42nd & Lex
Bria Hofland
Copyright © 2012 Bria Hofland
All Rights Reserved
Cover art by Bria Hofland/ Cover image photo used under Creative Commons from buggolo
To Mom and Dad:
Thank you for thinking that I am awesome at everything I do. Your faith in my abilities, even when I didn’t agree, has pushed me harder than you will ever know.
To Paul:
You are the love of my life and my best friend. Thank you for indulging my fantasy while I made it a reality. And for allowing all manner of vampires to live with us for these last few years. I dare say it’s been crowded.
To My Little Pink Laptop:
We made it! Thanks for hanging in there and never losing a single word.
It’s giving up who you were for who you are.
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONEMonday. The worst possible day to follow a bottle, no make that box, of wine. I don’t even like wine. I was feeling sorry for myself and decided to self-medicate with a few glasses of foil packed finery left over from New Year’s Eve. I was chasing that little 3 a.m. place in my soul where time stands still and drunken rational makes everything seem so clear. The place that has a constant soundtrack of soulful ballads played out by gravely voices on acoustic guitars. Maybe even a harmonica. A place where you know everything is in cosmic alignment and all will be just as it should. I needed to know everything was going to be as it should.
The buzz of my alarm interrupts my pointless revelry and I slap it into submission on my nightstand. I have gained no better insight into my life in the last twelve hours, just a massive headache and a case of cottonmouth. I am soul restless and I don’t know why. I have a career, disposable income, and good friends. Everything should be perfect, yet I feel less than full. Not empty—that would be sad, but like something is missing. I’ve felt that way on and off again for much of my life. At first, it drove me to succeed but lately I’ve realized that all I’ve accomplished is not what was missing. The one thing I’ve yet to find is love.
My job as a divorce lawyer made me cynical to love years ago but I am ready for a change. Ready for someone to come along and show me that love isn’t expendable, it is real and forever. I want a soul deep kind of love. Sheesh, I sound like one of those soulful ballads. I might even still be drunk.
The alarm is beeping again. There is no more time to ruminate on my lack of love. It’s time to hit the shower and trudge to work. My wine hangover prompts me to pop a few Advil and skip the drawn out hair washing part of the shower. I’ll just wear it up today. I leave my tiny apartment at exactly 8:12a.m., allowing enough time to stop by Chen’s Deli for a coffee before catching the Number 4 train to Grand Central and the Chrysler Building. The fact that the firm was located in the Chrysler spurred me to apply for a summer clerk position after my first year in law school and I’ve never left. For some reason I have been drawn to that building since the moment I set foot in Manhattan.
The subway entrance is only a few blocks from Chen’s so I pull my coat tighter around me, grab my latte, and join the throngs of other commuters out on the sidewalk. Even though I spent most of my formative years in Iowa, I am a Texas girl at heart and the bone deep cold sets my teeth on edge every time I go outside. I take a swig of coffee and walk a little faster, dodging people on their cell phones and walking dogs at a snail’s pace.
It is only marginally warmer below ground. I like to stand as close to the edge of the platform as I can without raising a warning from the MTA staff. I like the sound of the breaks and the gust of wind the cars create as they screech to a stop, not to mention standing close greatly increases your likelihood of getting a seat. As the doors whoosh close, I settle into my seat and let my iPod’s shuffle feature set the tone of my day. My mother would slap me if she knew I walked around alone with headphones stuck in my ears. “You could get mugged or worse!” she would chide. She would also chide me for going to work with a raging hangover but I take comfort in the caffeine and Advil coursing through my system. If memory serves, this will have me up and running on all cylinders in an hour or so. All I’m missing is a greasy breakfast of tacos or chili cheese fries. Once off the train I hike through the tunnels of Grand Central to the Chrysler.
I look around the magnificent lobby marveling at its beauty as if it is the first time while I wait in line for the elevator. I hate elevators. I’ve had reoccurring dreams about being in a falling elevator since I was a child. The fear has prompted me to research elevator tech ad nauseam in the hopes of convincing myself that I would be okay. I know how many floors can be reached with a hydraulic pump versus a cable system. It is the cable system that scares me most of all. The Chrysler uses a cable system. When several years of therapy failed to produce an answer for my problem, I decided I was just going to have to live with it as long as I planned to live in Manhattan and work on the 30th floor. Consequently, I hold my breath as long as I can while enduring the ride, that measure of self-control gives me a sort of power over the fear.
My stomach tightens as ten more people crowded onto the elevator with me. I begin a mental calculation of their average weights against the gross tonnage the car is designed to hold to calm myself. We are mercifully a good three hundred pounds under the limit by my estimation. Just as my air supply is running out the doors open to the 30th floor and I leap out, trying not to unnecessarily shove anyone out of my way in the process. I know I am being irrational. But that’s the thing about phobias, they are by definition irrational.
