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My first full year as an associate at the firm was 2018. It was a challenging year, but on the whole, I had a very good time, mostly working with Burton. As we spent long hours, days, and even weekends working together, he rose even further in my estimation. He treated everyone with kindness, gentility, and respect, regardless of whether they were partners in the firm, important clients, or doormen and custodians.

I more time I spent with him, the more I got to see his interactions with his family. I thought his wife Melissa was consistently mean to him, constantly nagging and complaining, never showing the slightest gratitude for all of his thoughtfulness. His daughter Annabel at least spoke to him in a civil tone of voice, and sometimes gave him a ‘thank you, but she clearly took her father for granted.

I once made the mistake of criticizing Melissa when she had been particularly unpleasant to him, and Burton immediately rose to her defense.

“Melissa has been a wonderful mother to Annabel and stood by my side for over two decades,” he said in a calm and measured voice. “She’s given me the best years of her life. I won’t hear any criticism of her.”

I slowly got used to having Jerry as my boyfriend. Sex with him continued to be great. He introduced me to new positions, taught me to accept anal sex, though I never really enjoyed it. We had sex in every part of my apartment – the bathroom, the kitchen island, the dining table, on the rug in the living room in front of the TV, the entrance hallway – in addition to my bed. Sex was the one time when he remained attentive to me, always making me cum more than once.

But in everything else, his attentiveness to me declined in direct proportion to our time together. His initial gallantry about paying for things disappeared almost as soon as he moved in with me and I found myself paying for everything.

Then he began to ask for things on a regular basis – an expensive sports watch, the best running shoes, workout clothes, expensive dinners out, the list seemed endless. He kept badgering me to buy a car. He wanted an expensive German one, a Porsche or a Mercedes. He kept bringing home glossy brochures from the dealerships and talking to me about the Mercedes AMG package versus the Weissach package on the Porsches.

Out of bed, I began to feel less like his girlfriend and more like his mother. He was only two years younger than me, but he acted like a little boy, especially when I refused to do what he wanted or buy him something that he asked for. He would sometimes scream and shout, and even pound the wall, then mope around for days.

I usually left before he got up in the morning and often came home late after having dinner with Burton. Most nights, I found Jerry waiting for me in his briefs. The sight of his perfect body was always a turn-on for me. He would begin undressing me as soon as I shut the door. He’d almost always fuck me up against the wall in the hallway. No matter how tired I was, he could make me cum.

I was so busy at work that I didn’t have time to dwell on these issues or to sit down with him and hash things out. We settled into a drift. I was unsatisfied with the state of our relationship, but there were some positives. Mindful of Burton’s advice, I didn’t want to end things without first seeing whether we could work things out. But that would take time.

He had an uncanny knack of sensing when I was at the end of my tether. Every time that I was rehearsing the lines on the subway to tell him I was breaking up with him, I came home to find he had done something really sweet and thoughtful. He had flowers for me, or he set up a romantic candlelit dinner in the dining room, or he bought tickets to a French movie that he knew I would enjoy – and he wouldn’t.

*

Just after Thanksgiving 2018, I was assigned to work on a proposal to a large but very secretive Japanese conglomerate. They were scouting acquisition targets in the US and wanted blue-chip legal representation. Burton was the partner handling the proposal, and we began working on it as soon as the initial contact came in. We worked through the day and late into the evening till we were both bleary-eyed.

“Let’s get dinner,” he said. “Save everything so we can pick up where we left off first thing tomorrow morning.”

We continued working on the proposal the next day and were done by lunchtime. Burton emailed it to Benson, who was the other partner working on the proposal. The two of them finalized it and sent it to the Japanese. Burton came by my cubicle about six in the evening, looking a bit worried.

“Any response from the Japanese?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “They want to meet next week.”

“You don’t look very happy about it.”

“No,” he said. “They want the first high-level meeting, where they get to know us, in a karaoke bar. Apparently, their chairman, Ichiro Hashimoto, especially loves Western themes. I know nothing about karaoke.”

“I’ll work it out,” I said. “Just give me the date and time.”

Two days later, I got a call on my office phone from Tokyo.

“This is Mr. Hashimoto’s secretary.” The woman had a British accent, with only a slight Japanese overlay. “I would like to go over the arrangements for his visit with you.”

“Certainly,” I said. “We’re going to a Japanese karaoke bar. I can send you the details by email.”

“Mr. Hashimoto is very traditional,” she said, speaking slowly. It sounded like she was choosing her words carefully. “He rarely leaves Japan. He knows very little about American culture. He thinks he loves the American West, but all of his knowledge comes from old cowboy movies. I hope you can recreate that sort of experience for him.”

“I’ll do my best.”

The Japanese arrived and sent their junior representatives to the office to discuss formalities. Burton asked me to run the meeting with them.

“It’s all about face and status,” he told me. “All the details are covered in face-to-face meetings between underlings. The underlings serve as puppets, executing orders given to them by their bosses. The seniors only meet each other socially, and at formal, ceremonial meetings.”

“Seems very inefficient,” I said.

“The Asian ways are all based on trust-building, Johanna. It takes a long time to set up a business arrangement, but once it’s up and running, there are rarely any glitches.”

Burton asked Stuart Cleghorn, one of the senior associates, to join me in the junior meeting so I wouldn’t be alone. The Japanese team consisted of two American-trained lawyers and a young translator, Makoto Nishimura. Stuart had read up on the deal very carefully. He spent an hour before the meeting going over his detailed notes with me. I was afraid that he would replace me on the deal, a feeling that was reinforced when both Japanese lawyers kept looking at him for confirmation every time I said something.

The hard work that Burton and I had put into the preparation paid off, and there were very few issues items that required extended discussions. After three hours, one of the Japanese lawyers sat back and said, “Everything seems to be in order. We will take this to Mr. Hashimoto. Of course, he will be more favorably inclined if you reduce your retainer by ten percent.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” I said.

He inclined his head, Japanese fashion, and they left.

