Lawfully Yours (7 page)

CHAPTER 10

I’ve moved upstairs, where the first and second year associates are. It’s a brave new world. The two main corridors form an “L” shape. A secretary’s desk is wedged between every two offices. The bland beige cubicles are for the paralegals. Up here is continuous bustle—noisy energy in the air. It’s a very different atmosphere from downstairs.

My office here is much better than the old conference room. Though smaller, it has furniture similar to the partners, making it very professional in an old school kind of way. My desk and bookcase continue the firm’s overall wood theme of carved mahogany. A floor lamp has a Tiffany style shade. The wall paint is the one sub-standard feature of my new digs, it needs refreshing.

Leila’s office is one door down from mine. The first week in my new locale I walked into her office thinking it was mine. In fact, I did this three different times to three different people.

As dumb as I felt, my mistakes had the benefit of sudden introductions. Even without my screw-ups, dozens of other associates have introduced themselves to me. Most had heard of me but hadn’t yet placed my face.

Leila was right, this is a small office gossip-wise. Everyone associates me with Jordan. It’s too bad. A perk of moving should have been establishing a reputation of my own. Looking for ways to set myself apart from Jordan will be critical.

Leila is having a panic attack trying to finish a project for her boss, the Commercial Litigation division head. She’s to assist on a contractual dispute going to trial in three weeks. “I’m good at contracts,” I say. “Let me give you a hand.” I give her more than a hand—an arm and leg immediately follow. I don’t mind. I like her, and the swell of work isn’t going to kill me. Luckily there’s unanticipated compensation because I’m gaining better business insight.

The trial date comes, and the work I do with Leila does pay off, and the case settles favorably. The day after settlement happens, Leila stops by my office.

“Sue, I want you to meet my boss, Bill Lipman. I know I complain about him a lot, but he’s really not a bad guy. I want him to know about all the work you put in. Maybe he’ll use Comm Lit’s budget to add to your bonus.”

I go to meet Bill, a short man with thinning salt-and-pepper hair. Romanesque nose. Thick eyebrows. Casually dressed but with clothes carefully put together. He has a little weight around the midriff but it isn’t too pronounced.

“Sue,” he says. “I hear I owe you a lot of thanks.”

“Leila hypes me up,” I say, smiling. “She did most of the work. I just gave her a hand when it was needed.”

“Yes, Leila did hype you up. So did Jordan. In fact, I asked him to lend you to me for a while. He didn’t look too keen on the idea. Can’t blame him. I wouldn’t give him Leila, so I guess we’re both selfish bastards.”

Leila beams. Though I laugh along with Bill, I’m not as pleased. Is Jordan trying to clip my wings? I want to soar, see how far I can go in the firm. Learn all aspects of commercial work. Instead, I’m caged.

I force a smile and shake his hand. “Well, Bill, if Jordan ever changes his mind about letting me help you out on a steadier basis, I’ll be sure to let you know. Thank you for the kind words. It was an interesting project and I enjoyed working with Leila.” I turn around and leave. Bill calls after me as I head down the hall, “Keep us in mind at Comm Lit!”

I will keep Bill’s offer in mind, and I’m trying to get other offers as well. I am beginning to help some of the other associates. Ones whom I either like or I think have interesting projects. To do this, I have to work fifteen, sixteen-hour days. I still have my own client files to work on plus whatever else Jordan gives me to handle. The extra hours are hard to get through. I tell myself my spare time wasn’t really utilized before anyway.

It isn’t like I have any reason to rush home. Socially, everyone I speak to is already here. The first and second year associates are a congealed group. For once I find myself on the inside. I dress like them. I hang out with them. I am doing the same work as them and I’m doing it as well as them. I’m tired, but for the first time in a long while I feel happy with myself. I belong. Better than that, I’m counted on to be there and to be a part of the group.

I start to nest in my new office space. Not having felt at home in the conference room, I had left it devoid of any personal affects. I have finally dusted off my diploma and seeing it hung up feels good. I’ve bought two framed black-and-white photographs, both landscapes, to cover up the worst of the scuffmarks on the wall. A live flowering white plant—species unknown—from my mother spruces up my bookcase. My new office might not be very big, but it’s more my home than my apartment is. The associate’s wing is my whole world.

The only personal non-firm interaction I have is with my mother. She calls me every few days, worried I’m working myself to death. She’s a downer to my good mood. On the one hand, I acknowledge her point that there’s more to life than work. But frankly I’m not sure what “more” is. I assume she means the standard things, what I call “spouse and house.” But I have no need for these things.

