out the visual noise. Hearing now acute. Two quick flushes.

One set of awkward shoe-falls exited each stall. Standing at the sinks. Quick tap-water flow. Talking to their reflections while no doubt adjusting appearances. It’s what we women do.

“How long have you had yours?” Giggle. Youngish. “They look great.”

“About ten years.” Weary. Mature.

“Have you had any problems?” Worried.

Perkier. “I love ‘em! After my third baby, I had no substance. Dr. Morgan did them right in his office.”

“I’ve only had mine three years. No problems, but the bad news has me scared to death.”  She didn’t sound scared, let alone near death. Drama.

“I know what you mean. My husband is freaked.” Both sets of double-tap soles headed my way. “I’m thinking about having them removed. You know, just to be safe. Christian Grover’s my lawyer. He said these things are leaking and are poisoning my body every day. Every time I get a little bit tired, I’m scared I’m getting sick, you know?”

They passed me without so much as a nod in my direction on the way out. I confess. I looked at their chests and they, indeed, had lovely breasts. Dr. Morgan was an artist.

When I’d stayed in the ladies’ room as long as I could hide out before becoming an official missing person, I went back to the party. Everyone who is anyone or wanted to become someone was there. Attempting to sort them out was exhausting. Confusing, too.

Focused instead on the ones I’d been assigned to watch.

CJ and wife huddled in obvious camaraderie with the Worthingtons. Cilla and CJ’s wife posed like wives do when husbands talk shop. CJ and O’Connell Worthington had been law partners for 20 years until CJ was appointed to the federal bench years ago.

No family resemblance between Cilla and the CJ that I could find. Except maybe in their coloring. If George hadn’t told me they were brother and sister, I’d never have believed it. A proper lady like Cilla from the same gene pool as the sarcastically dubbed “great and powerful Oz?”  No doubt about it, I’d have to reassess my judgments about one of them.

While I’d been hiding, Kate arrived. Thank God.

She looked perfect in the royal blue beaded gown she’s worn to every formal event she’s attended for at least the past ten years. I smiled when I saw it. Kate is so reliably normal. One of the many reasons I love her.

I walked up and kissed her cheek. “Thank you for coming. You look lovely in that gown, as always. Your eyes sparkle as much as the dress.”

“Why should I buy a new gown? This one looks good on me and its perfectly acceptable.  I’m long past the point of trying to impress ‘society.’”  She eyed my dress pointedly. Sometimes I think she and George were separated at birth.

Kate asked, “Where is Victoria?  Has she been here long enough to get into trouble yet?”

Kate behaved normally, I thought, meaning Carly had not dumped her troubles on her mother. For that, I was grateful. Kate should have only happiness in her life. Maybe I cherished her more than Carly because she was not my real mother.