The Love Wars

by Heller, L. Alison

  We’re downstairs and in a cab and pulling up to my apartment building, stopping to get more coffee downstairs—I insist on paying as the host here, although, somehow, by the time we’re at the door to my apartment, he’s got the keys and is the one who opens the door. “Welcome, Henry!” I say. “To my home!”

  “Do you know,” he says, in a voice that’s slow and loud, “where the file is?”

  “Right here,” I say, walking over to the file. “Super organized. Oh, right—you’ve been here.” I had forgotten that. How he was wearing shorts and his legs looked really good. He really had nice legs.

  He looks surprised and then down at his legs. “Um, thanks.”

  That’s funny. “I said that out loud? I thought I was thinking it and I said it.”

  “Great.” Henry rolls his eyes at the couch. “The inability to censor yourself bodes well for a court appearance.” He hands me another coffee, from where, I don’t know. “Drink.”

  I obey, taking four gulps in a row.

  “Go clean up a little.” He points to the bathroom.

  “Bos-see.” I get up.

  When I come out, he takes a step back. “Molly,” he says, his voice low as he turns his back to me. “Put on a goddamn shirt.”

  I look down. I’m wearing my pants, but on top, I just have on a purple bikini top and I tell him that it’s sort of like that dream when you have no clothes on in front of a bunch of clothed people, but it’s real, and that’s so funny, because if this is my worst nightmare, it’s happening and look how well I am handling it. I laugh, but he doesn’t laugh and he still doesn’t turn around. So I tell him, my voice as friendly as I can make it, that he can turn around, it’s a goddamn bikini top for godsake, it’s not even a bra because all my bras are in the hamper, so what is the problem? Wouldn’t he go swimming with me, for crying out loud? If we went swimming, I’d be wearing even less, plus, I mean he’s Henry, for chrissakes, I say, I know he’s not looking at me that way. You have that Julie girl, plus, P.S., it’s not like we don’t know each other, we’re the real deal, I know we are, even if you have been sort of hot and cold and distant for months.

  “Are you dressed yet?” is his only response.

  When he turns around, he mumbles something—all I hear are the words “weird” and “bikini top”—and tells me it’s time for me to go.

  “I think…” I nod. “Yeah, I’m a little less spinny.”

  “You seem to be a friendly drunk. I guess it could be worse.” His gaze rakes over me in a skeptical once-over. “Your best tactic today? Mouth shut, clothes on. You understand?”

  I salute. “Clear eyes, full heart, clothes on, sir.”

  He doesn’t find this as funny as I do, I think, because he covers his eyes with his hands and shakes his head. When he looks up, he says, tiredly, “Maybe we should try another coffee, not that it’s doing much.”

  When we’re standing on line at the coffee shop, Henry reaches an arm out and tells me to stop wobbling. “What does that mean, the real deal?”

  “That means, usually it means, when something’s not fake.” I smile, helpfully, not sure what he’s getting at.

  “Back there with the whole bikini thing. You said we were the real deal.”

  “I meant we’re really friends. You’re, like, my buddy, even if you are my boss.”

  “Like your buddy,” he repeats.

  “Even if you are technically my boss,” I say, wrapping my arm around him to pat his back. His body tenses in response, but only a little.

  __________

  I have two more coffees before the court appearance—making my total for the day several coffees! (which the coffee cart guy doesn’t seem to think is funny)—and I manage to make it in and out of the court’s ladies’ room without assistance, so I know I can do this, because earlier I couldn’t and it means I’m definitely functioning like my normal self.

  Another sign that I’m functioning, and this is really, really smart of me, is that I time myself to get there right on time, so I waltz in and wave at Fern, who smiles back, and she looks normal, smiling and waving back, so I know that I look normal and so I go right over to Mike, who’s standing there with Risa, who’s looking at some papers with Graham. I feel a rush of warmth at her outfit—hair in two plaits down her back, wearing baggy brown knee-length pants, knee-high laced-up boots and a matching jacket, cropped at the waist. Bygones should be bygones. Maybe I should say something nice, right our wrongs, press restart. “Hi, Risa. Hi, Graham. Risa. Fan-tas-tic knickers.”

