Page 34 of The Holy Grail
His comment was made evenly enough, but she detected a trace of scorn as well. “So, what kind of law do you practice, if you’re not involved with your family’s firm?”
“I specialize in contract law. And yes, it’s as boring as it sounds.”
“Then why do it?”
“Because it’s only fifty hours a week instead of seventy, and doesn’t encroach too much on my private life, such as it is. I grew up in a house with a parent whose life revolved around the law, and being a defense attorney in this trial or that one, and it was just a huge drag. I remember one time when I was five and my older brother, Martin, was seventeen and—”
“He’s twelve years older than you?”
“Yes. We have different mothers. Martin’s mom was our father’s first wife, and my mom is his second one—well, shewas,” Malcom corrected himself. “They got divorced two years ago.”
“Oh, okay.”
“Anyway, we had a family trip planned for Disneyland and I was excited as hell, as you might imagine. It was right before Martin was going off to college … but some rich asshole on the far end of the douchebag spectrum decided to murder his wife in a particularly gruesome manner. Dad couldn’t resist taking the case, of course, so our trip got delayed until after the trial. But then another trial came along, and another one after that, and not surprisingly, we never did get to see Disneyland.
“So, when it came time for law school, I chose the least demanding specialty I could, so I’d have some semblance of a life outside the law.”
“What would you have studied if you’d had the choice?”
Malcom waved his knife around. “This. I wanted to go to culinary school.”
She frowned. “And there was no way you could have done that?”
“Not then, no. But maybe someday …”
“Someday?”
He gave aWho knows?shrug.
“And then what?” she pressed. “After culinary school?”
“Ideally, I’d love to open up a restaurant. Something mid-sized, with pretentious cloth napkins, ridiculously overpriced wine, and a scratch kitchen—”
“Scratch kitchen?”
“Where everything is made from scratch and nothing is processed. Like sauces, pasta, bread, desserts … anything that can be made from scratch. I’d love to have as many organic items as I can, too, from fruits and vegetables, to dairy products and grass-fed protein sources.”
“That sounds really great. I’d eat there.” Jules gave him a quick smirk. “I’m a sucker for cloth napkins, as you know.”
Malcom had finished with the salads, and after drizzling what looked like homemade vinaigrette over them, he carried both plates to Jules’ side of the island and set them down. He then went back to check on the chicken in the oven and retrieved his wine glass and the bottle of wine before returning to her side. After taking a seat next to her, he gave her a smile as they picked up their napkins, placed them on their laps, and began eating the salads together.
After only a few slightly cautious bites, Jules said, “I’m not normally a ‘salad’ girl, but this is really good.”
“Thank you.” He gave her a sideways glance. “And what do you mean you’re not normally a ‘salad girl’?”
“Just that I normally don’t ever eat salads.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t really like them.”
“How can you not like salads?”
“I just never have. I guess I’ve never had a really good one.” She took another big bite, chewed briefly, swallowed quickly, and added, “They just always seemed like … a waste of time. You know … something to pick at until the real food arrives.”
When the timer went off, signaling the chicken was ready, Malcom got up and pulled it from the oven, immediately unleashing the delicious aroma of chicken cordon bleu. There were also steamed baby carrots with garlic butter, and after taking a bite, Jules said, “It’s been forever since I had carrots.”
“I’m not even going to ask why, because whatever your reason is—like you’re not a ‘carrot girl’ or something—won’t be a reasonable one.”
