Benched Read online

  “I make a delicious jambalaya, if you think her stomach can handle it.”

  His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “That works, if it’s not too spicy. We went to New Orleans in July. She wanted to tour the mansions in the Garden District.”

  “I’ve never been.”

  “You two should go. I bet Genevieve would enjoy the jazz.”

  Victoria nodded, although the idea of traveling together as a couple seemed foreign to her. And not really something she even knew how to imagine. “I suppose she would.”

  “We don’t have plans for Thursday,” Alistair said.

  “We’ll be there at seven.” She probably should consult with Genevieve before making plans for her, but if Genevieve had another engagement, Victoria could bring over dinner by herself.

  Alistair studied his hands and sighed. Before she could inquire about his wife’s treatment, he held up his hand and shook his head. Evidently she wasn’t the only one struggling to discuss personal matters.

  “Well, I look forward to getting to know Genevieve better. Something tells me her energy will be great for Marcia.”

  She put her hand briefly on his knee and squeezed before changing the subject. They chatted about the summer tennis circuit for a while, but Alistair’s heart clearly wasn’t in it. As she left his office, she wished she’d been better at cheering him up. Maybe he was right—this was more Genevieve’s territory than hers.

  Chapter 4

  Genevieve’s leg bounced up and down underneath her desk at HER.

  “I’m sorry, Genevieve. I really didn’t think you’d mind this much.”

  “Tori, my schedule is hectic, and I don’t even control it—my secretary does. But that’s beside the point, really. People ask their partners before committing them to dinner plans. At least, they’re supposed to.”

  “I get it. But it hardly seemed kind to hit the pause button on my conversation with Alistair right after he’d revealed that Marcia has cancer, just so I could call you to compare calendars.”

  Genevieve squeezed her eyes shut. “Fine. You’re driving.”

  There was a pause, which probably meant Tori was biting back some response about how it made more logistical sense for Genevieve to drive.

  “Okay, fine,” Tori gave in. “I’m driving.”

  Genevieve’s bouncing grew more erratic, and her knee knocked into her desk. “So, what’d you talk about at work today?”

  Tori cleared her throat. “You mean besides my conversation with Alistair?”

  “Yes, besides that.”

  “Nothing I should really discuss with you.”

  “God, really? You’re honestly going to be so ridiculous about this that you won’t even admit this is happening?”

  “‘This’? What’s ‘this’?”

  “Please. Don’t play coy with me. That press release was all over the place today, and I’m sure you saw it. Archie Dalton and my case.”

  “Genevieve,” Tori said in a tone that made nails on a chalkboard sound like a symphony. “Let’s not—”

  She’d heard enough. “No, you’re right. Let’s not talk about the important things in our lives. What a silly notion I had. I’ll see you for dinner with Alistair. Pick me up at six.”

  Genevieve hung up the phone, instantly regretting how much of an ass she’d just been. But Tori’s vise grip on all significant events in their lives sometimes made her want to scream.

  She took a drink of the sparkling water Frank had put on her desk sometime during her afternoon barrage of phone calls. Well, at least Tori was finally willing to introduce her to Alistair. Considering how studiously Tori avoided any joint appearances outside of her house—and the very isolated pool at their gym—she was beginning to feel like a dirty little secret. Which was ridiculous, since thanks to that viral photo, everyone now knew what they looked like the moment before they kissed.

  Regardless, it was easier to focus on their dinner with Alistair and his wife than the fact that Archie Dalton had appealed her fucking case. What an asshole. What did he hope to accomplish by this? How on earth could he justify this appeal as a good use of his time, when he was ultimately fighting against a loving family like the ones he claimed to support? It was hypocrisy at its worst.

  All she could do was hope the Court would decline to hear arguments. She couldn’t even think about what she and Tori would do otherwise.

  She crossed her legs, and her foot swung left and right rapidly; she was grateful that her door was closed so Frank couldn’t tease her. But she was too antsy to sit still.

