by J. J. Murray
Matthew threw his hips up as Angela crashed down and howled, and Matthew joined her in a mutual “Whoo!”
They collapsed back together.
“You’re amazing,” Angela said, rubbing her sweaty forehead on Matthew’s chest.
“We’re amazing,” Matthew said. We’re even iconic.
Angela nestled her head into his neck, her hair tickling his chin. “I am going to think about this my every waking moment, you know that. I will be pouring coffee all over my counter.”
“And I’ll clean it up with a gleam in my eye.” He kissed her. “Did you ever think this would happen?
“I knew it would happen eventually. You have no idea how often I woke up after a bad dream and just wanted to take you.” She held his hand. “The next time it happens, I will.” She squeezed. “And for some reason, I know you’ll be ready.”
“I’ll be ready.” He looked out the window. “That isn’t the sun, is it?”
Angela sighed. “I don’t want to get up.” She turned his face to hers. “How soon will it be until this is legal, Mr. McConnell?”
“How soon do you want it to be?” Matthew asked.
“Yesterday.”
I knew she’d say something like that. “Backdating a marriage license. I don’t know if that’s possible.” Or legal. “Are you feeling better about us now?”
“I feel better than I’ve ever felt before,” Angela said. “I feel so alive. But neither of us will straighten out our money if we’re spending too much time in this bed when we should be opening the shop.”
“So our daily schedule from now on will be to make money, then make love,” Matthew said.
Angela nodded. “Oh yes.”
“Life would be so much simpler if more people did that, don’t you think?” Matthew asked.
“Of course,” she said, hugging her Williamsburg man close, “it’s much easier to make money just after you’ve made love.”
“So the more love we make before we make money, the easier it will be to make that money,” Matthew said.
“You are brilliant.” She licked her lips. “Round three?”
Matthew nodded. “Three, they say, is a magic number . . .”
Chapter 30
For the next two weeks, Matthew and Angela flirted while working, traded hands in the kitchen, kissed often at the counter, cleaned up in record time, and shared blissful moments long into the night.
“We’re drinking up our profits,” Angela said one morning as she poured herself a second cup of house blend.
“We need the energy,” Matthew said as he started his third cup. “And aren’t our nights profitable, too?”
“Very,” Angela said.
“I like your moneymaker,” Matthew said.
“I like how often you make deposits,” Angela said.
Gone unspoken but always under the surface was the idea that when Angela was better and their money was right, they would get married.
To that end, Matthew planned walks that would take them farther from the shop and closer to a jewelry store that stayed open late.
Angela has to help me pick out her ring. This is all new territory for me. Those “How to Pick Out an Engagement Ring” Web sites aren ’t helpful at all. They say I should be dropping one to two months’ salary on the ring. What if I don’t have a “normal” salary? What if I’m not sure how much money I’ll be making in any given month? Who decided on that “rule” anyway? The jewelers?
There are too many things to decide. Choose metal: 14K gold, 18K gold, white gold, or platinum? Choose setting: bezel, pave, or channel? Choose cut: round, square, rectangular, oval, pear, heart, marquise, trilliant, or radiant? What degree of clarity and color? How many carats?
There are too many choices for one man to make!
If I could get Angela to close even an hour early, we’d be straight. We’d go to the store, browse the rings, and I’d watch her eyes light up when she saw the ring. It would be easy.
But she won’t close early. We could “shop” online using my laptop, provided I can get a Wi-Fi signal, but where’s the holding hands and gazing at rings with wide eyes and trying them on romance in that? Holding your finger up to a computer screen is silly.
Matthew couldn’t wait for daylight saving time to give them an extra hour of daylight for their walks, but until then, he only planned short walks. They sauntered at a leisurely pace one block to Walter Foods to slurp oysters and little neck clams. They kept a reasonable pace for the two blocks to San Loco for a plate of Macho Nachos. The three-block trip to the W. E. Sheridan playground became a race there and back, because Angela’s anxiety level was so high.
