Mia Like Crazy

by Cordoba, Nina

  Copyright 2011 Nina Cordoba

  This is a copyrighted work:

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author at www.ninacordoba.com.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  This book is a work of fiction and the resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Cover Design: Sierra Acy, Cover Art: Madison Duque and Sierra Acy

  To the ones who never stopped trying.

  Mia Like Crazy

  By Nina Cordoba

  Chapter One

  June, 1988

  I’d never been startled by a ringing phone before. And I’d never done anything as crazy as I had two weeks earlier, but that didn’t mean I was losing it. I never lost it.

  I hopped over the stack of books, left indefinitely on my living room floor, and picked up the phone from the kitchen counter. Back then, my tiny New York apartment was always cluttered with newspapers and law books, but it didn’t matter much since I never had anyone over.

  “Hello?” I said into the receiver.

  “Hi, um...Mia? This is Josh.” The voice was tentative and vaguely familiar.

  “Who?”

  “Josh…Samuels.” Now, it sounded annoyed.

  “Oh.” Did he expect me to remember the first name of every lawyer I’d met in court? Why was he calling me, anyway? I opened the refrigerator and grabbed the bottle of orange juice. “Hi, Josh.”

  “I heard you were leaving your firm.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.” I stifled a tired sigh and prepared to defend my bizarre decision—yet again.

  “Well, if you’re looking for clients, I have a referral for you. My firm can’t represent him...um...conflict of interest, but I told him about you, and he said he’d call you at nine.”

  I looked at the clock. Eight-fifty. Thanks for the notice, Josh.

  “Who is it?” I set the bottle down on the counter and glanced around for a notepad.

  “His name’s Drew Larson. He’s an heir to the Herbert Vaughn Estate. You’ve heard of the Vaughns, right?” As Josh spoke, I thought I detected a strange tone in his voice, but I didn’t know him very well, and it was hard to focus on anything after the word “heir.”

  “Don’t they have a town named after them?” I asked, as my heart beat a hole in my chest.

  “Yeah, upstate—anyway, there are some corporate interests. He wasn’t very specific, but the value of his part of the inheritance is supposed to be at least ninety mil.”

  “Ninety million?” Wow, I felt like a kid at Christmas—a normal kid’s Christmas, not like the ones I had.

  As I hung up the phone a few minutes later, I stared at the name on the scrap of paper in my hand without blinking, afraid if I took my eyes off of it, it might prove to be a hallucination.

  A multimillionaire client! If this panned out, it might prove to everyone I hadn’t lost my mind when I quit my prestigious law firm job—the one I’d dreamed of since I was a kid. But the familiar sick feeling was creeping into my stomach as pain crawled up the back of my neck.

  I needed a fix. Where was it? I hurried over to the file cabinet and yanked out a bright red folder. As usual, I wanted to sit down for this, so I stepped over to the couch and used my foot to slide the books out of my way.

  The file contained only one sheet of paper, single-spaced, every line filled from top to bottom. I read through it, item by item, as I had thousands of times before. “Spelling Bee Champ three consecutive years. Honor Roll first through twelfth grades, Captain of Debate Team, First Place in district track meet”—that was really a coup, since I wasn’t even close to being the best runner, but as usual, I had motivation on my side—“Valedictorian, Dean’s List...”

  I felt a sense of calm wash over me. My confidence quickly followed. Like an old friend, the red folder was there to remind me I wasn’t a product of my chaotic childhood. Working at being the best had been my life—my whole life—as long as I could remember. If there was ever a Mia who preferred jumping on beds or watching cartoons to getting a first place ribbon, she must have left with her father twenty years ago.

  Regardless, I, Mia Medina was a success story, achieving every milestone on my own merits. I deserved to have everything I wanted out of life, which was mostly money, with a healthy dose of respect, of course.

  The phone rang and I looked up at the clock again. Nine on the dot.

  “Hello?”

  “Mia Medina?” The voice on the other end of the phone said.

  “Yes, this is she.”

  “Drew Larson.” Then dead silence. What lovely phone manners.

  “This is Mia Medina.” I reiterated in my most professional attorney voice. I’d practiced with the commitment of a concert violinist for years until I was sure it had lost all traces of housing-project. “I understand Josh Samuels refer—”

  “So you’ve talked to Samuels personally?”

  Why did he emphasize that word? “Yes. He told me you were in need of legal counsel.”

  “I guess I am,” he said apathetically. “Can you come tomorrow?”

  Hmm…first apathy, then immediacy.

  I tried adding some extra warmth to my voice to coax a little out of him. “I’m sorry.” I really was, under the circumstances. “Tomorrow’s the last day at my old firm, but I’ll be happy to come Monday.”

  “Okay. Did Samuels give you my address?”

  He was apparently unaffected by my best June Cleaver imitation. This guy had to be a real geek. “Yes. I have it.”

  “I’m probably going to need a lot of your time. There are some legal problems with the estate. Whatever is normal for a retainer is no problem. You should plan to stay in town for a few days, this trip.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll get a hotel room.”

  “If you can’t fly out Sunday night, there’s an early flight from New York Monday morning. Be here at ten. Don’t be late.” Make that geek-slash-control freak.