  Her e-mail dinged, and she clicked on it to discover an NCLR announcement of a press conference that afternoon. The e-mail blast didn’t explicitly say so, but they had clearly secured a new executive director. Well, good. Genevieve could gather her staff, and they could all watch the announcement together in the conference room. Maybe she could even order food. Mexican sounded delicious.

  Her phone rang.

  “A woman named Shadi from NCLR is on line three for you,” Frank said when she picked up.

  She clicked over. “Genevieve Fornier.”

  “Hi, Ms. Fornier. I’m an administrative assistant at NCLR. I’m sure you’re aware that we’re announcing our new executive director this afternoon. She would like you to be present at the press conference, standing next to her while she speaks.”

  Choking back a “really?” Genevieve cleared her throat and asked, “Where and when?”

  “Our offices on H Street at three o’clock, please. The conference room is on the eleventh floor.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Well, so much for bonding time with her staff. She’d just have to get fajitas for lunch and eat on her own.

  * * *

  The weather was nice, and NCLR’s offices weren’t far, so Genevieve walked. Since she’d be making an impromptu appearance, she was glad she’d worn a suit to the office, although she usually reserved her maroon one for days when she wasn’t going to be on camera.

  She was buzzed in and ushered to a conference room with a sleek glass podium and rows of chairs. A few cameramen were testing equipment, and assistants were flitting about. She set her briefcase down on a table in the corner and turned around to find Jamie Chance grinning at her.

  “Been a while, Genevieve. Whatever have you been keeping busy with?” He reinforced his suggestive tone with an eyebrow wiggle.

  She hit him softly before hugging him. “Nice to see you too.”

  “Any idea why they wanted us here?”

  “Our good looks?”

  He surveyed the room for a moment. “Well, we definitely up the hotness factor here.”

  “How was your summer?” she asked.

  He rolled his eyes. “There was a summer? I wouldn’t know. There is only work these days. There is no summer. There are no weekends. Hell, for all I know, there is no day and night.”

  “How you maintain such a grueling travel schedule with a little kid at home, I’ll never know.”

  “Oh, and your workload is a walk in the park? I get e-mails from you at one in the morning. You know, Genevieve, the marriage case was a big exception for me. I don’t litigate and administrate. And fundraise. Trying to do them all is just plain wacky.”

  “It is, but there’s this new case about an inmate in Michigan that I just can’t walk away from.” Genevieve ran her hand through her hair. “You’d think that since gay marriage is legal everywhere now, our jobs would get a little easier.”

  As if inspired by her gesture, Jamie ran his hand over his own bald head. “Yeah, well, that’s certainly what all of our supporters think. Our donations are down forty percent since the SCOTUS decision last year.”

  “Oh my God.” Genevieve struggled to think of something supportive to say.

  “‘Oh my God’ is right. We clearly need to work on our messaging, because we keep trying to tell people that the fight for LGBTQ rights is far from over. Especially for the T members of our community. But donors aren’t listening.”

  Casting around for what she hoped would be a happier subject, Genevieve asked, “Well, now that gay marriage is legal, when are you getting hitched? And do I get an invite?”

  He shrugged and dropped his eyes. “My partner doesn’t believe in marriage.”

  And Genevieve thought she had it bad, dating a woman who didn’t believe in holding hands in public. She gave a soft whistle.

  “You’re telling me,” Jamie said.

  Raising a child together seemed to go hand in hand with marriage, Genevieve mused, but she kept that observation to herself. Before she could change the subject, a commotion in the doorway had both of them directing their attention elsewhere.

  Amidst a sea of assistants walked one of the most attractive women Genevieve had ever seen. She wore a pinstriped black pantsuit, a low-cut cream-colored shell, and stilettos. It was obvious that she was NCLR’s new executive director, and Genevieve was instantly relieved: she looked like she could steer even the most rickety of ships through tumultuous storms.