Matthew stared at the computer screen one Tuesday afternoon, thanks to animalcrack69, while Angela was putting away a delivery in the kitchen.
Jewelry stores sure have changed. They don’t only sell jewelry now, and they often don’t have the word “jewelry” in the name of their store. Catbird, Bird, and fuego 718 all sell jewelry in Williamsburg. If I hadn’t Googled them, I never would have known they sold jewelry.
Catbird caught his eye because its Web site had plenty of wedding and engagement rings on display. Most of the rings, however, didn’t quite look like traditional wedding or engagement rings. He saw rings in the shapes of fighting bears, deer, two-headed snakes, and dolphins. He saw double-finger rings, crescent-moon-shaped rings, and a ring in the shape of a tree trunk, complete with heart-enclosed, carved initials. He finally found one he liked by Conroy & Wilcox—gold band, round diamond, a classic, $4,500—but no matching wedding band. He found a “Conflict Free Eternity Band” that looked nice, and although it was silver, the name itself gave him hope. Conflict free for an eternity. I know it’s not made with “conflict” diamonds, but what if it was possible for a marriage to be eternally conflict free?
He left the shop and called Catbird. “This will sound like a strange request, but could you stay open until nine o’clock tonight?”
“We’re only open noon until eight,” a woman said.
“I know that,” Matthew said. “My girlfriend and I don’t get off work until eight-fifteen or so, and we’d be there by eight-thirty at the latest. We work a couple blocks over on Driggs.”
“I’m sorry, sir—”
“We’re shopping for engagement rings and wedding bands,” Matthew interrupted.
“Oh, well,” she said. “That’s different. We’ll be open for you, sir.”
After cleaning up, Angela stood at the front door in her coat. “Where are we going tonight?”
“Bedford Avenue,” Matthew said.
“That’s a long street,” Angela said.
“It’s only about two and a half blocks from here,” Matthew said.
Angela nodded. “Two and a half.” She peered outside. “Is it raining?”
Matthew saw ice pellets bouncing off the sidewalk. “I think it’s sleet. We’ll have to hustle.” The weather in Brooklyn always has lousy timing.
“It’s so dark.” She put her hand in his. “Couldn’t we just go upstairs and snuggle?”
Later. “I want to get you something from Catbird.” Don’t ruin the surprise. What else do they sell? “I want to buy you a cashmere hat. It will look so good on you.” That was extremely lame.
“You want to take me out in the cold and sleet to buy me an expensive hat,” Angela said. “What sense does that make? I’m going out hatless to get a hat.”
Matthew snatched one of the umbrellas left by customers from a box next to the first booth. “We will take an umbrella.”
“Matthew, I really don’t need a new hat,” Angela said, “especially one made out of cashmere, and we need to be saving as much money as we can, right?”
Woman, I’m about to drop nearly five grand on you! Play right! “But you’ll look so cute in the hat.”
“Don’t I look cute without the hat?” Angela asked.
“Yes, of course, but—”
“Look at the sidewalk,” Angela interrupte
d. “It’s looking more like hail than sleet now.”
We’re on a timetable here. “The umbrella will protect us.”
“Couldn’t we go on a night where there are at least some stars in the sky?” Angela asked.
Matthew looked at the sleet collecting on the sidewalk like hundreds of diamonds. “Sure. We can go another night.” He pulled her close. “Let’s go snuggle.”
As they snuggled and Angela drowsed on top of him, Matthew lamented this wasted opportunity.
Catbird will most likely never stay open for me again. Unless I leave a substantial deposit. That might work. I could even go in and pick out the ring, but I don’t know Angela’s size. What if she doesn’t like it? I don’t want to pick out the wrong ring.
