by Lexi Whitlow
Mom’s out shopping. She insists on groceries and home cooking, even though we can order room service, twenty-four-seven. Her cooking is better than room service, so I’m not complaining. I just think it’s funny that she would rather shop for groceries than work on her tan.
I’ve got Drake. He’s flapping around in the pool playing, having a high time of it. Yeah, he’s six-three and pushing two hundred and fifty pounds of soft belly fat, but watching him is a thing to behold, framed by the luscious scenery surrounding him.
There’s a girl twenty feet away who can’t take her eyes off me. She keeps walking by, swinging her hips, squaring her shoulders, trying to get my attention. I’m hiding out over here behind sunglasses, pretending not to notice.
In a minute another girl comes along, settling down in a chaise lounge nearby. Her boyfriend is with her, except he’s fully clothed, talking on his phone, wearing an expression that says he’d rather be anywhere else. She nods, smiling at me.
The pool is busy today. There must be a convention. There are an inordinate number of beautiful women wearing almost nothing by the poolside, in the fleeting company of men who appear wholly preoccupied. The most recent addition to the pool deck population advances to a lounge chair beside mine as soon as her suit-wearing companion departs.
Wearing only a few ribbons of thin yellow cloth, she slathers sunscreen onto her toned skin. Then she leans forward, peering at me over designer shades.
“That’s some incredible ink you have there,” she observes. “Aren’t you worried the rays are going to fade it?”
“I’ll risk it,” I respond, not looking up from my book.
“A risk-taker,” she says. “Nice. I wish more men were willing to risk a few things.”
She settles down on her lounge chair, not an arm’s length away. I smell Hawaiian Tropic lotion; the coconut essence has a certain association my adolescent self might have interpreted as an invitation. She’s got a sparkling rock on her hand as big as Gibraltar and the air of a kept woman. She may be hitting on me—or just testing the waters—but honestly, I like my women a little less Hustler, a little more Vogue
Twenty feet ahead Drake starts laughing for no reason, slapping the water, flipping around like a little kid. He’s having a blast.
“You’d think a resort like this would be more selective who they let in,” the beauty near me observes. She nods toward Drake. “He needs a babysitter—or maybe a security guard—not all-access to the amenities.”
I lower my glasses on my nose, making eye contact for the first time. “You think so?” I ask.
She nods. “Things like that bring the place down. It makes the rest of us uncomfortable to have him around. Don’t you think?”
I look out at the image of my brother in the pool, having the time of his life. Honestly, I could care less what some stuck-up, Botox-injected piece of some other guy’s ass thinks, but I decide to play along for the fun of it.
“I dunno,” I say. I drop my eyes to her rack, then lower. “My opinion of the clientele is already in the gutter.”
She laughs, thinking I’ve given her a compliment.
“You’re funny,” the woman says, licking her lips. “Handsome too. You should buy me a drink.”
Not likely.
I fold my book, sitting forward. “What happens if I buy you a drink?”
She smiles, shading her eyes against the relentless sunshine. “I dunno,” she replies. “I’m free ‘til eight. A lot can happen between now and eight.”
That’s true.
She is just one of I-don’t-know-how-many women who have essentially offered themselves up to me since I’ve been in residence here. Maybe it’s the Tag Heuer watch, or the time I spend in the gym, or the simple fact that I’m here by the pool in a four-star resort where the rabble can’t gather.
Maybe it’s all of it. It happens by the pool, but it also happens in the bar, and in the restaurants we go to for dinner sometimes. I go shopping in town or to the mall, and they sniff me out like cats in heat.
It’s fascinating, just like it was in college when I was a star quarterback with my picture in the paper. Except now the only thing recommending me is the smell of money. I can’t claim that I’m all that because of some talent or accomplishment. All they see is dollar signs.
“Are you here with the convention?” she asks.
I have no clue what she’s talking about. I shake my head.
“I thought maybe you were,” she says. “Venture capital. That’s why my boyfriend is here. It’s a VC meeting. They came here for the golf, but they call it a business conference, so they can write it off.”
Drake shouts from the pool. “Logan! Logan! Swim!”
The beauty beside me raises her head, glaring at my brother. “Shut up you moron, nobody wants to hear you.”
Standing, I look down on her. She’s far less attractive than she was ten minutes ago.
“You know, beauty really is only skin deep. Yours is paper thin.”
“Hold on Drake,” I call out. In a second I launch myself into the pool cannonball style, creating an epic splash, causing Drake to scream, flapping his arms and hands with unrestrained glee.
Be good to yourself.
I think of those words as I jump in the pool with my brother. He laughs, and I laugh.
A year or two ago, and these girls would have gotten right under my skin.
But now, there’s something different, and it’s not just the money.
Maybe it’s Bryn and her message.
I don’t think too long about that. Instead, I enjoy the sun and let the day move on in peace.
Chapter 5
Bryn
Two Months Later
“This popped in my inbox this morning,” Claire says, sliding a printout across the counter towards me. She’s got that mischievous look in her eye like she’s up to something. “Thought you might be interested.”
