Something flickered in his eyes before he lowered them. “I don’t want to be serving drinks for a living, that’s for sure. Zack can have it.” After crushing out his cigarette, he applied himself to the pizza. “And no way I’m going into the damn navy, either. He swung that one by me the other day, and I shot it down big-time.”

“Well, you seem to know what you don’t want. That’s a step.”

He reached out to toy with the little silver ring on her finger. “Did you always want to be a lawyer?”

“Pretty much. For a while I wanted to be a ballerina, like my sister. That’s when I was five. It only took about three lessons for me to figure out it wasn’t all tutus and toe shoes. Then I thought I might be a carpenter, like the men in my family, so I asked for a tool set for my birthday. I think I was eight. I managed to build a pretty fair book rack before I retired.” She smiled, and his heart rate accelerated. “It took me a while to come to the conclusion that I couldn’t be what Natasha was, or Papa or Mama or anyone else. I had to find my own way.” She said it casually, hoping the concept would take root.

“So you went to law school.”

“Mmm…” Her eyes brightened as she studied him. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Sure.”

“Perry Mason.” Laughing at herself, she scooped up another slice. “I was fascinated by those old reruns. You know, how there would always be this murder, and Perry would take the case when his client looked doomed. Lieutenant Tragg would have all this evidence, and Perry would have Della and Paul Drake out looking for clues to prove his client’s innocence. Then they’d go to court. Lots of objections, and ‘Your Honor, as usual the counsel for the defense is turning this proceeding into a circus.’ It would look bad for Perry. He’d be up against that smug-faced DA.”

“Hamilton Berger,” Nick said, grinning.

“Right. Perry would play it real close to the vest, dropping little hints to Della, but never spilling the whole thing. You just knew he had all the answers, but he would string it out. Then, always at the eleventh hour, he’d get the real murderer up on the witness stand, and he’d just hammer the truth out of him, until the poor slob would crumble like a cookie and confess all.”

“Then he’d explain how he’d figured it all out in the epilogue,” Nick finished for her. “And you wanted to be Perry Mason.”

“You bet,” Rachel agreed over a bite of pizza. “By the time I realized it wasn’t that black-and-white, and it certainly wasn’t that tidy, I was hooked.”

“Ray Charles,” Nick said, half to himself.

“What?”