“You didn’t have the authority to turn down their request to negotiate the fee,” said Stuart, as we walked back from the elevators. “It’s Burton’s call.”

“He’ll back me up.”

“Benson’s also on this deal. He may not be so kind, especially if we fail to close.”

I went to Burton’s office later in the afternoon and told him everything about the meeting, ending with my refusal to negotiate our retainer.

“Good,” said Burton. “That’s one less thing I need to negotiate. Nishimura, their translator, was just on the phone to me. Hashimoto wants to know what time he’s being taken to karaoke tonight.”

“I’ve got a private room booking at seven-thirty. I’ll text you the details.”

“I’d like you to come with me, Johanna.”

“Is that proper protocol?”

“Hashimoto will have his translator with him. I should have an associate with me as well.”

I was relieved he asked me to join him and not Stuart.

“Okay. I’ll go home and change. I’ll meet you at his hotel at six-thirty.”

I went home and changed into jeans, a plaid shirt, and a neckerchief. I pulled out my old belt from Montana. Dad had given it to me on my last trip out with him. The belt had silver conchos on it and a buckle that Dad had won in a rodeo. I found my old leather wide-brimmed hat, pulled on my boots and looked at myself in the mirror. Satisfied that I looked like a real cowgirl, I picked up my purse and got a rideshare to the hotel.

Makoto Nishimura was already waiting in the lobby and stood up when he saw me.

“Mr. Hashimoto will really like your outfit,” he said. “I hope you have booked a suitable venue.”

“I called ahead and asked them to set up the main bar with old folk and country music,” I said. “Synced to clips from old Westerns.”

Burton arrived a few minutes later. He wore the same dark suit he had in the office but had on a ten-gallon hat. He did a double-take when he saw me.

“You look like you just stepped off a stagecoach, Johanna,” he said. “Perhaps a bit too authentic.”

“Is there such a thing?”

Hashimoto came down. He was in his late fifties, but muscular and robust without an ounce of fat on him. Like Burton, he wore a dark suit with a Texas ten-gallon hat. Nishimura did the formal introductions and we bowed in response to Hashimoto’s bow. He spoke volubly to Nishimura on the way out to Burton’s limousine.

“Mr. Hashimoto compliments you on your American geisha,” Nishimura said to Burton as we got into the car. “He says she looks very genuine.”

“She’s not a …” Burton began as we got our seatbelts on in the limo.

“I’ll play whatever role is necessary to make this a pleasant evening for Mr. Hashimoto,” I interrupted.

Nishimura nodded and spoke to Hashimoto, who looked visibly pleased.

The hostess at the bar was a small Asian woman, as were most of the staff at the bar. I identified our party and she led us to our table. We sat down, and she gave us an iPad.

“You can use this to cue up any music you want for about half an hour,” she said. “After that, if you want to continue to choose your own music, you’ll have to move to the private room you have booked.”

Nishimura ordered sake and sushi for himself and Hashimoto. Burton ordered beers from himself and me. I cued up an old gunfighter ballad and hit play.

“Marty Robbins,” I said to Nishimura, who repeated it to Hashimoto with a Japanese intonation, ‘Marty-u Robbins-u.’

Mr. Hashimoto nodded enthusiastically and rose. He went to the small stage and took the mike. He sang along to the scrolling lyrics with gusto in his heavy Japanese accent, attracting amused looks from everyone in the bar. Nishimura brought him a fresh cup of sake and he sang through the next one. As the third song came up, Billy the Kid, and Hashimoto gestured energetically at me.

“He would like you to join him,” Nishimura said.

“Don’t feel that you have to –” began Burton.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I like Marty Robbins too.”

I went up and joined Hashimoto. He put an arm around my waist, and we sang together. We sounded like a pair of cats on a fence, but he looked blissfully happy, repeatedly pointing at the accompanying video of a horseman twirling a forty-four. Hashimoto kept me with him, singing song after song as Nishimura fetched him cups of sake.

At the end of half an hour, we retired to our private room. I went to set up the karaoke machine, but Hashimoto pointed to the battered piano in the corner and spoke to Nishimura.

“Mr. Hashimoto asks if you can play the piano for him,” he said.

 “Johanna, he can’t treat you like this,” whispered Burton.

“Actually, I’m having a bit of fun, Burton.” I turned to Nishimura. “I’m not very good. Let me think about it.”

Mr. Hashimoto had yet another fresh cup of sake in his hand and waved it at me. He was visibly tipsy and pointed at Burton’s empty beer mug. Burton smiled at him weakly and ordered another beer.

I sat at the piano and ran my fingers over the keyboard. I thought of playing an old Glenn Campbell or Merle Haggard song, but I didn’t think I could play one fluently without sheet music. Then I got a brainwave – Rossini’s William Tell overture was the staple of countless old Westerns. Mom always said that an ape could play it, though only a maestro could play it well. Well, I’m an ape, I thought. And Mr. Hashimoto is drunk.

I launched into it. The piano needed tuning, but I played fast and lively, so the false notes were not too obvious. As soon as he heard the well-known giddyap intro, Mr. Hashimoto jumped up and began dancing around the small floor. He was as excited as a little boy. I played faster and he grabbed Burton’s hand and dragged him to his feet. As the two men whirled around, I repeated the intro twice before going on. When I was done, Mr. Hashimoto put his arms around me, hugged me tight and let loose a flood of Japanese.

“Mr. Hashimoto says you are the best geisha he has had for many years,” Nishimura translated. “He is, …, how do you say? … head over heels with happiness. He wishes to express his gratitude and asks if you will accept one thousand dollars as a small token of his regard.”

Burton’s face went red, and I spoke quickly to cut him off.

“Thank Mr. Hashimoto,” I said. “But tell him I am enjoying the evening too much to think about money. His company is payment enough.”

“Johanna, this is getting ridiculous,” whispered Burton. “You shouldn’t have to put up with this. You can leave any time you want.”

“Don’t worry about me, Burton.”

