Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

  “Ken arranged for the car and lodging,” Mrs. Fairmont interrupted. “If you ask me, he’s a saint for putting up with Christine. Fortunately, the boys take after their father.”

  “Yes ma’am. But I want to be completely honest with you. This meeting was a setup.”

  Mrs. Fairmont eyed me as she had at the door upon my arrival.

  “Do you like Flip?” she asked.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “More important,” she said with emphasis, “he likes you. I’ve never seen him take to a stranger like he has to you.”

  “I’m used to being around animals. They know a lot more than we give them credit for.”

  “Yes, they do. How long will you be in Savannah this summer?”

  I gave her the dates of my employment with the law firm.

  “Would you be willing to stay in the downstairs apartment?”

  “Yes ma’am,” I said, startled.

  Mrs. Fairmont leaned forward. “If you stay downstairs, it means Flip will have to sleep with me.”

  “Yes ma’am,” I replied, smiling. “It would be a sacrifice on your part, but you would have no other reasonable option.”

  “And you’re not wanting to be paid anything?”

  “No ma’am. Although I’ll be willing to help around the house.”

  “You’ve proven that this morning when you didn’t have to.”

  Mrs. Bartlett returned with a peach-colored bath towel in her hand. “Will this one do? It was underneath the nice ones.”

  Mrs. Fairmont nodded. “Yes, and Miss Taylor and I have agreed that she will spend the summer with me.”

  Mrs. Bartlett’s mouth dropped open. “But you were adamant—”

  “Oh, that was the multi-infarct dementia speaking,” Mrs. Fairmont replied lightly. “I’m in my right mind now. Miss Taylor, didn’t you say your first name was Tami?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “I can see how it will be positive for Tami and me if she spends evenings and nights here. I suggested the downstairs apartment, and she agreed.”

  “What about the dog?” Mrs. Bartlett asked.

  “I’ll find a comfortable place for him.” Mrs. Fairmont winked at me.

  I spread the towel on the sofa and sat down.

  “Tell me more about your family, especially your twin sisters,” Mrs. Fairmont said. “I went to school with twins, and we’ve been friends ever since.”

  FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER Mrs. Bartlett patted me on the arm as we left.

  “Well, you’re going to be a successful lawyer if you can manipulate people like you did my mother.”

  “I didn’t manipulate her. I told her the truth.”

  “I’m sure. And nothing but the truth.” Mrs. Bartlett sniffed. “Somehow, you got Mother to do what we wanted and made her think it was her idea. That’s hard to do.”

  I didn’t try to argue. We made a jerky trip back to the bed-and-breakfast. Mrs. Bartlett stopped the car in front of the inn and called her husband.

  “Ken can’t meet us,” Mrs. Bartlett said after a brief conversation. “He’s had something come up. But Mother already called him and told him that you were going to be her guest for the summer. Can you imagine her being that excited about it?”

  “I’m looking forward to staying with her too.”

  “I’ll be running on my way,” Mrs. Bartlett said. “I wouldn’t want to bore you with my activities of the day.”

  “From now on should I contact you or your mother?”

  “Try Mother first; here’s her number.” Mrs. Bartlett took a card from her purse and wrote it down.

  “Mother’s first name is Margaret, but her close friends call her Maggie.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be more comfortable with Mrs. Fairmont.”

  “Of course. She can be contrary at times, but after your performance this morning, I doubt you’ll have any problems with her. The fact that you could handle that vicious dog of hers was very impressive.”

  I opened the door of the car and got out. “Please tell Mr. Bartlett how much I appreciate the arrangements you made for my trip.”

  With a wave of her hand, Mrs. Bartlett sped away from the curb. I went to my room, cleaned up, and changed into a long blue skirt, yellow short-sleeved blouse, and white tennis shoes. I packed my suitcase and garment bag and carried them downstairs.

  “Do you know where the law offices of Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter are located?” I asked the hostess on duty.

  “It’s on Montgomery Street.” She drew a map. A different porter than the young man who’d helped me the previous evening carried my luggage to the car.

  It took about five minutes to reach the law firm. A prominent, brick-framed white sign in front announced “Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter—Attorneys at Law.” I pulled into a parking lot covered with ornamental pavers. Several nice cars were in the lot, but none as fancy as my convertible.

  The office was a two-story structure built of old brick with a slate roof and lots of windows framed by dark shutters. Two balconies were inset at either end of the second floor. The entrance was guarded by a set of small stone lions in front of large wooden double doors. Everything about the place spoke of prosperity and attention to detail. Mr. Callahan’s chipped white office in Powell Station couldn’t have served as a storage shed for this building. I wanted to peek inside, but I wasn’t dressed for success and didn’t want to give a wrong first impression.

  The reality of what lay ahead hit me.

  I wasn’t admiring just another nice building. I was parked at the place where I would be working in a few weeks and, if God granted me favor and success, be employed for many years to come. I imagined myself walking into the office wearing the blue suit I’d worn to Mr. Callahan’s office. But a blue suit wouldn’t banish fear. Inside the beautiful office would be people smarter than me, more sophisticated than me, and better able to excel in the legal community than me. My mouth suddenly went dry.

