"I wasn't." I turned and made the last few steps to my office and dropped off my briefcase, swapping it out for the Draper's file.
"You weren't wondering now," Kevin said, leaning against the doorway. "But you'd be wondering about it later."
I turned to leave and found myself face-to-chest with him. I got a strong whiff of his cologne. He smelled like quintessential New York, in the best way possible. It left me feeling a little lightheaded. Clearing my throat, I looked up. "It's not really that funny."
"No, it's not ha-ha funny," he agreed. "But it's still more amusing than if he got into a car wreck in the Lincoln tunnel."
I pointed past him when he didn't move. "I need to get to my meeting and you're blocking my path."
"This may come as a surprise, but I wasn't actually waiting in reception to tell you about my dead client."
"Really?" I nodded my head. "You're right. It doesn't come as a surprise."
"I actually have a very important question to ask you."
"A question so important that you put it after a not-funny story about your client choking to death on an ice cream cone?"
"Well, it was an interesting story."
I cocked an eyebrow. "Was it?"
He shrugged. "I thought it was."
"I think you need to work on your delivery."
"You know, juries seem to like the way I spin a story."
"So," I said after a second. "What you're saying is, that if I was a jury I would have eaten that story up?"
"Pretty much," he said, nodding.
I smiled. "You're lucky you're cute."
"I say that to myself every time I look in a mirror."
"Every time?"
"Well, it's not like I spend all my time in front of mirrors," he said.
I squeezed past him and made a beeline for the conference room.
"Hey," he called after me. "I didn't ask you my question."
"If I waited for you get around to asking it I'd actually be late!"
I ended up being an extra five minutes late, but it totally wasn't my fault. You know, if Kevin hadn't been waiting for me, I'm pretty sure that I could have zipped into my office and then zipped into the conference room and no one would have been the wiser.
Instead, I entered the room to awkward, impatient stares.
"Sorry," I said, sliding into my seat.
Nobody seemed to really care about my apology.
The conference room was located near the back of the office, close to the partners. I suspected that was because they wanted to be able to peek in at whatever was going on at a moment's notice.
The table sat twelve, so it felt kind of ridiculous for just the five of us. I was next to Mrs. Draper and across from us sat Mr. Draper and his lawyer. Suzy was off to the side, taking notes.
The atmosphere was...chilly. I tried not to let it bother me. I mean, my tardiness wasn't the reason for the below-zero temperatures. This was the final meeting in a six-week mediation. The Drapers had been married for twenty-seven years before they decided to pull the plug. It was bitter. Very bitter.
Since Family Law was my speciality, I'd handled plenty of successful divorces since coming to Lane & Pryce, but I don't think I had ever seen a marriage quite as dead as the Draper’s.
The official reason on record for their separation was everybody's favorite 'irreconcilable differences.' Scuttlebutt around the office was that one of them had an affair, but it was never brought up in mediation.
In one of the early meetings somebody, I don't remember who, had brought in a box of the Draper's photo albums. I don't why the albums were brought in but it hadn’t stopped me from spending the afternoon flipping through them. At some point in time, probably in the distant past, the Draper's were a very happy couple. There were just pictures after pictures of them laughing and smiling and swimming. They used to do a lot of swimming. Maybe too much swimming? Is that what ultimately led to their divorce? They loved the joy of swimming more than they loved each other? I mean, now they could hardly even looked at each other. You could literally feel animosity between them when they were in the same room, the air was so thick with it.
The Drapers were wealthy. A penthouse here in Manhattan, a house in the Hampton's and a vacation home over in London. Mr. Draper had made his money years ago after making a few choice and wise investments. I was tempted to get some advice from him on my portfolio, but it probably wouldn't have been very professional given that I was representing his wife and taking him for a little over six million dollars a year in alimony. I also managed to nab Mrs. Draper the Hampton house.
I'm not one to brag, but this one was kind of a personal best for me.
