Next Year I'll be Perfect

by Laura Kilmartin

  “Fine, fine.” David gave in to his body's need for release and barked out a laugh. “I'm sure the diner is in the best possible hands. What are you and Livvie up to tonight?”

  “How do you know I'm going out with Livvie?” I was vaguely insulted by the insinuation that I was predictable and had nothing better to do on a Saturday night. “I might have a hot date with a gorgeous new man, you know.”

  “You might,” David drawled out the last word. “But I'm thinking that if you had a date with a gorgeous new man, I would have seen the billboard.”

  My friend's comments would have been obnoxious but for the fact that he was right. In the two weeks since my birthday and new resolution to find a relationship, it was as if all the single men in Portland had crawled into a hole to hide. If and when I found someone to date, I might very well be excited enough to shout the news from the rooftop.

  “Fine. You win.” I admitted. “Livvie's coming over in a few minutes. We're going to take a walk around Baxter Boulevard then come back to my place for pizza and a Buffy marathon. I just picked up the season six DVD on sale at Best Buy.”

  As the words left my lips, even I heard how pathetic my Saturday evening sounded. Luckily, knowing that David's social life was not exactly written up in Page Six, I asked, “Before you even start in on me, what exciting plans do you have in the Big Apple tonight, Don Juan?”

  “I'm staying in tonight. I've got an important presentation I've got to finish for Monday.”

  Precisely the response I'd expected.

  “Be careful. All work and no play and you'll turn into Frank before you know it.”

  We both laughed, but mine was not an idle warning.

  To my knowledge, my boss Frank Murphy had not had a social life since the day he graduated law school and opened his small civil litigation firm. He was at the office every morning when I arrived and stayed until well after seven every night. On the occasions I needed to work weekends, he always arrived first with the coffee and bagels. In fact, any random time of the day or night when my travels took me past our office on Wharf Street, I always saw the light burning in his office window. Livvie thought it was obsessive and creepy.

  It just made me a little sad.

  “Speaking of Frank,” David pulled me from my musing. “Have you informed him yet that you're going to be his new partner by next year?”

  “I'm not going to just spring that news on him, you know. I do have an actual plan.” Having stacked the remainder of the diner chairs, I moved to the kitchen for a mop and bucket.

  “You have a plan?” I heard David's chair squeak through the telephone line as he settled in and made himself more comfortable. “By all means, do tell.”

  “Fine. I'm going to spend the next few months working my ass off. Even more than usual. I'm going to make myself indispensable to Frank to the point that he'll do anything to keep me happy, including make me partner.”

  “And how is that working out for you so far?”

  I hauled the janitor-issue bucket into the kitchen's large sink and said a small prayer that my chin muscles were strong enough to keep the receiver from plunking into the soapy water as I explained, “It's early yet, but I think it's going ok. Frank is stopping by the diner any minute with the paperwork I need to cover a hearing for him on Monday. I plan to be brilliant and thus further demonstrate how vital I am to the success of his law firm. As soon as I'm sure he knows he can't survive without me, I'm going to gently nudge him toward offering me a partnership.”

  “Well, it seems like a reasonable approach, but be careful, Sarah. You might have better luck gently nudging a beached whale back into the ocean. Just because it's a good idea, doesn't mean he's going to go for it.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Success in my professional life seemed far easier to execute than finding a relationship – heck, even a date. Work hard. Be rewarded for your hard work. How difficult could that be, anyway?

  Knowing David's penchant for practicality – a quality I found terrifically overrated, I sighed, “I can't believe you forced me to tell you about my birthday list in the first place. It's enough that Livvie mocks me. I would think you could throw a little positive energy my way.”

  “First of all, I didn't force you to do anything. I received a post-birthday 2am call from you telling me your life was meaningless and wanting to know what time the animal shelter opened so you could start buying cats.”

  Oops. I'd kind of blocked that out.

  After Livvie helped me clean up from the party, she'd gone home, leaving me alone with the list, an open bottle of Merlot and my thoughts. I read the list over and over, marveling at the spunk and optimism of the girl who had written down these goals, truly believing they were attainable. I couldn't get past the feeling she'd somehow slipped away when I wasn't looking.

