A Walk Across the Sun by Corban Addison Read Free Book Online Page B

“She’s not coming back, Mom. I don’t see the point.” He didn’t mean to be harsh, but he didn’t want there to be any doubt.
    Elena took a deep breath. “Even so, take it with you. Please.”
    Thomas took the gift reluctantly. “Should I unwrap it?”
    His mother nodded.
    Beneath the paper he found a pocket-sized book of poetry by Sarojini Naidu.
    â€œA good choice,” he said. “She loved Naidu.”
    â€œWhy don’t you read something to us?”
    His instinct was to decline, but he didn’t want to disappoint her. He opened the book to a poem called “Transience” and read it out loud. The refrain had a haunting beauty, but it rang hollow in his heart.
    â€œNay, do not weep; new hopes, new dreams, new faces,
The unspent joy of all the unborn years,
Will prove your heart a traitor to its sorrow,
And make your eyes unfaithful to their tears.”
    The room was silent after he finished. No one knew what to say. They were rescued by the sound of the grandfather clock. Eight chimes.
    â€œI’m sorry to rush off,” Thomas said, trying to hide his relief, “but I have to change before I head downtown.”
    â€œOf course,” Elena said, though her eyes were filled with sorrow.
    His parents walked him to the door. In contrast to the good cheer they had affected at the beginning of the meal, their expressions now were grave.
    â€œCall us if you need anything,” Elena said. “Day or night, we’ll be here.”
    â€œI’ll be fine,” Thomas replied, giving her a kiss on the cheek and shaking his father’s hand. “Don’t worry about me.”
    But he knew they didn’t believe him.

    He drove back into the city and made a quick stop at home to change into his tuxedo. He felt profoundly weary. He had been a fool to drive all the way to South Carolina for Christmas. The holidays had their merits, but even in a good year all the socializing gave him a headache. He needed a drink. That was about the only benefit of Clayton’s holiday party—bottomless booze.
    He hailed a cab to the Mayflower Hotel. The taxi dropped him off at the entrance at nine o’clock. He knew from experience that the late arrival wouldn’t be noticed. Clayton’s parties went on all night.
    He walked into the grand lobby of the old Beaux Arts establishment and heard the din of conversation. Clayton’s Washington office—one of twenty around the world—was home to two hundred attorneys and twice as many staff. When the whole group gathered and drinks were served, one had to shout to be heard over the clatter.
    He entered the grand ballroom and greeted a group of friends. After trading a few jokes and a bit of office gossip, he excused himself to get a drink. At one of the bars, he ordered a Manhattan and watched the bartender mix the whiskey, vermouth, and bitters. He took the drink and sipped it, looking out across the sea of faces flushed with excitement and inebriation.
    He always felt a rush in this crowd. Clayton was one of the most prestigious law firms in the world. In the last decade, especially, the skyrocketing housing market, the rise of international mergers and acquisitions, and the expansion of the global energy sector had turned the equity partners at the firm into multimillionaires and given associates like Thomas a taste of the good life yet to come.
    Priya, on the other hand, had hated everything about the firm. She had lobbied hard against Clayton when Thomas put out his résumés. She had argued that a life spent in nonprofit practice was the only path to true satisfaction. He had listened to her. He always listened to her. But he had disagreed. Slaving away for breadcrumbs at a civil rights group might be emotionally gratifying, but as a career move, it was a dead end. He coveted what his father had—a seat on the federal bench. To get there, he had to play in the big