I have a look, sipping coffee, ignoring the elbow-tight, early crowd at Cup-a-Joe’s.
For immediate release; the newly formed Chandler Foundation has named its Board of Directors, Chairman, and two Chief Executives, as well as Director of Capital Investment and Director of Awards Initiatives. The Foundation, established with a base grant of $400 million, will begin reviewing proposals and funding requests for both existing and newly imagined 501(c)(3) organizations who support vulnerable, marginalized, and underserved individuals/groups within central and eastern North Carolina…
“Wow,” I say. “So, Logan is giving away money?”
I get a twisting feeling in my gut that I can’t quite identify. There are things you don’t expect from mechanic lottery winners, and this is one of them. But Logan Chandler—well, it makes sense. Maybe he never would have seen it about himself, but I think I saw it a long time ago. Back when I was too dumb to appreciate things like that.
There have been rumors swirling around for weeks that he’s back in town, laying low, working with third parties and intermediaries on all kinds of projects. Turns out the rumors were more than that.
Claire nods. “A lot of money,” she agrees. “I had a call this morning with the director of awards, and she’s legit. I’m doing a story on the foundation for the paper this week. They’ve rented modest offices up in North Raleigh. Nothing splashy. They’re almost fully staffed and ready to start looking at grant requests.”
“That’s wonderful,” I say. “There’s a lot of need here. Maybe they can do some good.”
“I’d keep it,” Claire says. “Or well. I don’t know. He’s got a lot of fucking money.”
“Like the income of a small country.”
“Medium sized one,” Claire says. “Definitely medium. I guess I’d get my act together and give some cash away. But he’s going big time. Kinda hot, don’t you think?”
I nod absently, and she grins, elbowing me in my side.
“He’s hot. Always was,” Claire adds. “You always thought so.”
“Did not.”
/>
“Did too,” she says, but this time she catches my eye. “Admit it. You still do.”
“Yeah, fine. But he doesn’t need some girl hovering around him right now. He’s got a plan, and there’s a lot of people who need him right now. I’m not one of them.”
I leave it at that, and I try to focus on the good he’s doing rather than the image of him fixing my car. I keep that picture of him with me and go back too it all too often.
There is need. I see it every day.
Our firm gets calls every single week from people who have been denied fair wages by their employers, harassed, intimidated, been swindled, left unpaid on signed contracts, denied basic services and protections guaranteed by the government.
In a thousand little ways, every day, I see people getting screwed—with no recourse—because law firms like my father’s exist to serve and protect the wealthy. We take a few pro bono cases here and there, but only the ones that will burnish our reputation in the press. After all, who can disagree that a kid with a speech problem should be denied use of an electronic aid to help him communicate? If that was reasonable, we wouldn’t have the contributions of people like Stephen Hawking. Taking that case, arguing it, and forcing the city schools to settle and change their policy made headlines. It made our firm look great. Helping an illegal immigrant get paid for painting a house when the owner decides to stiff him? That’s less glamorous and more controversial.
That’s the kind of work I want to do, but I can’t see how it will ever happen.
“You should put together a proposal,” Claire says quietly. “You’re always moaning about the fact that you can’t do meaningful work at the firm. Always pointing out how badly this town needs a real legal aid society.”
Me? I frown. “Claire, I wouldn’t even know how to begin. I’m fresh out of law school.”
She smiles. “Which means that you’re full of ideas, not completely jaded, and have the energy to do it. You’re smart. Figure it out.”
“Like I said, he doesn’t need some girl—”
She stops me, hand on mine. “You’re not some girl. You’re Bryn fucking Beckett. And I’m serious for once. You want to help people. Go do it. It’s not like you’re asking for a date.”
She leaves it at that and doesn’t mention it again.
* * *
My father doesn’t like the idea. But that’s been the story of my life so far.
“Honey, I know you want to do more of the touchy-feely stuff,” my father says, while munching his salmon salad. “But that’s just your youth and all the time you spent doing internships for the ACLU, influencing you. That’s not where the real gravy is. The gravy is corporate contracts, perpetual trusts, estate management. It’s not exciting, but it’s who we are.”
“It’s not who I am, Daddy,” I argue. “It’s not like I’m not willing to handle my share of the load. All I’m asking is that I get a chance to handle more of the pro bono that comes to us, in addition to my regular case load. Charles hoards those opportunities, tossing most out, assigning the keepers to his pets. I get nothing.”
“You got the autistic kid,” he says, pointing his fork at me. “And you did very well with that.”
“You gave me that one,” I remind him. “Not Charles.”
Daddy sits back in his chair, resting his elbows on the edge of the table. He regards me carefully.
“Here’s the thing,” he says. “Charles is on the partner track. He’s got one foot in management’s door. Part of that process is giving him supervisory responsibility, which the pro bono work is part of.”
I understand all that.
“If I step around, inserting myself, it’s going to undermine him in the eyes of the junior staff, as well as the partners. You need to figure out a way to warm up to him.”
I need to what?
