I pause as if the question has stumped me. “Years, I guess.” Four years and one month. The Lodge, homecoming weekend, two years after we graduated. Well, really I just saw your back because you were in that alcove, right outside of the men’s room, pressed up against that freshman with long brown hair. Ah, memories.
“Yeah,” he says. “I think I heard something about you guys being in New York.”
We nod in agreement, having established that we are all, certainly, in New York.
He reaches over me and extends his hand to Holt. “Caleb Frank. I went to college with this comedy team.”
Duck and I, on cue, look at each other drolly, eyes innocently wide, and Holt chuckles. “I’m married to this one.” He points to Duck. “Nice to meet you.”
“So, what are you all up to?”
“Oh, just trying to keep up in the big city—,” I say at the same time Duck says, “Molly’s a super hotshot lawyer at Bacon Payne.”
He smiles and nods slowly. “Nice,” he says as I am struck by how boring that sounds.
“Yeah. How about you?” I decide to play dumb and pretend I don’t know about his founding of a joystick company, Da Styck, Inc., with a business school buddy; the sale of that company for an eight-figure price tag; his subsequent purchase of three homes (Manhattan, Sun Valley and the Hamptons); his amateur triathlon competitions (a phase that seemed to have petered out two years ago after a mediocre finish in the South Maui race); and, of course, his on-again, off-again relationship with Anastasia Peppercorn, party girl and heir to the Peppercorn Vodka fortune.
What’s funny is that when we ended things back in college, I nursed my wounds telling myself that I, obedient overachiever, was on the way up, while he, who could rarely roll out of bed in time for class, was headed nowhere, even if he didn’t realize it yet. The fact that he has turned into a master of the universe disrupts my adopted narrative more than a little.
He smiles at me. “You know, just trying to keep up in the big city.” I smile back, despite myself.
He looks over at his table. Although I see three hipster grunge guys and two willowy blondes in all black, Anastasia, with her trademark shock of pink hair, is not among them. “Well, I best get back to my table, but it was great to see you guys.” He’s looking right at me as he says it.
I smile and nod, pressing my suddenly sweaty palms against my legs to dry them.
“Hopefully we’ll see each other around soon.” He squeezes my shoulder, gives a little wink, and then he’s gone, swaggering back to the hipster/model table.
And just like that, I feel a jolt of adrenaline. I’m sure it’s relief. I saw him. I finally saw him, and my dignity is intact. I didn’t start sobbing, jump into his surprised arms or pelt him with dumplings. Maybe this is the closure I needed.
“So, what were we talking about? Aspen?” I direct my question to Holt because I can tell even without looking at her that Duck now wears the anxious expression of the hiker who spotted the bear.
Holt launches into a long description of the Aspen house and I pretend to pay attention, but out of the corner of my eye, I’m watching Caleb.
4
____
all is right with the world
It is a little before nine o’clock in the morning, and I am reading my e-mail at my desk, even though I just checked my BlackBerry fewer than five minutes ago in the elevator on the way up to thirty-seven. Frantic e-mail checking is the tic of every Bacon Payne lawyer.
Kim buzzes me on the intercom. “LucyFowleronWades.” I press hold and rummage around on my desk until I find the Wades file. Last week, Lillian had told me to read up on the case—an instruction that I knew meant she was passing the baton of responsibility to me. “Yes,” she had added when I read the name on the folder and looked up, my mouth agape. “Wades as in that Wades.”
I skim quickly. Our client is Kira, thirty-eight, married to Jonathan, thirty-nine. Neither Jonathan nor Kira work, aside from parenting their twins along with three full-time nannies. They live off Jonathan’s substantial trust fund and Kira’s considerable inheritance; his great-great-great-grandfather Clarkson Wades made a fortune in banking, and her mother was an oil heiress turned fashion designer.
Lucy launches right into it. “Listen, we have some real problems about Thanksgiving. I’m following up on my letter. Jonathan needs some time with the twins. His parents do a whole big thing.”
