Blame it on Paris

by Lise McClendon

  Sincerely,

  Dewey Framingham.

  Dewey added a phone number. Francie frowned and re-read the letter. This wasn’t what she expected but it was definitely a crank letter.

  She carried the letter and envelope out to the reception desk. She asked Tiffany if she knew anything about it and she said all she did was sign for it. Francie asked her to be on the lookout for anything else from Dewey Framingham. Not that she expected anything, but just to be cautious.

  Back in her office she asked her assistant to do a background search on Dewey Framingham, Reece Pugh, Harlan Pugh, and Claudia Pugh. Who were these people? She’d never heard of any of them. Why was Dewey writing to her? Surely the boy’s parents were on this. But he’d been in jail for three months on a drug charge. That seemed excessive unless he really was a European drug kingpin.

  She sat down and stared at the letter again. Who were the Pughs? Why was her name on “some documents”— what documents? And what about “Tom?” Did Dewey mean her ex-husband? She hadn’t thought much about Tom Ramey in the ten years since their divorce. His death last year had been sad but their split had been amicable and total. Then out of the blue this letter. Curious. But she didn’t have time for wild goose chases today.

  At five that afternoon she finally wrapped up the interview with the reporter from the local paper. The woman was a bulldog on the story, refusing to let Francie give generic answers. She was doing a story about sexual harassment and wanted a woman’s point of view. When first asked to participate Francie had been flattered. She had more than a few stories from over the years but now she didn’t feel like it was her place to share them. They might make the firm look bad, and that was one of her new roles: keeping a shiny bright face on Ward & Bailee. Sometimes she wondered if that was the reason she’d been promoted, to put a pretty face on whatever bad stuff happened. She knew the effect her looks sometimes had on people— clients, opponents, judges. There was often a moment of surprise and look at her ankles. A gasp of she’s too pretty to be smart. She’d managed to mention a couple nasty things to the reporter, things that happened to her back in law school. They weren’t pleasant stories to recall but she kept them vague. At any rate, time had softened their awfulness.

  By the time she’d worked her charm on the reporter, had it fended off, re-worked it again and again, she was exhausted. She escorted the woman to the door and checked her watch. It was really time for a cocktail. But she was trying to be good these days, not only for her mental health but for her waistline. So she went back to her desk and began to clear her in-box again.

  Work was her life after all. She didn’t have a boyfriend or a roommate or even a cat to go home to, and that was fine. People were her business all day long. The evening quiet was necessary.

  Near the top of the pile in her in-box were the print-outs of the background checks she’d requested from Alice. She spread them out on her desk.

  Dewey Framingham was twenty-three and a recent graduate of Yale. Okay, that was something. He worked for a stockbroker in New Haven. His criminal background was clean except for a couple speeding tickets. Upstanding citizen. Harlan and Claudia Pugh were divorced, as Dewey suggested. Claudia was nearby in Greenwich, out in the tony hills, and Harlan lived in Hartford. Their divorce was final seven years before. Their son Reece was the same age as Dewey. His background was a little more checkered, littered with small-time offenses: possession of marijuana, drunk-driving, jay-walking, reckless driving. No college graduation or employment listed.

  So the letter checked out. What did that mean? The questions nagged at her as she went through the rest of the mail, tossing, filing, and putting into her out-box other correspondence. Finally, the office nearly silent, she put on her coat and gloves, stuffed the letter into her briefcase, and went out into the late winter dark.

  A light snow was falling. February felt relentless this year. The parking lot next to the building was still half full. The restaurants and shops down the block lit up the icy asphalt. Francie wove through the cars, around a large pickup truck, and was startled to find Greg Leonard standing idly between vehicles. She skidded to a stop.

  “Geez, Greg, you scared me.”

  He smiled. “Did I?”

  Francie gathered herself. This was no chance encounter. She glanced to the right. Her car was one row over, behind Greg.

  “What’s up?” She positioned her keys between her fingers as her father had taught her years before. “You headed home?”