Anna Draper, fifty-four years old, carried herself like a lady from the fifties. She was aging gracefully and making no attempt to hide her age behind hair dye and Botox. I think that I totally wanted to be her when I grew up.
George Draper reminded me of my grandfather. He had that classic salt and pepper look going on in his hair. His face was narrow and seemed to be set in a permanent frown. Although, who knew, maybe when he wasn't here getting fleeced for all he's worth, he's out partying it up?
"Well," I started, clearing my throat as I glanced over the paperwork.
Mr. Draper's lawyer, a bald dour-looking man who looked as though his idea of a good time was watching paint dry, cut me off, saying, "We're satisfied with the terms."
Okay, well, that was...not unexpected, but still a little surprising. I thought for certain I'd have to push through a few more objections before I got Mr. Draper to agree.
"Great!" Ugh. Why did I use that word? I sounded like a teeny-bopper that just got a free cheesecake at the Cheesecake Factory. I snuck a quick glance at Mrs. Draper. Her face remained impassive as usual. If she thought her lawyer had suddenly regressed, she didn't show any sign of it. "Alright," I continued in what I hoped sounded more like a normal lawyer voice, "I'll draw up the papers and have them ready to be signed by the weekend. Does that sound good to everybody?"
Baldy slowly nodded his head, as did the Drapers.
I hesitated a moment, not sure what to do next. I really expected this meeting to go on for another thirty, maybe forty minutes. This was really throwing me for a loop.
I got to my feet and held out my hand for Baldy. He shook it and I fought the urge to make a face. He had sweaty palms. Of course he had sweaty palms.
Ugh. Again.
Mr. and Mrs. Draper looked at each other for a long minute. I thought they might say something. Maybe get in one final parting shot. Instead there was just frosty silence.
Burr.
Mr. Draper and Baldy left without another word. I wasn't sure, but Mr. Draper's shoulders almost seemed to slump forward. I frowned. Well, that really didn't feel right for some reason.
"Ms. Valentine," Anna Draper said.
I turned. She had extended her hand to me and I shook it.
"Thank you," she said. "You were as good as promised."
I was as good as promised? What was that supposed to mean?
"I always try for my best." What was that? I'm bragging now? I shouldn't be bragging. I hope it didn't sound like I was bragging. My Mother would be horrified.
If Mrs. Draper thought I was uncouth, she didn't show any sign of it. She simply took her purse and exited the conference room.
I followed after her for a second, my mouth opened, but then I realized I had nothing else to say. What would I have said anyway? I felt like I was being a much bigger spaz than I normally was today.
I shrugged it off and headed back to my office.
It was the quiet ones that always bothered me. It was one thing to be so angry that you shouted and screamed at each other. But when you're so angry that you just kept it bottled up inside, festering? I shuddered. I didn't like it. No, sir. I did not like it at all.
"Ms. Valentine, I understand congratulations are in order."
I looked up from the blue carpet. Vincent Barnes stood to my right. He wa
s a burly brute of a man squeezed into a three-piece suit. Fifty years old and a senior partner at Lane & Pryce, he was the one who hired me three years ago.
"Yes, thank you, sir," I replied. I was immediately nervous. I couldn't help it. I always felt nervous around authority figures, even when they were as approachable as Mr. Barnes. And if you paid any attention to the office scuttlebutt, Mr. Barnes was very approachable.
I tried very hard not to pay attention to the office scuttlebutt.
I rarely succeeded.
"I don't want to fill your head with delusions of grandeur," Barnes continued. "But I have to say that if you keep this up, you might find yourself in the position of junior partner in the next year or so."
Junior partner? Me?
"Uh, uh." Great. Now I sounded like a stuttering fool.
I felt my cheeks grow warm.
Annnd now I was blushing. Even better.
