In the Stars

by Whitney Boyd

  “Relationships never work for you period.”

  “Thanks. Way to point out I’m a relationship dud.”

  “I’m serious. None of your relationships have worked out. You get bored of your men and ditch them at the drop of a hat. And yet there was Josh, your virtual shadow for four years and you two could not have been closer. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  With that, Heather opens the car door and flounces inside, slamming it hard after her.

  The problem is, I was close with Josh because I knew he didn’t expect more from me. He was my friend who I could go makeup-less around, confide my inner secrets to. Why did he have to ruin it? Why did he have to open his big mouth? No wonder he was so happy when people mentioned we look like a cute couple. No wonder he glowed when talking about our honeymoon. I was blind not to see it, Heather’s right about that much. But that’s it.

  Josh and I are no more.

  After a few minutes I lug my butt out of the car and drag my suitcase into the apartment. It is silent when I open the door. Heather’s bedroom light is on, but the door is shut. I enter my own room and without stopping to unpack or even to unbutton my jeans, I crawl into bed.

  All weekend I stay inside. I periodically check my email and texts, hoping to see that Josh has tried to get in touch with me, but everything is quiet. Heather stays around for the most part. She watches all my favorite romantic comedies with me and hugs me when I cry. She doesn’t get angry with me again and merely supports me, which means more to me than I would admit.

  By Monday, I am a blob. Unmotivated, unshowered, unemployed, unloved, pretty much every un-word in the dictionary. The sun has been up for hours, but I have no desire to get out of bed.

  Beside me, my phone rings. My heart leaps in my chest and I roll over, the fastest movement I’ve made in days. I vaguely recognize the number, but can’t seem to place it. Maybe it’s Josh calling from his office!

  “Hello?” My voice croaks from lack of use.

  “Hi, is this Charlotte Southard?” It’s a woman’s voice and my heart drops. Not Josh. Although, why would I want Josh to call? I rejected him, and distance is probably a good thing for us right now.

  “Yes, speaking.”

  “Charlotte, this is Nancy Sharman from Carter Clinton. I spoke with you last week about the possibility of you coming in to the office and meeting with us?”

  Josh hadn’t liked it. He had warned me against it. But Josh isn’t here right now. And it’s not like he’s going to try to get to the bottom of this anymore. He probably hates me by now.

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Are you free this week?”

  This could be my one shot at redemption. I may suck at love, but at least I can have my high-powered career back.

  “I’m free most days. When would you like to meet?” Desperation seeps from my tone, despite how I try to hide it. I hope I don’t regret this, but really, it is completely plausible that they want me back.

  “Does this afternoon work? Three o’clock? Go to reception and ask for me.”

  “Great, I’ll see you at three,” I say.

  A mixture of relief and anxiety washes over me. This could be my redemption. But why do they want me back? There are a lot of good lawyers out there . . . why try to get one back who made such a colossal mistake? Unless Grace finally confessed or something.

  I shower for the first time in days. My hair is greasy and I have to shampoo it three times to get rid of the slippery feeling. I shave my legs and pluck my eyebrows, reshaping them into the nice rainbow curve that I like.

  Heather pokes her head into the bathroom. “Charley? That you? Wow, I heard the shower running and thought someone had broken in.”

  I throw my hairbrush at her and smile. “You make me sound uber pathetic.”

  “Really, I’m shocked. Who are you and what have you done with my unmotivated and depressed best friend?”

  “I have an interview with Carter Clinton,” I say nonchalantly.

  “Carter Clinton?” Heather shrieks. She dashes into the bathroom and throws her arms around me. We jump together on the spot, our shoulders and heads banging into one another.

  “Yeah, I forgot to tell you that part. They called last week when I was in Victoria and then they called back today. The woman said they have reevaluated the situation and want to meet with me. Just think . . . I might my job back! I can pay rent again! I can afford food!”

  “I thought they hated you because you embarrassed them?” Heather muses. “Maybe they realized that it was that dumb intern’s fault and not your own?”

  I shrug and lean forward to the mirror. I apply a thin layer of eyeliner to each eye and then sit back. “That’s what I think. But Josh—” I swallow hard. Saying his name hurts, and even Heather cringes and looks away. I have to bite the bullet and finish my thought so I spit the rest out. “Josh said it sounded dodgy, like why would they want me back? But I feel good about it, so screw Josh.”

  Heather sits on the counter and rests her feet on the toilet seat. “Josh didn’t like it? Maybe you should talk to him before you go in today.”

  I shake my head. “No, no freaking way. Josh doesn’t want to talk to me and I don’t want to talk to him. I’ll go in and play it by ear. Seriously, what can happen?”

  Heather is frowning. “I don’t know,” she begins.

  “It’ll be fine. I’m just meeting with them. I won’t sign anything or agree to come back if I feel anything is remotely wrong. Don’t worry.”

  I finish getting my hair and makeup done and then go into my bedroom to change. I decide on my red blazer and black pencil shirt along with some sling-back pumps. I am a lawyer again. I look the part.

