Legally Yours (Spitfire Book 1)

by Nicole French

  When she had apparently waited long enough, Bubbe spoke again.

  “There is another person in this family who runs when things get hard, Skylar,” she said. “A person who runs from the person who loves her and who she loves too. And I think you know who it is.”

  My head snapped up. “That’s not fair! I am nothing like my mother, Bubbe.”

  Bubbe shrugged and walked to the door, where she braced a hand on the frame as she stopped. “You are just as much like your mother as you are your father, bubbela, and that’s the truth. They each gave you half of your beautiful self, half your flaws, and half your strengths. There’s good and bad to them both—and God knows I love my son. But it’s up to you which one of those halves you want to be like, or whether you want to be like either of them at all. But you have to see what you’re doing before you can change it.” She flicked her head toward stairs. “Now come downstairs before breakfast gets cold. I didn’t slave away in the kitchen for half the morning so you could turn your nose up at my blintz.”

  And with that final comment, she disappeared from the room, letting me search for a pair of socks while thinking more about what kind of man Brandon Sterling might actually be, and what kind of woman I was turning out to be too.

  ~

  The small kitchen table was laid with the familiar green glass plates and matching juice glasses I had grown up with, along with a large baking dish filled with Bubbe’s blintzes. A pitcher of orange juice stood in the middle of the table along with a pot of fresh coffee. Dad sat in one of the old farmhouse-style chairs, his feet propped up on another while he read the Post and sipped from is chipped coffee mug.

  “Hey there, Pips,” he said with a smile as he pulled his feet off the chair so I could sit down. A week’s recuperation had done him good. Most of the bruises had faded from his face, and he no longer had to wear the nose brace. Although there was still a scab from the gash on his forehead, he looked almost like himself again. He folded up the paper next to his plate. “How’re you feeling this morning?”

  “Morning, Dad,” I said with a quick kiss on his cheek, which was scratchy with new stubble. He was still in the same red and gray flannel bathrobe he had worn for so long that Bubbe had to patch the elbows at least three different times. Although I knew that because he was on medical leave, he was likely doing this every morning until noon instead of the Sundays normally allowed by his job, the normalcy of it was still a pleasant site.

  Dad grinned, pulled on his mustache with his good hand, and surveyed me briefly before pouring himself another cup of coffee. He was clearly starting to feel better too. The stitches in his hand were due for their first inspection next week, and there were no signs of infection. Bubbe had told me over the phone that he had gone to his first Gamblers’ Anonymous meeting as well as an appointment with a therapist. She’d done her duty and driven him there herself.

  Bubbe sat down at the table and quickly filled the morning silence with a discussion of temple gossip and the latest news from her gossip circle at temple. Dad and I simply ate our blintz, which was filled with sweet ricotta and blueberries, just the way I always remembered it. Once we were finished, Bubbe cleared the table efficiently and loaded the dishes into the dishwasher while Dad and I continued to sip our coffee and juice, picking occasionally at the leftover blintz in the middle of the table. The room was warm and cozy. We talked about all manner of benign subjects—the latest gossip at the community center, some new ordinance the mayor had just passed. It was all so normal. Like Brandon Sterling and Victor Messina had never intruded on any of our lives.

  “All right, I got my hair appointment, and then mah-jongg at three,” Bubbe announced as she wiped down the yellow Formica countertop.

  “I don’t know why you need to get your hair done, Ma,” Dad said as he wiped a scrap of blintz from his cheek with a paper napkin. “You already look like a princess.”

  Bubbe set the sponge in its tray by the sink and grinned at my father. “You,” she said fondly with a pointed finger. “I’ll see you for dinner. Skylar, will you be here?”

  I shook my head, still gripping my coffee. “No, I’ve got to catch the four o’clock bus so I don’t get back too late. I can’t miss any more class.”

  She nodded with approval and pulled on her coat, which was the same shade of brown as the rest of her outfit. After checking that her sleeves were even, she marched over to where I sat and tipped her head, indicating wordlessly for kiss on the cheek. I obliged.

