19   “I just heard from Jerry,” Diane said as I came through the door. “He says to tell you that he’ll be gone all morning, but he’ll be here by noon, and lunch is okay.” “Thanks, Diane,” I said. I walked into my office and turned my computer on. In my inbox there was a message from the software guy, telling me that he could come into the office at eleven, and would I please confirm by e-mail. I did so forthwith. He came in at eleven-fifteen, while I was working on the divorce papers of his friend the writer. “Sorry about the delay,” he said. “I was coming up from Cupertino, and there was a delay on one-oh-one.” “No problem,” I said. I explained to him the slight changes that had been made to the agreement, and he took no issue with them. “Would you like to take time to read over all the paperwork?” I asked. “Absolutely. In fact I’d like to take it out and read it in my car, all alone. Do you mind?” “Go ahead. Just be back by noon, or else after one.” “I think I’d rather take more time rather than less, so make it after one. I want to get it right this time.” “Of course,” I said. He got up and took a step toward the door, but stopped and turned to me. “Though, if truth be told,” he said, “it was the raw deal that I got on my first divorce that made me go out and work hard, and get to where I am now.” “So maybe, in retrospect, you got it right the first time.” “I guess so. Anyway, thanks for all your work, and I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” “Take your time,” I said. After he left, and while waiting for Jerry, I listened to a little more of the Roberts hearings. They were strikingly uninformative, with the nominee giving nonanswers to nonquestions. About two minutes into the break, Jerry knocked on my door and entered without waiting for me to answer. “Listening to the hearings?” he asked. “More like nonlistening to the nonhearings,” I said. Jerry laughed.   Over lunch at Pete’s I decided to wait with telling Jerry about my personal issues until after I had brought him up to date about Andy. “So he’s Saint Thomas, not Saint Andrew,” Jerry said. “Big deal. And if I meant it sarcastically when I said it, I withdraw the sarcasm.” I then told him about Andy and Libby. “Looks like I’ve lost my chance with her,” he said. “If you ever had one,” I said. Jerry laughed. “Except maybe as a lawyer,” I added. “I mean it. There’s a lot of real estate in the portfolio, some of which she’ll have to liquidate, and she might use your help. Are you going to be in tomorrow morning?” “For Libby? You bet.” “Okay, then I’ll introduce you. There, now that we’ve talked business, I can deduct this lunch.” We ate silently for a while, and then Jerry, after a long swig of his beer, asked, “But what did you really want to talk about?” “About woman,” I said. “Woman? A woman, or women?” “A little bit of both.” “Go on.” “First of all, I should confess that Libby has had an effect on me too. It’s not simply a matter of having the hots for her; it’s more like an obsession. It’s like… I feel like a mortal in the presence of a goddess.” “If you believe in goddesses, that’s part of your problem right there.” “I know. Of course, she’s a flesh-and-blood woman like any other.” “Only more so!” “But what’s happened is that she has affected the way I relate to women in general. One thing she did, which I think was positive, was to open my eyes to my relationship with Margo.” “You mean, to the way you’ve been manipulated all these years?” “You knew?” “For God’s sake, Gary, I’ve known her as long as you have.” “Almost.” “By a month. Anyway, even back at Boalt some of us used to call her Manipulatin’ Margo. But since you were comfortable with it, I never said anything about it.” “Thanks,” I said, not sure whether I meant it sarcastically or not. “But there’s more.” “Of course there is.” “I recently met a woman that I think I like, and I think she likes me. But having Libby on my mind has affected the way I’ve courted her.” “Courted her? Gary, you must be kidding!” “What do you mean?” “You’ve never courted a woman in your life, that I’ve seen. You’re a nice guy, fairly attractive, and fun to be with, so sometimes women fall into your lap, with no effort on your part, if they decide that that’s where they want to fall.” “Doesn’t that happen to you?” “I don’t let it. Even if a woman acts interested, I court her like an old-fashioned virgin. Believe me, in the end it’s much better that way. But you, my friend, very frankly, don’t know how to court a woman.” “I courted Margo, didn’t I? I mean,” I added, knowing full well that there was no courtship involved in our initial coupling, “when I got her to marry me.” “Gary, you didn’t court Margo. She was with me, just before she went off to Europe, when she decided that she wanted to get married, and when I asked her who, she said, ‘I’m not sure yet, but probably Gary.’ I was surprised and said ‘Gary!’ She said, ‘I think he’s got potential.’ After she came back she said, ‘I’ve decided on Gary.’ ‘So how are you going to go after him?’ I asked.” Jerry paused for effect. “What did she say?” “She said, ‘me, go after him? No, I’ll get him to go after me.’ That’s why you think you courted her.” “Manipulatin’ Margo!” I said. “But tell me, why were you surprised when she said my name?” “I just didn’t think you were ready for marriage. I mean, we were all, like, twenty-three, and I sure as hell wasn’t ready.” “Were you ever?” “No, but at that time I thought that some day I would be, just not then yet. For a girl it was different, even a liberated girl like Margo. Her sisters had been married by twenty-two.” “Margo made a big point of that, that she wasn’t like them. That’s why she went to Mills, not Stanford.” “Yes, so she waited till she was twenty-three or twenty-four.” Jerry laughed again. “By the way,” I said when the laughter ended, “when you said that Margo was with you, do you mean…” “Yes. You knew about me and her, didn’t you?” “Of course I did. And about all the others.” “All the others?” “Yes. She told me that there were lots of others.” “That’s what she wanted you to believe. Actually there were a few, maybe two besides you and me.” I didn’t know what to say. “Anyway,” Jerry said, “just so you get your money’s worth out of the lunch that you’re buying me, let’s get back to this new woman. Let’s give her a name…” “Her name is Chris.” “Okay. Chris. So you think that you messed up your courtship of Chris because you had Libby on your mind.” “Precisely.” “So having Libby on your mind prevented you from making Chris feel that she’s special…” “In a way.” “From bringing her flowers, from making up a special name for her, from kissing her hand…” “I don’t know.” “That’s quite a progression, from precisely to in a way to I don’t know. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?” “Yes, O wise man. And I humbly thank you for your generous teachings.” Jerry smiled to show me that he knew that, despite my facetious tone, I was sincere. “So what do you think of Roberts?” he asked. “I’m scared,” I said. “Check, please!” I said to the waitress.   In the afternoon I finished preparing the draft of the Qualified Domestic Relations Order for the retired professor’s second wife. The next step, I knew, was to contact Margo, who presumably was doing the same thing for the first wife, and iron out the differences. The sobriquet Manipulatin’ Margo was going through my mind, with a ta-DA-ta-DA-ta-DA-DA rhythm that soon began to acquire a melody, and it tried to turn into a song. But what rhymes with Margo? Cargo, largo, embargo… My mind went on to other thoughts, and specifically to my upcoming dinner with Andy and Libby. I would call Margo tomorrow afternoon, my mind decided, after the work with Libby was done.   It took me less time than I had expected to get to the restaurant and find a parking space around the corner, and I was at the table – beside the street-side window – reserved for Andy Stone at five minutes to seven. It was five past seven when, as I was reading the menu, I heard loud voices just outside, and realized that they belonged to Andy and Libby, though I had never before heard them raise their voices. But they quickly reached a diminuendo, and all was quiet when they came into the restaurant. When they saw me, smiles appeared on their beautiful faces. They did not look at each other, and they were not holding hands. I would be polite, I decided, and I would not ask them if they had had a spat. But my decision proved moot. “We just had a fight,” Andy said, half cheerfully. “Our first in thirteen years.” “It was just as stupid now as they were then,” Libby muttered. “Is it settled?” I asked. “Yes” and “No,” said Andy and Libby, respectively and simultaneously. Andy laughed; Libby did not. “Do you need some time to work it out?” “There’s nothing to work out,” Andy said. “At least, not in the short run.” He looked at Libby at last, and she smiled as though involuntarily. “Shall we sit down?” he asked her. She did not answer, but sat down facing me, and he sat beside her. A noticeable distance remained between them. It had been five days since I, too, was in a verbal date fight in a restaurant. I was curious about how my young friends would resolve theirs, as I was sure they would. It turned out to be not so much a resolution as a dissolution. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, as the dinner and the conversation wore on, the ice wall that separated them at their entrance melted and evaporated. After a while they no longer stopped their arms from brushing against each other and, by and by, from folding about each other’s backs. They were in love, still in love or again in love, after all these years, with their first loves. An old Argentine tango has the line siempre se vuelve al primer amor, for which on a song-translation website I once found the translation (which I needed, strangely enough, in a divorce case) first love makes one always come back again, a version that is not too literal but that rhymes, more or less, with pain, just as amor rhymes with dolor. After a while the warmth that emanated from them engulfed me so that I, too, felt myself to be in love, inside love, inside the mystical substance of love, without feeling that I was in love with anyone. It was only when dinner was over and the waitress brought the check, which Andy imperiously grabbed, that the cold front returned. I surmised that the spat might have been over the detail of who would pick up the check on this, the last night before Libby was to become a multimillionaire. “Thanks for a wonderful dinner,” I said, addressing Andy but not showing it overtly. I then reminded Libby that we had a big day on the morrow: a trip to the Courthouse to receive the decree, and introductions to Jerry Brucker, Paul Stevens and Walter Cantelli for help on matters relating to the estate. “I’ll be there,” she said under her breath, with a sideways glance at Andy that bore the barest hint of a smile.   