My mother’s nagging does have some influence though. For the first time in a while I’ve noticed the weather. Summertime has everything in bloom. I’ve been coming into the office so early and leaving so late that
it’s always been dark and cool when I travel. June and July have just been dates on a calendar filled in with appointments and deadlines. The only seasonal adjustment I’ve made has been a wardrobe change, from dark colored clothes to light and from wool fabrics to linens. Rarely taking a weekend off, I haven’t even contemplated doing anything outdoors.

The summer has pressed on, it’s now getting into late August. I decide maybe my mother was right and choose a Saturday to go to the beach. It’s a hot day. Being alone, I carry everything myself. I feel like a pack mule crossing desert sand. I manage to lug everything all the way to the ocean line, dropping my things down and digging out my beach umbrella. For the first time in a long time, I’m doing nothing. Not reading the book I brought. Not picking up the file I brought with me. Nothing but listening to the sound of the seagulls and the ocean lapping against the shore.

I wake up from my trance when I hear a little voice I think I recognize. I look up. It’s Marty, standing there, holding up a white sand shovel. The gentle wind makes her auburn curls bounce, the ruffles on her pink bathing suit fluff up. I look to the girl’s left and see Jordan, mud staining his blue bathing trunks, beat-up U2 T-shirt hanging loosely. I suck in my breath and dive back under my beach umbrella.

Scared that movement will draw his attention, I sit rigid. After a few minutes though, I decide to poke my head out to see if it’s safe. It is, because Jordan is engrossed with his little girl.

I feel a little like a voyeur but I can’t look away. I’m not used to seeing him like this. He’s making mud pies using the water Marty carries over in her sand pail. Little rivers take shape as she pours her buckets. More and more wet sand splashes onto Jordan’s clothes. Their laughter swirls around me, voices carried by the beach’s breeze. He leans over and wraps his daughter in his arms. She nuzzles her face into his chest. He kisses the top of her head and squeezes her tighter.

My subconscious messes with my eyes. It’s me who is on the sand with him. It’s me he holds in his arms while we watch the waves lap against the shore. It’s me cuddling even more into him, warm and content. I revel in my own personal sunshine, his smile brighter than the sun.

I watch them for an hour until they pack up their things and leave. I stay and stare at the ocean. Maybe my mother isn’t as stupid as I’ve hoped. Maybe there’s something to be said for not being alone. Maybe I finally have enough courage to take a chance on being with him.

I am going to talk to Jordan. I’ll tell him I’m willing to give a relationship a chance. I’ll tell him the fancy restaurant he offered to take me to ages ago will now be the perfect choice for our first date. I picture our eating together at some intimate little table, my laughing with him just as he and Marty laughed earlier in the day.

Back at home, I suddenly notice I’ve been rummaging in my closet to find flattering eveningwear. Silly. I have no idea to what restaurant we’ll even be going. I close the closet door.

A deep and pure love, like Marty has, is what I long for. Of course, just because Marty’s able to get this from Jordan doesn’t mean I will. Marty has that over me. With Jordan, she will always know where she stands. But now I’m willing to take a stand of my own.

Monday morning means acting on my new resolve. I am going to talk to Jordan, but what am I supposed to say? I go through my morning routine without really noticing what I’m doing. Lost in thought since I woke up, I’m not surprised when Leila takes me aside to tell me my hair looks unkempt. In my distraction, I must have inadvertently omitted hair brushing from my to-do list.

“Muffin?” asks Leila, pointing to the platter full of golden-brown goodies the firm ordered for us. “No, later,” I say, “save me one.” I go to the bathroom, fix my hair problem, and head down stairs. Whatever I’m going to say will have to simply spill out of my mouth. My sweaty palms rake across my linen trousers. Don’t panic, he’ll be into this. Really! He said the dinner offer would still be open. Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.

I’ve almost walked into Jordan’s office when I hear a voice in there. An unusual voice, not one I typically hear around the office. Peering in, I see it came from the tall blonde from the Canton Planning and Zoning meeting. I hesitate a second too long. Jordan sees me at the door.

“Sue, come in. You remember Melba?”

“Yes, of course I do. Hello, Melba, how’s the development deal going?”

“Fabulously, just fabulously, thanks to your smart, smart boss. In fact, I’m trying to convince him to go get a cup of coffee with me. So whadya say, Jordan? My treat. And I promise, I won’t even talk business.”

Jordan smiles, stands up, and allows Melba to take him by the hand.

