Chapter 5
922 Words
CHAPTER 5
And then he says how many evening gowns do you own? Gowns, plural! I was in my office texting with Grace a short while later.
Thanks for the lesson, Mrs. Grammar Person, she teased. Plurals are a difficult concept for me.
That explains how you lost count of your shoes, I joked. One more pair and you'll have to rent a storage unit. Between texts I was organizing files on my desk.
I can always keep some at Nick's house, Grace replied.
Yeah, right! Your boyfriend is more of a clotheshorse than you are. I bet his suits are alphabetized from Armani to Versace, with some Gucci in between.
Funny! Speaking of shoes, you can't wear Keds with your evening gown, you know.
You mean my hypothetical evening gown? I corrected her. No heels, I won't wear heels for anyone. I'm too much of a klutz.
And you hate them.
That too, I admitted.
Why do you need evening gowns anyway? Isn't running a foundation mostly paperwork?
You'd think so, I wrote, but apparently I have to attend fancy galas with donors, blah blah blah.
Ooh, can I be your plus one? I love parties!
Grace really did. She loved dressing up, eating dainty canapés, chatting with strangers, whereas I was a dedicated homebody who kept having adventures she wasn't looking for--like run-ins with the Russian mob, art forgers, and crooked politicians. I was a magnet for trouble like Jeff Bezos was a magnet for money. Too bad we couldn't switch.
You can go in my place, I offered magnanimously.
I would, but you're the face of The Andrea Lowenthal Art Fund.
And I thought this would be my dream job
It still is and you know it, Grace replied. Hey, what's happening with Kip? Did he go back to his job at the Parks department?
I felt my stomach knot up. I wasn't ready to talk about this. Nope, not exciting enough for him, he said it felt like a step backward. I'll keep you posted. Now, get to work, counselor.
If I must. Billable hours are the bane of my existence.
I thought Nick was? Lol
No, Grace replied, he's the bane of yours. Your number one frenemy.
I sent her a winky face and signed off. I really did have a lot to do. My law practice wasn't going to wind itself down no matter how much I procrastinated. Yes, I could have sent my clients to another lawyer but nobody wants to switch horses mid-race, and it would have cost them a bundle to bring a new lawyer up to speed. Also, I was their security blanket. I'd held their hands when they cried, coached them through court proceedings and, most importantly, I knew all their secrets. If I abandoned them now that would make two people in their life who had dumped them and I just didn't have it in me.
I had five clients left and two were scheduled for uncontested final hearings. Two more would probably settle in mediation but, as any divorce lawyer will tell you, the devil's in the details. A simple dispute over Thanksgiving visitation could turn into the Wars of the Roses, bitter as the Houses of Lancaster and York fighting over the British throne. If you think I'm exaggerating, watch the movie The War of the Roses where a nasty divorce turns into a cage match. Spoiler alert, they take 'til death do us part literally.
In my remaining case, a man named Fred had hired me for his second divorce from his first wife. That's right, he married the same woman twice. Not only that, he had deeded back to her the property I'd won for him the first time. I only agreed to take his case (again) because he was a poor thing and I felt sorry for him. When I asked him why on earth he had remarried her, he said: She promised to be a good wife this time. I warned him, Fred, if you marry her a third time you're on your own.
That afternoon, I was researching Fred's case when my suitemate, Nelda Santos, a worker's comp attorney who could always make me laugh, stopped in my office.
"Hey, sweetie," she said with her slight Brazilian accent, "if you're not too busy (she pronounced it bee-zy), could you help me with something?"
Nelda was so cheerful you knew it before she even opened her mouth. Her lemon yellow suit and bright floral blouse were like a Caribbean sunrise, her bejeweled glasses sparkled, and she started smiling as soon as she entered the room--any room. She probably smiled in her sleep. No wonder her clients loved her. What's not to love?
"I could use a break," I said, pushing away from my desk. "What's up, Miss Nelda?"
She seemed a bit unsure. "I need help moving some boxes. They're too heavy for me."
I followed her down the hall to the conference room where, for some reason, the door was closed. Before I could remark upon it Nelda had flung the door open to a loud chorus of "Surprise!" Gathered around the table were Nicole (our receptionist), as well as Nelda's paralegal, her secretary, and her new associate Henry, a recent law school grad we called baby lawyer. On the table was a coconut cake (my favorite) with the words Best of Luck, Jamie! in pink icing.
"It's not my birthday, you know…" I offered.
Nelda gave me a hug. "We know, but we're going to miss you around here!"
I shook my head. "No, you're not."
"Sure, we will!" said Nicole.
"You won't miss me," I said, "I guarantee it."
"Why not?" Nelda asked.
"Because I'm not going anywhere."
- Writer