  “Love you, Bubbe,” I murmured.

  “You too, sweetheart,” she said. “Danny, dinner’s at six. If you’re going somewhere, be home by then, all right?”

  “Have fun, Ma.”

  Dad raised his good hand in farewell, and we both watched her march militarily out of the house, leaving the comfortable silence that generally characterized my dad’s and my interactions. He picked up the folded copy of the Post and wordlessly handed me the sections he’d already read. I glanced at them: sports and business—but generally I didn’t like the outrageous, tabloid tone of the Post, preferring the Times instead.

  “So, Pips, when are we gonna see that young man of yours again?” Dad asked once Bubbe had pulled out of the driveway. He took a long sip of coffee and peered at me over the rim of his cup.

  I sighed. “I don’t think he’ll be around much, Dad. It…it didn’t work out.”

  “That’s too bad,” he said mildly, as if he hadn’t told me just a few weeks ago that Brandon was perfect for me. He paused. “He seemed like a decent guy.”

  “Yeah, well…” I shrugged, looking toward the window while I worked to swallow back the tears welling up again. I didn’t want to cry, and the fact that it was really over with Brandon was still so raw. “Dad?”

  “Yeah, Pippi?”

  I smiled at the familiar nickname, more fitting since I had actually put my hair into two braids before coming down. “Dad, have you heard from Victor Messina recently?”

  My father’s small frame stiffened slightly, and the paper in his hands crinkled audibly under a strained grasp, but otherwise he didn’t change his expression at the mention of the mobster’s name.

  “He came into the club a few times last week, Pips, but he doesn’t talk to me,” he said quietly. His good hand went reflexively to cradle the bad against his chest. “To be honest, kid, I usually just get out of there if I see him coming. Why do you ask?”

  I shrugged again. “No reason. I was just wondering.”

  I searched his face for something that might reveal an added pressure from Messina, something maybe he wasn’t telling me. Something like Messina knew who his daughter’s boyfriend was and was looking to shake us down for even more money. But there was nothing but a father’s love and concern there.

  I exhaled with relief. “How was your GA group?”

  Dad leaned back farther in his chair with a rueful chuckle. “You’re a shit liar, kid, just like your old man. The group was all right. I’ll keep going. It’s interesting to meet other people going through the same stuff.”

  I nodded. At this point I didn’t care why he was going, so long as he was.

  “Good,” I said as I stood up and cleared our empty dishes to the sink. I walked back to where Dad sat and wrapped my arms gently around his shoulders, leaning down to rest my chin on his collar bone. “Love you, Dad.”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, but reached up with his good hand to squeeze my wrist. “Right back at you, kid.” Then he looked up with a warm smile that made the thin skin at the edges of his eyelids crinkle. “I’m going to turn on the Mets game. Do you want to watch?”

  I stood up and smiled in return, thankful that I could see no trace of hiding or nerves in his response. “No, Dad, I have to get ready. I’ll probably just pack up and take the train into the city, see if I can catch an earlier bus.”

  He stood up with a screech of his chair leg on the worn linoleum.

  “No problem, Pips,” he said, squeezing me on the
shoulder as he passed.

  He shuffled out of the kitchen, and I suddenly felt like I could breathe a little bit easier. Maybe I’d been running away, but coming home had definitely been the right decision. I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and looked down again. Another text message had arrived, also from Brandon.

  Brandon: Skylar I deserve an explanation. Please. I’m begging u.

  A few seconds later, another message appeared.

  Brandon: Don’t make me come down there.

  I sighed. The jig was up; I knew it wouldn’t take him long to determine where I’d gone. It was time to deal with reality.

  I started walking up the stairs to my bedroom, pulled up Brandon’s number, and pressed dial.

  “Hello? Skylar?” His answer was frantic and abrupt, just after the first ring.

  “Hey, Brandon,” I said softly as I got to the top of the main stairs and started the ascent to the attic.

  “Skylar, Jesus Christ, are you okay?”