  Drunk dialing David had just been an unfortunate consequence of my despair.

  “And secondly…”

  Before my friend could finish his thought, I heard someone rapping softly on the diner door. “Hold on, Thornton.”

  Turning around, though, I was surprised that the silhouette shown behind the drawn shade was not of the tall, broad man I was expecting. Instead, it indicated a shorter, slighter figure. “Oh, shit.”

  “What's wrong?”

  I sighed, walking toward the door to face my fate. “Nothing. I thought Frank was dropping off his own paperwork, but he sent his flying monkey instead.”

  “Play nice!” My friend ordered with a chuckle in his voice. David knew from the countless ranting phone calls he'd received from me in the last few months that the flying monkey at the door could only be Morgan Donovan, the second year law student who was interning at Frank's firm. “I know you don't like the guy, but Frank does. If you really want to make partner, don't piss off your boss by picking a fight with his Mini-me.”

  “The only reason Frank likes Morgan is because he's actually stuck around since June. That's a record for us when it comes to keeping interns.”

  “Sarah…”

  “I know. I know. It doesn't matter why Frank likes him. He does and I just need to play nice.” I agreed and grumbled my way through our goodbyes as I placed the handset back on the counter.

  When I opened the diner door, I had every intention of playing nice. Really. Unfortunately, my brain was apparently not in league with my mouth.

  “What are you doing here Morgan?”

  The smile that had momentarily graced my co-worker's face disappeared. “Frank sent me. He said he'd be here in a few minutes.”

  I gestured for him to come in to the main room of the diner where we stood in uncomfortable silence waiting for our boss to arrive. As I tried to come up with something neutral to say, I did have to admit that if nothing else, at least my nemesis was fairly easy on the eyes. Morgan stood at about five foot ten with striking blue eyes and blonde hair that could only be described as “long-ish”. Frank's receptionist Gloria and I agreed that Morgan looked just like the TV character Illya Kuryakin from the 1960s spy show The Man from UNCLE.

  Unfortunately, good looks could only carry a person so far, and Morgan Donovan didn't have the allure of an international spy to fall back on.

  Tired of staring at my shoes and having absolutely nothing to say to Frank's annoying lackey, I picked up my nearby dishtowel and concentrated on folding it into crisp, precise fourths. Just as I thought I could bear the silence no longer, Morgan must have felt the same way.

  “Look, Sarah…” He began.

  “Sarah.” Frank's booming voice as he breezed into the diner, saving me from Morgan's awkward and ultimately insincere attempt at small talk.

  “Hey, Frank. You're late.” I vaulted toward the door to greet my boss. At fifty-one, Francis Murphy's tailor-made blue wool suit looked perfectly in place with Morgan and his button-down white oxford tucked neatly into his pressed Brooks Brothers slacks.

  I looked down at my own denim shorts and faded green T-shirt, liberally freckled with grease stains.
Hadn't these men gotten the memo that it was Saturday?

  “How old is the coffee?” Frank asked, striding toward the coffee maker.

  “Too old. I turned it off ten minutes ago, and I'm leaving as soon as Livvie gets here. I need to grab your paperwork and then you both have to go.” My annoyance at Frank inviting Morgan to invade the sanctity of my diner burst forth despite my promise to David to reign in my temper.

  Frank raised his eyebrows in surprise at my tone, but didn't say a word as he placed his briefcase on the counter, opened it and handed over the Astin divorce file. We were representing Monica Astin in a messy divorce from her husband, Portland's most successful orthodontist. I took a moment to familiarize myself with the document while Frank and Morgan chatted amiably in the background. Watching the two men bond, I remembered with a sickening feeling the list of my birthday resolutions. Instead of arguing with my boss, I was supposed to be buttering him up for a promotion.

  “Sorry, Frank. I've been working the diner by myself all day and I'm a little short-tempered.”

