The Love Wars

by Heller, L. Alison

  I gestured that he should go around to the front so I could let him in, but he held up a bottle of wine and a blanket and tossed his head backward to indicate that I should come outside instead.

  “Prebreakfast picnic?” he said, and we walked, hands clasped, to the quad. He spread out the blanket and, this being college, unscrewed the cap of the wine.

  “What’s this about?” I had asked.

  “I like these stars,” he had said, casually pointing up to the sky, with a flick of his index finger. “And I like you”—he pointed to me—“and I was thinking to myself that it might be really nice to look at the stars I like with a girl I like.”

  It was, I knew, a grand romantic gesture, the first I had ever really received. Later, when I tried to describe it to Duck, she smiled and nodded, but I could tell by the way she failed to clutch her chest and swoon that I hadn’t been able to properly articulate the moment’s magic. Which was fine, because as long as Caleb and I both felt it, it didn’t matter if anyone else did.

  Of course, a mere two weeks later, I watched Caleb leave the Sex on a Beach party with Chloe Small, the two of them entwined at the head like pipe cleaners. In retrospect, that should have been enough, but it wasn’t. Eventually, though, with the passage of time and after hearing Caleb profess his “like” of many things, including a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips and a fleece sweatshirt, I eventually got it: Caleb had not been promising anything more that night than exactly what his words indicated. Stars he liked. A girl he liked.

  I rest my chin on my hands. “I wouldn’t argue with young and stupid.”

  “It was me. I’ll wear the scarlet letter. I was young and stupid.” He keeps one hand on my leg and reaches for his beer with the other.

  “Let’s be fair. We both were.”

  “Maybe. But, Molly, the thing is, I’m a little older now, and a lot less stupid.”

  “Is that so?” I reach for a fry without breaking eye contact.

  He does the same. “It is so.”

  He lifts his bottle. “To real connections.”

  “To connections.”

  Although I’ve spent years telling myself I’ve imagined the heat of our connection, I feel it again now, our eye lock making me feel warm and floaty and like we’re the only real thing in this restaurant, despite the fact that my left sleeve is still damp from the beer-spilling Kroger executives. Maybe his relationship with Anastasia Peppercorn has taken a turn for the professional and they’re just charity buddies, going around donating to worthy causes together. I mull whether this is possible, somehow managing not to laugh out loud at myself for doing so. I reach under the table for my bag. I recognize this feeling; it is nothing more than lust.

  Caleb pouts. “You’re leaving?”

  “I have to go, Caleb.”

  “Then come over to see my butterfly collection.” He cocks his head and arches an eyebrow, deliberately and exaggeratedly.

  I am more tempted than I want to be. But I know him too well. Being obsessed by the idea of Caleb is one thing; willingly submitting to the heartache again is another thing.

  I laugh. “Not tonight. I’ve got to work.”

  He nods, unsurprised. “Don’t think you’re off the hook, Ms. Grant. I’ll be in touch.”

  16

  ____

  a genuinely nice guy

  I love summer, and not just for the obvious reasons like the beach, ice cream and barbecues. I love it because it’s possible to nonchalantly leave my office without a coat, casually tell Liz that I’m just popping down to another floor for a minute and, instead, slip out of the building.

  Which is exactly what I do when an e-mail comes in from my virtual office, notifying me of the first official communication on the Walker case.

  I speed-walk the two doors down, more from nerves than anything else, snatch the fax from the receptionist’s extended hand and skim.

  It’s from the court. Oral arguments on the motion are scheduled for July 16, with Robert Walker’s reply papers to be served on us at the end of June, in a few weeks. I run down the street to Bacon Payne and stop first in Henry’s office.

  He looks up. “Are you sweating?”

  “A little.”

  He puts down his pen. “I’m intrigued.”

  “I got the date.”

  “O-kay. The date?”

  “The date. The return date. From Brooklyn.”

  Understanding dawns on Henry’s face. “What is it?”

