Mr. Hall Takes a Bride

by Marie Ferrarella

  “Yes?”

  “Just who the hell are you?” he demanded sternly. He wasn’t accustomed to being ordered around, fluffed off or ignored and she had done all three in the space of less than a minute.

  “I’m Sarajane.” She said the name as if that was supposed to mean something to him. When he made no response, she added her last name impatiently. “Sarajane Gerrity.”

  The frown on what seemed like an otherwise pretty face deepened. Exasperated, Sarajane turned completely around and crossed back to him. “You are Jenny Logan’s brother, aren’t you? Jordan Hall?”

  That was a new one on him. He couldn’t remember himself ever having been referred to that way. If anything, Jenny was regarded as “Jordan Hall’s sister.” He was the one who had garnered fame and attention in the family, not Jenny. To have it stripped away so cavalierly was a completely new experience for him. Apparently, in this small corner of the universe, his sister had come into her own.

  Way to go, Jen.

  “Yes, I am,” he answered.

  Sarajane nodded, as if she approved and he had given the right answer to her question. But the slight frown remained. “She said you’d be coming in today to try to help out.”

  He noticed that she’d said try. As if she didn’t expect him to accomplish anything. Obviously the woman didn’t get out much. Or maybe she just didn’t read the local section of the newspaper. The cases he handled appeared in print with a fair amount of regularity. There was talk of making him a partner at the firm the next time around.

  “She didn’t tell me about you,” Jordan countered. Jenny had called him again late last night, to tell him about the office manager or office secretary. He hadn’t paid that much attention really. She might have even said the woman’s name, he wasn’t sure. Besides, office managers weren’t people he ordinarily interacted with unless they forgot to order something he needed.

  A buzzer sounded behind him. Jordan turned around just as the front door opened. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the woman with the disapproving expression suddenly transform, as if a magic wand had been waved over her. The frown vanished, replaced by a warm, welcoming smile. She looked positively sympathetic.

  And positively beautiful, he realized.

  Devoid of her frown, Sarajane Gerrity’s features softened. She looked almost radiant. Despite his best efforts not to, he found that his attention was immediately engaged.

  Sarajane sailed by him as if he was nothing more than one of the desks or chairs in the place. Her attention seemed to be completely focused on the couple who had just walked in. He looked at the couple now. They appeared to be in their later fifties, possibly early sixties and life had not been kind to either of them.

  He caught himself wondering what had brought them here and what had put that close-to-panic look on the woman’s face.

  “Please, have a seat,” Sarajane was saying. She gestured toward two chairs in front of the desk closest to the front door. The desk had an incredible amount of papers piled on it. As she coaxed the couple to sit, Sarajane scooped away one of the piles of paper, depositing it onto the adjacent desk. “I was just about to make some coffee. Can I get either of you a cup?” Sarajane asked.

  “No, no coffee.” The woman had an accent he couldn’t readily place. He watched her open her purse and take out a much-creased packet of papers. “Just help,” the woman entreated simply. “We got this in the mail—” she began, holding up the papers.

  But Sarajane stayed the woman’s hand before she could launch into her tale. She nodded her head toward Jordan. “Mr. Hall over there will be right with you.” Retracing her steps back to him, Sarajane took possession of the files again, digging them out of his arms. “These will be waiting for you on the table,” she promised. She placed them next to the pile she’d just shifted from the first desk.

  It was clear that the walk-ins took precedence over all the other instructions she’d fired at him.

  “What about Mr. Wyatt?” he wanted to know. The light on the phone on what she indicated was his desk was blinking almost hypnotically.

  Even as he posed the question, another line lit up and began to ring. Followed immediately by another. He had the feeling that this was business as usual in this place.

  He looked at Sarajane expectantly and barely heard the sigh that escaped her lips. She tossed her head ever so slightly as her eyes met his. “I’ll take care of him for now.”

  He couldn’t remember ever hearing more confidence infused into a sentence.

  More lines began to ring until every light in the single row was lit. The buzzer went off again as two more people came in.

  The man nodded in Jordan’s direction and made himself at home on one of the chairs along one wall. The woman, apparently less familiar with her surroundings than the man, took a seat as well, perching awkwardly on the edge of the folding chair, looking as if she intended to take flight at the slightest provocation. Upon closer scrutiny, Jordan saw that she looked as if she’d been crying.

  In the background, Jordan could discern what sounded like the arthritic rumblings of a battle-worn coffeemaker going through its paces, the water grumbling as it was being heated.

  This was a far cry from the plush corporate offices where he usually spoke to clients, Jordan thought as he took a seat at the desk opposite the couple that had come in first.

  The second he put his full weight on it, the chair began to wobble beneath him. Caught off guard, Jordan grabbed either side of the desk to steady himself and keep from ignobly sinking to the black-and-white-checkered floor.

  “Oh, and your chair has a loose wheel,” Sarajane called out without even turning in his direction. She was busy taking down the names of the two people who had just entered. “I’d be careful how I sat down on it if I were you.”

  Maybe the woman was better suited to the fortune-teller’s shop next door, Jordan thought as he nodded at the distraught couple.