“Java Lava is close by,” he says, leaning close to her. “Let’s go there. You’ll love it.”

“I’m sure I will,” Melba purrs.

“It’s got a Mount Vesuvius theme, hence the crazy name,” Jordan explains.

I’m about to explode. Melba looks extremely pleased with herself, as if she just won the lottery. Jordan doesn’t look too put out by the situation either. He has a big dumb smile on his face and a strut in his step. He’s already past Amber’s desk when he stops to look behind.

“Oh, Sue. Nearly forgot about you. Did you need to talk to me? Having trouble with the Hanson project?”

“It’s nothing that can’t wait,” I say with forced sweetness.

“Oh good,” he says, “I’d hate to hold up an inviting offer.” They start walking again. He calls out to me without looking back, “You can stop by around three o’clock. I can give you a hand then.”

“Take your time,” I saccharinely call back. I hesitate and add, “I think I know the answer anyway, so I’ll be all right on my own.” My voice falters at the end, emitting a croak-like sound. Then my stomach suddenly lets out a loud gurgle, no doubt from intestines full of bubbling lava waiting to spew. Damn it, he better not have heard that!

His voice fades into the distance. Melba’s laughter is the last sound before the silence.

Shit! So much for that. My throat is clenched up. The back of my teeth hurt. The gurgling mass at the bottom of my stomach takes on a life force of its own. And I have only myself to blame.

Back upstairs, I see that the last of the muffins has been devoured. Next to the empty platter stands Leila, crumbs hanging off her fingers and face. She giggles as I stare at her.

“Hey, you snooze, you lose,” she says.

I hate to admit it, but Leila is right.

CHAPTER 11

Focusing my energies on something other than Jordan Grant is my new plan. It’s not like I have much of a choice, since my stall act has clearly blown my chance to be with him. On the one hand, I hardly know the man on a personal level. On the other hand, there being proof of warmth underneath his handsome yet cool exterior has left me wistful and sad. The pit in my stomach has not gone away. But at least it isn’t gurgling.

I’m not going to debase myself by acting like a silly schoolgirl with a crush. No matter how hard it is for me not to gaze at him. I’m glad to have my office on the floor above so my chance to see him is limited.

When we do have to meet, or even when I bump into him in some random hallway, I find myself smoothing out my skirt, making sure I look as flawless as possible. If I have enough of a heads-up, I stop in the ladies room to run a brush through my hair and check if anything is stuck between my teeth. But I know the effort is futile. I have to get over him. If I languish any more, I’ll go crazy.

The best way to get over him is by meeting new people. And the best people to meet are business people. So it’s back to my original goal, business success. Success in love will have to wait for another day. Another decade. Another life, if I’m reincarnated.

At least I have the name of a solid law firm behind me. I’ve got good experience and my own clients from which to network. I will have to be in the office less if I’m going to start socializing more. Gathering up my credit card, I head back to the mall.

My old clients are like old friends. I speak to them about growing my business and they say they’ll pass my name around. Drumming up business doesn’t seem so hard. It requires good contacts, and good contacts came from good friendships. I’m meeting more retailers, mostly independent shop owners and a few store managers of national chains. Also contacting landlords outside the mall for suitable locations for my prospective new clients. I’m realizing that to be really helpful to my clients, I’ll have to know where the hot locations are for their types of businesses.

To figure out these hot spots, I drive around to several upscale areas by myself. But I’m not sure about some of the spaces available for lease. Sure, some looked great, but how can I know if they’re commercially viable?

Walking down an ordinary, average street, I have an epiphany. A “Space for Rent” sign has a realtor’s name hung from the bottom. Though I have seen these types of signs thousands of times before, the realization hits me: why not hook up with commercial realtors? I could get business from their clients who are looking for a lawyer. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? It’s so simple, it just might work.

All I need is an introduction to at least one realtor, and I could use that relationship as a springboard to others. But here my mall retailers can’t help me. They had contacted the mall directly to rent their space.

I ponder this for a while. How does one meet a group of people to which they don’t have an introduction? I could call a few realtors up out of the blue, but I wouldn’t know if who I was calling was any good at their job. Even if they were, I doubted they would take a cold call from a young female lawyer very seriously. Stumped.

Today is time for my acrylic refill and chat session with Mrs. Nang. As I’m walking through the mall, I see a small shop with dark windows and a sign that says, Space available right here at the West Hartford Mall. Call Right Realtors, and ask for David Rudlett. This is it. This guy Rudlett has to be a good Realtor because the mall’s willing to use him. I call him up, introduce myself, say I have potential clients looking for premium retail space, and that I want to keep abreast of openings at the mall. I tell him that
I’m interested in other locations too, for other clients seeking strip malls or in-town locations.