  And it was also high time the organization appointed a person of color as executive director. Some of her lesbian friends had been frustrated that HRC beat NCLR on that front when Jamie became the first African American to head the organization since its inception. The fact that the two most prominent gay rights organizations in the country would now be helmed by black leaders was long overdue and absolutely important.

  While these thoughts were parading through her head, the new executive director strode to Jamie and shook his hand warmly. “Good to see you again, Jamie.”

  He seemed stunned. “And you,” he stammered, and Genevieve had never seen him so surprised.

  She turned to Genevieve and extended her hand. The moment their palms touched, Genevie
ve felt a surge of electricity move up her arm, through her neck, and into her mouth. She couldn’t remember the last time just shaking hands with someone made her think so forcefully about sex—maybe never.

  “Genevieve Fornier. I can’t believe we haven’t met before. I’m Penelope Sweet.”

  Her voice was like velvet, and despite her best efforts, Genevieve’s eyes dropped to her lips. Penelope’s eyes mirrored hers for a fraction of a section before she released Genevieve’s hand and took a step back.

  “I asked both of you here because our organizations have a history of competing and disagreeing, and I think we can do better. I know that Nicolette Ford had talked about holding check-in meetings with you two every few months. I propose we meet weekly, rotating locations between our three offices over lunch on Fridays. We will be most effective if we collaborate on strategy for existing and future cases, including who’s arguing which cases and even which cases to initiate. Gay marriage was only one front of a much larger war, and it’s a war that’s had too many casualties. It’s damn time we win and the other side surrenders.”

  Evidently, there was a new sheriff in town. Genevieve supposed this must be how Nic and Jamie had felt when she had taken over at HER. Though she gave Penelope points for style; there was something about her delivery that invited them both in and made them feel valued. The scolding she gave Nic and Jamie the first day they had worked together, when the two of them were more inclined to insult each other than collaborate, seemed miles away from this encounter.

  She was also acutely aware of her fajita breath.

  “So. What do you think?” Penelope asked. “If you’re on board, I’d like to announce this new collaboration as part of the press conference.”

  As far as being steamrolled went, this was actually rather enjoyable. A brief image of Penelope schooling opposing counsel in front of the Supreme Court flitted across her mind, and she smiled.

  Appreciation of Penelope’s forceful yet welcoming energy aside, Genevieve decided she had a bit of territory to reclaim here. “Welcome to the eye of the hurricane,” she told her, hoping to remind her new colleague that she’d been doing this a lot longer. “We’re glad to have you.”

  If Jamie resented that she spoke for him, he hid it well. “We’ll have to have some of these meetings via Skype—my schedule has me traveling a lot—but I’m on board.”

  When Penelope smiled, the atmosphere in the room seemed to relax.

  “Lovely. We’re agreed, then. Look, let’s go smile pretty for the cameras now, and afterward, I’d love to grab a drink with you two and get to know you. Are you free for happy hour today?”

  She and Jamie exchanged an incredulous look. Who in DC was free on such short notice? She and Jamie pulled out their phones. “I can move some things around,” Jamie said. “Let me call my secretary when the press conference is over.”

  Genevieve had a strategy session with the team litigating the Michigan case, two briefs for other cases that she wanted to review before they were filed with courts at the end of the business day, and a mentorship coffee date with the newest lawyer on HER’s staff. She looked back up at Penelope, who was watching her with an inscrutable look on her face. “I’ll make a few calls.”

  “There’s a gastropub between your office and mine,” Jamie told Penelope.

  There was something jarring about the image of Penelope, who had more Hollywood glamour than a person should be allowed, in a gastropub. But Penelope just smiled.

  “Delightful. Shall we say six o’clock?”

  The way Penelope strode to the front of the room was unnerving for a host of reasons, and Genevieve wasn’t about to stand there and figure them all out. She hurried after her.