I scan the correspondence file. “Yeah, but isn’t their thing in their house in Rhode Island? That’s almost a three-hour drive.”
“So? What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that he hasn’t ever been alone with them. A three-hour drive isn’t exactly easing in.” I delicately decline from parroting Kira’s accusation in the file that Jonathan is an alcoholic who cannot be alone with the twins.
Long pause. “Will you hold while I call Judge Brown? We’re not going to be able to work this out ourselves and Thanksgiving is too soon to do papers.”
Brown’s court clerk tells us that Brown will hear our arguments over the phone at two thirty and I run straight into Liz’s office. This will be my first time talking to a judge.
Liz frowns. “The holiday tug-of-war is always tough—they’re always like judgment calls, not legal arguments. It’s all nuance. I think Brown usually errs on the side of allowing liberal visitation, though. It might be worth it to cave and try to stipulate before the call. Have you asked Hope?”
Hope defers to Rachel, who has been before Brown recently, and the four of us camp out in Rachel’s office, talking in circles.
“Well, what if Brown gets pissed and then gives him the whole weekend just to punish her?”
“But she has to fight against it! What would Molly tell the client otherwise?”
“Maybe there’s some alternative that she can offer, like some time on another day?”
Rachel takes off her horn-rimmed glasses and cleans them on her shirt. “We’re not helping. You should really go ask Henry.”
I make a face.
“He’s really smart,” says Rachel, almost apologetically.
I take a deep breath before knocking on his door. He is at his desk as usual, typing furiously.
“Henry? I need your input and it’s somewhat time sensitive.”
“Wait,” he says, and I sit down across from him. “Okay, talk.” He keeps his eyes on his computer screen.
I tell him about the morning’s events and he listens. “Is the husband really an alcoholic?”
“All I know is that Kira, our client, keeps talking about it, but there’s no proof of it. No DUIs, no arrests, no rehabs.”
“Bring me the file.”
I comply. He reviews the attorney notes and correspondence. “What does Kira say?”
“I haven’t called her yet.”
He rolls his eyes. “Okay. Here’s what you need to do. Call Kira and see if you can get real anecdotes about the substance abuse. Obviously there’s no time to get an affidavit before the call, but you should offer to get one for the court. Have her give you dates, details, et cetera. Assuming she can, Brown will respond to that. The strength of Kira’s position is that if something were to happen to the twins, it’s on Brown and he doesn’t want that responsibility. You should also prepare Kira that she has to offer him some reasonable time over the weekend. Maybe she could drive them out to Rhode Island for a few hours on Friday or the nannies could supervise during his visitation? Figure it out.”
“What if her examples are weak?”
He sighs. “Well, then you should probably stipulate that he take the kids rather than risk pissing off Brown. Use your judgment.” Henry turns to his computer and starts typing again, not acknowledging my rushed thanks.
I call Kira and get an earful. Of course she has examples. Jesus, that’s all she has been trying to tell Lillian since hiring her. Well, for starters, how about last weekend when he was supposed to spend time with the twins but came over three hours late and then passed
out drunk on the couch while the twins and the confused nanny made pretend cupcakes around his slack body? And then there was the week before when he had shown up at their apartment all jittery, high on something, wanting to take the twins to the Coney Island Aquarium in his new car, which turned out to be a rented Mini Cooper with no car seats. Will that be enough? And Lillian said that Kira had to make sure that he saw the twins or she would look like a bad mom, but what about two weeks ago when Jonathan went five days without calling or checking in? Just disappeared! And, oh, you should see his apartment. She swears she is not making this up—there was broken glass on the floor from a wine bottle. Broken glass, just lying there!
By the end of our call, I not only feel comfortable with the arguments that I will make; I also believe in my heart that the Wades twins will have a much safer Thanksgiving without being chauffeured by Jonathan.