Mr. Barnes laughed. Well, it was more like a good natured chuckle. He patted me on the shoulder. "Calm down, my dear. Nobody's going to be asking you to accept any awards or make any speeches. I just wanted you to know that your hard work hasn't gone unnoticed. You have been a valuable addition to our little team here." He nodded in the direction Mrs. Draper had gone. "Work like that will bring in more work. I'm certain that Mrs. Draper is going to say good things about you." He smiled. It was a broad grin that reminded me of a hungry bear for some reason. "You're a very good lawyer and you've got a bright future ahead of you, Emma. I think that future is going to be here with us."
He patted me on the shoulder again and then resumed his walk down the hallway, presumably to see what kind of trouble he could stir up with the paralegals. He was always doing something with the paralegals, and usually it was the pretty ones.
Tongue tied, I managed to puff my chest out with pride as I made my way back to my office. This was, of course, every young lawyer's dream. Which meant that it was my dream. So, here I was, three years into my job and this close to achieving my dream. Yeah, I think it was okay to feel good about myself right now.
Although, near as I could tell, being a junior partner around here meant longer work days, more work to go with those longer work days, fewer holidays and only a slight pay increase. But, hey, I'd still be a junior partner. That had to count for something, right?
Chapter Three
Suzy caught me before I made it back to my office. I started to share my lukewarm good news with her when she cut me off with, "There's somebody waiting for you in your office."
I paused. Who would have been in my office? I had blocked out the next hour for the Draper's meeting.
"Who?" I asked.
Suzy shrugged. "He didn't give me a name. He's an older gentleman. Said it was a personal matter."
An older gentleman with a personal matter? Do I even know any older men? I mean, other than the handful I work with? Hmm, mysterious. Very mysterious.
It was maybe a minute before I reached my office, but in that minute I had managed to put together an entire scenario in which the credit card companies had sent out some kind of head hunter to collect on the remainder of my student loan debt. Why all of a sudden were they gung-ho about collecting something that I was paying regularly? I don't know. Why did they send some old guy to my workplace to harass me about it instead of sending him to my home? I don't know. Maybe my brain needed another minute to figure that part out. Of course, there was a real possibility of my brain making the situation even worse if given that extra minute. For example, what if this guy who's just here to collect student loan debt, has been authorized to kill me if I don't pony up the cash right away?
Although, what I was really interested in was the fact that I immediately assumed that the old man was there for a bad thing and, then, the worst thing I could come up with was a student loan debt.
I'm not sure, but I think I might have issues with the fact that I have a lack of issues.
I stepped into my office and my bizarre nightmare scenario faded away immediately. I'd recognized the back of that old man sitting in front of my desk anywhere.
"Daddy!" I wrapped my arms around his neck and gave him a hug.
I was twenty-seven years old. I'd been living out on my own since I was nineteen. I paid my own bills and I did my own food shopping, when I remembered to, but my Dad was still Daddy.
Twisting himself around in my grip, he kissed my cheek. "Hello, dear."
I wrinkled my nose. "You smell like hotdogs. Why do you smell like hotdogs?"
"I confess that I had a hankering," he said. Dad had a voice for radio. I wasn't sure how else to describe it. It was smooth and rich, like a tasty treat for your ears.
"You had a hankering?"
"It's been a week of chicken fricassee and butter radishes with poached eggs," he said. "My palette needed something a little more basic. A little more crude."
"And you chose a hotdog?"
"Well, it was either that or a pretzel."
"What was wrong with the pretzel?"
Dad snorted. "Well, the pretzel vender was conspicuously absent from his cart. I dutifully waited a minute, but he never returned. I can't imagine what was so important that he just left his livelihood abandoned like that. I was tempted to take a pretzel anyway out of spite and to teach him a lesson in proper business practices."
I looked at my Dad. “Really?”
He sighed. “No, not really. But I thought about it really hard. And they do say that it’s the thought that counts.
I rolled my eyes. That was my Dad.