And suppose I do get a ring, where would I propose to her? Here, in her coffee shop? She’d get the ring, kiss me, show it off, and then go right back to work. I have to keep working on her to take a regular day off. Sundays would be perfect, but the before-and-after church crowd can be immensely profitable. Maybe I can convince her to close early on a slow night like Tuesday or Thursday.
He rubbed her warm back. Someday we’ll get you a ring fit for the queen you are.
Matthew’s legal work became steady, but it didn’t fill up his bank account. He did simple wills. He looked over vendor contracts. He settled occasional disputes between landlords and tenants. He mediated an argument between neighboring business owners who both claimed the parking spaces out front as “their” loading zone.
He charged everyone a compromise between what they were willing to pay and what they actually could pay without breaking the bank. Matthew found it harder and harder, however, to gauge a client’s ability to pay. Women carrying Coach bags and wearing designer clothes and heels often had to pay in installments. Men in work clothes had rolls of ready cash.
“You don’t charge nearly enough,” Angela told him.
“I charge what I think clients can afford,” Matthew said.
“You have to charge enough to get their respect but not so much to hurt them,” Angela said. “You need to make a price sheet.”
“You could charge a dollar more for everything in this shop if you wanted to,” Matthew said.
“And I’d lose customers left and right,” Angela said. “They’d go across the street, and I’d go out of business.”
“Your customers would understand,” Matthew said.
“No, they wouldn’t,” she said. “Make a price sheet and stick to it.”
Matthew made and posted a reasonable flat fee schedule:
Simple wills:
Living trusts:
Power of attorney:
Bankruptcy:
Name Change:
Prenuptial Agreements:
Simple Divorce:
Limited Liability Company (LLC):
Incorporation:
Non-Profit:
Tax advice: $75
$250
$35
$100
$150
$500
$350
$100
$200
$100
A cup of coffee
“You’re still not charging enough,” Angela said, “A cup of coffee for tax advice?”
“I love your coffee,” Matthew said.
“And only three-fifty for a divorce?”
“Provided both parties agree to everything,” Matthew said, “I just fill out some paperwork.”
“What does a divorce normally cost?” Angela asked.
“Anywhere from fifteen to thirty grand if it gets to court,” Matthew said. “Mediation can run up to five grand, and some divorce lawyers charge up to a thousand bucks an hour.”
Angela sighed heavily. “Then you need to charge more so people realize the real cost of divorce,” Angela said. “Make getting a divorce more expensive, and the divorce rate will go down around here. It’s far too easy and affordable to end a marriage these days.”
Matthew agreed and raised his fee for divorce to $750.
He had no takers.
Angela is so very wise.
Matthew moved more of himself and his meager belongings to Angela’s apartment. She marveled at his DVD collection, which included My Cousin Vinny, The Verdict, Presumed Innocent, And Justice for All, and A Few Good Men.
“Why do you own these movies?” she asked.
“These movies are great for research,” Matthew said. “The courtroom is a stage, and these actors have helped me on that stage.”
“So law school didn’t adequately prepare you for the courtroom,” Angela said.
“They tried,” Matthew said, “but I learned most of what I know on the job.”
She put My Cousin Vinny into the DVD. “What else are you going to bring up here?”
“I could bring my bed,” Matthew said. “It’s bigger than yours, and—”
“But I like being right on top of you,” Angela interrupted.
Matthew left his bed at his apartment.
He didn’t leave his chair at the apartment.
After turning off the heat and unplugging his empty refrigerator, he carried his easy chair through Williamsburg and into Angela’s shop.
She didn’t like it.
At all.
“But it’s my thinking chair, Angela,” Matthew said.
Angela walked around it several times. “This chair tells me a lot about how much or how well you think. This chair is telling me that you don’t think much, and when you do think, you don’t think that clearly.”
“But it’s a part of me,” Matthew pleaded. “It has stuck with me through thick and thin.”
“I’m surprised you don’t get stuck in it,” Angela said. She sighed. “I suppose we could get it re-covered.”