I put Kenny Rogers’ Gambler on the machine, and Mr. Hashimoto began singing at the top of his voice.

Our waitress brought in more sushi and as well as sashimi. We ate and drank as the evening wore on. Mr. Hashimoto periodically insisted that I sing with him, which I did. He held my waist, but his touch was affectionate, not lecherous. Burton was out of his element and I periodically patted his hand to reassure him.

Around ten, Mr. Hashimoto spoke to Nishimura and he turned to us.

“Mr. Hashimoto has had a wonderful evening. He would like to thank Mr. Wilson for his hospitality and thoughtfulness.” Burton rose with evident relief, but Nishimura went on. “He would like to avail of the services of the geisha for some more time, in his hotel suite.”

“Mr. Nishimura,” said Burton, his tone harsh. “For the last time, Ms. von Eschenbach is not a geisha. Our firm does not deal in sex. If Mr. Hashimoto requires sex to close the deal, our firm wants nothing to do with him.”

“I see there has been a misunderstanding,” said Nishimura, smoothly. “In Japanese culture, geisha are not sex workers. They merely entertain with music and arts, as Ms. von Eschenbach has done so well. Mr. Hashimoto has no sexual designs on her.”

“Is late, Mr. Nishimura. Ms. von Eschenbach and I would like to retire –” began Burton.

“Mr. Nishimura, I will be happy to accompany Mr. Hashimoto to his hotel suite – as a geisha. I will hold him to his promise of no sex.”

“Johanna, think of the risk –”

“I can take care of myself, Burton.

Burton dropped us back at the hotel in the limo.

“Call me if you have any issues, Johanna,” he said. “Any time, it doesn’t matter how late.”

He left with a worried expression, but I gave him a cheery wave, looking more confident than I felt.

We took the elevator up to the suite on the top floor. Nishimura helped Mr. Hashimoto open the door with the key card and spoke into his phone in Japanese. We had barely sat down in the sitting room of the suite when there was a discreet knock on the door. Nishimura went to answer it.

He returned with a waiter carrying a bottle of Japanese champagne in a silver bucket. Just behind him was a light-skinned African American woman with hazel eyes and straight black hair. She wore a skirt shorter than a ballet tutu, fishnet stockings, a silk choker necklace, and high platform heels. Her short white translucent top left her midriff bare and displayed her full breasts and nipples nubs to advantage. She wasn’t wearing a bra and her firm breasts jounced as she walked.

The waiter put down the bucket and left.

“Hi,” said the African American girl. “I’m Fannie, the saloon girl you asked for.”

Mr. Hashimoto responded to her in Japanese.

“Mr. Hashimoto says that you are very beautiful,” translated Nishimura.

“Cash in advance,” said Fannie. “If he thinks I’m beautiful, he can pay me a $100 bonus.”

Nishimura smiled, and handed her a roll of bills. She counted them before putting them in her purse.

Mr. Hashimoto looked at me and spoke in Japanese, pointing to an electronic keyboard in the corner of the sitting room.

“Mr. Hashimoto asks that you play some music while he is having sex,” translated Nishimura.

This was altogether more than I had bargained for. I had been reassured when Nishimura said that geisha were not sex workers. But it seemed that sex was very much on Mr. Hashimoto’s agenda for the night.

He came up behind Fannie and put his arms around her under her armpits and cupped her breasts under her top. He kneaded them, tweaking her meaty, black nipples between finger and thumb. She gasped at the suddenness of his action. His erection made a prominent bulge in his pants and he pressed it against her firm, round ass. His lips were on the side of her throat, his tongue tracing lines of saliva up and down. All the while, he spoke to her in a steady flow of Japanese.

Nishimura took his duties as translator seriously and continued translating without missing a beat.

“Mr. Hashimoto loves your firm, young breasts, so round and supple. Your nipples are hardening, showing your rising excitement.”

He looked at me, pointed at the keyboard, and made an urgent movement. It was clear he wanted me to start playing. I was caught in two minds – I really wanted to leave, but I feared that if Mr. Hashimoto didn’t sign with us, it would be blamed on my interference. I wished I had listened to Burton and left with him.

I reluctantly went to the keyboard. It was a high-end Yamaha, a professional model with sound quality nearly as good as a grand piano. I sat on the bench that faced into the sitting room. I couldn’t help watching what Mr. Hashimoto was doing to Fannie. It drove all thoughts of music from my mind.

He had a hand between her legs now, reaching around her waist. Her skirt was rucked up, revealing her black lace-trimmed thong. His fingers played with her fat pussy lips through the thin shield of silk and lace, while his thumb repeatedly manipulated her clit. She was panting now, and a damp line appeared on her thong. His other hand stayed on her breasts, alternately kneading one and then the other. He continued speaking to her in Japanese and Nishimura kept translating.

“Your pussy is so warm, so wet; it is inviting my hard cock. Your nipples are getting longer and harder! You are such a hot saloon girl, I’m a gunslinger, and I’m going to put my rod in you, fuck you so hard! I’m going to make you scream!”

He shrugged off his jacket, undid his tie, and unbuttoned his shirt. His chest was well-muscled and hard. He put his fingers under the hip strap of her thong and ripped it off.

“Hey!” she gasped. “Those were expensive!”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Hashimoto will give you a large tip that will more than pay for it,” said Nishimura. I assumed he had been witness to Mr. Hashimoto’s sexual escapades before.

Mr. Hashimoto pushed Fannie over to the sofa back and bent her over it. He unzipped his pants, stepped out of them, and his organ swung out, fully erect. It was surprisingly dark, contrasting with his pale skin. He positioned himself behind Fannie, doggie style, his cockhead at her wet pussy lips. She swiveled her had to look at him.

He looked over at me, his expression instructing me to play. I had been thinking furiously about what I could play that would have any relevance to the situation at hand. The closest to saloon music I could think of was ragtime, but I knew I couldn’t possibly play a rag without sheet music. Roberta could have done it with her eyes closed and I wished I had her skill. In the end, I played John Denver’s Rocky Mountain High, very slowly and carefully to minimize the false notes.

