I
"Let's see if I have this straight." Louis leans forward in his chair, gesturing with his hand in that menacing, yet faintly effeminate way he has: wrist flicked back, thumb pressed to forefinger. "You want us to represent Duke-Sanger, whose current financial situation is sustained by institutionalized and systematic accounting fraud and corruption."
"You're forgetting treason," Mike says, kicking his feet up on the coffee table.
Louis points at Mike and nods, but keeps his eyes locked on Harvey. "I'm all for toeing the line. It gives me a sense of inner balance which translates well into my ballet. But betraying the motherland? That pushes morally equivocal."
"Zegareli's offering us ten million, win or lose."
Louis quirks a bushy brow. "On second thought, everyone deserves representation and who am I to say which fifty shades are gray?"
"Are you kidding?" Mike looks from one attorney to the other, furious. "They could offer us fifty million and it would still be a terrible idea. The two of you will be the next Shapiro and Cochran."
Harvey sighs and gazes out the window, probably looking for patience. Mike has been nipping at his heels about the deal since they left the platinum offices. He doesn't understand how this man, who is meant to be his superior, can have such a naïve perspective – you don't make deals with traitors, it's common sense.
"I understand where you're coming from, Mike," Louis says, "but I feel like I would be more of a Kardashian in this scenario."
Mike glares at the named partner. "With what hair?"
"It's not about hair. It's about prestige – nay perseverance."
"Nay?"
"Nay. It means 'or rather'."
"I know what it means," Mike says. "I just haven't heard someone nay since electricity."
"Unbelievable." Louis shifts his attention to Harvey. "Will you please tell this uncultured youth that naying is a thing?"
"It's a thing horses do," Harvey says, dropping Zegareli's contract on Louis's desk. Then he turns and stalks out.
Mike jumps up and follows, leaving Louis to prattle on, "Not neigh – nay! It's a homophone!"
"So we're just going to sell our services to these corporate scumbags?" Mike says as soon as Harvey's door is closed behind them. "Have you completely lost your sense of integrity?"
"We don't have a choice. We lost Integral Health this morning and Ten East is trying to negotiate out of their contract. We're sinking."
Feeling like Harvey's losing his grip on the situation, Mike chooses his next words carefully. "What are your choices when someone puts a gun to your head?"
Harvey gives him a look.
"You do what they say or they shoot you, right?"
"Mike – "
"Wrong. You take the gun. You pull out a bigger gun. You call their bluff. Or, you do one of another one hundred and forty-six other things, because you always have a choice. You taught me that."
Harvey closes his eyes with a pained expression. When he opens them again, he says, "This gun isn't pointed at me. It's pointed at the people I care about and I'm not willing to risk them to recklessness and egotism."
"I'll tell you what's reckless, the fact that you haven't even looked at Donna's case. It's like you don't give a shit about what happened."
"What difference will it make?" Harvey snaps, both firm and evasive; he's avoiding the subject with the appearance of meeting it. "Guilty – not guilty, the outcome is the same. I'm getting her out of this, whatever it costs."
"What if it doesn't have to cost as much as you think? The evidence against Donna is overwhelming, Harvey. Her motive is transparent. A trained monkey could convict her. Why the hell would Zegareli need Donna unless there's something big we're missing?"
There's a soft thud as Harvey collapses down at his desk. He picks up a pen and rolls it between his palms, considering. "Maybe siding with Donna helps Zegareli avoid jail time."
"I don't buy that." Mike runs his hand over his face and starts pacing. "Driving a wedge between Donna and Jonathan matters for some reason." He stops and turns to Harvey. "What was that thing Zegareli was saying about Russo?"
From the look on Harvey's face he's hit something, he doesn't know what and he's almost certain Harvey doesn't exactly know either.
"Nothing important."
Mike lifts a curious brow. "It didn't sound like nothing important."
Harvey sighs, then offers, "Russo was my first trial case when I was at the DA."
"What does that have to do with Donna?"
"I don't know. I'm scared to ask."
"Scared to ask," Mike repeats. "If I said to you I was scared of anything to do with a case, the roof would come off this building."
"Maybe scared isn't the right word."
Mike nods gravely, confusion showing in his eyes. "Then why is scared the word you used?"
