I give him a strained smile. “I need to know where I can find Mrs. Jameson. ”
After a little more fumbling, some of it coming dangerously close to bowing and scraping, the man points me toward the stairs, tells me to go up to the third floor and take a left.
The door to Victoria Jameson’s office is open and I can hear voices coming from inside. I stop outside the doorway and wait for someone to notice me, hesitant to interrupt. There is a man and woman in the room, the woman standing behind the desk and the man sitting in the chair facing her.
“No,” the woman is saying, “she was put out last time. But her parents won’t stop shouting about it. President Lattimer wants it taken care of. ”
“Okay,” the man says. “So one more warning?” He shifts forward. “If that doesn’t work, then we charge them with disturbing the peace and—” He breaks off when he catches sight of me in the doorway.
“Can we help you?” he asks, voice brisk.
“Ivy?” the woman asks. I nod. “Is it okay if I call you Ivy?”
“Sure. ” It’s a relief to escape from being Mrs. Lattimer.
She comes around the desk, hand extended. “I’m Victoria Jameson. ” She motions to the man. “And this is Jack Stewart. ”
As we all exchange handshakes, I take the chance to study Victoria. She’s in her mid-thirties, I’d guess, with cocoa-colored skin and curly hair that falls to the middle of her neck. A pair of glasses is perched on top of her head, and gold hoops swing from her ears. She has a no-nonsense air about her, but her smile is friendly.
“We can continue this discussion later,” Jack tells Victoria. He gives me a nod and closes the door on his way out.
“So,” Victoria says, taking her chair again behind the desk and pointing me to the one Jack vacated, “you’re Bishop’s wife. ”
“Yes. ”
“And you want a job. ”
“Yes. ”
I wait for her to purse her lips or give me a disapproving look, but she grins. “I think that’s great! I’ve never been a big fan of the sit-at-home-and-pop-out-babies route. Especially when you’re only sixteen. ”
“Me neither,” I say, and she laughs. “What about you?” I ask. “How did you end up working here?” It’s unusual for a woman of child-bearing age to work, especially in the courthouse.
“My father used to be a judge,” Victoria says. “I grew up wanting to roam these halls. ”
“Do you have kids?” She probably doesn’t, if she’s working here.
A shadow crosses Victoria’s face and she looks away, out the window overlooking the street. “I never had children,” she says quietly. There is something more than sadness, than disappointment, in her voice. Shame, maybe? Which makes me doubt her earlier easy words about popping out babies.
“Okay,” Victoria says, back to business. “I’m in charge of the judges’ schedules, calendars, dockets, pretty much anything they need to keep both courtrooms running. Plus all the filing and paperwork. There’s always too much work for one person, which is where you’ll come in. ”
I still don’t have a good idea of what I’ll actually be doing day-to-day, but it hardly matters. I remember the guards by the front doors, the guns in their holsters, and know I’m in the right place. My father will be pleased.
On Friday of my first week of work, I wake early and hop in the shower while Bishop eats breakfast. Victoria asked me to come in before nine so we could get a courtroom set up for trial, and I don’t want to be late. As I’m getting dressed, I hear Bishop starting his own shower, and I wait impatiently until he’s finished before heading back to the bathroom to brush my teeth. “Oh, sorry,” I say, brought up short in the doorway. “I thought you were done. ”
Bishop looks at me, the lower half of his face covered in lather, a razor in his hand. He is wrapped in a towel at his waist and nothing else, showing off the lean muscles of his stomach. His dark hair is slicked back with water, his bare chest as smooth and golden as the rest of him. He has a tiny, pale brown birthmark just beneath his ribs. I don’t know what to do with my eyes, can’t find any safe spot for them to settle. “It’s fine,” he says. “There’s room. ”
There’s really not, but I sidle in next to him and he moves back a step to make space for me in front of the small mirror. It’s so quiet as I put toothpaste on my toothbrush that I can hear the drag of his razor against his skin. The bathroom smells of soap and mint and something fundamentally male that makes my neck flush with heat.
I keep my eyes on my toothbrush and then on the sink as I brush. But after I wipe my mouth and straighten up, my gaze catches Bishop’s in the mirror. We stare at each other, and my whole body tingles with awareness. I try to think what a wife would do in this situation, but I don’t have a lot to go on considering I grew up in a house without a mother. Before I can second-guess myself, I turn and plant a quick kiss on his bare shoulder. “Thanks for sharing,” I tell him. My heart is trying to beat its way out of my body and my lips burn where they met his warm skin.
I risk a look up at Bishop, preparing myself for what might come next. He is my husband and there are only a few strips of cloth separating us. This may be the moment when he is no longer content to wait. The thought sends both fear and a strange buzzing heat through my chest. But Bishop only stares at me, then barks out a laugh—not a very nice one. He wipes the last remnant of shaving cream off his face with a hand towel.
“What?” I demand, humiliation painting my cheeks red. “Why are you laughing?”
He pushes out of the bathroom ahead of me, and I follow behind him to the bedroom. His hand falls to his waist and he glances at me over his shoulder. “Fair warning,” he says, “I’m about to drop this towel. ”
I whirl around and step out into the hall. Behind me, I hear the towel hit the floor, the sound of clothes rustling. When Bishop emerges, he’s wearing shorts and pulling a T-shirt down over his flat stomach. “You didn’t answer me,” I remind him. “What was so funny?”