“Bryn, you treat Charles with open disdain. You give your admin and the biddies in the break room more respect than you give him. I know you’ve known him since high school. I know it’s hard seeing him as your superior. But he is. If you accepted that reality and adjusted your approach, giving him a little more credit and deference, he might decide he can trust you with some of the work you want a shot at.”
I sit quietly for a moment, processing this speech. I want to make sure I’ve got it right. I turn it over in my head, measuring every word. Then, when I’m certain of exactly what my father just advised, I sum it up for him, just for clarification.
“What you’re saying is I need to kiss his ass?”
He tips his head, offering a tight smile. “That’s one interpretation,” he observes, then heaves a heavy sigh. “I should have insisted on sending you to UVA. New York City has made you cynical, and entirely too abrupt.”
“Bless your heart, Daddy. You’re the one who taught me it takes fewer words to tell the truth than it does to spin a lie,” I remind him. “I’ve learned to be concise. If that’s uncomfortable for you, that’s not my fault.”
“You’re going to make an excellent litigator one day,” he responds, raising his hand to our waiter for the check. “You’re already thinking circles around me.”
That’s perhaps the highest compliment my father has paid me since the day I graduated Cum Laude from Columbia. He was proud of me that day. I want him to be proud of me. I also want his respect, but that’s a much harder row to hoe. To do that, I fear I’m going to have to become even more abrupt, bowling him over with boldness.
* * *
I’ve got to play this just right, or it will go very wrong. My father is correct about one thing, I do treat Charles like he’s used gum, stuck to the bottom of my shoe. I can’t exactly flip and start batting my eyelashes at him. He’s too smart for that game. But what I can do is very professionally acknowledge the fact that he’s the one with the power to improve my world, and ask him to help me.
I catch him in the break room, fighting with the Keurig. I don’t offer to help him even though he’s putting the cup in wrong. Instead I shrug, giving a sympathetic smile.
“I hate that thing too. It’s a devious little machine.”
A moment later we’re assisted by a nineteen-year-old admin who flips the cup over, snaps the lid shut, presses a button, rolls her eyes, then struts away.
Again, with the sympathetic smile and humble remark. “These kids,” I say, nodding toward the admin. “They make me feel old.”
Charles nods, smirking. “Yeah.”
He turns to his cup of coffee, adding cream and sugar, trying to ignore me. I retrieve a bottle of water from the fridge, then pause, turning to him.
“I was thinking,” I say. “We should grab dinner one night soon, to go over a couple cases I have that you started last year. Maybe get background on them, some advice on next steps. Ideally, I’d like to skip covering ground that you’ve already tread. I’m trying to get more efficient, so soon I can be more help on some of your pro bono stuff. I haven’t got the time yet, but maybe with some guidance…”
“Sure,” Charles says without looking up. “I’m free Thursday. We’ll head out after work.”
“Great!” I say, forcing my beaming cheerleader smile. I can kiss ass with the best of them. “You pick the place. Raleigh has changed so much since I left, I hardly know where to go anymore.”
That’s the first truthful statement I’ve uttered since I crossed the break room threshold. Maybe Dad’s right. Maybe I am going to be a great lawyer. I can lie with the best of them.
* * *
‘The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry...’
I think it was Robert Burns who said that.
Thursday evening started out just fine. I wore my nicest, perfectly-tailored Lauren suit with a V-neck blouse, and open-toed Cole Haan heels anchoring the outfit. My goal was to dress with just enough oomph to bounce over the boring threshold, without vaulting into the valley of the provocative. Somehow, I missed my mark.
Between the waiter taking our drink order and appetizers arriving a
t our table, Charles stops talking about work, veering instead to his second favorite subject, Logan Chandler.
“He’s trying to make himself look like the next Bill and Melinda Gates with this stupid foundation he’s supposedly putting together, and he’s set up his family and friends with trust funds. I hear he’s also bought the old Tatton place on Oberlin. He’s having it completely renovated,” Charles says, with no attempt to conceal the sneer in his tone. “Seriously. Who does the guy think he is? He’s nobody at all—just a dumbass hick with more money than sense. He’ll probably destroy the place. Put in a Jungle Room and make it like some white-trash version of Graceland in the middle of historic Raleigh.”
Tatton Hall is a historically significant property in the city. Like so many others, it’s been left derelict at least ten years. It’s a wonder to me the place hasn’t been razed to the ground long before now. That’s what happens to old houses on giant lots. They get carved up to build McMansions with miniscule yards, or turned into high-rise apartment buildings.
“Maybe he’ll restore it,” I offer, trying to play nice. My father is friends with the people who own the place, I know a bit of its story. “The owners were looking for someone who would do just that. That’s why they hung on to it, rather than selling out to developers.”
Charles scoffs at me. “They were holding out for the highest bidder,” he declares with certainty. “They found the richest dumbass in three states. I’m sure he paid a king’s ransom for it. He’s got it to spare.”
I take a breath, then a bite of my tilapia, focused on changing the subject back to work. “So… tell me how you go about the process of assigning pro bono work out to the juniors. I want to better understand how I can contribute.”
Charles looks up from his medallions of roast veal. He smiles, sipping his wine, thinking.