  He put on his most confident smile, the one he wore for the paying clients. He’d been told it put them at their ease. “How can I help you?”

  Those were his last words for the next twenty minutes.

  Chapter Three

  Sarajane was prejudiced against good-looking men.

  She had firsthand experience with the nature of the beast. Her opinion was built on a very firm foundation. Fresh out of college, ready to take on the world, she’d lost her heart to a good-looking man with a golden tongue: Rocco Santori, an incredibly good-looking man who was as shallow as a puddle on the pavement.

  Lonely, needing love, needing to feel that soothing rush that came from being committed to just one man, she’d actually thought that Rocco was the man she could spend the rest of her life with. In addition to his looks, he was bright, intelligent and intent on making something of himself. She’d poured her heart into the relationship—and he had poured words. Lovely, beautiful words that had turned out to be empty, holding only air and precious little else.

  She’d left him when she’d discovered that he was sleeping not only with her, but with two other women as well. Each of them had his promise of exclusivity to wrap their dreams around. It turned out that he was seeking to further his own career by using the women he slept with to his best advantage, to feed his ego, to make him feel invincible.

  She couldn’t get away fast enough. After that, she was wary, but her heart being what it was, she fell in love with someone almost a year later. Again, she was hopeful. Again she gave away her heart. Because Andrew Hopkins seemed different.

  Seemed, but wasn’t.

  Like Rocco, Andrew belonged to the DDG Club, the Drop Dead Gorgeous Club. She came to the conclusion that all men who qualified for that club never bothered developing their personalities, or, more importantly, their scruples, feeling that their looks absolved them of ever having to trouble themselves with a sense of decency or morality.

  In her experience, good-looking men didn’t have to try as hard or do as much and they were still forgi
ven, still worshipped. All because of their looks. If they had the body to go along with that, almost any woman they encountered was lost.

  Almost.

  She now belonged to that small but exclusive group that could see right through the men of the DDG Club. Men like Jordan Hall, she thought, covertly observing him throughout the morning. Clinically speaking, Jordan was even better looking than either Rocco or Andrew had been. But it didn’t matter. She’d had her shots. She was immune to handsome faces and biceps that rippled and butts that quarters could be bounced off. She’d take a homely, honest man any day.

  If she were taking men, which she wasn’t.

  Mentally, she’d decided to retreat from the male-female battlefield for the present. Given that she was only twenty-five, she figured she had time to get back in the game—if she ever wanted to. And right now, that was doubtful.

  Sarajane frowned thoughtfully to herself as yet another call came in and she picked up the receiver. She had fully expected Jenny Logan’s high-profile brother to fade, to give up. It hadn’t taken a stretch of her imagination to envision him backing away from his desk and heading for the door an hour after his arrival.

  Especially after the Trans had arrived. Twelve people, all talking at once, a few lapsing into Vietnamese when they grew excited. One of them—the mother, she had discovered after joining the fray to try to untangle what was going on—had been the victim of identity theft, which, according to what the woman’s oldest daughter had figured out, had begun over nine months ago. Mrs. Tran was being brought to court on all kinds of non-payment charges. There were bounced checks and staggering outstanding credit-card balances for items Mrs. Tran knew nothing about.

  Trying to unscramble this information and make sense of what was going on would have tried the patience of a veteran, someone accustomed to dealing with ongoing chaos on a daily basis. Someone like Jenny. To someone like Jordan, who probably had never broken a sweat in his life or been made to struggle with any task, she just assumed, the matter would outdistance his ability to cope by several leagues.

  Sarajane was amazed to discover that he did indeed have coping skills. More than that, he had an actual presence and could make himself heard above the noise, above the raised voices all competing for center stage with their version of the situation. As she watched, somewhat in awe, the way one did when confronted with a fish that actually possessed legs and could walk on land, Jordan called for order several times, refusing to continue until he finally succeeded in getting it.

  The Tran family abruptly stopped talking and sat in respectful silence, waiting for Jordan to frame his questions. When he did and they began answering in unison, their voices blending in an eager cacophony of half words and sounds, Jordan called for order again.

  Careful not to lean back in his chair, Jordan pushed it slightly back from the desk and scrutinized the gathering.

  “Look, people, we’re not going to get anywhere if you all keep competing with each other. Now appoint a spokesperson and just have that person talk. And if you hear that he or she is getting it wrong,” he added, “raise your hand.”

  “Like in school?” the youngest Tran, a girl with the very Americanized name of Tiffany, asked.

  Jordan nodded, a hint of a smile reaching his lips. Tiffany, Sarajane observed, instantly brightened, like a flower absorbing its first rays of the summer sun. “Like in school. Now, talk amongst yourselves and decide who is going to give me the particulars—and don’t forget to consult with your mom.” He nodded at the woman who was at the center of all this. A woman who, it was quickly established, spoke almost no English.

  “She’s not my mother, she’s my aunt,” Tiffany corrected him.

  Jordan inclined his head, accepting the correction. “Whoever she is, it’s her story to get out.” A better idea came to him. Opening the middle drawer, he silently made a wish for paper. The lined yellow legal pad he discovered in the center of the drawer almost made him feel giddy. He took it out and handed it to the girl, who looked at him quizzically.