II
It's hot, uncomfortably so. Donna stands before the stove stirring the base of a Bolognese sauce she found the recipe for online. She glares down at her phone, muttering to herself, "slowly simmer to bring the impurities to the surface for skimming." Had she known she'd need a Michelin star to prepare spaghetti she would have ordered take-out.
Her palms sweat, not from the heat or the overly complicated recipe, but with nerves. She is in Harvey's home, cooking him dinner. The domesticity and what it entails terrifies her. She is leaning into what aches, reaching toward something she thought was a resolution but now feels a whole hell of a lot like sticking her hand into a garbage disposal, trying to retrieve something lost and trusting Harvey not to flick the switch.
She turns and peers at Alice's pink notebook tucked beneath her purse on the kitchen counter. She has spent years running away from this, but in the end it's like trying to lose a shadow. Telling Harvey the truth means giving it a name and confronting it for what it is: the pain, the denial, the survivor's guilt. He deserves honesty and maybe by being honest she can finally feel at peace with who she is.
The sound of the front door opening pulls Donna out of her musing. She drops the ladle and smiles like an idiot.
He's home. And seeing him walk into the kitchen, already tugging his tie off, she thinks maybe she is finally home too.
III
The evening sun casts the apartment in a romantic half-light as it sets behind the Manhattan skyline. Donna stands in the kitchen, her dark eyes sparkling and her mouth curled into a beautiful smile. Harvey watches her, mesmerized. It still feels like a dream. His own sheepish grin spreads across his face as she saunters over, followed by an intense desire to touch her, to feel her skin slide under his fingertips, if only to ensure she's real.
His lips find her first. The kiss is soft and innocent, and neither breaks their smile. It's a simple exchange, but to Harvey it feels like a small luxury, like that first sip of scotch after a long day or taking his socks off before bed.
"How'd your day go?" she asks as she pulls away. She seems different than she did this morning, more assured and relaxed.
Harvey thinks about her case being dismissed for federal question, then about his meeting with Zegareli and the deal they struck. His mood shifts. He feels a heaviness in his chest and a sense of something dark lurking behind him. It claws into his consciousness, calling to him, "Harvey, listen to me. There's more. Russo…"
He steps out of Donna's embrace and over to the bar cart. "We lost Integral Health," he says, grabbing the decanter of scotch. "You want some?"
Donna picks up her ladle carefully. "Harvey, Integral Health is a major client."
"I know."
"You couldn't find a way to keep them?"
"No."
"Why not?"
He pours two generous glasses and rejoins her in the kitchen. "Let's not talk about work," he says, setting the tumblers aside. His hands seek out her body, following the curve of her waist, exploring her with a possessiveness that seems almost violent. She smiles. Seeing this as an invitation, he grips her hips and lifts her onto the countertop.
"Well," she says softly, "someone's eager."
Harvey darts a look down at the exposed portion of her chest, smooth and white, framed by the contract of her black dress. He licks his lips. "Aren't you?"
She shrugs. "Haven't really given it much thought."
His eyes flick back to hers and she gives him a lazy, predatory little smirk. "You expect me to buy that, given all the lying you've been doing lately?"
"Do you need evidence?" She leans forward, curling her fingers through his hair and delicately tugs him toward her so that her lips are at his ear. He holds his breath. "I can show you where to find it," she says, dragging the words out slowly, sending a shiver down his spine and a tidal wave of blood rushing to his groin.
Harvey pulls back and stares at her. Silently and without breaking eye contact she spreads her legs for him, her dress riding up her thighs until he can see the black lace of her underwear. He grabs her by the back of the thighs, hoisting her toward him, and bends down to press his face, his mouth, to her crotch through her panties.
She moans encouragingly and falls back onto her elbows. He prods with his tongue and grazes at the fabric with his teeth, but nothing too much and nowhere near the intensity she wants.
Her fingers dig into his jacket cuffs; her hips arch against his mouth –
And then his goddamn phone starts ringing.
Before he has a chance to silence it Donna sits up, flushed and breathless, and plucks it from his coat pocket. He feels sorry for whoever is on the other line because the look on her face is murderous.
"Harvey's busy," she says upon answering.
