She huffs, glancing away. “You think so, do you?”
“Trust me.”
A warm breeze ruffles her shiny locks, and she glances back at me as she brushes a wayward strand from her bright blue eyes.
“Get in. Let me explain. If you still don’t trust me, fine. I’ll leave here and you can designate a new conservator. No skin off my back. But I’ll be damned if I sat here all damn Saturday just to drive away without so much as defending myself.”
After an excruciating bout of deliberation and drawn out silence, Serena glances at her feet.
“I’m in house slippers,” she says. “I’m not dressed for a drive.”
“How exactly does a person dress for a drive?” I wink, and she fights a smile something fierce. “Come on, climb in. I’ll explain everything . . . after I eat.”
I place the cloche on the dash and peel at a plastic-wrapped fork. I’m not sure what this is, but it smells divine, and it’s a hell of a lot better than anything I could’ve picked up from a gas station in town.
Serena climbs in, and I spot her nonchalantly scanning her surroundings. Fortunately, I had the wherewithal earlier to shove the magazine under the passenger seat. Out of sight is where that thing belongs.
“I’m a slow eater,” I say. “My apologies. I prefer to savor my meals, and a dish like this is worth savoring.”
Her long legs cross, and she tucks her fingers between them. “By all means. Enjoy, counselor.”
By the time I’m finished, I set the dishes along the center console and start my engine.
“Anywhere special you’d like to go?” I ask.
Her face lights, and her eyes hone in on the colorful screen centered in my dash as I configure the GPS. A second later, I shift into overdrive, and Serena shakes her head.
“Just drive.” She bounces impatiently. “Just . . . get me out of here.”
We pull out onto a narrow paved road lined in oaks and head west on a remote highway. New York is gorgeous in the springtime, with all the trees and winding hills, and I hope our little excursion will bring her a sense of calm, if nothing else.
“So.” I clear my throat, prepared to defend myself in the case of the Us Weekly. “The magazine.”
Serena’s gaze snaps toward me. “Yes, counselor. I’m all ears.”
“When I’d asked you about your past yesterday, you shut me down. I assumed it was a source of emotional trauma for you, and not wanting to cause you anymore undue emotional distress, I did a bit of internet research, trying to piece together what I could.”
Her mouth falls, but I cut her off.
“Wait. I’m not done,” I say. “When I was finished in the office, I went to my sister’s house for a visit and she was reading that garbage. As soon as I saw your picture on the cover, I felt that, as your attorney, I needed to know what was being said.”
“But it’s all lies.”
“Exactly. I’m well aware of that, Serena. But as any good attorney knows, the lies being told about you are just as important as the truth. Lies lose cases. Lies ruin lives.”
She huffs, staring ahead. “You can say that again.”
“So rest assured, I was not the least bit entertained by that trashy piece of fiction.”
Serena turns to me, her expression softening when I meet her stare. She tucks a strand of fiery hair behind an emerald-studded ear.
“Thank you, Derek. I appreciate that. I haven’t so much as looked at a tabloid or read a gossip blog since before everything went down. I prefer not to know what people are saying about me. I think I’d fall apart if I read it all. The way I used to.”
“Wise woman.” I turn down another road that leads up a windy hill covered in trees and little houses all tucked away. It’s getting darker now, the hint of a twilight sunset filling the skyline. “My father always said, what other people think of us is none of our business.”
Serena politely simpers. “It’s probably easier to live by those words when you’re not a public figure.”
“True.”
“Regardless, avoiding all those nasty articles has been a breath of fresh air. Back in the city, people don’t think twice about telling you what’s being said. They think they’re doing you a favor, but they’re just doing it for the reaction.” She glances down at her bare nails, and I imagine a woman like her isn’t used to seeing them so plain.
“Absolutely.”
“God, I’d love a manicure.” She holds a hand before her face. “I miss them. It’s amazing how the perfect shade of polish can be enough to brighten your day.”
“We’ll make sure there’s plenty of room in your budget for regular manicures and pedicures.” My ex-wife was a fiend for them, though I don’t bring her up. Most of the time, I pretend she doesn’t exist, and then my dreams are crushed when I pick up Haven every other Friday and see she’s alive and well, living the American dream with husband number two.
“I’m not superficial,” she qualifies her request. “Or vain.”
“That thought didn’t cross my mind once.”
“I was just raised to take care of myself. To take pride in the way I’m presented to the world.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Sometimes, I wish I didn’t care. I bet I could spend days lounging in sweatpants and a ponytail.”