  “July sixteenth.”

  Henry smiles. “Sounds auspicious. Still before Strand?”

  “Yep.”

  He pulls up his calendar on his computer screen. “You know, I’m around the weekend before. Do you want help prepping?”

  “Really, Henry? It’s a summer weekend. Don’t you go to the Hamptons or something?” Surely that woman he brought to the holiday party has a perfect summer wardrobe: white linen pants and green and pink print dresses that aren’t going to wear themselves.

  “I can donate to the cause for a couple of hours. I’ve seen enough to know that you’ll be a mess.”

  “No question. How many times have you been before Strand?”

  Liz pops her head in. “Strand? Are you guys talking about his transfer?”

  I look at Liz. “Do you know anything about it?”

  “No, I just heard. Is he taking his cases with him?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Wait. Why do you care? Have you been assigned to him for something?” Liz’s dark irises shift to the left and I know she’s mentally cataloging my cases.

  “No.” I hate lying to her. “I had just heard something about the transfer and was asking Henry if he knew anything about it.”

  “And I don’t, so everyone can just get out of my office and go back to work.” Henry starts to type on his computer.

  Liz mutters something about antisocial grouches and I follow her to the door in a pretend huff, glancing back at Henry in gratitude.

  He frowns at his computer screen, his fingers flying across the keyboard, but I’m not buying it. Underneath the brusque persona is a genuinely nice guy.

  __________

  It’s just weird to have Henry sitting on my couch, his feet propped on the coffee table in a familiar manner, a bottle of water in his hand. Adding to the strangeness, he is wearing shorts, beat-up sneakers, no socks and a faded blue T-shirt with lowercase letters arranged in a way that means nothing to me but I assume is a wry insider’s statement on something.

  His outfit is perfectly appropriate for a Sunday work session at my apartment. I myself am wearing cutoff shorts that had a run-in with some bleach during a law school laundry session. When I opened the door to my apartment, though, it was a jolt to see him there, all casual-like. I could tell from the brief pause and the way his head dipped down toward the teal carpet in my hallway that he felt awkward too. Either that or he was horrified that my hair was still damp from the shower.

  All the associates in the matrimonial department see one another so much in the office that we rarely socialize in our limited time off, and there is something jarring about crossing the boundary. Plus, now, I can’t help noticing that Henry is, well, nicely built. Broad shoulders. Muscular legs that, when examined closely as I have surreptitiously done, are the perfect amount of hairy.

  He looks around. “Nice place. I would never know from the mad stacks of paper in your office that you could produce a room this”—he searches for the word—“habitable.”

  “Oh, my best friend is a decorator. She just sort of Tasmanian Deviled herself one weekend. When she was done whirring around, this is how it looked.” Also, twenty minutes earlier I hastily shoved all my piles of clutter and unopened mail into my closet and kitchen cabinets.

  I regard Henry. “Don’t you usually go away on summer weekends?”

  “Sometimes. I needed to bill some hours this weekend.”

  “Partner track.” I nod. “Did you do it?”

  “Almost. Just a couple
to go, but I have a conference call later tonight with a chatty client, so things look promising. So, how are you holding up?”

  “I’m doing okay.” In fact, my plucky resolve of two months prior has been replaced by abject terror. Even though my name is already attached to the papers, there is something so irreversible about actually appearing in the flesh before Justice Strand, opening my mouth and speaking. When I stop to think about what I’m risking, I freeze, so instead, for the past two weeks, I’ve fantasized about falling into a subway grate or getting brushed by a cab while crossing the street. Nothing terminal, just a few broken bones, so I can have a good excuse to find Fern another attorney and spend Friday comfortably in traction at Mount Sinai hospital.

  Henry looks at me closely. “You freaking out?”

  “A little.”

  He nods. “Not the easiest route, this whole plan you’ve got.”

  “Can we start with my outline?”

  I hand it over and he flips through it. “Whoa. Overkill.”