With the first notes from the keyboard, Mr. Hashimoto began pushing his cock into Fannie. He timed his mini thrusts to the music. Fannie rotated her hips as he entered her, creating enough friction that he sighed deep in his throat. When he fully entered her, his hard belly hit her rounded buttocks with a smack. I increased my tempo of playing and he began to fuck her faster and harder. She was either a very good actress, or was really excited, because she began to moan in between her gasping breaths.

“Omigod, just fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!”

He obliged, working his member like a piston in a staccato motion. She twisted her hips faster to match him. He reached around her and began kneading her breasts again, pinching and tweaking her nipples. He was still listening to me play, and I’d reached the end of the song. I switched to another John Denver song, I’d rather be a cowboy. I’d often played it to Dad on the guitar, and I hoped I could muddle through it on the keyboard.

I didn’t have to play through it, for Mr. Hashimoto began to cum with a great deal of groaning and juddering of his lower body. Again, I couldn’t tell whether Fannie was acting or really having an orgasm with him. She thrashed under him, twisting her body, and screaming, “I’m cumming! I’m cumming! I’m cumming!”

They were both covered with sweat. Fannie’s top was soaked and clung to her breasts. Her skirt was bunched into a thin line of fabric around her waist and was wet as well. Mr. Hashimoto lay on Fannie’s back, still breathing hard. He kissed the nape of her neck and whispered in Japanese.

“You’re a great fuck,” Nishimura translated.

Mr. Hashimoto pulled out of Fannie, his cockhead slipping out with a gentle plop. He had cum, but he was still quite erect and hard. His semen began dribbling out of her wet pussy, coursing down her inner thighs to wet her stocking tops.

He straightened and, showing surprising strength for a man his age, picked her up and carried her to the suite bedroom.

“You can leave now,” Nishimura said to me.

I stood up and headed for the door. He intercepted me and handed me a thick wad of bills. I didn’t take it.

“It is customary for a geisha to accept a cash token,” Nishimura said.

“I don’t want it,” I said. “Give it to Fannie.”

“If that is your wish,” he replied.

*

The following week, Mr. Hashimoto and his team of lawyers came to our offices and signed the deal retaining us to represent them in the U.S. The signing was held in our main conference room and Burton and Benson had pride of place. Siegel, our managing partner, sat beside them. I was with the other junior associates in the third row of chairs behind the senior associates and managers. Mr. Hashimoto met my eye and I thought I saw a twinkle.

After the ceremony, Nishimura approached me and gave me a small, beautifully wrapped package.

“What is it?” I asked, suspicious.

“Just a spray of dried cherry blossoms, a symbol of Japanese American friendship. Mr. Hashimoto is waiting for you in one of the private conference rooms. He has requested a private meeting with you.”

“I need to clear it with Mr. Wilson –” I began.

“Mr. Wilson, Mr. Benson, and Mr. Siegel have been informed. They have given their consent.”

“I’d like to hear from them.”

“If that is your wish,” said Nishimura.

I found Burton and asked him if it was true.

“I specifically told Nishimura that it is up to you, Johanna. You don’t have to see him if you don’t want to.”

“I’ll do it. It will be okay.”

“If he tries anything inappropriate, call security. Don’t worry about the deal.”

I went to the small private conference room with Nishimura. Mr. Hashimoto rose as soon as I entered. He bowed deeply and I returned it.

We sat on opposite sides of the table and looked at each other for a moment. He spoke in quiet Japanese, enunciating each word carefully, as though he could make me understand by speaking slowly and clearly.

“Mr. Hashimoto wishes to tell you that the evening spent with you was the most enjoyable evening he has had for many years.”

Mr. Hashimoto spoke again. He did not look at Nishimura but directly at me, eye to eye.

“He wishes you to know that he never bought sex from courtesans while his wife was alive.”

Mr. Hashimoto poured himself a glass of water from the cut glass pitcher on the table and drank before he continued.

“Mr. Hashimoto wishes to apologize most profusely for making you witness him having sex,” said Nishimura. “He was intoxicated and forgot that you are not a real Japanese geisha ….”

Mr. Hashimoto interrupted Nishimura with another stream of Japanese, making me wonder whether his English was as non-existent as he maintained.

“I’m sorry, let me translate more fully. Mr. Hashimoto says that he is ashamed of his behavior and wishes to apologize most profusely.”

When Mr. Hashimoto went on, he leaned forward with a painfully earnest expression and put his hands on his heart as he spoke. Nishimura was shocked to such an extent that his mouth dropped open for a moment. He managed to close it before he translated. He cleared his throat before he spoke, but even so, his voice was hoarse.

“Mr. Hashimoto says that in the short time he has spent in your company, you have touched his heart. You are a real cowgirl, so much better than the fictitious cowgirls he has seen in the movies. He wishes that …” Nishimura paused and cleared his throat again. “He wishes that he was thirty years younger so that he could pursue you as a lover.”

Mr. Hashimoto rose and bowed before he spoke again. I rose to my feet in response.

“Mr. Hashimoto invites you to Japan at a time of your choosing,” said Nishimura, handing me an embossed envelope with my name on it in ornate calligraphy. “Here is an open Japan Air Lines first-class ticket from New York to Tokyo. Call the airline and they will send a limousine to take you to the airport and escort you from the curb to your seat on the plane. Obviously, you will be met in Tokyo and all your expenses will be covered.”

Mr. Hashimoto came around the table and bowed yet again. His eyes were glistening.

“Johanna von Eschenbach,” he said with his heavy Japanese accent. “Cowgirl, not lawyer.”

I smiled.

Mr. Hashimoto gave me one last look over his shoulder as he left. Nishimura trailed him out. I felt my eyes, surprised to find that my eyelashes were wet. There was something about him I liked.

He’s right, I thought. I ’m an unsophisticated cowgirl, not a suave lawyer. My feelings are obvious for all to see. With me, there’s no strategy, it’s all chemistry.