The fact I had represented several stores in the mall and a national chain is enough to get David Rudlett to agree to meet me. He’s as happy to increase his networking base as I am. A lucrative friendship awaits.

A week later, David and I are meeting for coffee. Sounding formal, almost distinguished over the phone, I’m surprised to find a man only in his mid-thirties. He’s got an average height, a good build, and great skin. Almond shaped green eyes.
He’d be cute, if he smiled. The only time I see him animated though is when the conversation turns to business.

I learn that he cultivates his business relationships by holding elegant cocktail parties at different trendy restaurants. Past and potential customers get a free night out at a well-known eatery plus a chance to network off each other. These soirees are lucrative not just
for him, but his clients too. After he successfully screens me for authenticity and lack of lunacy, he invites me to one of these events.

I’m apprehensive to go at first. I obviously
want the business, but I’m unsure how to get business at a cocktail party. True, I have gotten my own clients before, but I had done this by becoming friends with one person, having them introduce me to others, and then becoming friends with the new people. It’s a slow, steady, sincere process. David’s cocktail party scene strikes me as very different. I’ll be meeting people here for the sole purpose of getting business, and the people I’ll be meeting will be responding to me for this same reason.

Cocktail parties make me nervous, especially having never gone to one. In fact, my entire party resume reads mostly of birthday cake gatherings for under-aged cousins, sprinkled with a few fiestas from college and law school. So the party scene isn’t my scene. Worse than a wallflower, I’m the embodiment of stucco. I don’t mind being by myself generally, but I feel awkward in the midst of what is supposed to be a social setting. Busying myself at events usually consists of my offering to help the host or going to the bathroom. These distractions never take more than a few minutes. The rest of the time I spend wondering how much longer to stay.

Afraid I won’t fit in with David’s cocktail crowd, I panic. Should I be fashionably late? What clothes will make me fashionable? Will my wool blends blend in? The new clothes I bought were strictly meant for business. While this event is all about business, looking a little more social might help.

The manager of Sophisticated Clothing solves some of my problems. I walk out with a form-fitting knee-length black dress. It’s simple, elegant, and I look great in it, if I do say so myself. Driving to my shoe client’s new home at the strip mall, I buy black crocodile peep-toe heels. I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be.

The party is on a Saturday evening at five-thirty. It’s held during a non-work day so people don’t feel time pressure and in the early evening so people can go out afterward, if they wish. This particular party’s right in the heart of downtown Hartford. The place is simply called “The Club.” It’s been written up everywhere as the new super-hot spot in town. David’s crowd tonight is probably going to be even bigger than usual because people will be excited to check out a place that’s hard to get into. In fact, how David is even able to book these kinds of places is something everyone wonders about but he won’t reveal.

I walk into “The Club,” a very impressive scene. Intimidating, too. I don’t have much time to look around or get my bearings before a waiter comes over to ask if I’m looking for David’s group. He directs me to a back room and I follow him in. The room is large, dimly lit, and packed with people dressed in either smart, hip outfits or more formal attire. The bright red lounge chairs and zebra print ottomans are filled with sophisticates talking to each other, drink in one hand, hors d’oeuvre plate in the other. The people standing can’t be bothered with food or drink. They’re there to work the room, and it seems to me that
they’re serious in this goal.

I stand by the entrance of the room, not knowing how to start. I weigh my stalling options. Should I select food from the large silver warming trays? Order a drink from the bar? Take refuge in the bathroom? The room full of people is overwhelming. Conquering it is going to be a Herculean social task.

David sees me and takes me by the arm. “I’ll introduce you around.”

“Thanks, David. That is so sweet.”

“No. I don’t want you to scare anybody off by looking like you want to flee.”

“I’m sorry. I get a little overwhelmed in large crowds.”

“No problem. You have about fifteen seconds to get over that. No, sorry, less than that actually. Ah, here we go—Ron, Jennifer, I’d like you to meet Sue Linkovitch. She’s a commercial real estate attorney at Grovas & Cleval. Say, you two are land developers. Ever work with anyone at Grovas?”

And with that opening line, David leaves to work the rest of the room with the same tenacity as those he invited. I’m on my own, but with his jump-start I do okay. People join the threesome I’m part of, and when the two original people move on to talk with others, others form a new group with me. I continue talking to more people. I find that even people who are obviously on a quest for professional contacts don’t speak directly about business deals. Instead the topics discussed are of what people did and who they work with. It seems to be an effort to create a giant network, like live-action social media.

