The Living Room

by Robert Whitlow

  Every book consists of random words placed in a new order, but when the concept is right, the creative process is a journey of discovery, not a laborious effort. Naming the book was the first step. Where it would go, she didn’t know. How she would get there, she wasn’t sure. But in her heart, Amy knew the words she’d heard in the living room would be the foundation for her next novel.

  Jeff was out of bed and preparing a hot breakfast before Amy came down for a cup of coffee.

  “Don’t spoil me with a fancy breakfast,” she said as she stirred in cream and sugar.

  “I will today,” Jeff replied. “You’re a working woman.”

  Amy leaned over and kissed Jeff on the cheek.

  As she waited for her coffee to cool, she debated whether to tell Jeff about her dream. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings by excluding him, but it didn’t seem right to launch into something that serious so early in the morning.

  After giving instructions for the day to a sleepy Megan, who would be watching Ian, Amy went out to the garage and started her car so it could warm up. Back in the kitchen, she packed a salad for lunch and put it in an airtight container. Eating out every day was a quick way to knock a big dent in her salary, and she’d already committed to Jeff that she wouldn’t do it more than a couple of days a week. That way she wouldn’t feel guilty if she occasionally brought home Chinese or fast food for supper.

  Amy poured a fresh cup of coffee in a travel mug and checked herself again in the downstairs bathroom mirror. At least she had a short commute. It would have been harder to drive a long distance to report for duty. Less than ten minutes later she reached the law firm. There weren’t assigned spaces for the staff, but Amy often parked near a massive oak tree. Pulling into the familiar spot seemed the right thing to do.

  Inside the office, the young receptionist was turning on her computer and looked up with a wide-eyed expression on her face.

  “Oh, I brought my copy of your book to work,” she said, reaching into her purse and taking out a copy of A Great and Precious Promise. “I had no idea who you were when you came to see Mr. Phillips. I mean, you told me your name, but I wasn’t thinking about books. I knew you’d worked here in the past before you became a writer. Would you sign my copy of the novel? I thought it was fantastic. My mother liked it, too. And she’s so picky.”

  Amy hadn’t anticipated a gushy greeting from a fan at 8:25 a.m.

  “I’d be glad to sign your book,” she said, taking a pen from her purse. “What’s your name?”

  “Sorry, I’m Janelle Watson. I came to work right after you left.”

  Janelle handed Amy the book. The pages had enough wear to show they’d been read. Amy wrote Janelle’s name and a brief word of encouragement before autographing the book on the title page.

  “Thanks for reading it,” Amy said as she handed the book back to the receptionist. “If you’d like to get a signed copy for your mother, I’d be glad to do that, too.”

  “That would be awesome,” Janelle replied. “Her birthday is the middle of next month. It’s always hard finding something special for her because it’s so close to Christmas. Are you working on another book?”

  “I just finished one that will be released next year and hope to start another one soon.”

  “Ms. Kirkpatrick said you wrote this one while you were working here.”

  “Not exactly. I wrote it at home.”

  “Sure, but you had to be thinking about it. When I start a good book I get totally caught up in what’s going on and think about it whenever I have a free minute. That doesn’t always happen, but it did with your book. You drew me in with the first chapter. If it’s not a nuisance, I’d like to ask you some questions about it sometime. Maybe we could have lunch together.”

  “That would be fun,” Amy said as the grandfather clock struck the half hour. “Is Ms. Kirkpatrick here?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Amy, who had started to move on, stopped.

  “Hold it,” she said. “My name is Amy. I’m not old, famous, or one of the bosses. Please don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “But thanks for letting me know how much you’ve enjoyed the book. It means a lot.”

  Amy adjusted her glasses as she walked down a long hallway to the firm administrator’s office. Doris Kirkpatrick had been with the law firm for more than thirty years. Her job duties had grown from bookkeeping to general oversight of financial and personnel matters. Her primary mission was to make things run smoothly so the lawyers could concentrate on billable hours. Amy tapped the open door lightly with her knuckles. The gray-haired woman glanced up from her desk.