*

December 2018, and I’d been with Jerry a whole year. He bought me flowers on the anniversary of his first overnight stay at my apartment. They were on the kitchen island when I got home from work about ten at night. I cut the stems, put them in a vase and set it on the coffee table in the living room. I gave him a long, lingering kiss and whispered, “You’re so thoughtful, sweets.” His hands moved on my body and I knew he wanted to have sex right away. But it had been a very stressful day at work, and I felt no sexual desire.

Benson had called a meeting to discuss “the manner in which the firm won Mr. Hashimoto’s business.” Siegel presided over the meeting as managing partner and several other partners were in attendance. Burton and I sat together, almost like we were the accused.

Benson made several insinuations about my interactions with Mr. Hashimoto. He repeatedly brought up my past work as a cocktail waitress, likening it to being a prostitute. “Displaying your body for tips” was how he put it. He implied without actually saying it that I had slept with Mr. Hashimoto in order to get him to sign with the firm.

Burton defended me stoutly. In the end, Siegel decided I had done nothing wrong. He said that while my enthusiasm in promoting the interest of the firm was laudable, I needed to use better judgment when interacting with clients and potential clients.

After the meeting, I apologized profusely to Burton for putting him in an awkward position, but he brushed it aside with his usual gentility. As we often did, we then worked late and went out to dinner before I came home.

Now I said, “I’m really not in the mood, Jerry,” and pushed him away.

“But it’s our anniversary, Johanna. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Of course it does, Jerry. Why don’t we have a drink and talk?”

“Talk? After you’ve spent all day with Burton?”

“What’s Burton got to do with this?”

“Everything, Johanna. You spend far more time with him than with me.”

“I have a demanding job, Jerry. I have to put in a lot of hours. I work with Burton; that’s all there is to it.”

“Dinner with him two or three nights a week. Sometimes you leave early in the morning for a breakfast meeting with him as well.”

“Those early meetings are almost all with clients, Jerry.”

“He’s rich, powerful, used to getting everything he wants. Are you sleeping with him?”

“How can you even ask that?” I asked angrily.

“You’re angry; that means there’s something there. There’s no smoke without fire. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“You don’t know him at all, Jerry. Otherwise, you’d see how ridiculous you’re being.”

“Oh, I’m being ridiculous, am I? You come home on our anniversary and don’t want to have sex with me. Maybe it’s because I’m not good enough for you, huh? You’d rather spend time with Burton.”

“Let’s not fight, Jerry,” I said, suddenly very tired. “If sex will make you happy, let’s do it.”

“You’ve killed my mood, Johanna.” He was feeling inadequate and looked hurt. I knew he would lash out to compensate. “Every day, I have to fantasize about the better-looking women I’ve had in order to get excited enough to fuck you. I’m generous when I say you’re a six. The only reason I got together with you was because you were so needy. I felt sorry for you.”

I’m the older one, I told myself. It is up to me to deescalate the situation.

“I do need you, Jerry. Right now, I’m really tired. Please cuddle me and put me to bed.”

He stood there with his hands on his hips for a long moment.

“Okay,” he said finally. “But only because you asked me nicely.”

*

Roberta called the next day to say that Owen had work in New York the following week and she was coming with him to spend time with me. Their son was over a year old now, and the Lawler grandparents were keen to begin ‘soloing’ with him, caring for him without his mother present.

Owen had booked a suite at the Pierre and that pleased me as it was close to my apartment. I told Burton she was in town and took the afternoon off the day they arrived. It was a Thursday and Owen had gone straight to work at his client’s office, so I found her alone in the suite. We hugged and kissed, and she held on to me.

“I’m so worried about you, Johanna,” she said. “I know you better than you know yourself. I think you’re very unhappy and putting on your usual brave front.”

“Why would I be unhappy?”

“You’re so alone! You spend all your time with this older lawyer, Burton. Then you have this relationship with Jerry, which from my perspective, looks purely physical. I look into your eyes and I see your loneliness. I wish you would look for a job in California so I could take care of you.”

“You can’t mother me forever, Roberta. I have to grow up.”

She was silent for a few minutes before saying, “I’ve told Owen I’m going to spend the night at your place. I’ll stay in the guest room. If you’ll have me.”

On the way from the hotel to my place, Roberta insisted on going to a store and buying the requisites for a lavish meal. We brought everything home and she took over my kitchen. We automatically reverted to our roles growing up, where she took the lead and I was her assistant. She chattered to me in Franglais, just enough English so I could understand her easily. It was the way Mom often used to talk to me. We talked about the magnificent meals we had cooked with her, alternatively laughing and crying.

Jerry came home to find us in the midst of cooking the stupendous meal. He popped a beer and stood watching us. Roberta made him feel part of the scene, chatting to him in English while continuing to chat with me in Franglais. She juggled the two conversations, keeping them separate with consummate ease.

I had seen Mom do this sort of thing countless times. She had an aristocratic grace about her that gave rise to seeming contradictions. For while she invariably treated everyone, professor or janitor, with respect, people still deferred to her as to a superior. And even more surprisingly, most still considered her a good friend. This wasn’t just my filial bias, for I had heard this from many others over the years.

Roberta had inherited Mom’s je ne sais quoi, it came to her naturally. She was a born French aristocrat. It was in her genes, it wasn’t something Mom had taught her. For Mom brought me up exactly the same way, tried so hard to make me like Roberta, and failed.

I was just an American Germanic mutt like Dad. I talked too directly and my feelings were telegraphed to anyone who observed me. As I grew into womanhood, I’d tried to be more like Mom and Roberta – after all, who wouldn’t want what they had? – but I just couldn’t do it. In the end, I gave up and decided to be me.

Jerry had two more beers before we were ready to eat. He leaned on the island, drinking as he conversed with Roberta. The alcohol loosened his tongue and I soon saw that he was coming on to her, right there in front of me.

