Conduct in Question

Chapter 18

Remember about being careful about what you wish for? Harry is living his fantasy.

When Harry awoke next morning, he lay very still, for fear of losing forever the fleeting fragments of his dream. He had awakened with an erection, but now that was swiftly fading along with the dream. Once again, he closed his eyes. Soft, sultry shadows of a woman remained, along with an indescribable softness lingering over his entire body. Lying still in the warmth of the covers and conscious of his own rhythmic breathing, he tried in vain to recapture her presence and identity.

Laura was gone, and the far side of the bed was cold, rumpled, and empty.

Kicking off the covers, Harry padded into the bathroom and ran the shower as hot as possible. Billows of steam rose to cloud the mirror as he dutifully tossed his pajamas into the hamper. He turned his face upward into the pulsing jet of water and gasped in the heat. Frustration flashed within him, but receded almost as quickly, leaving him with a painful sense of longing. Slowly, he began soaping his chest.

Always toeing the line. Nose to the grindstone. And ever faithful to Laura. Last night, her packed suitcase had sat at the top of the stairs like rock-solid evidence of a failed marriage. What the hell did twenty years of a life mean, anyway? With a creeping sense of doom, he wondered where to find a marriage counselor.

Stepping from the shower, he grabbed a towel. What did he have to show for years of loyalty and duty to his profession and his clients? With his elegantly regal bearing, Crawford, the embodiment of professional propriety, was a notorious seducer of women. Battles of moral conscience were foreign to him. Passion and thrall were the last words he said as he pitched to the floor.

Harry grimly recited the very practical reasons for his obedience: mortgage, taxes, car payments, office expenses. The list had no end. Maybe it was time to cut himself some slack.

With a slow, circular motion, he cleared off the mirror. Then he remembered. A smile crept over his face. Today would be good. He had a ten o’clock appointment with Natasha to appraise the Deighton house. Within twenty minutes, he was dressed and out the door.

In traffic, he considered Marjorie’s estate. He and the Gideon Trust Company were the co-executors. Quick and decisive action was required to gain the upper hand, otherwise he might lose control of the estate to the trust company. Without determination and speed, a poor solicitor acting with a major trust company might be relegated to the status of a flunky with a brand-new rubber stamp.

Harry knew their game well. Senior trust officers lured his clients with promises of prompt personal attention, and then concluded, in pitying tones, that only they had the resources to back up such promises. From then on, their teams of experts, their appraisers, and their investment counselors and accountants called the shots. The senior trust officer issued instructions after brief consultation with the poor solicitor on legal technicalities. But not this time, he vowed.

Years back, a hapless junior trust officer named Steinberg had attended Crane, Crawford and Jenkins for a meeting with the estate beneficiaries. In the library, the deferential Mr. Steinberg had been seated apart from the Deighton family. Nowhere could he rest his file in comfort. His papers persisted in sliding from his grasp and his constant efforts to retrieve them gave him a groveling air.

At one point, Steinberg requested the birth certificate of Miss Suzannah Deighton. Carefully, Crawford set down his gold pen. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Steinberg,” he said coldly. Flustered the trust officer looked up.

Crawford’s voice rolled like distant thunder  “A cursory glance at your file, Mr. Steinberg, will confirm that the Deighton family is one of the most respected and prominent families in the city, whom I have had the honor of representing for more than thirty years. Are you implying, young man…?”