  “Back again?” she said with a smile. “You’ve changed a little bit since the first time you stood in that doorway.”

  “I was twenty-one.”

  “And I was forty-one, which is still older than you are now.”

  Amy sat down.

  “I met Janelle. She seems sweet.”

  “A bit scatterbrained at times, but she makes a pleasant first impression on the phone.”

  Ms. Kirkpatrick opened a thick manila folder. “We need to add a few items to your personnel file before you get started.”

  Amy signed the papers. She knew everything Ms. Kirkpatrick had prepared would be correct. In less than five minutes, Amy was officially an employee.

  “Anything I need to know before I get started?” Amy asked.

  “I don’t think so. I’m here if you need to talk. I can help with most things, except changing Mr. Phillips’s mind.”

  “Some things don’t change,” Amy said with a smile. “How about staff turnover in the past year and a half?”

  Ms. Kirkpatrick went over departures and arrivals at the firm. There were four new employees. Chris Lance was the only new lawyer.

  “I didn’t know Susan resigned,” Amy said, referring to a paralegal who worked for one of the partners.

  “It was a sudden move. Her husband got a job offer in Raleigh.”

  Amy paused. “How did Emily feel about me coming back?”

  Ms. Kirkpatrick raised her eyebrows. “That’s a loaded question, but she had no choice but to take a leave. Her obstetrician ordered bed rest for the final three months of her pregnancy. She’s been gone since December 19, so Mr. Phillips has a serious backload of work. I asked Emily to leave you a detailed memo of work in progress.”

  “Then I’d better get to it.” Amy stood up.

  Unless he had an early morning hearing in court, Mr. Phillips arrived at the office precisely at 9:00 a.m. During the years she worked for him, Amy would organize and lay out correspondence and pleadings pertinent to the day’s responsibilities on his desk so he could quickly review them as soon as he came in. She’d also remove all junk mail and spam that made it past the firm’s Internet filter so that his computer desktop was focused and uncluttered.

  Amy went into her former office. Next to the computer screen Emily had positioned a big photo of herself and her husband, Rob, taken on the beach at Cancún following their wedding. A smaller photo of Emily with her pet schnauzer sat beside the phone. Amy put the pictures in the bottom drawer of the desk. She hadn’t thought about bringing photos from home to personalize her workstation.

  She turned on the computer but was locked out. The password had been changed. The promised memo from Emily was nowhere to be seen. It would be like Emily to “accidentally” forget to prepare the document. Before buzzing Ms. Kirkpatrick, Amy typed in a couple of password possibilities. When she entered “Lawrence,” the name of Emily’s dog, the computer allowed her to log in. There was an e-mail to Amy from Emily with a Word doc attachment and photo at the top of the in-box.

  Hey Amy,

  The attached memo will get you started. Call me if you need anything. I’ll be flat on my back going crazy at home. Please pray for me and my baby. See ultrasound photo.

  Emily

  Amy read the e-mail three times. In a few sentences, Emily Ashb
urn went from being a conniving coworker who overtly tried to undermine Amy and steal her job to a scared first-time mother with a high-risk pregnancy. Emily was only a few years younger than Amy, and she and her husband had been trying to have a baby for almost a decade.

  Amy printed out the grainy black-and-white photo of the unborn child, a boy, then bowed her head and prayed. She wrote a reminder on a Post-it note to “pray for Emily and her baby boy” and placed it in a spot between her keyboard and the desk where she would see it each day. She slipped the ultrasound photo into the top drawer of the desk as an additional reminder.

  Emily had left a very thorough and helpful summary of the status of Mr. Phillips’s practice. Amy wasn’t the only one who had undergone change since leaving Jones, Barrington, and Phillips.

