Lawfully Yours

by Hoff, Stacy

  “Yep. Rochelle Van Houten. Very tall. Very thin. Very busty. Dressed only in the best. All the guys in the firm, even the married ones, had their eye on her. But she only had eyes for Jordan. Word around the water cooler was that he wasn’t interested. He didn’t talk about the situation, but everyone knew. It’s a large firm, but you’d be amazed how small it is in some ways, especially gossip-wise.”

  “So what happened?”

  “I guess one day she had enough of carrying around the torch and told the first year associates she was going to ask him out. Everyone thought he’d cave. People were shocked when she up and quit. She didn’t even give notice.” Leila let out a loud burp. “Sorry,” she giggles. She continues more somberly, “she probably didn’t want to face him or the firm after he rejected her. I wonder if she regrets making her move. But I guess she just couldn’t live in limbo anymore. Like I said, sometimes you’re better off not knowing where you stand.”

  I try to shake off that comment, the irony sticking in my throat. Leila orders another beer and continues, “I didn’t know Rochelle too well, not like I know you. We’d just waive ‘hi’ to each other and see each other at the annual holiday party. I felt bad for her. It’s not like she was the only one in love with him, there must be at least fifty. But she got rejected and that’s always sad.”

  “Fifty girls in love with Jordan?”

  “Fifty. Fifty-five. Whatever.” She takes another swig.

  “How do you know that?” I sputter.

  “There’s a list of names in the reception area’s ladies room. Once someone no longer likes Jordan she strikes out her name, and when she gets re-infatuated she writes it back in. That’s why there’s always a numbers flux.”

  I stare at her.

  “Oh, Sue, I’m just kidding. Though part of it’s true, they’re plenty of drooling hopefuls. You can see it in their expressions when he walks by. Besides, he’s a partner, one known to have a large book of business. And for some of the firm’s young single females, that’s a double bonus prize. Anyway, enough about him. Let’s talk about you. I am so happy my fashion advice worked out. I knew it would. You look absolutely fabulous!”

  As our chatter goes on, my mind keeps circling back to the early part of our conversation. So that’s how Jordan is sized up at the firm, as a trophy. Funny, a few minutes ago, that’s how I thought he viewed me, now that Leila thinks I look trophy-worthy. What are looks really worth anyway? And wanting him for his money is way worse than wanting him for his looks. The superficiality of it all sickens me.

  Between going out to clients, negotiating business terms, and drafting up leases, I’m pretty busy. I assume Jordan is busy too, or just continuing to avoid me. In the past few weeks I saw him quite a bit, but now it’s infrequent. When I do bump into him, I mumble, “Hi.” Sometimes my hello is acknowledged, other times not. It’s upsetting and awkward to not be acknowledged. Especially when he’ll be sure to grunt a hello to everyone else.

  He now regrets hiring me. It has to be the case. But is my work good enough to keep me employed, despite his apparent anger? I can’t even hazard a guess as to what’s in his head. His curt, clipped e-mails aren’t giving me a clue.

  The bright side is that no conversation means no confrontation. I won’t have to deal with figuring out what to tell him. Ever. The bleak side—no conversation means no resolution. I’ll be in limbo for the duration of my employment at Grovas. Not purgatory, but hell. Not knowing where you stand? Priceless.

  Deciding I’ve had too much distraction because of this guy, I throw myself into my work. It’s time to focus on my career. I’m learning every day, but the files are piling up, and it’s getting harder to keep up. Secretarial help is critical to my survival but Amber throws very little time or effort in my direction. I also need my own office, not having moved out of the conference room since the P & Z hearing in Canton months ago.

  Unfortunately, I need solutions and only Jordan has the power to provide them. Unclenching my fists and forcing my jaw muscles to relax, I walk into his office. He doesn’t look up until I close the door.

  “Hello, Sue,” he says with a trace of surprise in his voice.

  “Jordan, my clients are growing, and so is my work load. I need a real office and a secretary. I’m happy to share staff, but I need more than what Amber’s been giving me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay meaning you’ve heard me, or okay meaning you’ll arrange for this?” Confused, I feel my brow furrow.

  “I mean okay, the rest of the associates have both offices and more dedicated support staff, so there is no reason why you can’t have this, too.”

  “If I could have had this all along, why didn’t you offer it to me earlier?” Yes, confusion reigns the day.

  “Well, at the beginning you were almost always out of the office so you didn’t need all that. Later you seemed content to have the conference room. I thought you liked having all that space to yourself. The associates’ offices are so small in comparison. And they’re inconvenient. Your office, for instance, would be upstairs where the rest of the first and second years are. You’d have to come running down here all the time. I didn’t think you’d like that.”

  I don’t know how to respond. He’s being nice. I tackle the first thing that comes to mind. “Are you saying you’re going to keep me on as your associate?”

  He smiles. “Yes. I thought you knew that. Everyone else around here does.”

  “They do?”

  “Yes, they do.” He stops smiling.

  I don’t respond. I just quietly look at him.

  “You were serious when you said you barely fit in as my associate? I thought you were just trying to make a point about my personality flaws.” Now he’s frowning.

  I feel a smile creep over my face, replacing his. “Okay, you do like having me as your associate. Good. So at least one of our issues has been worked out.” Damn. I shouldn’t have even alluded to our other little issue. Ignoring it would definitely have been the better way to go.

  “Sue, no pressure, but any time you want to work out the rest of it, let me know.” He picks a pencil off a legal pad and lightly doodles a rectangle. “If you don’t want to go out with me, that’s okay. But if you change your mind, the dinner offer is still out there. I’m sure that I—we—would enjoy our time together. Okay?” He puts the pencil down and looks at me with a fragile smile.

  Fluttery feeling. Again. I nod soberly then walk out. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how I feel. If I decide to go on his dinner date, how will an office romance affect my job? Or my mind? At least I know one thing—he is still interested.

  In bed that night, I can’t sleep. I wonder if the work situation is awkward for him too. Jordan is a partner at the firm, and my supervisor. He’s dangling from a professional tree limb by asking me out. Maybe he hasn’t been ignoring me because he doesn’t like me. Maybe he’s been trying to give me space to decide. Have I also been wrong about not wanting to date him?

  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 fac
t, 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?”