by Kelly Myers
I shook away my cynical thoughts as I arrived at the chicken coop. A few of the boards had fallen off due to wear and tear. Together, Bri and I could fix it in no time.
“I’ve come to lend a hand,” I said.
“Great,” Bri said. “Go on and hold that steady.”
Bri was a local teenager who worked a few hours a day, and she was quiet. She never spoke more than was necessary. I liked that about her.
For the next hour, Bri and I didn’t exchange a word beyond occasional directions of where to place a nail.
When we were done, I cleaned up the chicken coop area and fed the chickens. I checked for eggs as well, but came up empty. They usually laid in the morning.
Then I met up with Bridget to go over the details of my trip to the city. I would meet with three restaurants to discuss the orders and delivery schedule for the upcoming month.
Bridget wanted me to push the sweetcorn. I wasn’t much of a salesperson at all, but I told her I would do my best.
At the end of the day, I hopped into my used Jeep and drove to the little one-bedroom house I rented. I showered and changed into my pajamas even though it was barely seven. Then I double-checked the train schedule for the next day.
I wanted to catch the nine am into the city. I would meet with the restaurants, then head over to my friend Grace’s apartment. She lived in a cramped studio, but we had been roommates in college, and she had a decent futon.
I figured I should try and grab dinner with Richard as well so I texted him. I wasn’t close with my half-brother since he was over twenty years older than I was (he was a product of my dad’s first marriage), but we tried to see each other on a semi-regular basis. He did it out of obligation, and I did it because I knew it made my mom happy. It allowed her to say that I did have family, and Richard was my father figure.
He wasn’t though. Not even close. I didn’t know what a good father figure was like, but it wasn’t Richard with his condescending speeches and all his bragging about his fancy investment banking job.
Grace texted me a slew of messages about how excited she was to see me and how we were totally gonna have an amazing time.
Richard emailed back that he didn’t think he could swing dinner. I needed to give him more advance notice. He was all booked up.
That meant I could maybe have time to meet up with William. I chewed my lip as I considered. We had grabbed coffee together before, when he had time.
William Hart: one of the most renowned bachelors in New York, notorious shark of a lawyer, and my one-time boss. He also happened to be a friend of Richard’s from college.
Just thinking about William made my stomach do nervous somersaults. I set my phone aside. I had to get over my schoolgirl crush. William thought of me as a kid, nothing more.
I poked around my kitchen. While I cooked, I hummed old country songs to myself.
I ended up making grilled cheese with pesto and spinach and tomato salad. That was one thing about working on an organic farm: I always ate well.
I ate while reading a mystery novel. I had already read a few books by the same author, and I was pretty sure I knew who the killer was after chapter three. I would finish it anyway. There wasn’t much else to do out in the country.
I went to bed early.
As I lay underneath my quilt and listened to the chirping cicadas and distant bullfrog song, I wondered if I was lonely.
I probably was.
That’s the scary thing about loneliness: you can get so used to it that you don’t even realize you’re drowning in it.
William
“No, we need that signed by Friday.”
I clenched the phone in my fist and placed it in front of the window of my corner office.
Sometimes I wanted to strangle my clients.
I loved my job of course, and I would fight to the death for any client on the bloody and brutal battlefield of family law, but even so, some of them were idiots.
“Yeah, I do not give a fuck that he is in the Caribbean,” I said. “You tell him to sign the newest custody agreement, or he can kiss goodbye to half his investments, and it will be the profitable half.”
The assistant of the client in question hemmed and hawed about time changes and fax machines, and I tried not to punch a hole in my wall.
I wanted to ask the assistant if he knew how often a man as rich as my client managed to hold onto most of his assets (not to mention beach houses) while divorcing his second wife (who had only married him for the money in the first place) all because he had an affair with a bottle service bimbo.
Because it didn’t happen very often. I’m just that good.
And yes, most of my clients were assholes, but they were wealthy assholes who paid through the nose for the services of me, William Hart, Esquire. And I liked to think that I was worthy of my sky-high hourly rate.
The assistant at last said he would see what he could do.
“Good,” I said.
I hung up and turned back to my desk.
I flopped down in my leather chair and resisted the urge to pour myself a dram of whiskey from the corner bar.
I hadn’t gotten to where I was by imbibing during working hours. That whiskey was for my male clients only. They were usually old-school men with bowties and wandering eyes who wanted to protect their considerable wealth.
For my female clients, I had my secretary whip up Cosmopolitans.
When all was said and done, I preferred the female clients. I hated to stereotype, but most of the time, the wives had committed less sins against the old institution of marriage. Or at least, women hid their sins better.
Plus, I couldn’t deny that I, on occasion, had some fun with the odd female client. Always once she had officially become an ex-wife, and I was no longer on her payroll. I had some standards, after all.
I didn’t restrict my nighttime activities to clients of course. Over the years, I had built up enough of a reputation that I could have my pick of women. Most of them understood to get out of my apartment quickly the next morning and to not text me too often afterward.
