July 26, Sunday
ELAINE TRAVELS the way she does everything else: with maximum preparation, a rolling carry-on that costs more than my monthly car payment, and a running commentary on everything occurring within her line of sight. I'd barely made it out of the neighborhood before the interrogation commenced.
"Okay. Tell me everything about this jury duty business."
"I can't tell you much."
"Tell me what you can."
I told her what I could, which was, by design, not much—the structure of it, the sheer logistical scale of three weeks of questioning, the questionnaires, the way the pool had steadily narrowed until the remaining faces had become familiar.
I described the questions without the case. The process without the players.
Elaine listened with the focused attention she usually reserves for quarterly earnings reports. Then she said, "It's the Blackthorne thing, isn't it?"
"I can't confirm or deny—"
"Oh my God." She grabbed my arm. "Isabel."
"Elaine, I just said—"
"You didn't say anything. Your face said everything." She turned fully toward me in the passenger seat, which is how Elaine signals that she's arrived at the important part. "This is enormous! This is the trial of the decade! Do you know who this man is?"
"I can't discuss the case."
"You have to get on this jury!"
"I have no say so in the matter. It's up to the judge and the attorneys."
"Isabel." She was practically levitating. "Do you understand how incredible this would be? This is the most exciting thing that has ever happened to anyone in our family. Aunt Carol once sat next to a state senator on a plane, and we talked about that for years."
"I probably won't even be selected."
"But you might be."
"But I probably won't."
"You might, though."
I changed lanes. "It's been interesting," I admitted, because it had been and I was tired of pretending otherwise. "Getting out of the house every day. It's been—" I considered the word. "Clarifying."
Elaine tilted her head. "Clarifying how?"
"I don't know yet. I'll tell you when I figure it out."
She accepted this, then pivoted. "Have you met anyone interesting? Any cute guys in the jury pool?"
"It's a federal courthouse, Elaine. Not a mixer."
"That's not a no."
"That is absolutely a no."
Except that my face had apparently decided to editorialize independently, because even as I said it, something warm traveled from my memory directly to my cheekbones without stopping to ask permission. Dark eyes. A tilted corner of a mouth.
"Isabel Marie Good."
"Don't."
"Your ears are red."
"It's warm in the car."
"The air conditioning is on." She was grinning now. "Who is he?"
"There is no he. I'm not looking for anything. I am barely functional as a human being right now. The last thing I need—"
"I'm not talking about love," Elaine said. "I'm talking about something simpler and more therapeutic." She patted my arm with the authority of a woman who has never once second-guessed herself. "You need to get laid, Isabel."
"ELAINE."
She laughed and I was so mortified I nearly missed the airport exit.
I dropped her at Departures, waved off her still-grinning goodbye, and pulled back into traffic.
Elaine was ridiculous. She was completely, categorically ridiculous.
But somewhere on the drive home, I became aware of a low, persistent hum in a region of my consciousness that had been so quiet for so long I'd half-assumed the frequency no longer existed.
It did, apparently.
It very much did.