In an attempt to hide his grin Harvey presses his lips to her neck. Then he hears her say, "What contract?" and freezes. He breaks off and pulls back. Her dark eyes narrow at him. She lets out a disapproving hum, and tells the mysterious caller, "Thanks, I'll let him know."
Silence fills the apartment, expanding like a stifling mid-summer air. The sauce left on the stove pops as it rolls to a boil.
"That was Melanie Zegareli's secretary," Donna says, so firmly Harvey feels she has set the words loose to crawl under his skin. "She wants you to know she received your signed contract and looks forward to doing business with you."
Harvey swallows. "Donna, I – " He stops himself.
She stares at him as if to pry the truth from his pupils. "Go on."
"It's in your best interest."
She blinks, once, and cocks her head. "How exactly is getting in bed with my enemy in my best interest?"
"Having her on our side keeps her from testifying against you." Harvey feels like his explanation is more for himself than for her, and, of course, she knows this. She knows everything.
Donna slides off the counter and moves to turn the stove down. "You really think having Duke-Sanger as a client is going to keep Melanie quiet?"
"No," he admits. "But you testifying against Jonathan will."
Donna turns around slowly, says slowly. "I'm not doing that."
"It's looking like the only way out of this, Donna."
"Then, I guess I go to prison."
Harvey's anger returns, as if her turning down the burner flame has instead turned something up in him. "Don't be stupid," he tells her. "I know it's not ideal, but sometimes sacrifices have to be made."
"Do you even know what the definition of a sacrifice is? It's giving up something important for the sake of another's consideration. And it sure as hell isn't something that you get to decide for me."
"Donna –"
"Jonathan's a good man."
"If he's so good then why did you leave him?"
The annoyance falls from Donna's face. She takes a step back and stares at Harvey a long moment, incredulous. "I'm not turning on him," she repeats. But all Harvey hears through his frustration and guilt is that her ex-husband means more to her than securing her own future.
Another wave of fury courses through him. "When did you become so goddamn high and mighty? That's what I'd love to know. You weren't too selfless when you used me to get into the DA when it suited you."
"Harvey –"
"And now there's all this shit with Russo."
She shakes her head as if to warn him: you don't want to go there.
"The case was rigged, wasn't it?" He is asking for more honesty than he means to, but with the question now hanging out in the open he feels a sudden relief.
Donna stares at him, lips pressed together in a hard line.
He gets louder – insisting, accusing: "Wasn't it?"
She nods.
"Did you rig it?"
"Yes." Her eyes search his face, trying to gauge his reaction. When she speaks again her voice is calm and low. "I blackmailed Cameron to take the case. Then I did whatever it took to make sure you won it."
The confession rips the breath from Harvey's lungs. A mixture of rage and loss coil inside of him. He recognizes the feeling, and for a moment he is sixteen again, coming home to find his mother in bed with a man who isn't his father.
To have his first big case stripped from him is unbearable. But to know it happened because of Donna – the one person he's always given his trust to – is impossible to grasp. How could she be capable of such betrayal? And if he hadn't noticed the deception before, what else could he have missed?
The thoughts he'd pushed out since finding out about the Duke-Sanger scandal come back darker and more insinuating. Perhaps meddling with Russo was just the start and there were other cases. Perhaps all the intuition she's shown over the years wasn't intuition at all — she knew Cameron and Russo and god knows who else. Has anything about her been real? He doesn't know anymore. He's lost his ability to judge, if he ever possessed it.
Donna reaches out to him. Her cool fingers slide along his jaw and again he is reminded of his mother, her ghost palm pressed to his fevered forehead. This love is an ocean, he thinks. It wears him down, pulls him in, and now he is left with the uneasy sense that he cannot breathe.
"Harvey," she says gently. "Listen, let's sit down and have dinner. I'll tell you everything, okay? We can talk through this."
"How?" he asks, genuinely searching for the answer. "How do we get passed this, Donna? Because right now I feel like if I had any self-respect left I would hate you with it."
"Please. I made a mistake."
She is looking at him like he's meant to save her – desperate, drowning. He's never felt so conflicted. He struggles to make sense of his emotions, torn between the love he has for her and the realization that he has no idea who she is. The two sensations grate at each other, impossible to resolve. They are drowning each other.
