The Devil's Interval by Linda Peterson

think Maggie Fiori would say no to Ivory. His mom’s the one who taught him how to be still. Just listen. When women start talking, they’re always checking to see if you’re really listening. Grace believed he was listening. That’s why she told him all that crazy stuff about her own mother. Weird that it was his mother he channeled to make it okay for Grace to tell him her stories .
    â€œSecret weapon, Mom,” he whispered. “Always.”

CHAPTER 9
    F ree for lunch?” I asked when Michael answered his phone at work. “I’m in the neighborhood.”
    â€œSure,” he said, “but I’m crammed. Can you grab something and bring it here? We can eat in my office.”
    I arrived at the law firm’s minimalist white-on-gray lobby with a brown paper sack, holding turkey-on-rye for me and pastrami-on-rye for Michael. The latest in a series of pretty, young receptionists sitting behind a polished gray stone counter waved me toward Michael’s office.
    She gestured at the bag, “You’re leaking a little.”
    â€œSorry,” I called, as I headed down the hall, holding my hand underneath the bag to capture the drips. “Remind Michael he’s got a meeting in the conference room at 1,” she called back.
    Michael’s door was closed. I knocked, called “Michael, it’s me” and walked in.
    He was behind the desk, listening to a guy on the other end of the speakerphone, and impatiently made a “trying to wrap it up” gesture to me. I sat at the table, and swiped at my fingers with a few napkins. He waved me over and patted his lap. Licking the last drips of mustard and mayo off my fingers, I walked behind his desk. The vertical shades were closed, and I reached for the cords to pull them open. Michael leaned backward, and in one swift motion, slapped my hand, and pulled me onto his lap.
    â€œUh-huh,” he said, with his hand on the back of my neck,inclined just slightly to the speakerphone.
    â€œWell, listen,” he said, “I think we have a plan. Let’s get the international folks to look at the unitrust situation, and I’ll get back to you. Oh, wait!”
    â€œWait? For what?” asked the voice coming out of the speakerphone.
    â€œOh,” said Michael, a little breathlessly, as I found something to do with my still-mayo-sticky fingers. “Sorry, I was distracted. I’ve got somebody in here—uh, looking at the heating system.”
    We never unwrapped those sandwiches.
    Later that afternoon, back in my office, Michael called.
    â€œHi, honey,” I said. “How’s the heating system holding up?”
    â€œJust fine,” he said. “I think it’s performing very well, thank you. So, even without any bondage, rank the surprise factor for me.”
    â€œOh, you boys are so competitive,” I said. “But I’d give you a perfect ten—though it was a little nerve-racking since we never got around to locking the door.”
    â€œAnd yet another opportunity for a surprise,” said Michael. “Give me a ten-plus.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “It was fun. But we never got to the postcoital bliss in which I wanted to discuss something with you.”
    â€œWhy do I feel that bliss slipping away?”
    â€œSo, here’s the thing. I want to be on the up-and-up with you.”
    â€œHow refreshing,” he said.
    I described my visit to The Devil’s Interval, and the story we talked about for Small Town . “Death of a Socialite?” he asked. “Boy, does that sound cheesy.”
    â€œTo you, maybe. Our readers will lap it up,” I said. “And it accomplishes several goals—we may turn up something useful for Isabella, we’ll get a good story, I’ll have done something for Ivory, who honest-to-God, if you met her, Michael, you’d do the same thing. She broke my heart.”
    Silence.
    â€œImagine if it were