The Better Sister - Alafair Burke Page 0,14

coats of polish on a discount mani-pedi. As I reread the article while drifting in and out of sleep, I told him again how proud I was of him. The way I remembered it, he pulled me into the crook of his arm and said something about those kinds of cases making it all worthwhile. He asked me whether it bothered me that he was still working for a government salary, when many of his colleagues had upgraded their lifestyles in the private sector.

And the way I remember it, I told him that of course I wasn’t bothered. I said something like, “I mean, you could always do the partnership thing at a big law firm if you wanted to, but you love your job. It’s what you do.”

My response was “so Chloe,” he said. When I asked him why, he quoted my words back to me. “‘You can always do the partnership thing,’ like it’s a given. And of course it would be for you . . . if you were a lawyer, because you’re Chloe. I love it that you have that kind of faith in me.” I remember he kissed me, in a sweet way, not sexy. On top of my head.

I told him it wasn’t about faith. It was simply a fact. I said he was the best lawyer in the Southern District, which made him one of the best lawyers in the world. I told him that any law firm would be thrilled to have him.

And then he told me all the reasons it would never be that simple, because the world wasn’t as fair as I thought it was. That, with my prodding, he may have talked his way into the US Attorney’s Office by pulling at a hiring committee’s guilt about always hiring from the same pedigree pool, but he’d never be good enough for the white-shoe law firm crowd. “They let guys like me do the public service work. We don’t get to be partners in big law.”

Not wanting to hear him run himself down that way, I said something like, “Wanna bet? Just make a few calls.” And the next day, I made one of the calls for him—to my friend and lawyer, Bill Braddock.

That’s the way I remembered it happening, at least.

I hadn’t realized until the month before—when I finally asked Adam if he felt any resentment about the way my career was blowing up—that he recalled the conversation and what happened afterward differently. He had never been the one who cared about money, he reminded me. It was me who had pressured him to leave a job he had loved, all “to fit some idea of who your husband is supposed to be.”

He had “sold out to the man,” as he called it, by joining Rives & Braddock. And he hated it. Every day, I could see how much he hated answering to a client. He wanted to be one of the good guys again. But instead, he hated his job, and he blamed me for it. And despite the compromise he had made, I still managed to earn more money than he did.

Now, as I lifted my leg from Adam’s thigh and prepared to slip out of bed, I replayed that history in the face of Adam’s comment about my wanting to be first lady. The last thing I wanted was to start another round of backhanded resentment bingo.

“I don’t think we need another celebrity running for president, thank you very much. On another note, thank you again for making it in time for my speech. It wouldn’t have been the same without you there.”

“I think I nearly gave the driver a stroke on the way in from JFK, bird-dogging for any empty pockets on the LIE.” I always teased Adam that he drove like a bank robber. “Hopefully the tip I gave him will keep him from destroying my Uber rating.”

“Speaking of the LIE,” I said, “what time do you think you can leave today?”

We hadn’t been to the house in East Hampton for three full weeks, and the weather forecast looked glorious—almost as warm as summer, without the post–Memorial Day crowds. I even had our pool opened early for the occasion.

“Bad news. Part of the reason I was able to make it last night was that the Gentry people decided we had more work to do and decided to stay over another day. I have to go back to their hotel in an hour. I’ll just