“But it will lose its magic and its charm,” Matthew said.
She pounded the seat with her fist, dust pluming into the air. “That must be magic thinking dust, huh?” Angela quickly covered the easy chair with throw blankets, which blunted the effects of the springs and kept the dust from escaping. “How’s that?”
Matthew sat. “Not bad.” He opened his phone. “I want you to hear this.” He turned on the speaker.
“Who are you calling?” Angela asked.
“My landlord.”
“Hello?” Larry said.
“Larry, this is Matthew McConnell, and I have vacated my apartment.”
Angela smiled.
“You already paid me this month,” Larry said.
“I know,” Matthew said. “I’m turning off my phone and the utilities on the fifteenth. I’ll be cleaning it out soon.”
“You already found another place?” Larry asked.
“Yes.”
“May I ask how much you’re paying at your new place?” Larry asked.
“You can ask.”
“Okay,” Larry said. “I’m asking.”
Matthew shrugged at Angela, and Angela shrugged back. “A thousand for a two-bedroom, one-bath with living room, a kitchen from this century with a walk-in freezer, a huge refrigerator, a triple sink, two ovens, laundry room, and plenty of closets.”
“How many roommates do you have?” Larry asked.
Larry isn’t stupid. “You can start showing my apartment next week, and I’ll want my deposit back.”
“If it is clean and in good condition, you’ll get your deposit back,” Larry said.
“It will be. Bye, Larry.” He closed his phone. “Want to help me clean my apartment? It will be the only time you’ll ever be able to see my apartment.”
“I’ll pass,” Angela said.
“It might be fun. That big ol’ bed . . .”
“Where you and Joy slept together,” Angela said.
Oh yeah. “You’re right.”
Later than night, Angela whispered, “You awake?”
“Yes.”
“Do you ever miss your old life?” she asked.
“The security of it, yes,” Matthew said. “There was always
money.”
“How much?” she asked.
“My best year I broke seven figures with bonuses.” I was once a millionaire, before taxes, but I wasn’t happy at all.
Angela was silent for quite a while. “And where is this money now?”
Dwindling. “I still have a decent chunk. I’ve been thrifty.”
“You’ve been so thrifty that you moved in here and the apartment doesn’t look any different to me,” Angela said. “Could you be filthy rich right now?”
“If I had made partner, I could have easily broken eight figures with year-end bonuses.” And I used to want to make partner. That seems so far away and foolish right now.
Angela grabbed his arms. “Go make partner.”
“I’m done with all that foolishness,” he said.
“I know you are.” She propped her head up on her hands. “Tell me about your average date when you were really rolling.”
“You sure you want to hear this?” Matthew asked.
“I want to know.”
“Well,” Matthew said, “first I’d call my driver.”
“You had a driver?” she asked.
“At the pinnacle of my success, yes,” Matthew said. “My BMW gathered dust in a garage because I had a driver. Max. Good guy. I’d tell Max to pick her up and bring her to my condo on Central Park West for some predinner drinking. Back then, I could mix a mean cocktail. Then we’d go to dinner at some new, overpriced, chic restaurant where the food was arranged on the plate and, gosh, it was a shame to eat all four bites, it was so pretty. We’d consume at least one bottle of wine or champagne with dinner, and then we’d sit drunkenly through a Broadway show, always sitting in the first few rows. After that, it was on to a nightclub for twenty-dollar drinks followed by a nightcap at my place.”
“Did . . . did these dates always end with sex?” she asked softly.
“Yes. Pretty much.” He felt Angela stiffen. “Do you forgive me?”
“Are you sure you don’t miss it?” she asked.
She doesn’t forgive me. I don’t forgive me either. “I don’t miss that life at all, Angela. It wasn’t really life. It was all a show, one long buzz, an alcohol-fueled carnival ride, and I had nothing to show for it after eight years of excess. I’m finally liking what I do.”
“You’re finally working for a living, huh?” she whispered.