  I breathed out through pursed lips. “Yeah, yeah, I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner. I’m fine. I’m in New York.”

  “Did something happen? Is your dad okay? Your roommate wouldn’t tell me a goddamn thing, just that you weren’t coming back. Why didn’t you just call and tell me yourself?”

  “Brandon, I—” I paused on the rickety wood steps, unsure how to proceed. Did he really not have any idea what was going on?

  “I want to hear you say it, Red,” he spoke softly, even a bit dangerously. “If you’re doing what I think you’re doing, you should at least have the guts to say it straight out. If not in person, then right now.”

  I sighed again. Victor Messina, Victor Messina. I chanted the name over and over to myself until a ball of red rage started to burn steadily at my core. I thought of the bruises on my dad’s face, the look of his limp, frail body in the hospital bed, the massive question that still lingered of whether or not he would ever make music again. I remembered the shrill hysteria in Bubbe’s voice when her only son was in the hospital.

  And for some reason, Brandon was giving money to a guy like that. Knowing him, it was likely out of some kind of misplaced gallantry, but I couldn’t be involved either way.

  “It’s over,” I bit out. The stairs protested loudly as I jogged the rest of the way to my room. I slammed the door shut behind me, wanting as much privacy for this conversation as the house could provide. I collapsed into the mussed blankets on the bed, inhaling the faint scent of lavender fabric softener. I could do this. I could.

  “What? Why?” Brandon’s voice was sharp, biting through the scratchy cell phone service.

  “I just…” I paused, thinking about how to say this without actually having to say it. I wasn’t stupid. If he really was in league with Messina and for some reason it wasn’t above board, then chances were, I shouldn’t know about it. “I just thought about everything. Meredith. The whole divorce. I saw the papers, and it’s too much. I’m twenty-six, Brandon. I can’t deal with all of that. I shouldn’t have to. It’s not worth the trouble.”

  Even I winced at the last statement. I had to wait several seconds with my face buried in my pillow, listening to his uneven breathing over the phone. Just when I was about to ask if he was still there, he spoke, the timber of his normal baritone shaky and uneven.

  “Is that really how you feel?”

  “Yes,” I whispered. “It is.”

  “We can’t talk about it? You’re not even going to give me a chance to defend myself or anything?”

  “No,” I said more strongly than I felt. “It’s done. It’s over, Brandon. Please don’t chase me anymore. You deserve to move on with your life…just not with me.”

  My heart ached at the thought of him doing just that. I wiped a stray tear that rolled down my face, shaking my head hard to will away the tears. Why was this so hard?

  Several more seconds passed. I flipped over to my back and stared up at my ceiling, counting the open rafters. My cell phone was warm against my cheek, but that wasn’t reason I was starting to sweat.

  “Brandon?” I asked after counting at least fifteen more rafters than actually existed up there. “Are you there?”

  A few more beats of silence passed. Then: “Yeah.”

  “It’s over,” I repeated, hoping he would get the message and leave me to try to repair the giant rent in my heart. He paused again before speaking, and I continued to wipe away the tears that kept streaming, unbidden, down my face. I choked a big sob down and started to count down from ten.

  When I reached one, it occurred to me he might not actually be there anymore. He was finally gone. The thought utterly and completely broke my heart.

  “Brandon?” I asked, my voice small in the dark of the unlit room.

  “We’ll see,” he said, and hung up.

  ~

  Chapter 42

  There’s nothing like a breakup to jumpstart personal ambition. Some people tend to wallow when they have a broken heart; they turn into Bella Swan and basically self-implode for several months until they forget the color of the guy’s eyes or the exact tone of the girl’s voice. They meet someone else who helps them forget a little more, and eventually they can return to the land of the living.

  Others, like me, drowned themselves in work instead. In fact, the degree to which my heart was actually broken tended to directly correlate to the amount of effort I invested into making the other aspects of my life thrive. Considering I’d never had a broken heart like this before, it stood to bear that I would finish the semester third in my graduating class. I had also been putting in extra time at FLS, so when Kieran asked me to wait a few minutes on my last day, I figured it would be good news, and maybe even to offer a personal reference—no small deal when the reference was coming from one of the top family law advocates in the Northeast.