"The Donna I know wouldn't have done this – any of it," he says softly, more to himself than to her.
Donna inhales sharply, almost like she's in pain. Almost like it's a struggle for her to breathe, to be near him. She doesn't speak.
The silence stretches. An eternity comes and goes. They don't touch, they don't move, their chests rise and fall at opposite intervals.
Harvey tears his gaze away from her. He focuses on the too bright skyline, letting the sun burn into his vision, hoping that when he finally gets the courage to turn back he'd be too blinded to see the look of dismay on her face. He thought he'd be able to handle things better than this. But part of him knows he couldn't stomach the truth; it's why he avoided her case and refused to press her for information. He was clutching at the Donna he knew and understood in order to preserve the image of her in his head.
"Maybe if I explained," she starts and pauses. He thinks she's trying not to cry.
"Maybe," Harvey whispers. "But what if – "
What if he can't get passed the anger? It's been years since his mother's betrayal and he still can't find it in himself to forgive her. He's a closer – he doesn't know how to seek a suitable resolution, he only knows how to make the problems go away.
"—you can't forgive me," she finishes.
Harvey nods and glances down at her, blinking away the sunspots. Donna meets his gaze; her eyes are red-rimmed and tears streak down her cheeks.
Harvey moves unconsciously toward her, wanting to comfort her so much he forgets his own heart break, but she steps just beyond his reach. An uncrossable distance has again slipped between them; another bridge burned, one he doesn't think can be mended.
"It's okay," she tells him. "I told you to let it sink in." She stops, and with a quick movement, wipes the edge of one eye, then the other. "I think now it finally has."
IV
Donna leaves before dusk.
Harvey sits on the couch, flipping through channels. In the passing slur he hears the Yankees have squeezed out a victory against Chicago, 2-1. He takes a sip of scotch and lets his head loll back against the cushions. The dinner she made remains untouched on the stove, filling his apartment with the savory smell of a home cooked meal. A knot rises in his chest as he contemplates the abandonment; it chokes him up like a rope that won't stop twisting.
A breeze comes through the open window. The air feels nice, cooler than the last few weeks. Soon the trees will have dulled down from the bright green of August to an autumn mix of reds and golds. As a kid, Harvey always looked forward to when the leaves changed. He imagines the crimson hue of the Japanese maples scattered throughout Beacon Hill. Where would he be now, if he was back in Boston? On the pitcher's mound, he assumes. Up by a single run and trying to hold out in the bottom of the inning, his shoulder burning.
He was a closer then too, called in to get the final outs when the team was leading. Then his shoulder got worse and he became more of a liability. Is that what he is now? Managing partner of a crumbling firm, another mound of dust. His suit and tie now seem like that baseball uniform, a costume of doomed hopes.
Scotch glass gone dry, Harvey rises and moves across the room to refill it. In his peripheral he catches sight of the dying cactus and feels his heart break all over again, overwhelmed by the fact that something can flourish for no purpose but to later wilt. He strides into the kitchen and plucks it off the counter; it's light in his hands, dried up to a husk. He opens the cabinet below the sink and tosses it into the trash. The simple act takes it out of him; he shuts his eyes and grips the counter, trying to ease his nerves. When he opens them again, a pink notebook stares back at him. He blinks.
What the hell?
He recognizes it by the Ranger's sticker on the center, curling at the edges as the glue on the back degrades with age. A blue and white number two is hand drawn in the corner, Jeter's number. Harvey brushes over the notebook with his fingertips.
"Alice," he whispers, and for a split second he sees her, grinning at him with those two front teeth still growing in.
Carefully he lifts the cover. Tucked into the first page is a letter, his name written on the envelope in Donna's elegant, steady hand.
He starts to open it, then thinks if she wanted him to read it she would have given it to him. He leaves it, closes the notebook – he's not ready for those memories – and goes back to his scotch. Still, he can't shake the itch of what the letter might contain. Maybe she left the notebook on purpose, a second line of defense to the explanation he wouldn't hear. God, he's such a bastard. He should have let her say her piece. But he can't see what difference it would make – she used him and then let him live in the delusion they were something special. He thought of her as his guiding light, which is funny, because he got the metaphor right; lighthouses aren't places of safety, they warn of danger, they tell you to keep away. Christ – what does he owe her, really?