  “I look forward to meeting you.” The only answer on the other end was a snort, followed by a dial tone.

  Big deal. A little attitude. I could handle it. That was one thing my childhood had prepared me well for.

  When I hung up, I ogled the telephone receiver like it was an Academy Award.

  Yes! A multi-millionaire. And I’d scheduled a face-to-face meeting with him! I kicked ass at face-to-face meetings, which is why the firm had put me into the courtroom so fast, while other associates were stuck in the office with their noses in law books—often doing research for cases I was litigating.

  I realized I’d been holding my breath, so I blew it out in one relieved blast. When the subject of my leaving came up at the office again tomorrow, I could say I was going into practice for myself and had a meeting with a very important potential client the next day.

  Now, my decision made perfect sense. I certainly wasn’t losing it. I hadn’t done anything crazy.

  But you didn’t know about Drew Larson when you quit your job.

  I pushed the renegade thought out of my brain, and headed for my treadmill.

  ~

  I had a few loose ends to tie up at the firm the next day. My last big case had settled two weeks before, which was why it had been the perfect time to give notice. All I had to do was reorganize the files so there would be a smooth transition for the attorneys of Barclay, M
arshall and Associates who would take over my other clients.

  I glanced into the plush lobby as I walked to the office lounge for a Coke. One of the partners, Rob Barclay, stood near the door with his wife and daughter.

  It was “family lunch day.” They had it every week if his schedule allowed. As his little girl threw herself into his arms, he smiled, and I got the usual vague aching sensation in my chest I preferred to attribute to heartburn. I refocused my eyes on the more interesting potted plant behind them.

  Though Rob was the nicest lawyer I’d ever met, I knew I wouldn’t miss him. Wouldn’t a normal person be able to find something—someone—they would miss?

  People usually complained about the stress of their jobs, or the hours, or the boss. None of those things ever bothered me. I tried not to let myself think about why I’d really quit. I was afraid if I replayed the day I walked into Rob Barclay’s office and put in my notice, I might have to admit that I hadn’t pulled myself up by my emotional bootstraps with all my achievements and education, which, of course, I had. Because now I was going to be in practice for myself. It was simply a matter of fate, which I normally didn’t believe in, but I’d make an exception this once.

  Jefferson was coming down the hall toward me, smiling cordially. I knew it was no coincidence that our only black attorney and the only Mexi-rican—me—were hired into this large, yet all white, law firm in the same month, but it wasn’t like we hadn’t both earned the opportunity.

  “Hey, Mia, how are you?” Jefferson asked as he walked by.

  Why did they always ask me that? Did other people know the answer? All I knew was the one I was supposed to give. “Fine,” I replied. And I was fine, at least by any standard measurements. I wore nice clothes, had a good education, was great at my job…

  Coke in hand, I walked back by the lobby toward my office. I was surprised to see one of the legal assistants, Lauren, waiting there for me.

  “I got you a little going away present.” She handed me a gift-wrapped box with a bright pink bow on the top. She gazed at me with sincere blue eyes.

  Tears threatened to come up from some long-forgotten location, but I took in a deep breath and they evaporated. I didn’t have a lot of experience with this. Was I supposed to take it with me wrapped, or open it now?

  “Thank you,” I said. “What a nice surprise.” That’s what people always said on TV.

  “Go ahead and open it,” she nodded encouragingly. “It’s nothing fancy. You might think it’s silly, but it’s the truth.”

  I hated to destroy the fancy ribbon, so I worked it off the edges of the box, then carefully removed the paper. Inside, I found a white coffee mug with “World’s Greatest Lawyer” gracing the side in big block letters.

  “I know everyone’s acted like you’re crazy, leaving a place like this, but you’re smarter than most of them put together,” Lauren said earnestly. “I think you’re going to do great.”

  There was that feeling again. My breath caught in my chest as I gazed down at the mug. “Thanks. It’s really…nice.” I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve anything whatsoever from Lauren.

  “Well, it’s actually a thank you gift, for the advice you gave me.”

  “Advice?”

  “Yeah, remember that morning we talked? We both ended up here before anyone else, and I was really freaked out. I gave you an earful.”

  “Oh, yeah.” It all came back to me. Thirty of the most uncomfortable minutes of my life. Much too personal for office acquaintances.

  “Well, you gave me some of the best advice I’ve ever gotten. You said, ‘If the street’s so full of trash you’re tripping over it, sometimes you’ve got to go through it with a street sweeper.’ I went home and sent my boyfriend packing that day. Best thing I ever did.”

  “I’m glad it worked out for you.” I smoothed the ribbon with my fingers, trying to pretend this conversation wasn’t making me nervous.

  I rarely gave guidance that wasn’t of the legal nature. I’d worded Lauren’s vaguely, so it wouldn’t seem like we were getting too personal. In fact, if she’d thought about it, it was more like a fortune cookie message than actual advice.

  “To be honest…” She leaned in closer and dropped her voice to a near-whisper. “When I first saw you, I thought you were hired because…well, because men were the ones doing the hiring.”