I hung on for another a few seconds before I moved around to my side of the desk. My Father, Michael Valentine, was in his sixties. His hair was completely white, although it had been white most of my adult life. In fact, I had very few memories of my Dad with anything but white in his hair. Apparently going grey early was a genetic thing in our family. Thus, I've spent my fair share of time staring at myself in the mirror, carefully inspecting my hair for any signs of grey.
But, other than the white hair, he was a remarkably youthful looking man. He liked to say that Mom kept him young. His skin had a healthy tan to it. There were a few wrinkles on his face, but I always thought they made him look distinguished, rather than old.
Dad was fond of wearing business suits sans ties. It made him look professional, without looking smug. There was something about my family, none of our men could wear a tie without looking smug. I don't know what that was about, but when I was a kid, it made shopping for Father's Day and his birthday really hard.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, kicking my heels off under my desk. Oh, yes, they fit like a glove, but they weren't ideal for walking in. My feet unclenched and I felt tiny little shivers as blood started circulating through them again. Maybe I should start wearing sneakers on the way to work and then switch to the heels? What if somebody saw me though? Sneakers and a business suit? I don't know that I'd die of embarrassment, but I'd certainly want to crawl into a manhole. "I thought you and Mom were going to be on that cruise for another week."
At my mention of the cruise he sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead. "Unfortunately, that's why I'm here."
I worked the sentence around in my head, but it didn’t make any sense. "You're here because of the cruise?"
"No, the reason your mother and I left the cruise early is why I'm here."
Okay, well, now my spidey-sense was going off. Something didn't smell right. I sat back in my seat and watched my Father warily.
Dad leaned forward, his elbows resting on the armrests. "Emma, I need you to come back to the family business."
Annnd there it was.
I held up my hands in that universal gesture of 'No, not gonna happen' and said, "No. Not gonna happen."
"Now, just listen to me before you say anything," Dad started. He shifted in his seat. I could see it in his eyes: he was gearing up for the sales pitch.
I shook my head, hopefully cutting him off before he built up any steam. "Nope. Sorry. Not interes
ted. Didn't we have this discussion years ago?"
"Yes and I was hoping that you might have seen the error of your ways since then."
I wagged my finger at him, mentally horrified at myself for adopting one of my Mother's famous gestures. "That's not the way to get me to say yes."
"It's not even the whole business," Dad said. "Just the New York office."
I couldn't believe my ears. "Just the New York office? Would that be the same New York office that Luke is running? Remember Luke? Your son. My big brother?"
"Yes. I have not forgotten who Luke is." Dad wasn't amused.
"Good," I said. "I thought maybe the sun had bleached your memories or something."
Dad sighed. "Your brother is the reason our cruise got cut short." He held up the New York Post.
I stared at the DISASTER DATE headline for a second before it clicked. "That was one of Luke's?"
Dad sighed again, this time adding an eye rub into the mix. "Your brother simply doesn't have the same gift for love that you do."
"Oh, boy," I muttered, rubbing my own forehead.
Dad set the paper on my desk. "And this wasn't the first one."
"Luke," I started.
"This was the last straw," Dad cut me off. "Eventually I'm going to retire."
"'Eventually,'" I used air quotes around the word, "could be years away. Plenty of time for Luke to get the hang of things."
"Your brother has the zeal and hunger for knowledge, but at the end of the day, Emma, we both know that it comes down to a skill. And matchmaking is a skill you either have or you don't. It's not one that can just be learned. Unfortunately, your brother doesn't have it. You, however," Dad smiled, his eyes lighting up, "have it in spades."
I placed my hands firmly against my desktop. "I'm not coming back to the family business. I already have a job that I'm good at. Luke can get better. He will get better."
"Luke's been trying to get better at the job for three years now," Dad continued. "And, remarkably, I think he's actually getting worse."
"Well, that's not really my problem." I folded my arms. "Maybe you should hire somebody new."
Cupid's Daughter (Cupid's Daughter #1) Page 2