He strides back into the kitchen and tears open the letter.
Dear Harvey,
I hope you're settling into the new firm well, and that being a big shot corporate lawyer hasn't gone to your head too much. I worry if your ego gets any bigger there won't be a suit fancy enough to contain you. And I know what you're thinking – just because I enjoyed you in all your glory doesn't mean Judge Snyder will be swayed by your birthday suit. You gotta stay humble, my friend – or at least pretend to be.
Jokes aside, Gordon Schmidt Van Dyke is lucky to have you. It's been only a few days, but the office already feels emptier without your smile and laughter gracing it. There's nothing I wouldn't give for another one of your horrendous drawing of us together, or to reach out and fix your tie, which I'm certain at this very moment is tugged too far to the right.
I wasn't planning on contacting you so soon, especially after our night together, but I feel the need to put things right. I know honesty is best done face-to-face, but I have a habit of holding everything in and never saying what I mean. You always imagine you'll get the chance to say what needs to be said, so you put it off, you tell yourself it's not the right time, you keep piling on the excuses. Now it's been so long, what I've done feels unforgivable.
But I'm not asking for forgiveness in this letter, only for you to know that I'm sorrier than I can ever express for what I'm about to tell you.
The truth is I'm not a secretary. The night we met I sought you out — not because I wanted to switch to your desk, but because someone very special to me wanted us to meet each other.
Her name was Alice. You watched her every Wednesday over the course of the summer a little over two years ago. You taught her about jazz music. She loved to listen to Miles Davis just before bed; her favorite song was Seven Steps to Heaven. You took her to Columbus Park, where she hit her first home run. After that, all she would talk about was how she wanted to play for the big leagues. She wanted to slide home like Derek Jeter and had grass stains on every pair jeans she owned. She always stood too close to people and never learned how to use her inside voice. She was kind and smart and full of life. She was so many things, Harvey, I'm scared I can't explain her – how do you summarize someone in a few key points? But I guess all you need to know is she was my daughter and she loved you very much.
Alice passed away at the end of that summer. Even writing this lays a heavy, hopeless feeling in my heart. People say it gets easier with time, and in some ways it does. The weight is still there, still heavy as before, but you find the strength to bear it better. But in some ways it gets harder. You think her dying is the worst part. Then she stays dead and it sinks in. Instead of a daughter to love, I have a bedspread, a hockey jersey, a sun dress I could never get the stain out of.
In those first few months following Alice's passing I was convinced I couldn't live without her. And if I'm honest, I didn't want to. The only thing I wanted I could never have and each day my hope dwindled. Each day grew darker and bleaker. My continued existence tore at me. It's like watching the water rise around you in a sinking ship. You can't breathe, you can't function, and everyone is telling you to hang on, that you'll get through it — one step, one day. But each day takes you further away from her. Each step feels like a betrayal.
And I guess that's how I found myself standing on the edge of my balcony. The water wouldn't stop rising. I felt my only step forward was stepping to an end.
Then for some inexplicable reason, while balancing on that ledge, I thought about you, Harvey. I thought about the goal list Alice kept in her notebook and how she wanted, so desperately, for us to meet. It wasn't a conscious decision, stepping down, choosing to stay alive; it was almost like I was in a trance. I know how it sounds. I know it's crazy. But this one insane moment – meeting you and all that came after – changed my whole life.
I've never believed in fate or the supernatural, but someone once told me that universe can take with one hand and give with the other, and I think, in getting you, the universe gave more than I could ever wish for, and much more than I deserve. Nothing I can say will ever sum how grateful I am to have met you. When it comes to you there is never enough – words, time, love. You slowed the world down to a pace where I could breathe and function, then slower still so I could see the beauty in being alive again.
Deceiving you is perhaps the worst thing I've ever done. I know you're probably angry and hurt and none of this makes sense. I won't blame you if you hate me; my only hope is that you can cope with the harm I've caused.
And with my whole heart I thank you, not only for caring for my daughter at such a delicate time in her life, but for every day we spent together. Being your secretary has saved my life.
Wishing you all the best in everything life has to offer.
Your loving friend,
Donna