Starting Now (28 page)

“How far along is she?”

“We don’t know. Possibly as much as eight months.”

Mrs. Reed shook her head as Libby relayed a few more of the details, being careful not to say names.

“This girl is lucky to have you helping her. You have used this time away from the firm wisely,” Martha said after several moments. “I’m proud of you, Libby, very, very proud.”

Emotion swept over Libby and a lump formed in her throat at the words of praise from this wonderful woman who’d given so much love to her family.

They chatted for a few minutes more before Mrs. Reed announced, “It’s time we got to the matter at hand, my dear. Now, tell me what you have in mind.”

Libby reached for her briefcase and brought out her notes. She had to work from memory as the files remained with the firm, but she had a good recollection of where they had left off in the estate planning. She wasn’t presumptuous enough to assume she would manage the entire account, but she hoped Martha would be willing to allow her to take over everything that she had handled previously. She also made several recommendations and suggestions for moving forward.

When she finished she realized she’d probably said too much.

“These are all very complicated legal anglings.”

“They are,” Libby agreed. “The thing is, you don’t need to understand it all but I feel obligated to explain it as best I can. I want you to see what will happen in the future to the funds you leave behind.”

“That’s why I would hire you.”

“Exactly.” Libby sincerely hoped the other woman would consider bringing this aspect of her business to Libby.

Martha set her empty teacup aside. “As you can imagine there are a number of law firms vying for my full account.”

Libby suspected there would be.

“Hershel has been in contact several times himself, looking to mend fences, but I fear it’s too late for that. I told him before that that young man didn’t suit me, but he refused to listen. I went so far as to request that you be reinstated at the firm. Hershel said he’d like nothing better himself but the matter was out of his hands.”

Libby counted Hershel as both mentor and friend and suspected he had been outvoted by the other partners.

“Naturally my inclination is to continue with you,” Mrs. Reed murmured thoughtfully.

Libby sat up straighter. “I can assure you that you would be my most important client. I would give you my undivided attention.” What she failed to add was that Mrs. Reed, for the time being, would be her
only
client.

“As you can imagine this is a very important decision.”

“I agree and I don’t want you to rush. Take your time and think it over carefully,” Libby advised. Bottom line, she wanted only what was best for the older woman and her family.

“I’ll talk this over with my children. You have one advantage, but I do have to tell you, Libby, that the fact that you’re a sole practitioner isn’t in your favor. All the others competing for my business are large firms with support staff and resources. I don’t know how they’d feel about me taking a part of this account elsewhere.”

Libby had no argument. “But no other attorney will care about you as much as I do,” she offered.

“I realize that, my dear.” She stifled a yawn and Libby realized it was time for her to go.

Reaching for her briefcase, she inserted the legal pad with her notes. “Thank you for seeing me again, Mrs. Reed.”

“It was a delight.”

“For me, too.”

As if by magic Alice appeared.

“Alice will show you out.”

Libby stood and, holding on to her briefcase with both hands, smiled down at the older woman. Everything rested with Martha Reed now. Libby had made her case and now all she could do was wait.

“I’ll be giving you a call soon,” the older woman promised.

“This way, Ms. Morgan,” Alice said and motioned toward the door.

Libby left the house and reached inside her purse to turn her cell
back on and realized she had three messages, two of which had come from Robin.

She hadn’t talked to Robin since Saturday night. She immediately pushed the button that would connect her to her friend’s cell. As she walked down the steps to her car, she pressed the phone to her ear. She hoped she’d catch Robin out of court.

Her friend answered on the second ring. “Hi,” Robin said lamely.

“Hi. You sound dreadful. What’s up?”

“I called in sick with the flu.”

That explained why she hadn’t shown up at the gym that morning.

“Only I don’t have the flu. I just couldn’t face going into work today. I feel so wretched and miserable. I’m sure I won’t ever hear from Roy again.”

“Okay, that does it. I’m on my way over and I’m bringing chicken soup.”

Robin clenched a tissue and held it beneath her nose. If there was one thing she hated in this world it was emotional women. Three glasses of wine with Roy Bollinger and almost overnight she’d become a hysterical one herself. It was all so hopeless. She was hopeless.

Sniffling, she blew her nose and then rubbed the back of her hand across her upper lip. The tears only contributed to her misery. She felt weak and spineless and a wreck.

The doorbell chimed and it was almost more effort than she could bear to answer it. She wouldn’t have budged from the sofa if she didn’t already know it was Libby.

Libby walked into the condo, took one look at Robin, and shook her head. “You look dreadful.”

“Thank you ever so much,” she muttered sarcastically. She was still in her cotton nightgown and hadn’t bothered to comb her hair or make the effort to put on makeup. She was a complete mess, inside and out.

“Okay, tell me,” Libby insisted. “What happened?”

“I thought you were bringing me soup.”

“I decided making an extra stop would take too long. You sounded—”

“Miserable … and I am.” She returned to the sofa, jerking another tissue from the box with such force it toppled to the floor. She pressed the tissue against her face with both hands. Holding back a sob, she collapsed onto the sofa.

“Are you going to tell me what happened or are you going to make me torture it out of you?” Libby dropped her purse and joined her, sitting in the chair across from her.

Robin hiccuped in an effort to suppress a groan. She had brought Libby into this and invited further embarrassment, but she had to talk to someone or she’d go crazy.

“Stop,” Libby said, “I want to get us something to drink.”

Robin frowned and shook her head, dismissing the very thought. “It’s too early in the day for anything alcoholic.”

Libby smiled. “I wasn’t talking about a Manhattan, Robin, I was thinking we could both use a glass of ice water.”