  * * *

  The press conference was brief, and she and Jamie left when the formal announcement transitioned into a question-and-answer session. The first thing she did after exiting the doors of the building that housed NCLR was whip out her phone and Google Penelope Sweet.

  Sweet defied expectations on multiple levels. First, diplomats weren’t typically executive director material, and Sweet had spent the previous six years as the United States ambassador to France. That at least explained why she managed to win situations that didn’t feel like a competition and convince everyone in the room that they were happier for it. But it left open why a woman who had devoted her life to international law would suddenly want to focus on domestic civil rights issues. Or whether she was at all qualified to do so.

  But by the time Genevieve reached the door to her office, she had learned all of Penelope’s credentials and history; and she was certainly qualified for a lot of things: Yale Law, then the United Nations Rule of Law task force, working with its Office of the High Commission, for Human Rights and the Office of Legal Affairs. Most of her time had been spent in Africa, assisting fledgling governments draft their constitutions to protect human rights, particularly focusing on gay rights. She left the UN in 2005 to become a law professor at Université Paris 1 Panthéon-Sorbonne. Evidently, France agreed with her, and in 2009 she moved from the classroom to the embassy.

  All in all, Penelope Sweet had had an odd career trajectory, and with such an international resumé, she seemed an unlikely choice to succeed a woman who had devoted her life to expanding legal protection for LGBTQ citizens in US law.

  Her research generated more questions than answers, and Genevieve was looking forward to drinks for a number of reasons. When she arrived early at the pub Jamie recommended, the maître d’ of The Three Branches asked her, “Executive, legislative, or judicial?”

  She raised her eyebrows. Obviously annoyed that he was dealing with a newcomer, he rolled his eyes back at her. “Do you want to sit at the bar, at a table, or on the back patio?” he clarified.

  The polite thing to do would be to let Penelope, as the one who initiated this gathering, choose where they sat, but curiosity got the better of her. “Which one is judicial?”

  “Back patio. Everyone forgets it’s there.”

  Biting back a reply about how everyone wished they could forget the legislative branch, she went for the simpler, “Sounds fine. There are three of us.”

  The bar and the restaurant were packed; the crowd was mostly young and in suits, suggesting staffers from the Hill. Perhaps it was their naïve optimism that appealed to Jamie; most people who worked in the Beltway acquired a permanently hard-set jaw and a jaded attitude within two years. It was refreshing to see a slew of driven strategists still convinced they might make a difference.

  The patio was bricked and, Genevieve noted with amusement, had nine tables. She briefly scanned the tables to see if they were labeled with the names of the nine justices and was disappointed not to see a placard with Tori’s name on it—or any of the other justices. Only one table was occupied, and the man and woman seated there appeared to be on a date.

  “Anywhere you like,” the maître d’ said before he walked away. Genevieve chose a table as far away from the couple as possible and grabbed the drinks menu from the rack. It was extensive, featuring three pages for craft beers and about a dozen pages listing every cocktail she’d ever heard of—and even more she hadn’t—in chronological order by the date they were created. The wine offerings, listed on the last page, seemed pedestrian by comparison.

  Jamie was a beer guy, she knew from their many late nights working together last year. It was a good guess that a woman who had lived in France for years preferred wine. Since this meeting seemed as much about staking out each other’s territory as anything else, that left cocktails for her, so she settled on a Front Porch and closed the menu.

  Part of her was relieved when Jamie arrived first, and the other part had hoped for a minute or two alone with Penelope—for reasons she wasn’t about to examine.

  He sat down across from her and immediately leaned in close, as though the CIA might have bugged the table next to them. “What is NCLR thinking?”

  Glad her research had equipped her to respond to such a question, Genevieve said, “Maybe they think we can learn something here from human rights work abroad?”

  “Obviously, she’s got a brilliant legal mind,” he conceded. “But it’s been forever since she even lived in this country. We have such a patchwork of laws now that I’m sure she’s playing catch-up just getting the lay of the land.”