  Maybe I should have been annoyed at that, but I was just relieved it wasn’t the Hispanic thing.

  “You know, I used to be jealous of you when you first came,” she continued. “The guys were all talking about you. They said you were ‘exotic looking’ and watched you when you walked by.”

  I found it ironic that in my lawyer clothes, I was considered “exotic.” I could still remember how people looked at me when I was just another brown little girl in housing project clothes. I forced the memory away, reminding myself I wasn’t that person anymore. I tried to focus on what Lauren was saying.

  “Well, anyway, you turned out to be really great. I know everything will work out for you. Here’s my home number in case you ever need anything.” She held a small yellow square of paper out toward me.

  I accepted the Post-it, even though I knew I’d never use it. I never needed anyone, not when I was a kid and not now. But for some reason I couldn’t seem to take another breath until Lauren left my office.

  Sometimes you’ve got to go through with a street sweeper.

  That’s what I’d done with my own life. Since I finished high school, I hadn’t confided in a soul about my childhood. I’d made a clean sweep and invented a brand new person. Except for the red file, it was almost as if I didn’t exist before my freshman year in college.

  I looked around my bare office. In the movies, people always carried a box or two out with them when they left a job, perhaps filled with framed photos of family or mementos of the time they spent there.

  I picked up my briefcase and my coffee mug and walked out.

  Chapter Two

  Three long days after speaking to him on the phone, I climbed out of the freshest cab I’d ever ridden in and peered up at Drew Larson’s apartment building. It was one of only a few high rises I’d seen on the ride over, and none of them were any match for what I was used to in the Big Apple. Most people seemed to live in houses in this town. I wondered why millionaires would choose to live in Vaughndale, New York at all, although the air definitely smelled better and the trees were kind of nice too.

  Even the elevator music on the ride to the penthouse was pleasant. After looking at my watch to triple-check that I was on time, but not too early, I rang the doorbell.

  “Who is it?” a voice yelled from inside.

  “Mia Medina,” I answered, noticing the door had a peephole. Surely he wasn’t mistaking me for a home-invasion robber.

  The man who opened the door looked at me like I was a used toothbrush salesman. Everything about him scowled at me, including his bleak coal-black suit. Instead of a greeting, he gave me a blatant examination, from my nearly black, below-the-shoulder-length hair to my favorite high-heeled pumps.

  My eyes suddenly had a mind of their own. They flicked from his hand on the door to his white tieless dress shirt, which was buttoned from the third button down. I felt strangely uncomfortable and couldn’t seem to focus on his face.

  However, after seeing how he dressed for a meeting in his own home, I was glad I’d worn a conservative gray suit. I glanced down to make sure my blouse was still buttoned all the way and wished I could check my pantyhose for runs, wondering the whole time why I was so self-conscious.

  “Um…sorry,” he finally said. His shrug said he wasn’t. “I guess I should use the peephole. Come in.”

  I pulled myself together and tried to meet his gaze, but he’d stepped back several feet into his dimly lit apartment.

  Despite his initial inspection, his dark eyes now focused on anything in the room, but me. As I watched him, I noticed his medium brown hair stopped below his collar, as
though he hadn’t had a haircut in a while. But somehow it looked right on him.

  He didn’t bother to introduce himself, but I knew he was Drew Larson because he sounded exactly the same as on the phone.

  “Your apartment is beautiful.” I looked around at the warm furnishings, which bore no resemblance to the man who occupied them. But whoever decorated had managed to mix masculine items, like the leather couch and square wooden end tables, with soft throws and decorative pillows, to perfection.

  “Yeah, my sister Meridith got all this after she came over the first time. She said my stuff was cold. Go figure.”

  “Meridith Vaughn?” I asked, putting two and two together.

  “You know her?”

  “Her name’s very familiar.”

  “To a lot of people,” Larson replied blandly. “She’s involved in all that high society charity stuff. You know ‘Save the This.’ ‘Feed the That.’”

  I ignored his cynical tone. “Your sister must really care about you to go to so much trouble.” I wished I had a sister—a really rich sister with really good taste.

  “I guess. Too bad I didn’t know her most of my life, maybe I’d have more—” He stopped abruptly before his meaning was clear.

  It was an odd comment for a multimillionaire. How could anyone want more than he had at his fingertips? And inherited, no less. How lucky could he be?

  I felt the familiar pang of envy I experienced whenever I thought of how much some people got so easily.

  Wondering why his sister had the Vaughn name and he didn’t, I asked, “So, who is it you’re inheriting from?”

  “Herbert Vaughn. My father.” When he said it, it sounded like a four-letter word.

  He led me over to a dining area adjoining the living room. The small, yet expensive-looking, square table and four chairs were positioned next to a window with a pleasant view of homes, some businesses, and a tree-lined park. A stream of light from the window cast a pleasant glow over most of the dining area.

  Larson stopped just short of the light. I looked around and noticed none of his lamps or ceiling lights were turned on. “Here are the papers.” He motioned carelessly toward a file, as I sat down in front of it. “I don’t know anything about it. Some kind of investments and companies, and there’s the will and other stuff from his lawyer.”