  My boss snapped the buckles on his briefcase shut. “I hope you're not working for tips, Bennett. With that attitude, you'll starve.”

  A few years ago, when I knew Frank Murphy only by reputation, a rude comment delivered in his gruff tone might have actually frightened me. In fact, I had actually considered turning down the job interview due to Frank's terrifying reputation. Of course, I didn't know back then how carefully my boss cultivated that image and how sweet he could be if you really dug down deep.

  Very deep.

  Really fucking deep.

  I had just graduated law school when Uncle Jeremy set up an interview for me with his friend, and I could recall vividly the first time I walked into the offices of Murphy Legal Services, LLC. I was a nervous wreck, but a glance toward the woman at the reception desk set me slightly more at ease. Gloria Daniels – according to the nameplate gleaming on her desk – looked up at me with a kind smile and twinkle in her pale blue eyes. I guessed she was in her mid-fifties, but dressed decades out of step with her cat's-eye black rimmed glasses and a pearl gray cardigan draped over her shoulders, held in place with a silver sweater chain. She had just opened her mouth to speak when a tornado masquerading as a large man in an expensive brown suit exploded into the room from behind a heavy mahogany door.

  “Where is she? It's almost ten.”

  Without raising an eyebrow at the outburst, Gloria simply extended her right hand, heavy with expensive jewelry, in my direction.

  “Oh.” Frank looked me up and down and said, “Well, come on in, then.”

  I was ushered into a large office which appeared far smaller than it was due to the volume of files and papers littering every surface, including the chair I was presumably to sit in. I looked at the man expectantly, and after receiving a blank stare for longer than was entirely comfortable, I finally picked up the papers, placed them neatly on the floor and sat down. Again meeting a stare and silence, I finally started the conversation, nervously babbling about how I appreciated Frank taking the time to meet with me, understanding he was doing it as a favor to Uncle Jeremy.

  At that point, and to my great distress, Frank leaned toward me and boomed, “I don't waste my time on people who kiss ass. If that's your style, we might as well end this interview now.”

  My head popped up at his words and I took my first close look at the man who according to reputation could cause the toughest, most time-hardened attorneys to cower in fear when they met on opposite sides of the courtroom.

  Frank's size alone was certainly imposing. Easily six foot three and perhaps an inch more, he possessed the broad shoulders of a football player and the middle-age gut of a man who still ate – but no longer trained – as one.

  His dull brown hair had receded from his head like Casco Bay at low tide, leaving the minute bumps and ruts in his sand-colored skull that resembled an eroded shoreline and completed the analogy. What little remained of his hair, though, was as neatly trimmed as were his nails and brows. Clearly a professionally manscaped job, but also a nod toward vanity to which Frank would never admit.

  My gaze finally rested on the older man's eyes. A deep shade of brown, they were nearly hidden by the basset-hound heavy lids and bags of a man who obviously slept too little and probably drank too much.

  As Frank Murphy leaned toward me, growling his request to end our interview, I realized much to my surprise that his attempts at intimidation had backfired. Raised by two gruff policemen into a family of men, soft and gentle words were often my undoing. Abrupt and grumpy, though, I was well-equipped to deal with.

  “This interview is not over.” I reached into my purse and handed over a sheaf of bound papers. “I was promised half an hour of your time, so would you like to look at my transcript or are you going to keep acting like a bully until our time is up?”

  In the heavy silence that followed, I was terrified I had made a grave miscalculation and mentally composed the apologetic postcard I would send Uncle Jeremy from the leper colony where I planned to relocate.

  Fortunately, after several painful seconds, a deep, hearty laugh erupted from the man sitting in front of me. “Well, now. Jeremy said you were a pistol. When do you want to start?”

  I started working for Frank one week later, and my fear of him lessened as my respect grew in equal measure, but not all members of the legal community shared my opinion. Lawyers and judges around town fell into two distinct camps – those like me who admired Frank Murphy's brash style and those who thought he was an arrogant ass.

  The bells over the diner door chimed, pulling me back to the present and heralding Livvie's arrival, an attorney who unfortunately fell firmly into the latter category.

