Death Comes For Christmas

Chapter 2 ~ December 18

Chapter 2 ~ December 18 Wish ListIt was another painfully bright winter morning in Phoenix and the intense sunshine bouncing off the desk only made Camelia Belmont’s hangover dig in its heels. She flinched against the light ricocheting off the high-rises and got up to lower the blinds. The vista to the east—dusty pink Camelback Mountain against a flawless turquoise sky—was breathtaking. Wasn’t this what she had worked so hard to get? And yet, she wasn’t content.

Despite the envious view, Camelia was relieved it was her last day in the office for two whole glorious weeks. She craved a change of scenery, a white Christmas back in Canada, away from Arizona’s relentlessly cheerful weather, and far away from her demanding, irate clients. Her mind slipped into the daydream, stepping off the plane into a Narnia-like wonderland, crunching around Wascana Lake in her new boots, hugging a mug of cocoa at Willow Bistro, watching the sun set across the frozen lake.

Crisp, cozy, idyllic.

Surely, reconnecting with her roots would help put her work woes in perspective.

Camelia paused to remind herself that while her clients might nip at her like hungry coyotes most days, they weren’t all bad. But even on a good day—and those were increasingly rare—the divorce work didn’t satisfy her inner justice warrior. If she could just convince Byron to promote her... but advancing to partner was only the first step. And it wasn’t nearly enough if she was just going to be heading up the firm’s family law department. Laughable, really, since the so-called department was just her, a paralegal, and a shared junior associate with an attitude problem.

No, Camelia wanted more.

Like her name on the law firm letterhead and a lot more money.

You listening, Santa?

The firm’s monthly billing requirements were a painful reminder of her status as a senior associate. No power, no control, no clout. And yet, she was subsidizing her mother’s independent living rental, funding her husband’s new startup, and paying cash for therapy. On top of that, she was spending precious billable time on pro bono refugee cases. The work was urgent and compelling, so it was easy to rationalize, but it was killing her bottom line. She had to make partner—and a bigger paycheck—or give up on someone, but who? Her mother? Her husband? Herself? Desperate Central American refugees?

Camelia shook her head to dislodge the fog of alcohol clawing its way out of her system and swallowed another ibuprofen. These workday hangovers were torture and coming too often, lately. Her eyes burned, her insides were shaky and uncontained, and the misty bits of the evening she couldn’t quite remember made her feel vaguely ashamed. She tinkered with the thought of just a nip of vodka, some hair of the dog. Instead, she emptied the carafe of coffee into her cup and reviewed the list her paralegal, Cate Sanchez, had prepared.

I’ll be working overtime. Again.

Not that there was any such thing as overtime pay in a law practice. She didn’t dare do the math on hours versus income because she was pretty sure she was earning about the same as Cate when it came right down to it, and for what? There was no justice or moral high ground in divorce work. She couldn’t stomach the greed, the sense of entitlement, outright lies, rage attacks, and petty retributions that landed on her desk daily. It was exhausting to referee round after round of petty bickering between adults acting like toddlers. Most days, she was just aiding and abetting rich people in extracting their pound of flesh. And all her clients were rich, because ordinary people couldn’t afford the fees.

Hell, I can’t even afford me.

Camelia didn’t want to think about all these... issues, especially through the haze of a hangover. Besides, the pile of pleadings Cate had stacked neatly in order of priority wasn’t going away. As soon as she finished up—it wouldn’t take that long—Camelia could slip out for a little lunch. And a big glass of wine. A reward for diligence. A prize for not running into the street screaming.

She grabbed the first sheaf of pleadings and began to read, pen in hand.