  “I know—it just makes me feel better prepared.”

  “Not much of substance will be decided. Strand can’t change custody unless he determines it’s in the kids’ best interests, and he won’t do that without an actual hearing. But you do want to start to tell Fern’s story and get out her key points.”

  We review my talking points—essentially, that Fern should have custody because Robert is turning the kids against Fern and harming them by doing so—and the specific relief I should request. We’re on hour two and Henry’s walking me through the process by which Strand will appoint neutral experts—attorneys for the kids and a psychiatrist to assess what would be best for them—when I order us some food.

  Henry isn’t much of a fixture at our nightly dinners, but I’ve started to invite him to eat with us. As with Liz and Rachel, I have a better sense of his habits and preferences than I do for most blood relations, so I know what to get: two corned beef and turkey sandwiches on marble rye, two cream sodas and two black-and-white cookies. When the food arrives, I bring the bag to the table and start unwrapping the sandwiches.

  “So, Strand,” I say, licking Russian dressing off my thumb. “I’ve never even seen him.”

  “He’s just…well, some call him Andy Griffith.”

  “Why? He’s a whistler?”

  “He sort of acts like his courtroom is, you know, Mayberry—small town, why can’t everyone just get along? You’ll see. I think if you do your whole polite and pleasant thing, you should do all right.”

  “My polite and pleasant thing?”

  “Yeah, you know.” He smiles brightly, bobbing his head and blinking his eyes.

  “Good Lord, Henry. Was that supposed to be me?”

  He nods as though he’s just espoused a simple truth and then, laughing, comes over to the table to take a half of sandwich.

  “Okay. Moving on. Risa McDunn? I haven’t been able to find out much about her. She doesn’t have a Web site.”

  “Maybe it’s better that way. You don’t necessarily want her looking you up.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Well, she wrote that book,” Henry says. “The one with the graphic title.”

  “Trust me, I’ve read it.” Risa McDunn—and I directly quote her publisher’s Web site—is not just a lawyer; she’s also the best-selling author of the classic Don’t Be Afraid to Split the Baby: How to Win Your Child Custody Litigation.

  “What’s it like?”

  “About as nuanced as you’d expect from something with a title that makes you envision an infant cut in half. Very evocative chapter headings, though, like ‘Making Your Spouse Pay’ and ‘Dirt You Can Buy from a Private Eye.’”

  “She sounds very creative.”

  “She must be. In her reply papers to Fern’s motion, she managed to list about fifteen reasons why Strand should throw out our case. But she must have a streak of humanity somewhere, because she likes dogs. Unless she’s one of those people-hating dog lovers.”

  “One of what, now?”

  “You know the type—hates people, thinks they’re responsible for all the ill in the world; loves the innocence and unconditional love of dogs.”

  “You sound a little crazy. Although I am curious about the source of your information.”

  “Her book jacket. She mentions them in the third sentence.” I adopt my best Home Shopping Network announcer voice. “‘Risa McDunn is one of the leading experts in family law. She has her own firm in Orange County, New York, where she works and lives with her two Irish wolfhounds.’”

  He stops midchew and swallows. “You memorized that?”

  “I know, horrible time management. I’m just a little hungry to know what to expect from her.”

  “Well, I’ve never had a case with her, but I’ve heard that she’s a bit batty. Doesn’t change how strong your facts are, just might be a wild ride.” Henry swigs his cream soda. “Everett’s actually had a case with her. A couple of years ago.”

  “It’s okay. I’m not that desperate.”

  “He’s not as bad as you think.”

  I make a face.

  “I know, I know. You were his most recent victim, but you have to realize by now that he’s just doling out the same shit that’s been heaped on him.”

  “What was he like before he was partner?”

  “He’s always been a little on the awkward side. But the nastiness has increased each year that he works with Lillian. I think at some point he realized that if he just became her doormat, she would keep him around. I’ve heard that he waters her plants when she’s away, no joke.”

