Hold Tight

Hester shook her head. “There’s more.”

“I’m not following.”

Hester sat down at her desk chair. She signaled for Tia to do the same. “You want me to elaborate again?”

“Okay.”

“You chose this firm because it is run by a feminist. You figured that I’d understand why you’d take years off to raise your kids.”

Tia said nothing.

“That about right?”

“To some degree.”

“But see, feminism isn’t about helping a fellow sister. It’s about an equal playing field. It’s about giving women choices, not guarantees.”

Tia waited.

“You chose motherhood. That shouldn’t punish you. But it shouldn’t make you special either. You lost those years in terms of work. You got out of line. You don’t just get to cut back in. Equal playing field. So if a guy took off work to raise his kids, he’d be treated the same. You see?”

Tia made a noncommittal gesture.

“You said you admire my work,” Hester went on.

“Yes.”

“I chose not to have a family. Do you admire that?”

“I don’t think it’s a question of admiration or not.”

“Precisely. And it’s the same with your choice. I chose career. I didn’t get out of that line. So law-career-wise, I’m in the front now. But at the end of the day, I don’t get to go home to the handsome doctor and the picket fence and the two-point-four kids. You understand what I’m saying?”

“I do.”

“Wonderful.” Hester’s nostrils flared as she turned the famed glare up a notch. “So when you’re sitting in this office—in my office—your thoughts are all about me, how to please and serve me, not what you’re going to make for dinner or whether your kid will be late for soccer practice. You follow?”

Tia wanted to protest but the tone didn’t leave much room for debate. “I follow.”

“Good.”

The phone rang. Hester picked it up. “What?” Pause. “That moron. I told him to shut his mouth.” Hester spun the chair away. That was Tia’s cue. She rose and headed out, wishing like hell she was only worried about something as inane as dinner or soccer practice.

In the corridor she stopped and took out her mobile phone. She stuck the file under her arm, and even after Hester’s scolding, her mind went straight back to the e-mail message in the E-SpyRight report.

The reports were often so long—Adam surfed a lot and visited so many sites, so many “friends” on places like MySpace and Facebook—that the printouts were ridiculously voluminous. For the most part she skimmed them now, as though that also made it somehow less an invasion of privacy, when in truth, she couldn’t stand knowing so much.

She hurried back to her desk. The requisite family photograph was on her desk. The four of them—Mike, Jill, Tia and, of course, Adam, in one of the few moments he would grant them an audience—out on the front stoop. All of the smiles looked forced, but this picture brought her such comfort.

She pulled out the E-SpyRight report and found the e-mail that had startled her so. She read it again. It hadn’t changed. She thought about what to do and realized that it wasn’t her decision alone.

Tia took out her cell phone and put in Mike’s number. Then she typed out the text and hit SEND.

MIKE was still wearing his ice skates when the text came in.

“That Handcuffs?” Mo asked.

Mo had already taken off the skates. The locker room, like all hockey locker rooms, stunk horribly. The problem was that the sweat got into all the pads. A big oscillating fan swayed back and forth. It didn’t help much. The hockey players never noticed. A stranger would have entered and nearly passed out from the stench.

Mike looked at his wife’s phone number.

“Yup.”

“God, you are so whipped.”

“Yeah,” Mike said. “She texted me. Totally whipped.”

Mo made a face. Mike and Mo had been friends since their Dartmouth days. They’d played on the hockey team there—Mike the leading scorer at left wing, Mo the tough goon at defenseman. Nearly a quarter century after graduating—Mike now the transplant surgeon, Mo doing murky work for the Central Intelligence Agency—they still played those roles.

The other guys removed their pads gingerly. They were all getting older and hockey was a young man’s game.

“She knows this is your hockey time, right?”

“Right.”

“So she should know better.”

“It’s just a text, Mo.”

“You bust your balls at the hospital all week,” he said, with that small smile that never let you know for sure if he was kidding or not. “This is hockey time, sacred time. She should know that by now.”

Mo had been there on that cold winter day when Mike first saw Tia. Actually, Mo had seen her first. They’d been playing the home opener against Yale. Mike and Mo were both juniors. Tia had been in the stands. During the pregame warm-up—the part where you skate in a circle and stretch—Mo had elbowed him and nodded toward where Tia sat and said, “Nice sweater puppies.”

That was how it began.

Mo had a theory that all women would go for either Mike or, well, him. Mo got the ones attracted to the bad boy while Mike took the girls who saw picket fences in his baby blues. So in the third period, with Dartmouth comfortably ahead, Mo picked a fight and beat the hell out of someone on Yale. As he punched the guy out, he turned and winked at Tia and gauged her reaction.

The refs broke up the fight. As Mo skated into the penalty box, he leaned toward Mike and said, “Yours.”

Prophetic words. They met up at a party after the game. Tia had come with a senior, but she had no interest. They talked about their pasts. He told her right away that he wanted to be a doctor and she wanted to know when he first knew.

“Seems like always,” he’d answered.

Tia wouldn’t accept that answer. She dug harder, which he’d soon learn was always her way. Eventually he surprised himself by telling her how he had been a sickly kid and how doctors became his heroes. She listened in a way no one else ever had or would. They didn’t so much start a relationship as plunge into it. They ate together in the cafeteria. They studied together at night. Mike would bring her wine and candles to the library.

“Do you mind if I read her text?” Mike said.

“She’s such a pain in the ass.”