  I get to Carter Clinton with an hour to spare; I was so fearful of being late that I left as soon as I was dressed. I sit on a bus bench down the street from the building and soak up the downtown vibe. Busy people, all VIP’s in their own minds, hurry by, some tersely speaking into cell phones, others marching to their destinations while holding cups of coffee from the Tim Horton’s down the street.

  Suddenly I hear a familiar voice on the breeze and I spin around. It’s Josh. He’s wearing a brown suit and pink tie. Not many people can pull off a brown suit and still look professional, but Josh manages. My stomach twists and I hunch down so I am barely peeking over the back of the bench. He is pretty handsome, I admit grudgingly. But that doesn’t mean that we would have worked out in a relationship.

  Josh is standing beside a beautiful woman in dress pants and a yellow blouse. She has curly black hair and a huge, Julia Roberts mouth. I strain my ears to hear what he’s saying. I make out a word or two, but he’s too far to hear it all.

  “—that would—awesome—owe you—dinner—the best.”

  The woman tosses her hair and laughs. It is a tinkling sound, light and airy. “—problem—love—anything for you.”

  The ugly monster of jealousy rears up in my chest. Is Josh asking her on a date? He mentioned dinner, so what else would that be? Thing is, I thought he loved me? I mean, sure I turned him down, but this is awfully fast, even for a rebound thing.

  Apparently he didn’t really love me either.

  Not that I care. Of course I don’t.

  I stay stooped over on the bench until Josh has hugged the woman and is walking away. The girl waves at his retreating form and then walks down the street toward the courthouse. Great, she’s gorgeous and probably a lawyer.

  I look at my watch. I better head over to reception. I’d rather be early than late, especially when I’m desperate to make a good impression.

  The darkest hour is just before the dawn.

  —English Proverb

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The offices of Carter Clinton haven’t changed in the slightest since I left
those few short months ago. Green plants in large stone pots sit regally in the corners of the lobby. They’re the type of plant that look almost fake, but I know they’re not. Once when I was working an all-nighter, I met the cleaning lady who comes in at three in the morning. She had a watering can and carefully put three cups and a dash of fertilizer into every pot.

  The reception area is large and open. The three girls who are at the desk wear headphones and are in a constant state of motion. The girl on the end, who if I remember correctly is named Marta, looks up when I walk in. “Welcome to Carter Clinton,” she chirps. “Please have a seat and we’ll be with you in a moment.”

  I say thank you and sit down on an artistic arm chair. The back of the chair slopes upward and has some kind of shell pattern to it. I watch the receptionists. I used to chat with them every now and again on my way to court. They were always friendly and animated. I’d bring them coffee a few times a month, whenever I remembered. It’s good to see them again. Marta types a few things into her computer and then touches a button on her headset. She smiles at me.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes, Charlotte Southard here to see Nancy Sharman.”

  Marta’s head jerks around. “Charley? It is you! Oh my goodness, I’ve missed you! How have you been?” She removes the headphones and steps around the reception desk. We embrace.

  “I’m good. I have a meeting today, so who knows . . . maybe I’ll end up working here again.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely!” Marta grins. “It hasn’t been the same without you. I know the firm has lost a lot of money since that whole scandal blew up, but maybe they’ve decided to blame the Garden Gnome instead of you.”

  “You know about that?” I had hoped that most of the people here would have been oblivious to the drama, but apparently the gossip had traveled all the way to reception.

  “Of course! I go to lunch with F. Glenn’s secretary once a week. He was furious when the situation happened. He couldn’t believe you tried to pin the blame on his daughter.”

  F. Glenn Martin is the CEO of the firm. He also happens to be that dumb intern’s father.

  “But it was her fault,” I say heatedly.

  “I know, I believe you. And a lot of other people do too. Maybe that’s why they want you back?”

  Marta gives me another hug and then glances at her headphone. A little button on the side has lit up red. “I’m getting a call. Go ahead and sit down and I’ll page Nancy and let her know you’re here. Good luck with the meeting.”

  I return to my seat, mulling over what I’ve learned. It sure doesn’t sound like they’re in a forgiving mood, especially if the CEO himself got involved. But maybe they have to reevaluate it or something.

  Luckily my wait for the guillotine isn’t long. Within minutes the tinted glass doors open and a woman with a short, spiky haircut and a very tight, short skirt walks through. She sees me, plasters a smile on her face and holds out her hand to me. “Charlotte? I’m Nancy Sharman, managing director of Human Resources. Thank you for coming in today.”

  I shake her hand and get a slight whiff of cigarette smoke from her jacket. She leads the way into my old workplace. We’re on the floor below where my desk was, and I spot a few people with whom I used to be acquainted. C. Joseph Pollard, one of the students who had articled with me. Mary Hancock, a paralegal who would help me out when she ran out of work to do. I smile at them, but they both avert their eyes.

  Josh was right. Something is wrong.

  I follow her to a large conference room, one I used on occasion when having power sessions with clients. It is both familiar and foreign. There are seven people waiting for me and they stop their conversation abruptly when we enter.