  She doesn’t acknowledge me. Maybe she didn’t hear.

  I try a little louder. “Risa? Hello? FAN-TAS-TIC KNICKERS.”

  After a pause, she nods, looking down at her papers. “Ms. Grant.”

  Then Mike is ushering us into Justice Strand’s office. There he is, good old Strand behind his desk. I got this, I know I do. I’m kicking ass, I know. No one has asked me if I’m drunk, or even mentioned alcohol!

  “Good morning, Your Honor.” I smile as big as I feel. “Great to see you today.”

  “Well, hello there, Ms. Grant.” He beams back at me.

  Risa interjects. “Justice Strand. We need to discuss our new motions.”

  Strand flinches and looks warily at me. I give him another smile, again as big as I can. Control. Everything is coming in speed bursts and delays, but I am controlling what I say.

  “You mean the disqualification motions?” I pat Risa on the arm and feel her stiffen through her soft, soft jacket. “So many motions, you know what I mean?” I nod at Strand.

  I touch my forehead and try to remember what exactly her papers said. It’s hard to recall, but I vaguely remember that there are talking points in my folder. I open it and somehow, the papers spill out on the floor. Kneeling down to pick up the pages, I notice a paper clip under the desk.

  “Counselor. Are you all right down there?”

  I lift my head. It’s Mike. I smile at him. “Yes, Mike. I just found something on the floor.” I stare at the paper clip. It is so very pink and bright.

  “What did you find, counselor?”

  Control. Mouth shut. I tear my eyes away and force myself to stand up.

  Risa starts talking fast. She is saying something about Newkirk and grave ethical issues and me and I guess I’m not as okay as I thought because I can’t follow any of it, but I should say something or else everyone will know I’m not following. “Right,” I say. All heads—except for Risa’s—swivel toward me. I look around. Everyone is silent. “Sorry. You have the floor, Risa.” I turn to her and give a little bow.

  She stares straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge me.

  “Listen, I know you’re just doing what you feel you have to do, even if it’s kind of ridiculous.” I pat her arm again. So very soft! What is it? Velvet? Brushed cotton? Velour? Do they make whole suits out of velour?

  Justice Strand nods at me. “I appreciate your civility, Ms. Grant. It’s very refreshing.”

  I nod back. It feels good to be civil.

  Justice Strand clears his throat. “Mr. Williams. Any thoughts on all of this?”

  “I’ve submitted papers today. As they suggest, I am against the removal at this point of Dr. Newkirk, Ms. Freed and, um, Ms. Grant too.”

  I flash Roland a thumbs-up.

  Strand shakes his head at Risa and he’s disagreeing with her. I can tell that much because he’s saying no and she looks pissed. Then he asks us for something. I look around and catch Mike’s eye and he mouths something at me. Christmas something? What is it? And I shake my head and shrug and finally he says, “Witness lists,” and now everyone is looking at him.

  “Yes!” I say. “Witness lists!” but then I can’t remember where mine are. I shuffle through papers until I see a file marked “Witnesses.” I count out three pieces of paper, and eventually it’s becoming clear that everyone is watching me again.

  Risa purses her lips and makes a lot of noise and I know she’s objecting to something and I see that
and all I can think is it must take a lot of effort to just fight, fight, fight all the time. She must be tired after court, what with the fighting and the commute from upstate. This thought makes me very sleepy, so I stretch, just a little, just my arms behind my back, and now everyone’s looking at me again and Risa’s stopped talking.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Grant. What was that?” says Risa.

  “What was what?” I smile at Strand.

  “You just rolled your eyes at the judge,” says Risa. I wince. She’s got an ear-piercing shriek.

  “I did? No, I didn’t. I don’t think so. Did I roll my eyes?” I ask Strand, who doesn’t answer. “No, I think I smiled.”

  “Well, whatever. It’s inappropriate,” says Risa.