  He scrunched his eyebrows. “I was thinking of getting a drink. Would you— is it all right to ask you to join me? Or should I check with HR first?”

  “Oh, how sweet of you,” she trilled, really pouring it on. Dial it back, Bennett. “I’m beat though. Maybe some other time.” Like when pigs fly. Or never.

  “Oh, right. You don’t drink anymore.”

  She stepped backwards and around the back of the sedan next to the pickup. Then stopped. “What did you say?”

  “Rumor around the office is you’re an ex-drinker.” He emphasized the word as if it was a cute way to say ‘alcoholic.’ She glared at him. “Hey, don’t look at me. Everyone says so.”

  Francie felt her temper rising. Last year she had gone a little overboard at her sister’s wedding but there was no way in hell anyone at the firm knew about that.

  “Do they? Well, you know what they say about rumors.”

  “No, what do they say?” He squirmed a little.

  “They’re concocted by haters, spread by fools, and accepted by idiots. Good night, Greg.”

  At nine o’clock Francie was staring inside her mostly empty refrigerator, contemplating old cheese for dinner. She’d had her one glass of wine and washed the glass. She’d changed into yoga pants. As if that would ever entice her to do yoga. The letter and its strange contents rattled in her mind, making her jumpy. There was something missing. Some information.

  She slammed the fridge closed and picked up the letter on her small kitchen table. Her apartment was barely big enough to have two people over, which was one more than she ever invited. She once thought she might rent Merle’s house while she was off in France with Pascal. But it was too big, she would rattle around and feel the walls closing in on her. Plus her sister found a nice family of four to rent it. No, her apartment suited her: manageable, small, and easy to keep clean because she was rarely home.

  She flopped on the green velvet sofa and read the letter for the fifth time. What the hell was she supposed to know about Tom? Had she forgotten something about their three-year marriage, something important? Of course she hadn’t. You didn’t forget bad experiences. They were seared in your memory.

  There was only one solution. She picked up her cell phone and punched in Dewey’s number. It rang then went to voicemail. Francie hesitated. Should she leave a message? She blurted out her name and hung up.

  She shook out her hands. She felt wound up thanks to Greg Leonard in the parking lot, and this letter. Maybe she would do a downward dog or something. Miraculously the phone rang, saving her from yoga.

  “Hey, Miss Bennett, it’s Dewey Framingham calling you back.”

  She sat up on the sofa, feet together on the floor: braced. Nervous suddenly. “Yes, I got your letter.”

  “Pretty weird huh? So you think you can help Reece then? You’re a lawyer, right?” He sounded a little spacey for a Yale grad.

  “I am. But first I need to know why you think this concerns me.”

  “Ah— what? Oh. Because of Tom.”

  “Who do you mean, Tom?”

  “Tom, ah— Reece’s dad? His real dad.” He sucked in air. “I mean, you knew that, right?”

  Francie blinked hard. “Do you mean Tom Ramey? My ex-husband?”

  “Right. I mean, I didn’t know his last name. I found a bunch of letters from him in Reece’s stuff and they were just signed ‘Tom.’ And he mentioned you in the letters.”

  “He mentioned me?” Francie was struggling to put all the facts t
ogether here. “Did Tom say he was Reece’s father?”

  “Um, I think Reece did some DNA test …? You know what I mean? And somehow they connected. He didn’t really discuss it much with me, just that he and his dad, the other one, Harlan, didn’t get along and there was a reason for that. That Tom was his real dad was the gist of it. Like, his biological father. Hey, you want to read the letters? I don’t think Reece would mind. Tom’s dead, right?”

  “Tom is dead.” He’d died in a car accident about year before. Francie was in Scotland at Annie and Callum’s wedding so she’d missed the funeral. Not that anyone really misses going to a funeral. They’d said their goodbyes years before. There was nothing left to say. It was sad though, for Tom, of course.

  “Yeah, that was tough on Reece, because he doesn’t get along with the other one, I guess. So you can help him? I don’t really know the first thing about getting somebody out of the slammer in Paris.”