“Oh.” Robin felt all the more foolish, although at this point she was ready to drown her sorrows in just about anything.

Libby disappeared into the kitchen and returned in short order with two tall glasses of water.

Robin took a deep swallow. The cold liquid helped relieve the tenderness in her throat. In all her life, Robin couldn’t remember being this emotional over anything. Maybe this was a symptom of early-onset menopause. She hadn’t even been this upset when she went through her divorce. Really, she was being ridiculous. But everything felt so bleak, so impossible. She took another long drink; she hadn’t realized how thirsty she was. Well, no wonder; she’d been having regular bouts of tears for the better part of three days.

Libby returned to the chair and patiently waited for Robin to start explaining. She didn’t urge or pressure her and for that Robin was sincerely grateful.

“After you left us, Roy and I had another glass of wine. He refused
to let me pay although I insisted I wanted to repay him for recommending you for the position.”

Libby nodded without comment, which encouraged Robin to continue. She paused long enough to take another swallow. Again the cold water against her throat helped.

“That’s just it. Nothing happened. Nothing’s ever going to happen. I’m spineless and I hate myself.”

“Oh, Robin, I think—”

“The minute you left on Friday I clammed up like a … a … clam,” she said, cutting her friend off. “I don’t know what Roy thought because he grew quiet, too. We tried to talk but every subject returned to his wife, Sally. It was Sally this and Sally that. I don’t stand a chance; I’m never going to be Sally.”

“Did you try to talk about the wine?” Libby asked.

Robin rolled her eyes. “I tried, but there’s only so much to be said about pinot noir, and I’d … I’d said all I knew, which took up maybe thirty seconds. Do you know what Roy added? Well, of course you don’t. His comment was to tell me that Sally preferred white wines.”

“Could you bring up office gossip?”

Robin shook her head. “Roy isn’t the type to gossip and I don’t really know any. I tend to mind my own business at work.”

“You and I are too much alike,” Libby muttered, and leaned against the back of the chair, crossing her legs. Robin was glad at least one of them could relax.

Libby was right, too: they were a lot alike. Robin didn’t take time at the watercooler to hear juicy tidbits; she had work to do, meetings to attend, criminals to prosecute. Gossip simply didn’t interest her.

“Does he have children?” Libby asked, leaning forward slightly. “I was just with Martha Reed and she talked nonstop about her children and grandchildren. You could always ask Roy about his family.”

Robin shook her head. Libby was trying to help but all she was doing was proving how utterly useless it was. “Sally couldn’t have kids.” She wiped her hand beneath her nose again. “By the time I finished our second glass of wine I realized that Roy will never view me as anything but a weak substitute for his beloved Sally.”

“Robin, you’re jumping to conclusions.”

“What else am I to assume?” Libby had been with them only a short while and after she left everything had gone so quiet … so awkward and uncomfortable. Every word out of Roy’s mouth had been about Sally. It must be nice to be that loved. All the evening had proven to Robin was that she didn’t stand a chance with Roy. She couldn’t compete with a dead woman.

Libby’s eyes widened with what looked like disbelief. “He seemed happy enough to hear from you on Friday night. He was the one who suggested you meet, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, but …”

“Robin—”

“I was there,” she cut in a second time. “I’m not a complete dunce, Libby. I can read the signs. He isn’t interested. He’s polite and friendly, but the bottom line is obvious even to me. Roy respects me and thinks I’m a good attorney but he isn’t interested in developing any kind of relationship.”

Libby’s shoulders sagged with defeat. “I’ve never seen you this distraught; I want to help.”

“I know,” Robin whispered. “I’m just so disappointed. I’ve carried this romantic fantasy around in my head for months. It’s time I face facts. That’s all it is … a fantasy. Make believe. And it will never be anything more.”

They sat quietly for a few minutes while Libby apparently mulled everything over.

“When was the last time you ate?” she asked, glancing at her watch.

Robin couldn’t remember precisely. “Yesterday around lunchtime, I guess. Why?”

“Because everything will seem better with food in your stomach.” Libby started for the kitchen.

“Good luck,” Robin called after her. “I haven’t gotten groceries in weeks. The milk is so old it has a picture of the Lindbergh baby on the carton.”

“Okay, fine, I’m going out to pick up dinner for us. I’m famished. What sounds good to you?”

Robin shook her head. “I don’t really care. You pick.”

“Okay, I will.”

After Libby left, Robin took a quick shower and changed clothes. She was combing out her wet hair when the doorbell chimed. It certainly hadn’t taken Libby long to find dinner.

When she opened the door it wasn’t Libby who stood on the other side of the threshold. It was Roy.

Once more she went completely mute. Robin couldn’t have said a word to save her soul.

After a stilted, awkward moment, Roy asked, “Would it be all right if I came in for a few minutes? I promise I won’t stay long.”

Still unable to find her tongue, she stepped aside to allow him into her condo.

Once the blood returned to her brain, Robin gestured for him to sit down. Embarrassed by the stash of used tissues that littered the top of the coffee table, she immediately stuffed them inside the empty tissue box. The pillow from her bed and a blanket were sprawled across the sofa. She reached for the blanket next, intent on folding it.

“I came because I heard you’d phoned in sick,” Roy said. “Your assistant gave me your address. Are you okay …? I mean, you look like you’re feeling better.”

“I am better, thanks.”

He remained rooted to the carpet just inside her front door, hands buried in his pockets. “I’m not good at this sort of thing,” he murmured.

“What sort of thing?” she asked. She folded the blanket and held it tightly against her stomach.

He looked away. His gaze bounced around the room, landing here and there and everywhere—except on her. “I don’t know what I did wrong on Friday night …”