Jerry proved surprisingly restrained and businesslike in Libby’s presence; it was as if that presence – in a high-necked but very tight-fitting blue dress – was too much even for him. After a somewhat stiff handshake of introduction, he limited himself to reviewing the real-estate portion of the schedule of assets that Paul, with the help of an appraiser who was an associate of his, had prepared, and recommending which properties were the ripest for liquidation in order to meet Libby’s need for cash, primarily to meet her estate-tax obligation and secondarily for fees – including mine – and her personal needs. Jerry expressed his opinion that the current bubble was peaking, and that the properties to unload should be the residential ones, including, first and foremost, Peter’s spacious house, while the commercial ones ought to be kept. Libby thanked Jerry for his advice and promised that she would retain him as a consultant. “So that’s the famous Jerry Brucker!” she said after Jerry went back to his office. “You know about him?” “Remember the time I had lunch with Diane and Felicia, after my first appointment?” Of course I remembered, though I had not known that the name of the broker who had just come out of Jerry’s office was Felicia. “Yes, of course,” I said. “He really is sweet, just as they said.” What it is about Jerry that women find sweet remained a mystery to me. “And very smart.” “I’m sure of that,” Libby said with a smile. Libby’s smile: that’s what’s sweet, I said to myself. At the Courthouse, George Mandros’ secretary had a stack of copies of the decree, all certified, ready for us. George was busy, so that we did not get a chance to thank him in person. We next went downtown, where Walter Cantelli waited for us in his office. I gave him a copy of the decree, and he in turn brought out a sheaf of papers that Libby was to sign in order to become the owner of those of Peter’s assets that were his sole property, while relinquishing the others to the Randall Museum Association and to Thomas Anderson Stone, respectively. We had lunch in a restaurant on Maiden Lane, and I let Libby pick up the check. Lastly, we went to visit Paul Stevens in his office. Paul showed Libby a draft of the Form 706 that he had begun to prepare, but they agreed that more time would be needed to go over the entire forty-page form and the thirty pages of instructions. Paul explained that they had until the following May to file the form and pay the tax, but Libby expressed the feeling that the sooner the better. “I hope you can manage without me for the next week,” I said. “I’m going to Hawaii tomorrow.” I vaguely remembered having told Andy and Libby about my upcoming trip over dinner, but I did not recall having told Paul. “We’ll just have to muddle along,” Paul said. “I like muddling,” Libby said in a way that made Paul and me laugh.   Back at the office, after Libby had left, I finally called Margo. Of course she didn’t answer, and I left a message saying that we needed to coordinate our clients’ QDROs, but that I would be gone on vacation from tomorrow until the end of next week. She called late in the afternoon. I did not pick up, but listened to her message. She had not begun working on her client’s QDRO yet, but she would do so next week, and we could get together the following week. “Have a nice vacation!” she concluded. What kind of vacation would it be? I asked myself while driving home. Other than some hiking, ocean swimming and snorkeling, I did not think of much to do on the Big Island. I don’t play golf or tennis, and I had no interest in visiting any of the observatories on Mauna Kea. What, then, would I do during my free hours? Providentially, at the very moment the question was going through my mind, I passed near Office Depot. Of course: I would buy myself an ultra-lightweight laptop computer, take it with me, and, by expanding on the notes and snippets of dialogue that I had scribbled, begin to write a narrative – a kind of retroactive journal – of everything that had happened over the month that had passed since Peter Hart’s death. I parked, went inside the store, and found a salesman. I told him what I needed. “Is price an object?” he asked. “No,” I said, surprising myself by how spontaneously I blurted it out. “Then I would recommend a ThinkPad. They used to be made by IBM, but now they’re made by Lenovo, and this new model X41 is spectacular. Less than three pounds, and fully loaded, except for an optical drive. But it’s around two thousand dollars.” “You mean a CD drive?” I asked. “That’s right, but there’s a memory-card slot,” he said. “You can get a memory card that holds one or two gigabytes, more than a CD would.” “I’ll take it,” I said, knowing that when my credit-card bill came due, a significant part of my fee from the Peter Hart estate would have been paid.