  Nancy waves at the room and says brightly, “Hi, everyone. I’m sure most of you know Charlotte Southard already. Ms. Southard, I’d like to introduce you to M. Doug Waterhouse, Charles F. Goodman, Evelyn Richardson, Frank C. Holland, L. Gordon Perry, Margaret Packer, and of course, our CEO, F. Glenn Martin.”

  As their names are called the people around the table nod their heads. None of them smile. No one stands. I know at least five of them are senior partners in the firm, even though I’ve never personally met them. I’m not sure who L. Gordon Perry is, but judging by his companions, I am guessing he’s a partner too.

  I am terrified. I have never been physically in the same room with this many partners in the entire year I worked here. And to have a meeting with so many partners and the CEO all at once?

  F. Glenn is intimidating, to say the least. He wears a thick moustache, a ferocious scowl that makes his forehead wrinkle and a suit that fits him so perfectly that it must be custom made. He has the same stooped shoulders as his daughter, and sadly for her, that is not in the least where the resemblance ends. Nancy pulls a chair out for me at one end of the long conference table and sits down beside me.

  She clears her throat. “Ms. Southard, we have been evaluating the unfortunate situation regarding the confidential draft prospectus that was somehow leaked to opposing counsel.” She apparently loves being the center of attention. Her voice lingers on every other word, turning it into a sort of lilting lullaby. “Would you please, for the record, explain the situation once more? How did you, a junior associate in litigation, get a hold of such a confidential document?”

  I notice a tape recorder on the table and bile rises in my throat. “I’m, uh, sorry, but you have the facts wrong.” I glance at F. Glenn and swallow, the bitter fluid stinging as it returns to my stomach. “I didn’t get my hands on the document. I printed a brief and asked an intern who had been assigned as my assistant to bind it. She must have grabbed the draft prospectus from the shared printer. I had nothing to do with it.”

  My voice shakes but I have nothing to hide. It wasn’t my fault.

  “Who is this intern?” Nancy asks, raising her voice louder than necessary to ensure, no doubt, that the recorder picks up every word.

  “She was Grace Martin.” I can’t meet his eyes.

  “So, you are saying that Grace Martin, the daughter of our CEO, stole the confidential document and couriered it out of the building?” Nancy gives me an incredulous look as though the entire idea is preposterous.

  “Yes, that is exactly what happened,” I say firmly. In a rush of courage, I continue. “I don’t know why you called me here today. I have already given my statement regarding the situation to my former supervisor. It is probably in my employee file somewhere, if you need to read it to refresh. Thank you for your time, but I have to be on my way.”

  I stand shakily when F. Glenn thunders from the head of the table. “Stop! Sit down. You are an embarrassment to every lawyer in Alberta and to this law firm. Mr. Perry, please inform Ms. Southard of the purpose to this meeting.”

  The man I hadn’t recognized clears his throat. He appears uneasy and straightens his tie unnecessarily before he begins. “Ms. Southard, as mentioned I am L. Gordon Perry, from the Law Society of Alberta.”

  I lower myself into my chair once more. The Law Society of Alberta is the province’s governing body. Why is he here?

  “I am here to evaluate the situation. Carter Clinton,” he inclines his head to my former colleagues, “is pressing for you to be disbarred. As you know, a breach of legal ethics could lead one to lose their license to practice. I am here to see if there is a case to be made for this law firm to push for your disbarment.”

  Disbarred? That is the most shameful penalty for any lawyer, even worse than being convicted of a felony and put in prison.

  “Even if it was a breach of legal ethics,” I argue, “it wasn’t my breach. I understand that I was fired since someone had to be blamed, but it was not my mistake. It was Grace Martin’s, and as I’ve said before in my official statement, I wasn’t even in the building when the document was couriered away.
I was at a retirement party for a law professor. There is no proof that I did anything wrong, and according to the law, I am innocent until proven guilty.”

  Mr. Perry nods his head and at that instant, I know that this was never intended to be a reevaluation of what happened. Whether or not I am disbarred isn’t the point. The fact is, Carter Clinton is probably still hurting because of what Grace did. They probably lost a lot of money and clients due to the mishap and now they are out for blood. Firing me wasn’t enough.

  “Furthermore,” I add desperately, “I was fired without cause. Carter Clinton had no proof at the time of the incident and they have no proof now. What happened was a horrible mistake, but it wasn’t my mistake.”

  Seven sets of eyes glower at me from around the table. Mr. Perry is the only neutral face in the room and he pushes his round glasses up on his nose and sorts through a stack of papers in front of him.

  “Do you have any idea how much money the law firm has lost because of you?” This comes from Charles Goodman, the partner who I had indirectly reported to. “If there are no grounds for disbarment, at the very least she should be fined.” It hurts that someone I had worked with for so long wants me to suffer. I had admired him. And now he wants me to pay.

  Great. If I am forced to pay a fine with my empty bank account I’ll have to declare bankruptcy and my life will be an even bigger mess.

  Mr. Perry writes something down on a sheet of paper. “Since both parties are holding fast to their side of the story, we will have to have an official hearing. Ms. Southard, if you would like an attorney, you will need to inform me of the counsel on record beforehand. I will get back to both of you when a date is set, probably sometime in July.”