Surprisingly, I find myself flirting with a guy. Jerry is well dressed and refined looking. His black hair is slicked back, but not in a greasy kind of way. His eyes are green and set widely on his face. He’s taller than average and seems very sure of himself for someone who looks only a few years older than me. His dark gray suit must have been tailored because it fits him perfectly. Even better, his jokes are funny. We’re having a great time. That is, until another guy comes to join our conversation, and Jerry suddenly becomes very curt. He says to our joiner, “Sorry, Susan and I have to be leaving in a few moments,” which makes the guy take off. I can feel my eyebrows knit, my lips turn down. Jerry gives me a sly smile. “In fact, how about you and I leave now? My limo is right outside.”

I’m not going off with some guy I don’t even know, regardless of whether or not we know people in common. And I certainly am not going to go out with a guy who is obviously rude, womanizing
,
and a liar to boot. “Thanks for the offer, Jerry, but I don’t think my boyfriend will be too keen on the idea.” I’m glad I’m able to think fast enough to turn him down politely.

“Too bad for me. It seems like the good-looking ones are always taken. Well, we can always have a professional rendezvous. Why don’t you give me your business card?”

I’m not even sure what this Jerry does for a living but it feels silly to debate whether or not I should give him my card. I hand it over and he gives me his. I don’t read it, stuffing it in my purse as soon as he joins another group that waves him over.

At 8:00 p.m. the party breaks up. I have survived and done okay at this event. I’d talked my way out of an awkward situation with Jerry, and met a number of people who could be potential clients. I’ll even admit the party was a little fun. Now that it’s over, I can enjoy it in retrospect. I had managed to work the room and introduce myself to small groups when I found myself alone. While the cocktail scene may not be my calling in life, I can at least fit into it.

David comes over to me. “So, how’d ya do?”

“I handed out a lot of business cards, but don’t worry, I didn’t push them on anyone. This one guy, Jerry something, wanted a date. I turned him down, but he still asked for my card. I gave it to him. I felt like he might create a scene if I didn’t.”

“Jerry Spalone?”

“Yeah, I think so.” I start digging around in my purse.

“Young guy wearing an expensive suit?”

“That’s him,” I confirm, finally pulling out his card. “Spalone Development, Jerome Spalone, Jr., Vice-President,” I read. “Well, whatever,” I say cavalierly.

“You don’t know a thing about him, do you?”

I can’t make out David’s expression, but if I had to take a stab at it, I’d say it’s admonishing.

“Jerry Spalone is the son of a very big land developer,” David explains, his voice taking on an educational tone. “Spalone Development is huge. The father is not Trump, of course, but he is very successful in the construction industry. Especially ‘big time’ for a Connecticut company. Jerry Junior does land deals too, but obviously on a smaller scale.”

“Why would he want my card then? His family must have a dozen attorneys on retainer.”

“Maybe he’s not giving up on his idea of getting a date with you.”

That almost makes me laugh. Like anybody would scheme to get a date with me. I turn my focus back on David and notice he’s looking at me with the kind of smile I hadn’t seen on him before.

“I wouldn’t mind having a date with you, either,” he says.

My jaw drops. When it rains, it pours.

Then David shakes his head slowly and speaks in an aloof tone. “But I never mix business with pleasure.” He puts his hand lightly on my back and walks me over to the coat-check. “See you at my next event, Sue,” he says, walking out of the restaurant.

Before tonight, it was hard to get a good read on David, or exactly what he thought of me as a person. I thought of him as a nice enough guy. His numerous business contacts are due to his father owning a high-end realty business. But David is a success in his own right. Unfortunately, David’s overwhelming ambition makes it impossible for him to relax. I don’t know whether I can get along romantically with someone who is wound up tighter than me.

Still, I respect David’s opinion. While he didn’t say anything directly to me about how I conducted myself tonight, he did say he’d invite me to other parties. I take this as a sign that even a skilled socialite thinks I can hold my own. Apparently I can even be fetching while fetching business.

It seems the minute that
I tell Leila about my cocktail conquests, the rest of the first and second years know too. They obviously think I’m leading the high life and that I’m a business maven as well. I blow off their combined admiration and envy and start to downplay my evenings out. I like getting the attention but feel singled out by it at the same time. I hate anything that will start me feeling isolated and introverted again, and I eventually regret telling Leila.