I wasn’t particularly worried about Roberta. As usual, she maintained complete control of the situation, elegantly turning aside his advances in a manner that allowed him to retain his pride and masculinity. He was no match for her. He didn’t even realize the point at which she transitioned him from pursuer to spectator.

“Our office Christmas party is tomorrow,” I said while we were eating. “My mentor, Burton, is hosting it this year at his place in the Hamptons.”

“A party full of self-important bigmouths,” said Jerry. “There was so much hot air at last year’s party; you could have floated a dozen balloons with it.”

“I know, Jerry. But it’s work, and I have to go.” I turned to Roberta. “I’d like to invite Owen and you to join us. Burton told me to invite friends of the firm. Owen is bound to know folks at the party, corporate law is a small world.”

“Oh, I’d love to come, and I’m sure Owen will, too. I’ll tell him when he comes here tonight.”

“Owen’s coming here?”

“He’s working late, as usual; he’ll probably have dinner with his clients. But I asked him to stop by for an after-dinner liqueur.”

Roberta’s adept handling of Jerry meant that by the time Owen arrived about nine, my boyfriend was behaving himself. I brought out a bottle of Château Fontpinot Frapin that I got at a deep discount through Ahmad when I was working as a cocktail waitress. Roberta recognized it immediately.

“Mom’s favorite,” she said, before kissing me on the lips as Mom would have done.

Both Jerry and Owen were bewildered by our display of sisterly affection, but we didn’t care.

I let Roberta do the honors and pour out the measures in Mom’s old snifters that I had shipped from Wisconsin. Owen knew how to drink cognac. He swirled it, put his nose in the snifter, and breathed in the aroma appreciatively. Jerry picked his up and drank half of it in a gulp. Roberta was much too well-bred to react, but I knew her long enough to see her unexpressed horror. I didn’t want to call attention to his ignorance, so I said nothing. He chugged the rest of the fine liqueur before putting his snifter forward for a refill.

“Take time to enjoy it, man,” said Owen. “This is fine cognac, the best in the world.”

“I’ll drink shots my way, you drink them yours,” said Jerry.

I poured him another measure and he tossed it back in one gulp to make his point.

Owen left a short while later and Roberta went with him to the hallway to see him off.

“I’ll miss you, babe,” Jerry and I heard him say. We heard them kissing before she shut the front door.

“He gets to fuck her whenever he wants, the lucky sonofabitch,” said Jerry.

I knew he was feeling intimidated and taking it out on me, but this was too much.

“Don’t you dare talk about my sister that way!” I snapped.

“I’m just stating a fact,” he said, sullenly.

“Well, I’ll give you another fact,” I said angrily. “You’re being an asshole.”

Roberta came in and said, “Is everything all right?”

Jerry switched gears immediately. It was almost amusing to see how childishly eager he was to please her.

“Now that you’re here, everything’s fine,” he said, standing up and giving her a comically gauche bow.

“I think you mean everything’s fine because Johanna’s here,” said Roberta.

She delivered her rebuke with such a winning smile that she got him to smile back. Once again, I wished I could do what she did so effortlessly.

I changed into my nightie and went to the guest bedroom to make sure Roberta had everything she needed. She was sitting on the bed in her nightgown and I sat beside her to chat. It was her old bed from Mom’s house in Wisconsin, where we had spent so much time together and it felt like we were rolling back the years.

After a while, I grew sleepy and said, “I’ll just lie down for a minute.”

Roberta pulled back the covers and we crawled in together. I snuggled up to her like I used to when I was little. She kissed me and held me close. I felt happier than I had for a long time.

“I love you so much, Roberta,” I murmured.

“You’re my little baby,” she whispered back. “You’re safe with me.”

I snapped awake, feeling something was wrong. I looked at the wall clock and saw it was six in the morning. I’d slept the whole night with Roberta. I slipped out of bed carefully. Roberta mumbled in her sleep, but did not wake.

I tiptoed back to the master bedroom and found the door closed. I opened it and crept in. But Jerry woke and sat up in bed.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

“I was chatting with Roberta and fell asleep,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve got a lesbian thing going on with her? Sister love?”

“That’s a sick thing to say, Jerry. I’m going to have a shower and get ready. I have to go to work.”

*

The firm gave everyone Friday afternoon off to get ready for the Christmas party. Jerry looked handsome in the tuxedo I had bought him the previous week. I wore a long designer gown, heels, the snake pendant and matching bracelets Mom had bequeathed me, and had my hair up in a coiffure she had taught me. I twirled in front of the mirror in our bedroom, hoping for a compliment from Jerry, but he wouldn’t give me one.

Roberta and Owen came to get us similarly dressed up. Roberta cried out about how beautiful I looked, gave me the compliments I had hoped to get from Jerry. Owen had rented a limo with a driver so we could all sit in the back and chat. Jerry went straight into the well-stocked wet bar and had several shots of bourbon before we arrived. Roberta looked at me and arched an eyebrow. It was a mannerism that was so like Mom’s that for a moment, I could almost feel Mom with us in the limo. I wished Jerry wouldn’t keep acting to confirm Roberta’s low opinion of him, but I didn’t know how to stop him.

We arrived at Burton’s Hampton place. It was a mansion set on several acres right on Long Island Sound. Our limo queued up in the long line of cars and dropped us off in the portico. We entered and Jerry picked up a glass of champagne from one of the welcome waitresses in the high-ceilinged foyer. Burton and Melissa were there welcoming the guests. I introduced Roberta and Owen.

Burton smiled and got into a conversation with Owen, rapidly discovering numerous people they knew in common. Melissa gave me a sour look, but Roberta drew her into small talk and soon had her smiling and even laughing. Jerry stood by and I could see he was sulking, so I took his hand in mine as we entered the main reception hall. But he snatched it away and headed straight for the bar.

Owen saw someone he knew and went off to mingle. I waved to numerous people from the firm as well as some clients, but stayed by Roberta’s side. She was the one I most wanted to spend time with. We held hands and I was very pleased when several female associates came by and said how alike we looked.

