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“Good. Most people touch it and make my ears hurt. Don’t look at it, don’t touch it, don’t think about it.” She stood. “As far as Griffin Cole is concerned, you’re a woman who wore a pretty brooch to lunch.”
“And as far as I’m concerned?”
She smiled again, wide. “As far as you’re concerned, sha, you’re a woman who is about to hand us a senator.” Her smile vanished. “Oh, and Mason is going to be there. Non-negotiable on his end, and apparently Kaz is indulging him.”
“I know.”
“He’s going to be with me. Which means he’s going to have to watch you be warm to Griffin Cole without doing anything about it, which is going to be—an exercise in self-control.” She tilted her head, assessing. “Does he have self-control?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll keep him busy.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You keep your hands off my man.”
“Oh, sha, I play for the other team, you don’t have to worry about me.”
Griffin orders for both of us.
Pretentious asshole.
He does it the way he always did—without asking, presenting it as a gift, the confidence of a man who believes that he knows what you want better than you do.
He orders the duck confit for him and the steak frites for me, and a bottle of Burgundy that I recognize as the one he orders when he’s trying to signal generosity without quite reaching extravagance.
Griffin talks through the first course.
He does this warmly, with the appearance of disclosure that never quite gets to the thing being disclosed. He tells me about the firm. About a case in Denver that went well. About the partners he’s been brought in to work with on western water rights matters, which he describes as fascinating from a jurisdictional standpoint, and which I allow to pass without comment.
I eat the steak. It’s very good.
And, I let him talk.
He gets to Wildflower Canyon on the second glass of Burgundy, which is earlier than I expected. He’s nervous. I can see it in the way he’s drinking—slightly faster than his usual performance of restraint.
“The Whitman matter.” He says it carefully, the way you say things you’ve practiced.
“Mm.”
“I’ve been looking at the filing history.” He leans forward slightly. “You’ve done extraordinary work, Taya. The supplemental brief on the historical use records—that was a significant piece of lawyering.”
I smile shyly. “Thank you.”
“The challenge, of course, is the position you’re in structurally. A solo practitioner against a firm with Aldridge’s resources, with a client who doesn’t have the financial runway for a prolonged fight.” He tilts his head. “I’m wondering if there’s a version of this that’s better for everyone.”
I lean closer as if I’m all ears. “Well, Griffin, you’ve always mentored me and guided me about such things. Tell me what version you’re thinking of.”
He tells me.
It’s a good offer. Better than the last one—significantly better. It tells me how frightened the other side is by exactly how much they’re willing to put on the table to make it so that Clara and her kids go away.
He also tells me—carefully, in the language of plausible deniability—that the people who want this resolved have significant resources and motivation, and that I should understand the full landscape I’m operating in and, that if I do, I’d benefit as well.
“Who are the people?” I ask wide-eyed.
He picks up his wine.
“Taya.” His tone has the warmth that used to work on me. It doesn’t anymore. I’ve had better.