I am still shaking off the ride when I run into my assistant Max. He has a look on his face that says he knows why I am pale and breathing hard and he thinks it, and me, ridiculous. “Good morning, my dear,” he says in a slightly patronizing tone.
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p; “Hey,” I reply. My voice sounds a little more winded than I would have liked but I ignore it and him. “What’s going on today?”
“You have three new clients. One is of special interest though.” Max pauses for effect, always a little too dramatic. “Apparently you know each other?”
“Yeah.” I am in no mood to indulge him this morning. My brain is still coughing and sputtering to life through the haze of the chardonnay I tried to drown it in. I knew whom he was talking about and I’d been dreading the appointment for a week. In fact, she was partially the reason for my one-woman happy hour last night.
I can tell that Max wants to strangle me for being so nonverbal. He’s so excited that he’s prancing in front of me like a dog waiting to go outside for a walk. “She says you grew up together.”
“Something like that.”
Sarah Nelson. The last time we’d seen each other was my thirteenth birthday. Sarah was always the pretty one, the put together one; even the thinner, taller one. Our parents met in college and had both divorced about the same time, when we were ten. Her mom remarried for money a few years later. My mom and I moved to be closer to my grandparents and Sarah and I didn’t see each other much after that. Oh, I got the occasional obligatory invite to a birthday or holiday party to show that we were still friends—or maybe to show off her stepdad’s money—but I never made the trip to attend. Sarah got a nose job and boobs for her sixteenth birthday. I got a used Hyundai from my Uncle Larry with duck tape holding on the rearview mirror. What on earth could Sarah need, or want, from me? And how did she end up here in New York?
“She’s here for a divorce consult,” Max offers, anticipating my inner monolog.
I figured as much seeing as how I only practiced divorce law, but still. Of all the lawyers in New York City, how did she find me? Sarah got married right after college to Mark Ainsworth according to the annual Christmas letters her mother sent out. I didn’t know much else about him but I assumed he was rich and thus took over for her step daddy in providing her with whatever she wanted. If she couldn’t keep a marriage with all that and her looks in her favor, what hope was there in the world.
“Okay Max, I’m going to get started on my day. Let me know when she gets here.” That is Max’s cue to stop prancing and get back to his office.
Technically getting started on my day is just code for getting online and checking my email and the wonderful world of social networking sites to which I belong until the coffee kicks in. I decide to do a quick search for Sarah Nelson, now Ainsworth, and see what pops up.
Within a few minutes, I have her Facebook profile pulled up. She is still beautiful, in a medically manicured kind of way. The hubby looks nice enough, definitely from money. A lot of her pictures are of parties with J-Crew wearing friends, drinks in hand, smiling away at the camera.
“Mrs. Ainsworth is here, Abri.” Max pokes his head in the doorway. I’ve managed to waste a good thirty minutes. My headache is almost completely gone and I’m feeling mostly normal.
“Thanks, Max. Show her in.” I take a quick look at myself in the reflection of my office window. I hadn’t put much effort into myself this morning and it shows. I am at least wearing my new suit, a Christmas present from my mom. Non-client interview days mean khakis and sweater sets. I rummage through my desk drawer for some lip-gloss, mascara, anything to make me look less frumpy. Nada.
I make a beeline for Lindsey’s office down the back hallway; she will have something I can use. Lindsey is a first year associate with the firm and was two years behind me in law school. We weren’t close then, but since we began working together on a few cases our friendship has blossomed. It is nice to have someone to talk to who knows what my work life entails.
“Linds, quick, how do I look? Do you have any lipstick I can borrow?” I burst into her office to find Lindsey with a jelly donut hanging out of her mouth.
“Ommphf,” she gulps with a guilty look on her face. “These were in the conference room left over from the partner’s meeting…want some?” My friendship with Lindsey also revolves heavily around food and the joy it brings us when nothing else does. She is single, like me, and is probably destined to remain so, like me, because we never do anything other than work. We both agree if you can’t find Mr. Right by thirty, then maybe you can make partner by thirty and retire to some tropical island and take up with a cute cabaña boy who makes up for his lack of English by excelling in ‘other’ areas.
“Uh, no, well save me one for later.” I am going to need a little pick-me-up after Sarah.
“What’s the hurry? Hot divorcé in your office?” Lindsey asks, winking at me.
“No. I’ll tell you later. Lipstick?” Lindsey throws me her purse and I start digging. “Thanks Linds, you’re a lifesaver. Let’s hit the diner across the street for lunch and I’ll tell you everything.”