  “I’m sorry. Did I hurt your feelings? I was smiling because I’ve gotten to know you, Risa McDunn, over the past months and you really are, without fail, you are a tenacious advocate. I mean, maybe the most tenacious advocate I’ve seen. You just, you know, grab hold of the argument and…you must be exhausted, which just really makes it all the more impressive.”

  “Miss Grant?” says Justice Strand.

  “Your Honor,” Risa says to Justice Strand, her voice going up at the end as though she’s asking a question. “I can’t really proceed when she’s acting like this.”

  “I’m just complimenting her, Your Honor.” Strand nods, so I continue. “She is a great, tenacious attorney. And she also has a lovely jacket today, very soft.”

  Justice Strand nods. “Ms. McDunn, I think you should accept Ms. Grant’s compliments, leave it at that, and let’s get back to the Walkers.”

  Risa turns red, shakes her head and continues. She’s saying something about having an expert examine Fern.

  “Ms. Grant?”

  “Huh?”

  Risa talks loudly and slowly. “As I was saying, it’s only fair that we have an expert examine Ms. Walker. I mean, Ms. Walker’s mental state is obviously at issue, which you’ve been arguing the whole time it isn’t, so which is it now, Ms. Grant?”

  “Ms. Grant?” Strand is looking at me encouragingly.

  I blink. I know what I want to say, but the words, the words won’t come. I manage to hold up one finger.

  Roland cuts in. “If I may? Those are medical professionals testifying to a past condition, so it’s not the same as examining Fern’s mental state. Current mental state, that is.”

  Strand nods slowly. “Good enough for me. And might I also add that it was lovely to see you all in such good spirits today and so kind to each other. Let’s exchange our lists, wrap up our business, and I’ll see you in early June for the first of our hearing dates. Sorry for the delay between today and the start date, but—”

  “We understand, Your Honor,” I say, nodding. “Your removal.”

  The rest of the conference is somewhat blurrier, but I manage to convey to Fern that it all went fine and make it outside without talking to anyone else. On my subway ride home, my happy buzz starts to evaporate until I am wincing in pain, a metallic taste in the back of my mouth that quickly travels to the pit of my stomach and ends in a sprint to the ladies’ room.

  When I am done retching in the Bacon Payne ladies’ room, I splash some cold water on my face and slink to Henry’s office. He’s out, which is a relief, as humiliating little snippets of the morning start to return to me. I scrawl a note of everlasting thanks and tape it to his monitor.

  Then I let it sink in that I just made a court appearance while drunk off my ass. And that somehow, it went far better than any court appearance before Strand that I’ve made sober.

  31

  ____

  two points for honesty

  Despite the heat lamps and the torches around the wooden deck, it’s as freezing as it always is at the Bacon Payne Beach Retreat. It’s early April, not the balmiest time of year for the coast between Westchester and Fairfield counties, and I pull my pashmina tightly around me.

  “Want my jacket?” Caleb puts a languid hand on my back.

  “Thanks.”

  According to the firm’s party line, nothing—not even Paris—is more beautiful than the Long Island Sound in early spring. More widely believed is that Dominic Pizaro, whose membership allows us to hold the event at the Sound Club, refuses to waste a summer Saturday on anything involving the associates.

  It is gorgeous out here, though. The cocktail hour is held on a wooden deck with steps leading down to the beach. Now dusk, the light is low and the sky and the beach are the same color, a shade between purple, blue and gray that extends forever into the horizon.

  Caleb picked me up in his Mercedes SUV, a far cry from my first year, when I was one of the groups of junior associates trekking out to the suburbs via subway to Metro-North to the Rye Cab Company taxi. Rachel and Liz, themselves renting a car, were on hold to pick me up if Caleb had canceled at the last minute. (Not that I would’ve blamed him for canceling. I was still surprised he wanted to go.) He had been at my apartment when I got the cream calligraphic invitation to the beach retreat. Knowing what it was, I had tossed the letter off to the side.

  He laughed. “That was cold. You’re just ignoring that wedding invitation?”

  “What? Oh, no, it’s a work thing.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” I did my best lockjaw and handed him the envelope. “The firm beach retreat.”

  “It’s for you and a guest?”