I glanced at my watch. It was almost the end of the workday, which meant I could clock out now and try to meet someone at a wine bar. I had been feeling restless and a healthy romp might help.
What was the art gallery owner’s name from two weeks ago? Francesca?
Then again, Francesca had been great, but a little repetitive.
Everything had started feeling redundant of late.
It wasn’t a noticeable problem, but rather a small twinge of annoyance in the background of my daily habits. A little question tickling the back of my mind: This again? Isn’t this getting a little old?
Maybe I’m getting old.
No, men like me didn’t get old. Men like me aged gracefully. We stayed lean and healthy through rounds of tennis at our clubs and restful vacations on private yachts. We kept our teeth sharp by chewing up opponents in the courtroom and earning bigger and bigger paychecks. We stayed young at heart by acting young and pursuing pleasure in all things.
There may have been bits of gray in my hair, and I might have been approaching my forty-second birthday, but I knew I had never been better.
I surged out of my chair and loosened my tie as I returned to the window.
I had one of the best views of the city. My office building was just above the park, and my office faced south. I could see the sprawling behemoth of Manhattan, crawling with people trying to make it.
Well, I had made it. I had got into Yale with nothing but my brains and a scholarship. Four years in New Haven had taught me one thing: I wanted to be at the top, and I was going to do anything to get there. I didn’t care who I had to step on or what I had to beg, borrow or steal, I was going to live the life I wanted. I wasn’t going to go backward, there was no way.
Everything I had dreamed of as a lower middle-class kid in Idaho had come true. Everything my rich classmates at Yale had that I didn’t, I now owned. The country ho
me, the ski trips, the Rolex watches. All of it.
So how could I be bored?
I shoved my hands into the pockets of my bespoke suit. I wasn’t even going to think the dreaded term “mid-life crisis”.
This was just a patch of ennui. It would fade the next time I bedded a beautiful woman. Or the next time I took a vacation. Maybe I would travel to the wilds of Alaska next. Or I could go back to Chile. I hadn’t been to Australia in years.
I was pulled from my thoughts by the gentle knock of my secretary.
Deborah Watson was the most competent employee I had. She never missed deadlines, she rarely took a day off, and she was ruthless when it came to tracking down the more evasive of my clients.
“Just got a call from Spencer Ryan,” Deborah said.
My ears pricked up at the name.
“The movie star?” I asked. “The one married to the pop star?”
“Kate Burns, yeah,” Deborah said. “It’s a big one.”
“The divorce is for sure?” I asked.
“Hasn’t hit the news yet, but according to his assistant they’re planning to release a statement any day now,” Deborah said.
I let out a low whistle. Most of my clients were wealthy but not famous. Every now and then, I got a starlet from Hollywood. They were always messy cases, and one party had usually signed a prenup which made things much more complicated, but I had to admit I enjoyed them. Or rather, I enjoyed revealing the toxic personalities that lay behind the closed doors of fame.
“He’ll be calling around all the top attorneys,” Deborah said. “But we’re probably a frontrunner.”
I felt myself falling out of my ennui and into my attorney mode. I could practically hear my teeth sharpening, and I could almost smell the blood.
I had not pursued law just for the money. I really did love my job. I enjoyed everything from reading long briefs until I was armed with more knowledge as ammunition than anyone could think possible. I enjoyed decimating whatever poor attorney I faced off against. And, as sick as it was, I enjoyed tearing apart the facade of marriage.
People weren’t meant to make eternal vows. Humans weren’t good enough to be loyal and faithful in all things to one person for a lifetime. Just because I was good at revealing this truth didn’t mean I was a bad person.
“What do you think?” I asked Deborah. “Should we take Spencer or try and pursue Kate?”
The minute I met with Spencer Ryan, even if he didn’t hire me as his attorney, I would put myself out of the running to represent Kate. If I met with her husband, she couldn’t hire me.
I didn’t like to be forced to pick a side. I liked to choose my own side. I prided myself on representing the client who had the ever-so-slightly superior moral ground.
It didn’t matter in the end. Whatever side I was on always won. (They say no one wins in divorce, but I can assure you, that is untrue.)
“Well, personally, I’m a Kate Burns fan,” Deborah said. “Loved her last album, and I’ve no doubt she’ll be dropping some amazing revenge break-up tracks after this.”
I smiled. I did love a good comeback narrative.
I nodded and sat back down at my desk.
“That settles it,” I said. “Keep Spencer on the line for a potential meeting, but reach out to Kate’s people.”
She turned and tossed me a saucy grin at the door.
I glanced over my computer and emails before grabbing my briefcase.
A new Hollywood client might keep things interesting for a while, but I doubted it would fully banish my sense of boredom.
I knew the answer. My whole life I had needed something to pursue. That was what made me happy, the relentless chase of something just beyond my reach.
I had captured most of the things I was chasing.
Now I just needed to find something new to pursue.
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