  “I still don’t get why he’s partner. Why not keep him as counsel or something?”

  “You want the real story?”

  “No, Henry. I detest office gossip.” I smile innocently. “Anything but the real story.”

  “Okay. This was about six years ago, before any of you started. Everett was engaged—”

  “What?”

  “Everett was engaged.”

  I inhale sharply. “Seriously?”

  “Oh my God, Molly. It can’t be that shocking. Let me tell the damn story.”

  “Okay, sorry. Go on.”

  “So, anyway. Everett was engaged to a fetching young lady.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Um.” Henry squints. “Becky. No, Becca, I think. Does it matter?”

  “No. Just makes her seem more real. And she was fetching?”

  “Not sure about the fetching part. It’s subjective, right? And, I mean, this is Everett. She must have been at least a little quirky. But for the purposes of this story, yes, she was fetching. Anyway, Becca lived in another state.” Henry holds up his hands in anticipation of my question and squints again. “Maryland, I think. Let’s say Maryland. At some point, Everett went through the watershed moment that every Big Firm associate goes through—why am I here? Is it worth all this work? What am I doing? Nothing you’d be familiar with on any level.” Henry looks at me with a grin.

  “Not in the slightest. Watershed moments are for wimps.”

  “Couldn’t agree more. And so, during this period of self-reflection, young Everett chose love, or at least escape. He decided he was going to throw in the towel at Bacon Payne, move out to Baltimore or wherever Becca was and get a job at a nice firm with reasonable hours.”

  “What, did he get lost on the way?”

  “Nope. Around the time that this was happening, Lillian was going through her divorce from Stan Armor. Ugly time, it was before she met Roger. So picture it, she’s even needier than usual, Everett is her right-hand man and when he starts talking about giving notice and moving, she freaks out and convinces herself that he is irreplaceable.”

  “No way. She told him she’d make him partner if he broke up with Becca?”

  “I think it was a little more nuanced than that. More like she told him that she needed him around, he asked about his partnership chances, she promised it to him and that was his true watershe
d moment. He made the deal, agreed to stay around, and he and Becca eventually broke up at some point after that, most likely as a result of his refusal to move, his insane hours and his utter devotion to another woman.

  “And now, they’re trapped together. Lillian resents that she wasted her chit on making him partner and wants to remind him every second that she owns him. And Everett is completely dependent on her. He has none of his own cases, and feels like he has to take whatever she dishes out.”

  “Depressing. That made me feel bad enough for Everett to need some cookie.” I rip off two pieces of the white part of the cookie and hand one to Henry.

  “Told you.”

  “So, when was your watershed moment?”

  “Not sure. I certainly haven’t been moved to make a wacky choice like some people I know.”

  “But like the thought process you were talking about—why am I doing this? My hours suck, blah, blah. You ever question that?”

  “No. I’ve just sort of looked at it as something to get through. I’ve wanted to do this since I was a little kid.”

  I know that both of Henry’s parents are partners at big New York law firms, so I guess this world is his comfort zone. I, on the other hand, wasn’t even aware of big firms until law school. But maybe he didn’t learn about fondue pots as early as I did.

  “Why matrimonial?”

  “Honestly, I always expected to do corporate work, but it bored me when I was a summer associate. I like the mix-up of transactional work and litigation. And I like dealing with different types of people. After my summer, I asked Lillian if there was space and she said sure. I think she liked that I have the joint JD/MBA. She thinks it sounds good for the department.”

  “Yeah, because they’re both from Ivy League schools.” I’ve heard Lillian point this out to at least six clients. “Is that why you’re not like Everett?”

  “Um, well, I also don’t wear glasses. And I try not to yell at people in the hall, although it is hard sometimes.”

  “No, I mean for Lillian. Why does she leave you alone?”

  “She doesn’t entirely. I mean, she’s Lillian—she definitely made me earn my stripes. But I’ve built up my own book of business.”