“I could see immediately that you are sisters,” one said.

 After a while, we went looking for the ladies’ room. One of the wait staff pointed us to a corridor and Roberta opened the first door we came to.

“Don’t open that door!”

It was Annabel, Burton’s daughter, and she came running up. But Roberta had already opened the door and taken a step into the dark room. There was a deep growl, loud and menacing. I grabbed Roberta’s arm, pulled her back, and stepped in front of her. Before I could shut the door, a huge Siberian husky bounded up, still growling ferociously.

“Zeus, Zeus!” called Annabel, but the dog didn’t mind her at all.

I’d grown up with dogs on Dad’s place and the dogs at neighboring ranches. All of them were working dogs, fiercely protective, and nasty to strangers. I knew mean dogs. But for all his savage growling, Zeus didn’t seem that mean to me.

I knew I had to appear as non-threatening as possible to him, so I went down on my knees. I put my hands forward low, below his eye level, in a feeding rather than a beating posture. He continued to growl, but did not snap when I took his head in my hands. I scratched behind his ears, petted his chest, and his growls decreased in volume. I put my face down by his and he stopped growling. He began to lick my face, and in just a few moments, all my makeup was gone.

“How did you do that?” asked Annabel. “He’s Dad’s dog, really mean to everyone, even I’m scared of him.”

“He’s not mean,” I said. “Just protective. He’s a good dog.”

I got his collar and led him back into the room. I gave him the universal hand signal to sit, then stay, and he obeyed very sweetly. I put the lights on in the room before shutting the door again.

“You can do anything, Johanna!” said Roberta, putting her arms around me. “I can’t wait to tell Owen about this.”

Annabel led us to the ladies’ room and Roberta helped me put my makeup on again. She did a much better job than I had done in the first place. By the time we returned to the main reception hall, Annabel had told Burton about our encounter with Zeus and he came to us looking worried.

“I’m sorry my dog gave you a fright –”

“Oh, it was me that was frightened,” said Roberta immediately. “Not Johanna. She had him under control almost immediately. He licked her so much he took off all her makeup.”

“Zeus licked your face? He’s never done that to a stranger before. He scares everyone, he’s so big and aggressive.”

“I grew up with dogs,” I said.

“You’re always full of surprises, Johanna,” he said. He turned to Roberta. “Owen has been telling me how you are a solo pianist with the San Francisco Symphony.”

“Oh, it was just a guest appearance,” she said. “Owen’s proud of me, he tends to exaggerate my achievements.”

“Well, I have a request, and feel free to refuse. I was hoping you would play a piece for us. I can have the staff move Annabel’s piano into the reception hall. It’s a baby grand, not a concert grand. I hope it will be adequate.”

“Oh, I’m not sure the guests will want to hear me –” began Roberta.

“I assure you they will,” said Burton.

“Alright,” she said.

Roberta went with Burton to supervise the staff setting up the piano and I went looking for Jerry. He was at the bar, and looked the worse for wear.

 “Stop drinking, Jerry,” I said.

“Why? What else is there for me to do?”

“It’s a Christmas party, Jerry. Come on, I’ll introduce you to some people.”

“I don’t want to talk to your fancy lawyer friends.”

“I’m a lawyer, Jerry. And I’m your girlfriend, and you like talking to me, don’t you?”

I took his arm and half dragged him back to the reception hall. By the time we got there, Roberta was seated at the piano bench on a small dais at one end of the hall. Burton stood beside her with a microphone in his hand.

“We are fortunate to have Roberta Lawler with us tonight,” he said. “She’s the sister of one of our associates, Johanna von Eschenbach and is here with her husband, Owen. Roberta is a noted concert pianist and has most recently soloed with the San Francisco Symphony.”

He led the applause. The crowd responded a bit tepidly.

“It’s Christmas,” Roberta called out in her clear, bell-like voice. “Merry Christmas, everyone!”

Her good cheer was infectious, and several people responded to her with cries of “Merry Christmas to you, too!” She waited for quiet and poised her fingers over the keyboard. Then, with no sheet music, she launched into a perfect rendition of the Hallelujah chorus from Handel’s Messiah. It was pure Roberta, conveying the ecstasy of Handel’s score, but with her own flamboyant embellishments, her musical individuality. Within the first minute, a few people began to sing. They were joined by more, and soon the whole crowd was singing along with full-throated enthusiasm. I was in heaven and I squeezed Jerry’s arm, but he just looked bored.

When she was done, there was thunderous applause, along with stamping feet. Owen came up, his face shining with pride and joy. His love for my sister swamped his dislike for me, and I hugged him tight, saying, “Isn’t she wonderful?”

“She’s an angel,” said Owen. “An absolute angel.”

Then Annabel took my arm and pointed to the dais. Roberta was waving to me, beckoning me forward.

“No, no,” I mouthed, making negating signals with my arms.

But Roberta persisted and people began to stare at me. I chose the lesser of the two evils and went up to join Roberta on the dais.

“You know I’m no good, Roberta,” I whispered. “Please don’t make me make a fool of myself.”

“It’s just a Christmas party, Johanna. Let’s pretend we’re having fun like we did when you were growing up.”

“You’ll carry me?”

“Of course,” she said. “Just like Mom.”

“What do you want to play? We’ll have to ask Annabel for sheet music.”

“Oh, there’s no time for that; we have to play something right now.”

“I can’t play without sheet music! Not in public!”

“Shhh,” said Roberta. “You can do it. We’ll start with something really simple, Deck the Halls. Play the basic chords and leave the melody to me.”

“Just one-two-three-four?”

“Yes, just like we used to play at home in Wisconsin.”

I sat down beside Roberta on the piano bench. I looked at her, from her formal gown to mine. She smiled at me and then turned to the audience, holding the mic.

“My sister Johanna and I grew up playing music under the watchful eye of our mother, who was the best concert pianist I have ever heard. We’re going have some fun recalling our girlhood and hope you enjoy it.”