  Francie almost said Neither do I. But she remembered how her sister Merle had helped a boyfriend with some legal troubles in France. Maybe between the two of them and some swishy French attorney they could figure out a way to help Reece.

  But first, she had to read these letters. Because she didn’t really believe Tom had fathered a son. With that girlfriend he had back in the ‘90s? Why hadn’t he mentioned him? What had he said about her to this stoner?

  What the hell was going on?

  Three

  Return of Lawyrr Grrl

  BLOG tagged February, ick

  Welcome back, wenches of the bar! Have you missed me? It’s been a crazy year (or two) but I’ve missed talking to you— complaining, whining, raging— about the legal profession. I guess that’s because I decided I really love the law after all. It’s so freaking interesting, so varied, so combative. I love a good battle. The argument that twists them in knots, that delivers the checkmate. A lawyrr grrl can be as manipulative as she wants, right? Sneaky, snide, and wicked. And get paid for it.

  Thanks for your comments and questions. I will do my damnedest to answer them. My new role at my firm is assistant managing partner so I deal with questions, concerns, and broken toilets every day. Junior associates are so much fun— most of the time. Some of them are a little less than fully-functioning adults but that’s normal, right out of school. I guess we all were young and dumb once.

  The female associates are mostly great. They understand human behavior, the dynamics of the workplace, the give and take. The need to work together, to put the team and client first. The men? Hmmm. Why is it men need so much attention? Didn’t their mothers love them enough? Can’t they find girlfriends to wipe their tears, for Pete’s sake? I sometimes have to act like Mother Superior. I just wish rulers across knuckles were still legal.

  It has come to my attention that young men do not like working for older women. It brings out something childish in them. Again with the mommy issues! Some of the junior associates can’t decide if they want to date me or hate me. Personally I’d go with ‘work with me.’ Set aside your ego issues, your misguided machismo, your repressed desires, and do your job, boys! Don’t take every comment or criticism as an assault on your manhood!

  Oh, I try to be gentle. But I can’t and won’t coddle associates of any gender. It’s shape up or ship out time.

  Write to me, grrls, and let’s discuss the age-old problem of gender in the law firm. It’s a thorny one but we’ll strip it and spank it.

  Yes, we will.

  Francie sat propped on the pillows of her bed, re-reading her first blog post in a long time. She’d missed the anonymous, good-natured bitching that was possible through the blog. Why not use it to work out some of the issues at work? It seemed like helping other women lawyers must end up helping her too. Didn’t she dispense that advice all the time, that happiness comes from helping others be better? Just because it wasn’t exactly working that way in her new job meant nothing. She would try harder.

  She rubbed her eyes and shut the laptop. There hadn’t actually been many comments from readers, not for ages. Once again she’d probably be just talking to herself.

  She flicked off the lamp. The apartment felt warm and cozy as usual. Quiet, like a cocoon. The dark enveloped her. She blinked into it. It felt— not so cozy. Something was off. She felt restless, anxious. Like something was coming that she couldn’t control. Now the apartment felt cramped, suffocating.

  She turned over and put the pillow over her head. Ridiculous. It was just that stupid letter. What did it mean?

  She sighed. All she had to do is say ‘no’ to Dewey. Sorry, I can’t help your friend because it’s not my business.

  That was it. Channel that model of grrlhood, Nancy Reagan.

  Just say no.

  Four

  The view from the thirty-first floor of Callum and Annie’s building in midtown Manhattan was stunning. Especially at night, the glittering lights of New York gathered like stardust along the boulevards, glowed along the winding paths of Central Park, and streaked across the Hudson River to Jersey.

  Francie stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, careful not to leave hand prints on the glass, but steaming it up with her breath as she gaped at the view. Next to her Stasia and Elise did the same, the three of them wide-eyed. And it wasn’t their first time, not by a long shot. Every time they came to the high-rise apartment they did this for the first ten minutes. Annie waited patiently, pouring wine in the open kitchen behind them.