  “So, I wanted to talk to you about where you’re planning to work after graduation,” Kieran said in her characteristically blunt manner. I had come to understand her abrasive manner was really just a way of cutting through the bullshit, and I appreciated it instead of being intimidated by it.

  “Have you decided where you’ll be?” she asked.

  I sat back in my chair after straightening the files that would be attended to by the summer interns, due to start on Monday.

  “Well, I’ve been offered a position with the Brooklyn D.A.’s office,” I said. “They are giving me until Monday to decide.”

  Kieran nodded with an uncharacteristic smile. “Good, good. Well, you’ll have one more offer to consider along with that. I’ve been authorized to offer you a position at my firm as well. Junior associate, full benefits, starting at eighty-five, with full pay while you study for the bar.”

  I gaped. Kiefer Knightly was the other full service firm in Boston, and devoted fifteen percent of its practice to pro-bono cases—much more than the typical five percent offered by most firms. It recruited heavily from the Ivy League and usually made offers to its second year interns. The fact that Kieran had gone out of her way to procure me a position meant a lot. I’d be able to do the kind of advocacy work I liked while making about twice the salary the D.A. could offer. On top of that, I’d be able to work with someone I truly considered a mentor.

  But. There was Dad, who was slowly recovering, but obviously looking forward to having me close again. There was Bubbe, who clearly needed help keeping my dad in line. And there were, of course, other reasons to get out of Boston. Tall reasons. Blue-eyed reasons. Reasons that still crept into my thoughts after almost two months and woke me up in the middle of the night with dreams I could swear were real.

  “Can I think about it?” I asked.

  Kieran raised a thin eyebrow in mild surprise. “Really? I assumed you’d jump at the opportunity. There’s no firm like us, you know.”

  I nodded in agreement. “I know. It’s just…well, I was planning on moving back to New York. My family is there, and I think they miss me.”

  It was a feeble excuse, but I c
ouldn’t tell her the real reason I was thinking of leaving Boston. Kieran was the last woman who would run away from any man, I was sure of it. But since she was friends with Brandon, I had no idea what she thought of our situation, if she knew anything at all, and I couldn’t risk her thinking I was anything but unprofessional.

  She nodded sympathetically. “I hear you. But Skylar? Promise me you’ll think about it, all right? I’ll give you a tour of the firm. New York’s only a few hours away. You’ll still be able to visit your family.”

  Hesitantly, I agreed I would consider the option. After all, Boston was a big city. A few more months, and maybe one of these days I’d finally forget Brandon Sterling. But in the meantime, I bent my head down to finish organizing the last few files, ignoring the fact that despite the last two months, I could still picture a pair of sky-blue eyes with perfect clarity and the deep tenor of his voice echoed through my dreams almost every night.

  ~

  I was the second to last student in my Family Law seminar to finish the final exam. With one click, I uploaded my exam and closed my laptop with a both elation and a twinge of sorrow; this was my last exam, the last day I’d ever spend as a law student. Graduation was on Monday, and between now and then I had to choose a future law firm, pack up my apartment, and find a new place to live.

  I never expected to leave Harvard feeling more overwhelmed than I did when I started, but here I was.

  “You going to meet us at Cleo’s?” Eric knocked me out of my worries with a grin as he followed me out of the classroom. “A bunch of us are going to celebrate the end of classes.”

  I smiled at him. I had intended to work my troubles out at the pool, but maybe a drink was just what I needed.

  Because Eric had taken one of the lucrative positions at Sterling Grove, he talked nonstop about his plans there as we made our way across campus to the bar.

  “So, have you decided yet?” Eric asked as we joined the sizable group of students from our class who had colonized a back corner of the bar. We waved to a few of our classmates, but took seats at a big booth that was mostly full of coats and book bags.