“No,” she had said. “I’m sorry, but no.” After a protracted argument over coffee and yogurt, Merritt had been talked into borrowing a pair of high-waisted trousers paired with a silky green tie-neck blouse, as well as Evie’s fawn-colored tweed trench coat.
Now, standing on the city street with this intimidating building before her, she wished she hadn’t also let Evie bully her into trading her public radio tote for a big designer bag. She would have liked to use the old thing as a security blanket.
“Just walk in confidently,” Willa had said the day before. “Wear your sunglasses—”
“I don’t wear sunglasses. I wear regular glasses.”
“Actlike you’re wearing sunglasses, and then ask to speak to Shreya. Tell her you’re with legal.”
When Édouard heard about this plan over dinner, he had simply said, “Non.”
“What?”
“Non, it will not do. You need a real lawyer.”
“I don’t have a real lawyer.”
“Merritt,” Evie said. She set down her red wine. “Édouard is a real lawyer. Whit’s lawyer.”
“And I would be honored to assist you.”
Merritt fought a blush, though she refused to interrogate whether the source was her forgetfulness or the full force of Édouard’s gaze.
“How?”
“I will go with you to this place and get you in.”
“I don’t know, I don’t want to get you in some sort of trouble,” Merritt lied. Inwardly she was thrilled by the prospect of not doing this part alone.
“Non,” Édouard said again. “Nonsense.”
Then he held his hand out and spoke in a voice of mock ceremony: “Merritt Pryor, would you do me the honor of being my client?”
She suppressed a giggle and shook his smooth, strong hand for the second time.
Now she stood on the sidewalk, waiting for him. From everything Whit had told her, publishing people did not seem like the type to get to the office early, and so Édouard had headed into work first for meetings. But now he was approaching her, in his Stoffa raglan coat, Loewe suit, and shining oxfords. The wind tossed his coat and hair with cinematic chicness.
“Thank you again for doing this,” Merritt said.
“Of course. Now listen.”
He set his briefcase down against his leg, straightened his clothes, and took both of Merritt’s hands in his. A luxury watch glimmered in the midmorning light.
“You must be confident and at ease, and per’aps a little bit rude until we get past the front desk. This I do all the time.”
Merritt sighed, her breath appearing in a puff that fogged her glasses. She straightened her spine as they approached the rotating door and were met by a warm blanket of air that fogged her glasses yet again. She had worried that they might have to charm a security guard, but before them was a wide stone-tiled lobby lined with well-lit bookshelves. At the far end of the room was a reception desk, where two people in white shirts and black doorman-like jackets sat.
Édouard led the way. Merritt pictured her favorite TV lawyers—Christine Baranksi, Viola Davis—and channeled that energy as they approached the desk.
“We’re here to see Shreya Ramanathan,” Édouard said in a tone at once forceful and bored, so unlike his normal speaking voice.
“Okay,” the woman said hesitantly. “Is she expecting you?”
“Sheshouldbe,” Édouard said, as if offended by the question. “I’m with Mulryan, Martineau, and Poore. I called ahead.”
This was a lie, but Édouard had warned her of the trick in advance. It gave the appearance of certainty and set the other party scrambling, afraid that something had fallen through the cracks on their end.
“I represent Whit Longacre and his late wife, Helen Albright Longacre,” Édouard went on, sliding a business card across the table. “The author ofthose,” he continued, pointing at the Greenwood Castle books displayed in the bookshelves across the room.