  Finally Stasia took a deep breath and turned away from the window. “Wow. How do you get anything done here? It’s mesmerizing.”

  Annie handed out wine glasses. “I hope red is all right. I forgot to ask.” She smiled at Francie. “Okay?”

  “Fine with me.”

  “The view takes some getting used to,” Annie told Stasia. “I didn’t get anything done the first couple months. It’s so distracting.”

  “It makes me a little dizzy,” Elise said, fanning her face. “Being up so high.”

  It was a Thursday night, an unusual time for a gathering of the Bennett sisters. The middle sister, Merle, was living in France now. None of them had seen her since New Years. Annie, the oldest, had called them together. With their parents in Florida for the winter and Merle gone away, they somehow disappeared into their busy lives.

  They settled on the modern furniture in the living room, trying to keep their eyes off the view. Callum had lived here before Annie moved in and the place was hard-edged and low-slung, full of chrome and glass. Not Annie’s bohemian style but she was adapting. The chair Francie sat on barely gave way. She kicked off her shoes and pulled her feet under her.

  They talked about work for awhile. Stasia worked at a fashion magazine and had a few celebrity stories to share. Annie worked from home now, doing legal consulting for environmental groups. Elise, the youngest, was also a lawyer, as were all five sisters. She didn’t have much to say about her law firm except she hated it and hoped to move on soon. Francie pondered that, wondering if it would work out if Elise came to work at Ward & Bailee. She winced, thinking about all the problems she already had with associates.

  “What about you, Francie? How’s work?” Annie asked.

  She set down her wine glass. “Something weird happened this week. I got a letter.” She told them about Dewey’s letter, and they all exclaimed about Tom. They all had pretty much the same opinion of him, that he was a relentless skirt-chaser who wasn’t worthy of their sister’s affection. It was always a relief for Francie to talk about her failed marriage with her sisters. Except for how stupid it made her feel.

  “Tom had a son?” Stasia asked. “How did we not know about that?”

  “I have to see the letters before I believe it. And even then?” She shrugged. “It seems like he might have mentioned he had spawn.”

  “What would be the angle, I mean, if he wasn’t really the kid’s father?”

  “Makes no sense,” Elise said.

  “Was he supporting the boy? Or the mother?” Ann
ie asked.

  “Not while we were married. I guess.”

  “There were obviously a ton of things he kept from you,” Stasia said.

  “Mostly blonde, as I recall,” Annie said.

  “Poor Tom,” Elise said. “So handsome. He never caught a break.”

  “Poor Tom?!” Annie said, laughing. “You mean philandering asshat Tom whose demise was hastened by drinking and driving?”

  “Well, it’s not nice to speak ill of the dead,” Elise said defensively.

  “In this case it’s perfectly rational,” Annie said. “He had three affairs in three years while he was married to Francie.”

  Four actually. Francie never told her sisters about the last one, the one that finally did in the marriage.

  “You did get to take some fabulous trips,” Stasia said. “Remember Florence?”

  “Being married to an airline pilot does have some perks,” Elise said.

  “I’ll never forget it,” Francie said. “He tried to act like an Italian, pinching girls right and left.”

  “Right but Florence. I’d love to go to Italy,” Elise said.

  “I like that you are trying to see the positive side to this, Elise, but face it. He was an alcoholic, among his many bad qualities,” Francie said. “I still have a hard time flying because I want to do a breathalyzer test on every pilot.”

  “Seriously?” Annie asked. “It was so long ago.”

  “No, not really. Ten years makes you forget a lot. But I don’t think I forgot a son. Could Tom have had a kid with one of those women? While we were married?”

  The looks on her sisters’ faces were priceless: horror, shock, anger. Francie supposed she looked the same. They were stunned into silence.

  Of course it was possible. Tom Ramey was a hound of the worst sort, picking up women wherever he overnighted on a flight. Not to mention the long-term affairs, the ones she actually found out about. She was embarrassed that she ever fell for him. Where was her judgment, her ‘people skills’?