When two thirty rolls around, my rehearsed arguments are strong enough to cause Judge Brown to strongly advise that Jonathan stay in New York if he wants to see the twins on Thanksgiving. I hang up the phone, triumphant.
I strut down the hall to thank Henry. He’s on the phone and won’t catch my eye as I loiter in his doorway, so I head to Rachel’s office to report on my triumph. I am recounting Lucy Fowler’s impotent arguments when Everett interrupts us.
“Molly, a word.”
I follow him into an empty secretary carrel across the hall. “Listen, Molly. We need you to work this weekend.”
I helped Everett last weekend. Meaning that I waited two hours for Everett to show up and then held his hand as he tried to properly organize documents for Lillian. This entailed my changing the letter tabs to number tabs in three copies of five-hundred-page binders and then, on Everett’s whim, changing them back again.
“Everett, I’m already working this weekend on several of Lillian’s cases.”
“Well, fine, but I’m prepping Lillian for trial next week and I need you to get me organized.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Silence.
Give me enough silence after an appeal for help, and I will agree to almost anything, just to end the awkwardness. It’s how I wound up as a moot court judge in law school. And Public Interest Foundation bake sale coordinator.
But not this time. I bite my inner lip.
Everett’s face starts to get red. “You are the junior associate. Your job, your only job, is to help the partners, whenever, wherever. If you want to work nine to five, go get a job at a freaking Burger King, but here, being available on the weekends is your responsibility. I can’t believe I have to tell you this.”
“Everett, I work on the weekends all the time. Just last weekend I—”
He moves his face an inch from mine. I can see the acne scars on his cheeks and a mole on his cheekbone that’s sprouting a hair. “No, Molly. You don’t get to pick and choose when you’re available. This is Bacon Payne. Where the fuck do you think you work? You won’t last another month here with this attitude.” He stalks away.
“Are you okay?” Henry stands in the doorway of his office, his tone almost kind.
My shock at Everett’s ire is compounded by Henry’s having started a conversation with me. “I guess so. I just don’t see why I should still have to help him. I mean, I have my own cases now. I’m sort of drowning in real work.”
“Trust me, he’s not even worth getting this defensive for. And he’ll give you some space after that conversation.”
“Okay.”
“So, were you coming to see me?”
“What?”
“Before? You looked in when I was on the phone.”
“Oh, right, yes. Your advice was super helpful with Brown. We had to argue it and their request for Thanksgiving was denied, so thanks.”
“Don’t take it too personally. It could just as easily have gone the other way.”
“Of course.” I try to sound like I’m not insulted, shrugging nonchalantly before turning to head back to my office.
I’ve come remarkably close to a moment of professional confidence, but thanks to Henry and Everett, I’m back to feeling like a hapless idiot associate. All is right with the world.
5
____
in which i get it
A week later, I am back in my office when Duck calls. “Guess who called me?”
“Prince Albert in a can.”
“Dork, did you really just reference Prince Albert? Okay, ‘Who?’ I’ll tell you who—Caleb Frank.”
My stomach flips and while I want to know if he asked about me, instead I say, “Really? Why?”
“Well, he didn’t specifically mention you, although he did say that it was good to see us and we should all hang out.”
“Sounds very breezy.”
“I know, right? No, the thing is, he wants to hire me to design his new office space—a whole suite of offices by the High Line. Gut renovation.”
“Wow.”
“No way I’m doing it, but isn’t it funny?”
“Why wouldn’t you do it?”
“Oh, come on, Mols. It’d be weird.”
“Because of me? That was five years ago. Plus, isn’t this sort of a big deal? The chance to do an Internet millionaire’s splashy offices?”
Long pause. “Yeah.”
She’s dying to do it. And maybe actually hearing about Caleb more frequently will provide me with some perspective, like immersion therapy. “You have my blessing, really. I’ll call later, okay?”
“I’ll think about it.”
