Never Let Her Go

The last time we had socialized with the Hanovers was shortly after they purchased a manse of gigantesque proportions built into a steep hillside overlooking Highway 280.  Myndi's aspiration to move from the town of Los Altos into the more tony town of Los Altos Hills was finally realized when Brian cashed in stock options given to him in lieu of a fee from a client he represented.

They had hosted an open house fete for friends and professional acquaintances that had included valet parking attendants in white jackets, waiters in black jackets serving champagne and hors d'oeuvres and tours of the house conducted by the interior designer who had ever so discreetly left her business cards in little silver trays in many of the rooms.

I had argued against attending the event since it was certain that at some point during the evening Brian would become inebriated and then obnoxious and I didn't think I could bear another clarification from Myndi about the correct spelling of her name that she had legally changed from Mindy when she was an adult.  "That's 'Myndi' with a 'y' and an 'i'," she liked to explain.  Michael as ususal prevailed and convinced me to accompany him since there would be many people in attendance he considered important to maintain as professional contacts.

The thing I remembered most about the evening was Brian cornering me in the living room after we all pretended to admire an oversized photograph in a gaudy frame of Myndi and their young son that hung over the fireplace.  The picture was one of those soft focus renditions with Myndi in a white dressing gown gazing lovingly at the toddler also dressed in white in some kind of pastoral setting that was nowhere I'd ever seen in California.  The photo would have been more appropriate in a nursery or bedroom and was validation of my theory that money did not always equate to good taste.

Brian had made a few crude remarks about Myndi's anatomy expressing disappointment that after spending "ten thousand dollars on tits" the photographer could have shown a little cleavage.  As the group started moving away he grabbed me by the elbow and steered me toward double doors leading to a balcony outside.  He set his drink on the railing, took a package of cigarettes from his pocket, removed one and lit it with a gold lighter he snapped shut with a flick of his thumb.  He inhaled deeply before turning to face me.

"Carmen, you know what your problem is?" he said turning his head to the side and blowing smoke over his shoulder.

"Gee, Brian, I think my most immediate problem is getting another glass of wine," I responded trying to move away from him.

"Let me take care of that," he commanded, taking the glass from my hand and signaling to one of the dark jacketed waiters milling through the guests with a serving tray.  After the waiter produced a fresh glass and poured from a chilled bottle of Chardonnay, Brian continued, "Your problem is that you think that you are smarter than everyone."  He was well on his way to being besotted and I could smell the fetid combination of Scotch liquor and smoke on his breath.

"Well maybe not everyone, Brian, possibly just a few."

"And you don't have any respect for the legal profession, do you?  That's part of your 'holier than thou' persona, isn't it Carmen, you look down on us don't you?"  At that moment, looking down on Brian Hanover was a physical impossibility as he bent closer to my face until I could not only smell his foul breath I could feel it.  He was at least six feet three inches tall, a height that was made even more imposing by his wide girth and the shock of thick white hair that framed his huge head.

If you mean I don't respect the way that you and Michael have handled some of the cases I know about, then I plead guilty as charged."