I played the basic chords all the way through, getting increasingly nervous as Roberta sat and watched me. Then just as I began to repeat them, she joined in with an upbeat melody the built on my basic chords, dancing around them, first above, then below. Our hands intertwined on the keyboard, but our years of playing together meant that we anticipated each other perfectly. She was her usual brilliant self. It was all her, she didn’t really need me. I was just playing the basic chords over and over. But to the untrained observer, it looked like I was playing with verve and skill. She made me look like an accomplished pianist, just like Mom used to do.

Roberta played ever more complex riffs on the Deck the Halls theme, but still maintained a singable meter, so the audience was able to sing along, which they did with gusto. She finished with a colorful flourish, and there was another round of thunderous applause, accompanied by many calls of “Bravo! Bravo!”

She waited for the hall to return to relative quiet before taking the mic again.

“Many of you know that our mother was French,” Roberta said, speaking with a wacky cinematic French accent. This brought forth gales of laughter from the audience. “She was born Marie-Aude Thérèse de Rustéphan and studied medieval literature in Paris. She was a poor girl with a long name and a ruined château …” More laughter. “ … so she supported herself doing what she loved, playing the piano in music halls. Johanna and I are going to play you something she used to play.”

Roberta looked at me and whispered, “The Offenbach.” I nodded. Used as music for the French chorus line number Can Can, it was one of our favorite pieces to play together. Roberta and I had played this together since I was too short to reach the keyboard and played sitting in her lap.

It was more of a partnership this time. I played low and she played high, throwing in trills as only she could do. It was fast with an irresistible foot-tapping melody and I could hear the audience clapping time. We got through the finale and Roberta looked at me, whispering, “Again. And presto!”

We played it again, faster and faster. By the time we hit the finale the second time, I felt beads of sweat forming on my brow. We looked at each other, our faces and eyes shining. She hugged me tight, and I felt tears of happiness forming in my eyes.

The applause was even louder this time, with many calls of “Encore!” mixed in with “Bravo! Bravo!” Roberta took my hand and we stood up to take our bows together. We took a few steps toward the edge of the dais but were stopped by shouts of “More! More! Encore! Encore!”

Roberta led me back to the piano bench and took the mic again. She scanned the audience till she found Annabel, pointed at her, gestured her forward. Annabel shrank back. But she was standing by her father and Burton propelled her forward, whispering in her ear. Like me, she came to the dais tentatively.

“This is your piano, right, Annabel?” Roberta asked.

“Yes, but –”

“We’ll improvise something for three. Have you ever played Boogie Woogie?”

“Not very well.” Annabel was hesitant.

“Don’t worry,” said Roberta. “Sit on the left and play the chords, just the chords. Johanna, you sit in the middle and play the rhythm. I’ll sit on the right and play the melody. Okay?”

We both nodded and took our seats. I looked over at Burton in the audience. Melissa was now standing by him and they were holding hands, looking very happy. Annabel led off, I came in very shortly after, and Roberta came in last. She worked her magic, creating a tapestry of sound on the baseline the two of us built.

Annabel looked so happy with the final applause that I thought her face would split. Burton and Melissa came up to the dais and pumped our hands.

“I had no idea you are such a good pianist, Johanna,” Burton said to me as we walked toward the buffet after getting flutes of champagne from a passing waitperson.

“I’m not good at all, Burton. Didn’t you see how Roberta carried me?”

“Hmmm,” he said. He did not sound convinced.

Playing with Roberta was the highpoint of the evening for me. Thereafter, things went downhill quickly. I had a small bite to eat with Burton before going to look for Jerry. He was back at the bar and by now was quite drunk.

“I need to take you home, Jerry,” I said.

“No, no,” he slurred. “I’m just getting started …”

I pulled my phone out of my purse and called Burton.

“I need to get Jerry home,” I said. “Should I call a rideshare?”

“No, no, take my car,” he replied immediately.

He joined us at the bar in just a few minutes. As we were waiting, I texted Roberta that I was leaving and taking Jerry home. She texted back a sad emoji saying, “Tomorrow.”

“I’ll bring the car around to the portico,” said Burton. “Can you manage to get Jerry there?”

“Yes,” I replied, putting one of his arms around my shoulders.

I was glad I was wearing low heels, so it was less of a struggle leading Jerry out. He leaned on me heavily, still mumbling, “I need a drink …”

Burton was waiting in the portico by the time we got there, leaning on his car, a late model Porsche 911 Carrera.

“Don’t you have an old beater I can borrow?” I asked.

“I don’t want you to break down on the freeway, Johanna,” Burton replied. “The only question I have for you is – can you drive a stick shift?”

“I drove sticks on the ranch in Montana before I was ten years old, Burton.”

“It’s a powerful car, takes some getting used to.”

“I’ll be careful not to damage it, Burton,” I said, as he helped me manhandle Jerry into the passenger seat and click on his seatbelt. “I know it’s super expensive.”

Burton put his hands on my shoulders to get me to look him directly in the eye.

“I don’t care about the car, Johanna. I only care that you get home safely. This car has all the best safety features technology can buy.”

Roberta called me when I was on the freeway. The car’s smart technology automatically hooked my phone into its systems and her voice came through the Bose speakers.

“Mr. Wilson told me that you left with Jerry because he was drunk,” she said, without a preamble. “Is he in the car with you?”

Jerry was snoring gently in the passenger seat.

‘He’s out for the count,” I said.

“How are you going to get him up to your apartment?” She sounded worried.

“I’ll get the doorman and the concierge to help me. They’re always very helpful.”

There was a brief pause.

“I was just talking to Owen. He asked me to thank you for inviting us. He’s made a lot of great new contacts. I wish he could see you through my eyes.”

“He loves you,” I said. “That’s all that matters to me.”

There was another pause and I pulled out to pass a stream of slower cars.

“Playing with you made me happier than performing with the San Francisco Symphony,” she said. “My heart is just bursting.”

“Me too, Roberta. I love you so much; it hurts.”