The Child Comes First by Elizabeth Ashtree Page B

her situation in perspective,” Marla said. “How’s that attorney you got for her? Is he as pompous as he always seemed when he was winning all those criminal cases?”
    Jayda hid her surprise. Simon wasn’t pompous—far from it. He was nice. A guy who loved his mother and cared about his clients. Maybe a little arrogant, but no more than you’d expect from any trial lawyer. “He’s not that bad,” she said casually. “He’s taking Tiffany’s case seriously and that’s all I really need from him.”
    â€œWell, that’s good.” Marla paused as they were about to leave the building. “Do not fall for that guy.”
    Jayda froze. “What makes you say that?” she asked.
    Marla shrugged. “Because I can’t help noticing how long it’s been since you’ve gone out with someone. We’ve noted before that Montgomery is a handsome guy. You’re human, and it’s clearly been awhile since you got yourself some good…Well, you know what I mean. You might be vulnerable to his wiles.”
    Jayda laughed. “His wiles?”
    Marla laughed, as well. As they got to the parking lot, she shook her index finger at Jayda playfully. “You know what I mean. And if you don’t right now, you will soon enough. Simon Montgomery has a reputation. Be careful.” With that warning, Marla walked off toward her car.
    Too late.
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    H E’D CALLED HER AT HOME and he’d called her at work. Twice each. He’d wanted to reach her before he left for the airport. Glen Boyden had asked Simon to take personal charge of the interviews for Craig Dremmel’s upcoming trial. He hated to stall Tiffany’s case to make the time for this trip, but there’d been no real choice. Dremmel was a paying customer.
    Jayda hadn’t answered her phone or returned his messages. He logged on and sent her an e-mail, explaining where he’d be staying in Boston and telling her that he’d call her again when he got back to Baltimore. In frustration and annoyance, he packed for the trip. Then he went out for a walk around the block, even though it was the middle of the night. On his way back inside, he stopped at his car and retrieved Tiffany’s picture. He brought it into his impersonal condo, dug through a desk drawer until he found a roll of tape and positioned the drawing on his stainless-steel sub-zero refrigerator. It was a little crooked and that made him smile. Maybe now he’d be able to sleep.
    The bed looked lonely and he had the oddest yearning for the room he’d been sleeping in at his mother’s house, the one he’d grown up in with the narrow single bed. Not once since he’d left Ellicott City for college had he felt a single pang of homesickness. Until now. What the hell was wrong with him? He thought about taking his temperature—maybe he really did have the flu. But he didn’t own a thermometer.
    Hot tea. That’s what his mom had always given him to stave off insomnia during his teenage years. Celestial Seasoning’s Sleepytime. He wondered if he had any of the stuff in those $20,000 custom cabinets his interior designer had talked him into because “they were the only ones worthy of such an amazing kitchen.”
    When he looked, he found a small, dog-eared box stashed in the back, probably given to him by his mom. It was sitting forlornly behind a coffee grinder and a lone box of granola. He lifted it out, and for the first time in this grand condo he bypassed the complicated coffeemaker, boiled water, and made himself some Sleepytime Tea. As he sat on a stool at the granite breakfast bar, the aroma reminded him of home. They should use this scent for air freshener or something, so that people could have that homey smell all the time. He breathed in deeply and thought about his life, about his mom, about Tiffany. And he thought about Jayda.
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    W HEN HE FLEW BACK TO