  “Technically, yeah.”

  “Technically?”

  “People bring guests. I just never have.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why? You want to come?”

  “I do need to talk some deals with your people.”

  “Well, I don’t think much business actually gets done there. My people will be distracted making mind-numbing small talk with each other’s spouses.”

  “Ah, to be so naive.” He patted my head. “Business gets done everywhere, you know.”

  “Okay, Stephen Covey.”

  “So, anyway”—he held up the invitation—“is it fun?”

  “Not historically.” I paused when I saw he looked a little disappointed. “I think we could make it fun, though.”

  __________

  The next day, walking to work, I concluded that I’d underestimated Caleb by balking at the idea of bringing him to a firm party. Maybe we were ready for the step up in labels—introducing him to people as my boyfriend, recalibrating the terms of our arrangement. Maybe I owed it to my college self—who I know would have been screaming in frustration had I not invited him—to run with it, to not be too scared to jump.

  So, here we are. Lillian is only showing up to the dinner part this year, so Rachel, Liz and I joined forces in rebellion and skipped the day festivities: an extraordinarily painful stretch of time where lawyers and their families play awkward rounds of tennis, golf or croquet or sit shivering by the pool, wrapped in layers of sweaters.

  Caleb and I take slow steps, following the crowd pushing through the opened glass doors to the dining room. Kevin is in a group of corporate associates to the right of the doors. I reach for Caleb’s hand so he’ll follow me, but somehow he’s already spotted someone else he knows in the group and has beelined away.

  Kevin looks back and forth from me to Caleb. Eyes bugging, he clutches his chest in mock shock. “You brought a date?”

  I roll my eyes.

  “How healthy and normal,” he says. “Between the firm spirit and the evidence of a healthy relationship with an actual person, I hardly recognize you.”

  “You don’t need to worry,” I say. “I can still access deep pockets of resentment.”

  He laughs. “But, seriously? Life is as good as it looks?”

  I nod, unable to tell him the truth.

  “It’s so funny.”

  “What?”

  “We’re only four months away from the five-year mark, but the closer we get, the happier you become.”

  I manage to maintain my pleasant expression as someone gr
abs a microphone and begs us to find our tables. The seating gods haven’t been too cruel. We’re with Henry, a junior litigation partner and a pair of Trusts and Estates associates, two bland-seeming women with identical honey blond straight hair, olive skin, pearl earrings and pink mouths set in straight lines.

  Henry looks at me. “Nice jacket,” he says. “You doing a Charlie Chaplin skit later?”

  I forgot I have on Caleb’s coat. I shrug out of it, drape it over my chair and spot Caleb still talking to one of the corporate associates, a seventh-year named Marissa. I wave at him and he smiles in return.

  I slide into the seat next to Henry and pat his shoulder. “How are you?”

  “Great.” He flashes a huge fake smile. “This event is a fave.”

  “Me too. Which do you like the best? The stale laughter or the hypothermia?”

  “I’m a hypothermia man myself.”

  I grab us each a warmed roll from the basket in the middle of the table. “So did you play golf?”

  “Yep.”

  “Ah. How’d you do?”

  “It was fine. How about you? Tennis again?”

  I look around quickly before replying in a quiet voice. “Actually, printing out pictures of Claire at society functions. And making five copies of them.”

  “You’re becoming a real slacker, Grant. Ditching the retreat? That’s a new level of disregard.”

  Caleb comes back to the table. I push out the chair next to me. Still standing, he turns to Henry. “Oh, hey, man. I’ve seen you before.”

  Henry gives a small nod. “Yes, you have. Duck’s Halloween party.”

  “Oh right.”

  I pat the empty chair, but instead of sitting down in it, he crouches next to me. “Hey, um, you know how I said I wanted to do some deals here?”

  I nod.

  He points across the room to a table in the middle. “Well, Marissa says there’s an empty chair at her table.”

  “Marissa?”

  “Yeah, she’s an associate in the finance group, but she says she’s doing a lot of new-media projects. My buddy has worked with her before, actually.”

  “Oh, yeah. I know Marissa.”