I look at my watch: two minutes until my meeting with Lillian. Time enough. I turn to my computer and type in “An.” My screen helpfully offers up the remainder of the phrase: “-astasia Peppercorn.” I spend a lot of time with this machine, and it knows me well.
There’s one new picture from two weeks ago on some society photographer’s Web site. Caleb and Anastasia have their cheeks pressed against each other as though they’re at one of those amusement park photo booths, her pink hair mingling with his blond curls. He’s gazing at her; she’s pouting straight at the camera. Lovely.
I click out of the screen, grab my notepad and walk down the hall to Lillian’s office. She’s summoned me to sit in on a consultation with a potential client. Usually, clients are nervous before a first meeting with Lillian—the point at which a divorce morphs from the theoretical to the actual—but nine times out of ten, once they get talking about how they want things to end up, they can’t stop. Lillian nods supportively as the bankers with stay-at-home wives, out of work for eight years while raising the kids, assume they’ll be exempt from paying alimony; she gently hands tissues to the jilted and stunned, who believe that because it was not their choice to end the marriage, they should walk away with a bonus prize, like say maybe both homes and the securities accounts; she furrows her brow in empathetic outrage when the moms insist they must get final decision-making authority for the children because of their husband’s long-held belief in homeopathy or Catholicism or just plain negligible common sense.
I know, as they sit in her office and claim them, that none of these clients will wind up with any of these awards, and while Lillian doesn’t explicitly promise anything, she is, as she’s explained to me, selling hope along with the heartbreak. An initial consult is a beautiful thing, she told me after the first one I observed; it’s probably the only place in divorce law where there are no unfulfilled expectations yet; once a divorce becomes real, that’s all it is—a series of unfulfilled expectations, the most fundamental, of course, being the unfulfilled expectation of until death do us part.
I relax in one of Lillian’s cozy garnet guest chairs. Increasingly, when I’m here, I’ve felt Lillian’s office using its powers to lull me. I remind myself that I am there for an assignment, not a coffee-and-gossip session, and listen to her phone call.
“I know, Ethan. Oh, that’s too bad,” she says, making delicate pen marks on a pad of paper. “Well, why did you let it get that high? If they�
��re not paying, just stop the work. Yes, just like that. I do all the time.” She laughs. “Oh, good. See you both then.”
“Ethan Crosby?” I ask.
She nods. “I called him to find out about Fern Walker, the woman we’re scheduled to meet with. He represented her in her divorce.” She taps her fingernails distractedly on the desk, a manual ellipsis that explains why her burgundy nail polish is a little chipped at the tips.
“Oh, I didn’t realize it was postjudgment.”
“Her divorce was about two years ago. This one doesn’t smell good. The ex is Robert Walker. Do you know who that is?”
I do.
As a first-year corporate associate, I had volunteered to assist in a closing on behalf of the Aristotle Foundation, an education nonprofit. I had thought the assignment would be understaffed, but when I walked into the conference room, twenty people, three of them partners, were fluttering around as though preparing for a presidential visit.
I had walked over to Holly, a second-year, the next junior person in the room. “What’s going on?”
Frantically stacking papers, Holly had lowered her voice. “Robert Walker is expected to show up. This morning.”
I lowered my voice too. “Who’s Robert Walker?”
“You know Options Communications?”
“The cable company? Of course. I’m not a moron.”
Holly looked uncertain. “Walker’s the CEO. He’s a first-time donor to Aristotle, and it’s a big haul—a shitload of complex assets, probably to get his girlfriend on the board or something. Anyway, the firm has been trying to get Options’ business for years, so everyone’s going nuts at the thought of an audience with him.” She pushed a stack of papers toward me. “Here, help me sort.”
The fevered activity continued for the next hour, peaking when Robert Walker phoned in, about forty minutes after he had been expected to appear.
Doug King, the most senior partner in the room, punched the phone’s speaker, clasped his hands together and leaned forward, grinning madly. “Mr. Walker, what an honor.”
The Love Wars Page 4