  By the time Mr. Phillips arrived, Amy had opened and laid out his morning mail, performed housekeeping duties with his e-mail inbox, and pulled two files he would need for client meetings scheduled that morning. The strict formal organization required by the office was different from the free-flowing schedule of creative freedom Amy had enjoyed for the past eighteen months at home, but like an astronaut on the moon, she had to conform to the rules of the world in which she found herself. She was sitting at her desk when Mr. Phillips buzzed her and asked her to come into his office. She picked up a notepad and walked through the door that connected the two rooms.

  Mr. Phillips was wearing a charcoal-gray suit, white shirt, and yellow tie. He had a cup of coffee in his hand. Amy knew which chair he preferred his assistant to use when she came into his office. She sat down with pen held to paper. The older lawyer looked at her.

  “Good morning, Amy,” Mr. Phillips said. “Welcome back.”

  “Good morning. Thanks.”

  Amy waited. Mr. Phillips cleared his throat.

  “Did I tell you my sister in Wilmington read your book?”

  “No, sir.”

  “She thought it was a very credible first effort.”

  Amy pressed her lips together in a tight smile.

  “I’m glad she liked it.”

  Mr. Phillips shifted in his chair. “I have to admit you surprised me when you accepted my offer to come back to work. I thought the legal profession had lost your skills forever.”

  “The timing was right,” Amy replied. “And I’m grateful you called. It meant a lot that you were willing to bring me back with a raise and benefits even if it proves temporary.”

  “Poor negotiation skills on my part,” the lawyer grunted. “I know better than to open with my best offer, but I was afraid we wouldn’t tempt you with anything less. At least it worked.”

  “And I’m ready to get to it. Emily left me a detailed memo of your work in progress. Is there anything I need to know before I get started? I saw that you have twenty-seven items in the dictation queue.”

  “Rule number one still applies.”

  “Don’t miss any deadlines.”

  “Correct. And number two?”

  “Make your life as a lawyer easier, not harder.” Amy could still remember how wide-eyed she’d been when Mr. Phillips laid down his version of the Ten Commandments for secretaries. She pointed to the desk. “Do you still want me to sort the morning mail before—”

  “Yes, yes,” Mr. Phillips interrupted. “I like to know if there are any fires that have to be put out first thing.”

  “What about priority between your work and what I do for Chris Lance? I didn’t have anything from him in my queue, and Emily didn’t mention his work in her memo.”

  “We’ll create a new rule for that. My work always takes precedence unless you clear it with me first. You know more about some aspects of practicing law than he does and can tell what’s critical and what can wait. I’ll serve as gatekeeper for his work.”

  Amy wasn’t sure how working for the two lawyers was going to play out.

  “We’ll sort out the kinks,” Mr. Phillips continued.

  “Sounds like fun,” Amy spoke without thinking.

  Mr. Phillips gave her a startled look.

  “Sorry,” Amy said.

  “You don’t have to tell me I’m a prima donna,” the senior partner said with what passed for a smile on his gruff face. “Just promise you won’t put me in one of your books and turn me into an ogre.”

  Amy held up her right hand. “I promise.”

  eleven

  One advantage of being busy was that time spent at the office passed quickly. Most of what Amy had to do involved matters started by Emily. She didn’t find any of the smoldering fires Mr. Phillips hated in the initial projects listed in the memo.

  Midmorning Amy began the process of whittling down the backlog of dictation. Mr. Phillips was meticulous in his recording. He provided the spelling of obscure legal terms and inserted precise punctuation that conformed to the rules of grammar the senior partner had learned in high school. Amy usually followed his instructions; however, in the case of a mistake or difference of opinion, she always highlighted her change. Mr. Phillips had an uncanny ability to remember what he’d said and recognize any deviations. She took a break a few minutes past noon and went to the large kitchen at the rear of the house to eat lunch.

  Several women were sitting at a round table eating. Each one of them, including Janelle, had a copy of A Great and Precious Promise open in front of them as if reading the book during lunch. The room was completely quiet. Amy stopped in the doorway.

  “Okay,” she said. “What’s going on here?”