  He tapped the pad and looked first at Tiffany, then at some of the other members of the family who were standing at his desk. Only the older woman and her husband were sitting. “Be sure not to leave anything out,” he instructed.

  He’d intended to get up and get himself a cup of coffee. He’d long since finished the contents of the container he’d brought with him. But instead, just as he was about to stand up, the phone on his desk rang. And rang.

  Exasperated, he bit off a few choice words, saying them silently instead, and picked up the receiver. He did his best to ignore the Tran family who were huddled together on the other side of his desk, conferring and dictating to Tiffany.

  “Jordan Hall.”

  There was silence on the other end. And then a female voice asked almost timidly, “Is this Advocate Aid, Inc.?”

  Unfortunately, it is, he thought. “Yes, what can I do for you?”

  The woman on the other end quickly launched into a tearful tale about not being able to locate her son whom the police had come and arrested several hours ago. When she’d called first one precinct, then another, no one would tell her where her son was being detained. Jordan made notes as fast as he could.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tiffany had finished writing. She pushed forward the yellow pad and looked at him expectantly. He acknowledged her with a quick nod.

  “I’ll have to call you back, Mrs. Rodriguez,” he said into the receiver. The words on the other end flowed more rapidly and freely. “Yes, yes, I promise. Ten minutes. Twenty, tops.”

  He became aware of Sarajane’s presence at his elbow even as he was hanging up the receiver. Was she bringing him yet another person to deal with? He wasn’t sure he could handle that right now. His cool was dangerously close to a meltdown. “What?” he bit off, looking at her sharply.

  Sarajane didn’t say a word. Instead, she silently placed a mug filled with coffee on the desk beside his elbow and withdrew.

  Jordan knew he’d sounded like some curt jerk. He usually hung on to his temper a great deal better than that.

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” he called after her, momentarily forgetting that they were far from alone. Sarajane didn’t stop walking or even turn around. But she did raise her hand over her head and made a little waving gesture, as if to brush away his words from the air.

  For the time being, given the source, he took it as a supreme compliment.

  The action continued nonstop. They were joined by Harry, who finally showed up sometime before eleven, and a woman named Rachel Sands, who was on loan from somewhere for the week. Both were lawyers. But Jordan quickly learned that Sarajane ran the show. It was Sarajane who directed the almost constant influx of human traffic, organizing them, getting them to fill out a minimum of forms and seeming to prioritize their cases and degree of need.

  But even with Sarajane at the helm, the work was daunting and constant. It didn’t even let up long enough for him to duck out for some lunch. Instead, after his stomach had rumbled a number of times, he was given a sandwich from a local take-out place. The wrapper on the sandwich sported a logo: What’s For Lunch? He vaguely recognized it as belonging to a place he’d passed in his search for Advocate Aid’s office.

  As with the coffee, Sarajane dropped the sandwich off at his desk. Jordan looked at her quizzically as the man sitting before him continued with his narrative about losing his job after not giving in to the sexual advances of his female boss. In response to his silent query, Sarajane merely shrugged.

  “Don’t want you keeling over from hunger,” she told him as she walked away.

  The next moment, he realized that the man had stopped talking and was eyeing his sandwich.

  “You going to eat all of that?” the man asked him sheepishly, then added, “I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday morning.”

  He supposed skipping lunch wouldn’t kill him. Jordan pushed the sandwich over to the man who accepted it with profuse thanks.
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  Jordan realized that his eyes had slipped shut. He stretched out his legs beneath his desk, trying to shake sleep from his body. It was, in his estimation, one of the longest days of his life, including the time when he was nine and had broken his leg. His parents had been vacationing in Europe and it had been his nanny, a no-nonsense young woman from Australia named Emily, who’d brought him into the hospital emergency room. Because Emily insisted, he’d been kept overnight for observation. The TV in his room was broken and he’d spent the duration of the evening staring at a spider weaving a web in the corner of the ceiling. Time had dragged by like a sloth climbing up a tree with glue on its feet.

  What he’d gone through today made him long for the serenity of the hospital room.

  The moment he saw Sarajane flip the lock on the outside door, pulling down the shade that indicated they were closed for the night, he could have cheered. It was past eight. Darkness had long since descended on the city.

  All he wanted to do was go home and pour himself a tall drink and forget about this place. “Is that it?” he asked rhetorically. “We’re done?”

  “For the day,” Sarajane replied crisply. About to walk right past him, she abruptly changed her mind and paused at his desk.

  Jordan was in the process of shutting down his computer. Or trying to. The closing message seemed to have frozen on his screen and showed no signs of making good on its promise. He hit several keys that ordinarily sped up the process, but all he heard was clicking noises. The message continued to sit on the screen.

  “What?” he bit off, feeling her eyes on him. All day long, he’d had the sense that he was being dissected and evaluated, part by part. Which was all right, except that he also sensed that in her estimation, he was coming up lacking. Which was not all right.

  “Is there a problem?”

  The cheerful note in her voice seemed out of place and irritated him more than he was willing to admit. Jordan reined himself in. “Can’t seem to shut down the damn computer.”