“Okay, but can we ditch Max today? Just us girls.” Max preferred to take lunch with us but his constant bitch fest about the other support staff ruined lunches more often than not. “I might slap him today.”
I laugh. No one would blame her. The partners would probably take her assault case on pro bono. I count Max as a friend, but he is tolerable only in small doses most days. He was a damn good assistant and that’s why the partners kept him on. They just tended to make him work with the younger associates.
Okay, time to focus. There is nothing to be scared of; I am just as good as Sarah. After all, I graduated from college and law school and work at one of the top family law firms in the city, don’t I? And if I really want to get nasty, she is no better than me in the relationship department either, seeing as how she is here about ending hers.
“Abri, Ms. Ainsworth is in your office. I’m getting her a non-fat decaf latte from downstairs, do you want anything?” How does Max always seem to know where I am?
“No thanks, Max. But on your way back in, can you grab a new client packet for me?”
“Aye, Aye, Captain. I’m on it.” I roll my eyes at him before handing Lindsey back her purse. Max was certainly in rare form today.
CHAPTER TWO
I approach my office from the south so I can see Sarah before she sees me. She is perched in my client chair, tiny enough that two of her could fit in there side by side. She has on a white, probably cashmere, coat and I can see a rather large Hermes bag on the floor next to her feet. I smooth my suit jacket a little. It was bought with love by my mother, but is still off-the-rack department store fare.
“Sarah!” I exclaim, deciding that the sorority girl ‘OMG Buffy, I haven’t seen you since Rush!’ approach is probably better than anything more formal.
She turns to face the sound of my voice. “Abri! Oh, I’m so glad they let me see you today. How long has it been? How is your mom? You look awesome!” she squeals as she jumps up to hug me.
“It’s been a long time. I think since I turned thirteen. Mom is good. She remarried a few years ago. He’s pretty nice. They moved back to Texas, she was tired of the winters in Iowa.” I answer all her questions in rapid succession, trying to think up some of my own to ask that are friendly and not so much business. “When did you move to New York?”
“About six months ago. Mark got a job here. The shopping is to die for, but I miss the weather in Dallas. Who needs to wear two coats just to go out?” She points to a waist length fur coat on the chair next to the one she’s been sitting in. The white cashmere is merely part on the ensemble of couture hanging ever so perfectly on her tiny frame. The mere thought of shoving myself into all those layers makes my skin prickle with heat.
“My mom told me you were living here and that you went to law school. So that’s why I tracked you down…” her voice trails off. The small talk has worn off and now we are down to the business at hand. I breathe a small sigh of relief; at least this is the part of the meeting where I am comfortable and in control.
“Sit down and fill me in.” I say, gesturing to the chair not containing her furry monstrosity. Max will shit
when he sees it.
“Here is your non-fat, decaf, latte Mrs. Ainsworth.” Damn, that boy has the ability to read my mind or something. “And the documents you requested Ms. Cole.”
Max gives a little flourished bow behind Sarah while mock gagging and pointing at her coat. I try not to smile.
“Thanks,” Sarah and I say at the same time and it makes us laugh. The tension is finally broken and it’s as if we haven’t been apart a day. Max just shakes his head and closes the door.
“Okay,” Sarah begins with a sigh. “Things are going really bad with Mark and me. He has changed since we moved. At first, he just worked all the time, which was fine because it was a new job and all. But then he started being really different. Cold. Distant.”
“What does he do for a living?” I ask more as a friend than as a lawyer. “Maybe it is just the stress of his job.”
“He’s an architect. It’s more than just work stress, Abri. He had plenty of that in Texas, too. He’s become mean and distracted. Ever since we moved here, any time I get upset about something or have a bad day at work, Mark tells me I should start going to therapy so I tell someone else about my problems and not bother him.” Work? Sarah has a job.
“What kind of work do you do?” I ask, trying to hide my surprise.
“I work part time at an art gallery in SoHo. A friend from college owns it. I just watch the place for her while she sculpts sometimes.”
I nod to encourage her to continue. How does one have a stressful day at an art gallery? People come in, they look around, and they leave. Or maybe, they plunk down fifty thousand on an oversized piece of crap that looks like two people screwing if you tilt your head just right. I take another gulp of my now cold coffee hoping it will beat down the malicious bitch that has clawed her way up inside of me. I press a sympathetic smile on my face as I swallow hard.
“And you’ve decided you want to file for divorce?” I state the obvious just to be sure we are on the same page.
“Yes, I have to. There is no way I’m going to therapy rather than tell my husband I had a bad day. I love him, Abri, but I can’t live like that. I’m not ending up like my mother; married to money for the sake of money and not happiness.”
42nd & Lex Page 1