  Betsy Gamble, a real-estate paralegal, looked up from the book with a startled expression on her face.

  “Ladies!” she exclaimed. “It’s Amy Clarke, the author!”

  Every woman put down her copy of the book and turned to stare. Amy rolled her eyes, and everyone in the room burst into laughter.

  “Welcome back,” one woman called out.

  “We’re proud of you,” Betsy added.

  “Sit by me,” said Val Jenkins, a legal assistant whom Amy had helped train. “I saved you a place. We were worried Mr. Phillips had so much for you to do that you weren’t going to be able to stop for lunch.”

  The gracious reception by the women touched Amy. Natalie had been right. They didn’t view her as a failure for coming back to work. She signed a few books and answered questions in between bites of salad. Amy noticed that two women weren’t present.

  “Where are Cynthia and Nora?” she asked Betsy in a low voice.

  “Not everyone wanted to be part of the fan club.” Betsy shrugged. “They made some excuse about needing to take an extra thirty minutes and eat out today. I think it’s their loss. Don’t let it bother you.”

  Amy’s relationships with Cynthia and Nora had always been chilly. Surrounded by women who seemed genuinely glad to see her, it was easy for Amy to overlook their slight. The normal lunch break was only half an hour long, so they quickly finished. Amy thanked the group for their kindness.

  “If you hadn’t come back, Val and I might have had to do double duty,” said Sally Compton, another legal assistant. “We’re grateful to you.”

  “I’m still excited from meeting you this morning,” Janelle added.

  Amy rinsed the plastic container for her salad in the sink and headed back to her office. When she turned the corner into her work area, she almost collided with a tall, sandy-haired young man with clear blue eyes. He stuck out his hand and touched her right shoulder to avoid running into her.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m Chris Lance.”

  Amy introduced herself.

  “I recognize you,” Chris replied.

  “From the photo on the back of my book?”

  “You’ve written a book?” the young lawyer asked with a puzzled look on his face.

  “It’s a romance novel. Most of the female staff know about it. I thought you might have heard about it or seen a copy.”

  “I’m not into books with a half-naked woman draped across a bare-chested man on the cover,” the lawyer replied
with a smile. “But I know they sell or they wouldn’t be on the shelves. Congratulations.”

  “It’s not that kind of romance novel,” Amy replied, feeling her face flush. “It’s inspirational. You know, with a Christian message.”

  Amy could tell the lawyer didn’t completely grasp the precise nature of her writing genre. He held up a DVD in a plastic case.

  “I saw you in the video taken when Sanford Dominick executed his last will and testament several years ago. You signed as the notary public. Do you remember doing it?”

  “Oh, yes.” Amy paused. “Mr. Dominick was a character.”

  “So I hear. Like someone you’d put in a book. Mr. Phillips has asked me to work on the administration of the estate and told me you could provide clerical support.”

  “Filling out the forms to file with the clerk’s office?”

  “I wish it was going to be that easy. At least one competing will has surfaced, and there are rumors flying around that there may be other heirs wanting a piece of the estate. One of Dominick’s daughters is alleging her father wouldn’t have left the majority of his estate to a much younger woman he met and married six months before the will was signed unless there was improper influence.”

  “It was an unconventional will signing,” Amy admitted. “I can’t remember the details. Was his new wife in the video?”

  “Bleached-blond hair and all. I know Mr. Phillips brought in a videographer to record the proceedings in hopes it would bolster the legitimacy of what was taking place, but I’m not sure that’s the way a jury will view it. It’s going to be hard for some folks to get past how the people in the room look, except you, Mr. Phillips, and the witnesses, of course.”

  “The wife’s son from a previous marriage was there, too.”

  “You can see him for a few seconds. He was the product of her second marriage. Was he some kind of bodybuilder?”

  “I don’t know, but he was a big man.”

  “I met Natasha, the wife, but I’ve only talked to her son on the phone.”

  “The obituary in the newspaper said they were still married at the time of his death.”