  “Murphy.” She acknowledged my boss with a perfunctory nod of the head, and was met by one in kind.

  “DiMarco.”

  I was momentarily thrown off my game when Livvie breezed right past Frank without pausing for even a snarky word or two until I realized she had immediately zeroed in on the young man standing to his right. While Livvie had heard all about the young intern I couldn't stand, she had yet to meet him in person.

  Not waiting for an introduction, especially when an attractive man was on her radar, Livvie thrust out her hand. “Hi. Olivia DiMarco. I don't believe we've met.”

  “Morgan Donovan.” The weasel replied, clearly intrigued – as were most people upon first meeting Livvie. What he didn't notice, however, was how the light left Livvie's eyes as she realized the identity of the man she was speaking with. Livvie's loyalty knew no bounds, and as cute as this boy may be, she knew I had pegged him as “the enemy”.

  I took the awkward silence that ensued as an opportunity to herd everyone toward the door. “Well, thanks, Frank. I think I have everything I need for Monday.”

  “I can take a hint.” My boss placed his hand on Morgan's shoulder and I could hear the beginning of a lecture on the benefits of pre-nuptial agreements as I pulled the door firmly shut.

  Turning to Livvie, I held my hands up, silently begging that she hold off on the inquisition at least until we started our walk. Halfway to asking her first question, my friend rolled her eyes in acquiescence, grabbed two bottles of water from the cooler and said, “Well, come on then.”

  * * *

  “So that's Morgan.” Livvie didn't even wait until we reached the first ¼ mile marker. “I mean, after everything you've told me about him, I can't believe you let him in the diner.”

  “Not my fault. Frank sent him.”

  “Speaking of annoying men…”

  “Don't start Livvie.” I sped my pace in a passive aggressive nod to my friend's shorter legs. “He's my boss and I want him to make me partner in a year. I can't go around barring my door to his anointed heir apparent.”

  “Do you honestly believe ‘Murphy Legal Services’ is ever going to become a partnership, Sarah?”

  Unable to deal with Livvie's question and my own underlying concerns, I chos
e instead to just remain silent and keep pounding the pavement.

  Hop-skipping to catch up, Livvie sighed with the small amount of breath she was able to catch. “Alright then, slow down for God's sake and let's start with something easy. How's the rest of the progress on the brand new you?”

  “I'm walking every day with you, aren't I? I've even priced a few stair machines to help when I start training to climb Mt. Katahdin. I haven't quite gotten on the diet bandwagon, but I'm doing pretty well with exercising.”

  “What do you mean you haven't ‘quite gotten on the diet bandwagon’?”

  “Well, I'm not really eating any less, but I've successfully completed my pre-diet purge.”

  No. Not that kind of purge.

  The day after my birthday, when my to-do list was fresh in my mind and extra-strength Tylenol was keeping my headache at a dull roar, I went on a rampage and rid my refrigerator and cupboards of all dangerous snacks. Everyone thought those Keebler Elves were delightful little woodland creatures, but I knew they were secretly evil harbingers of diet doom.

  Livvie laughed, “I've done the pre-diet purge before, too. Tell me, are you actually eating less or are you just making more trips to the grocery store?”

  “Go to hell.” I replied pleasantly, though not answering Livvie's astute question.

  “Hi, Sarah. Hey, Livvie.”

  We both looked up, startled, as a young dark-haired man in his late twenties jogged past us at a good clip. Looking back over my shoulder, I yelled, “Hi, Scott!”

  Livvie whistled softly, but appreciatively at the view as we both paused to watch him retreat. “I haven't seen Scott in years. What happened with you two, anyway?”

  “I don't really remember.” I shrugged. “He's engaged to Dianna Pownell over at the Legal Clinic. We all went out for a beer a few months ago.”

  Livvie stopped walking and shook her head in disbelief. “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Collect men like they're Pound Puppies. Do you realize that you never really break up with anyone? They all just kind of drift away.” She made a motion reminiscent of a hula girl statue on a Volkswagen dashboard.