  I’d made a terrible mistake. I needed one more summer at the chicken plant before venturing into the world on my own.

  I heard the sound of a motorcycle turning into the parking area. It was bright red with a fat rear tire. The rider crouched over the handlebars, circled in front of my car, then drove directly toward me. I reached over to start the engine, but the rider held up his hand. He was wearing a red helmet with white Mercury wings on either side. He turned off the motorcycle. I didn’t want to get into a conversation with a member of a local motorcycle gang. The rider took off his helmet and approached. To my surprise, he was a nice-looking young man in his twenties with blue eyes and light brown hair bound in a very short ponytail. He was wearing blue jeans and black boots.

  “I’m visiting and about to leave,” I said.

  “Who were you visiting?” he asked.

  “No one. This is where I’m going to be working in a few weeks. I’ve got to go.”

  “Then I’ll see you soon. I’m one of the lawyers.”

  “You’re a lawyer?”

  The man released the band that held his hair and ran his fingers through it.

  “And a motorcycle rider,” he replied. “Nice car.”

  “It’s a rental.”

  “It’s still a nice car.” He stuck a tanned hand over the side of the car. “I’m Zach Mays, an associate with the firm.”

  I remembered his name on the letterhead. Zachary L. Mays. He was near the bottom of the list of attorneys. There was an asterisk beside his name and a reference indicating that he was also licensed to practice law in California.

  “Tami Taylor, one of the summer clerks.”

  “I heard the firm was bringing in a clerk or two. What did you think of the offices?”

  “I didn’t go inside. I just wanted to know how to find it.”

  “I can give you a tour. One of my jobs as an associate is to make sure summer clerks have a positive experience with the firm.”

  “No, thanks. I’m sure you have a lot of work to do.”
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br />   “There’s always work to do. Come on.” He pointed to the other cars. “None of the named partners are here. And there isn’t anything on my desk that can’t wait a few minutes.”

  I still wanted to drive off, but he reached out and opened the car door.

  “No, Mr. Mays,” I said. “I’d rather not.”

  He laughed. “Call me Zach. Save that title for the real bosses.”

  The young man didn’t let go of the car door. I had no options. Self-conscious about my clothes and hoping my face wasn’t red, I got out of the car.

  “Okay, but I won’t take much of your time. I don’t want to impose.”

  “It’s not an imposition. I know how tough it is to come from law school into an environment like this. It hasn’t been that long since I was a summer clerk.”

  We walked across the parking lot. Beautiful flowers, bushes, and ornamental trees surrounded the building.

  “Did you clerk here?” I asked.

  “No, Los Angeles. I went to law school at Pepperdine and worked for a firm in the city with a big admiralty practice.”

  I’d heard of the law school but didn’t know anything about it.

  “I’ve been in Savannah for two years,” he continued.

  “How do you like it?”

  “It’s different from Los Angeles.”

  We passed the guardian lions. Zach swiped a card through a security device, and I heard the door click. He held it open for me.

  We entered a high lobby open to the top of the building. The floors were covered in dark wood, and a curving staircase led to the second floor. Oriental rugs and ornate furniture were arranged throughout the area.

  “This is amazing!” I exclaimed.

  “And from what the partners tell me, it’s paid for. Follow me. Downstairs is where the elite hang out.”

  Zach led me through the lower level that contained the partners’ offices and two conference rooms. After seeing the lobby, I wasn’t surprised at the opulence at every turn.

  “Where is your office?” I asked.

  “Upstairs. Do you want to take the elevator or the stairs?”

  “I think the stairs are more elegant.”

  “Tell me about yourself,” Zach said as we made our way back to the lobby.

  “I’m a second-year student at Georgia and grew up in a rural area in the northern part of the state.”

  Zach glanced at me. “When you’re asked that kind of question this summer you need to open up a lot more. People want to learn about you so they can decide whether you’ll be a fit for the firm after you graduate.”

  “That makes sense.”

  The staircase was designed for a woman wearing a regal gown. However, the upstairs was a different world. In both directions there were open areas divided into small cubicles. It was like a beehive.

  “This is where a lot of work takes place,” Zach said. “Except for the partners’ executive assistants, all the clerical, word processing, and bookkeeping is performed here.” He pointed to an enclosed office. “That’s where the office manager works.”

  “Ms. Patrick?”

  “Right.”

  We came to a row of small, separate offices, each with its own window. Several of the doors were closed.

  “These are for the associates and top paralegals. The closed doors mean someone is pretending to work on a Saturday.”

  “Why do you say pretending?”

  Zach stopped, knocked on a closed door, and opened it before any- one inside could respond. A young woman dressed in casual clothes was sitting behind her desk with papers spread out in front of her and a dictation unit in her hand.

  “This is Myra Dean, a paralegal in the litigation department,” Zach said. “She is working, not pretending.”

  He introduced me.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I said.

  “No problem,” she replied in a voice with a Midwestern accent. “Zach should have known I wouldn’t be sitting here reading the sports page.”

  “Except in the fall when Ohio State is playing football.”

  The woman smiled. “On my own time.”

  Zach closed the door and continued down the hall.

  “Myra was a bad choice to catch goofing off. She’s in Joe Carpenter’s group. If she wasn’t a hard worker, she wouldn’t have lasted a week.”

  He stopped at another closed door. “This is a sure bet.”

  He knocked and opened. A balding man was sitting with his feet propped up on his desk and holding a book about golf.

  “Zach, knock and wait for an answer before barging in here!” he snapped before he saw me. “Oh, who’s your lady friend?”

  “Tami Taylor, one of our summer clerks. Just giving her a tour. This is Barry Conrad. He works in the transactions area.”

  Conrad held up the book. “And on my slice. Are you a golfer, Ms. Taylor? It’s a great way to develop client relations.”

  “No, I play basketball.”

  Conrad looked at Zach. “Do we have any clients who play basketball?”

  “I don’t know. Who’s paying for your golf study?”

  “The firm. I’m billing it to professional development. Mr. Braddock wants me on the course at four o’clock this afternoon with the management team for Forester Shipping Lines. If I don’t do something about my driver and hold up my end of our foursome, it could cost us thousands.”

  “Keep your shoulders square to the ball and don’t rotate your hips too soon,” Zach said, adopting a pretend golf stance.

  “Get out of here.”

  We left the office, and Zach shut the door.

  “Is Mr. Conrad a partner?”

  “No, he’s a permanent associate. He swallowed his pride when he wasn’t asked to join the firm. It’s not a bad life. The pay is good by Savannah standards, and there’s no management responsibility.”

  “How long has he been here?”

  “Maybe fifteen years.” Zach added, “That’s fifteen years averaging fifty to sixty hours a week working plus time spent in his office reading a golf manual or following his fantasy football team.”

  We stopped before an open door.

  “This is my space,” he said. “Come in and have a seat.”

  I hesitated. “I really need to be on my way.”

  Zach held up his right index finger and shook it. “What is lesson number one?”

  “Open up and tell about myself when asked a question by one of the lawyers.”

  “Good. Rule number two. Don’t miss an opportunity to talk to one of the lawyers when given the chance to do so. We’re all busy and won’t ask you to spend a few minutes with us unless we intend to use it efficiently.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Don’t call me sir or mister. My name is Zach.”

  “Okay.”

  “Come in.”

  He led the way into a small office. Directly in front of me was a window that overlooked the parking lot. I could see my car with Zach’s motorcycle beside it. Two miniature motorcycles rested on the front of the lawyer’s desk. In neat rows on the wall were framed diplomas and other certificates.

  On the corner of his desk facing me was a picture of a very attractive young woman with a white flower in her blonde hair. Next to that picture was a photograph of an older couple I guessed to be his parents. The man in the picture had long hair that was gray around the edges, and the woman was wearing a dress that would have looked in style in the late 1970s. Zach picked up a legal pad and took a pen from the top drawer of his desk.

  “Tell me about your spiritual journey,” he said.

  “My spiritual journey?” I asked in surprise.

  “Yes, it’s an allowable question under the antidiscrimination guidelines.”

  “Why do you think I have a spiritual journey?”

  Zach held up three fingers. “Rule three about being a successful summer clerk. Never answer a question in a way that makes you seem evasive. It’s easy to spot a phony. Better to be forthright and honest
than beat around the bush and give what you think is a politically correct answer that will help you land a job upon graduation.”

  “I’d never do that.”

  “Good. Start by giving me a straight answer.”

  I sat up in my chair. A head-on challenge required fearlessness in the face of attack. Zach Mays probably didn’t have the power to revoke the summer job offer, but even if he did, I wouldn’t compromise.

  “I’ve been a Christian since I prayed with my mother at the altar of our church when I was a little girl.”

  “Did your spiritual journey stop there?”

  “No, it’s a lifetime relationship with Jesus Christ that affects every aspect of life. I’m always trying to learn and grow.”

  “Do you believe there are other ways for sincere people to find God?”

  “No, there is only one way.”

  “It’s your way or the highway?”

  I didn’t like to be mocked, but it was part of the persecution of the righteous. At least I knew where I stood when an assault came.

  “My beliefs aren’t based on my opinions. The Bible says that Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life. No one can come to the Father except through him.”

  “Doesn’t that sound narrow-minded?”

  “It is narrow-minded. But truth doesn’t depend on popular consensus or opinion polls. The Bible also says the road that leads to eternal life is narrow, and only a few find it. Pretending that someone who tries to live a good life or believes in the god of another religion will make it into heaven is a cruel deception.”

  “And you’re convinced about your religious perspective?”

  “Enough to tell you what I believe without beating around the bush.” I looked directly into his eyes and took a deep breath. “If you had a wreck on your motorcycle later today and died on the side of the road, would you go to heaven?”

  The corner of the lawyer’s lips curled up. Whether in a smile or a sneer, I couldn’t tell. He pointed to the picture of the beautiful woman on his desk.

  “Who do you think that is?”

  “I don’t know.”