Next Year I'll be Perfect

by Laura Kilmartin

  “He's something alright,” I agreed, ushering the woman to the door. “So, you said we'll be getting your report in a week or so?”

  “Ten days at the most!” Caryn smiled brightly as I closed the door not completely in her face.

  Flopping on the couch next to my uncle who had collapsed himself a moment before, I asked, “If we call Eddie do you think he'll bring over Chinese take-out?”

  “Probably.”

  We both stared at the phone sitting mere feet away, but still well out of arms reach.

  “So, what did you make of that business with your co-worker?”

  I shrugged. “I'm still not convinced it's the same Morgan Donovan. Even if it is, it doesn't surprise me in the least to find out he's a spoiled trust fund baby. The charity work is probably all just a write off.”

  “You are not a very trusting soul, Sarah. How did that happen?”

  “Well,” I explained while wriggling my body to lay flat as possible so as to snag the leg of the end table on which the telephone rested with my ankle, dragging it forward. “I was raised by two men who carried guns and gave me a can of pepper spray the first time they let me go to a co-ed roller skating party when I was thirteen.”

  “I suppose that could have had something to do with it,” Jeremy nodded wisely in agreement. “Don't forget the extra garlic soy sauce on my dumplings.”

  “Wouldn't dream of it.” I dialed Eddie's cell phone, my eye catching on the “Bachelor Lobstermen of Maine” calendar on my kitchen wall.

  December 19th.

  Soon I would be a third of the way through my 29th year and I hadn't checked off any of the items on my to-do list. Still, I rationalized that I'd just met with a real estate appraiser who was going to put me on the road to get the financing in line to buy a house. That was progress!

  I'd also lost six pounds. Of course, if I was honest with myself, I'd realize I wasn't actually that much closer to my dreams of wearing a size eight. If anything, it just made my size twelve jeans fit a little bit better.

  Listening half-heartedly to Eddie repeat back our take-out order, I thought about the ill-fated trip we'd taken a few days ago to buy hiking boots. He labeled all of my choices as impractical and I'd nixed his as ugly and heavy. It was going to be tough to climb a mountain without boots.

  And then there were the men in Portland who were still mostly undatable and the fact it seemed I would have to outshine Albert Schweitzer to be noticed by my employer…

  “Sarah!”

  “Huh?” I heard my name being yelled both from the receiver in my hand and from the man sitting beside me on the couch. “Oh, sorry. Just got distracted there for a minute.”

  I directed Eddie to meet us in my kitchen with food half an hour later before turning to my Uncle who was looking at me with a mixture of bemused fondness and alarm.

  It was a look I was used to receiving from each of the Thornton men.

  “Sorry about that. I just caught a glance of the calendar and freaked out about everything I have to get done.”

  “Don't apologize, kiddo. The holidays are a very busy time.” Jeremy said, misunderstanding the scope of my anxiety. “As much as I love the season, I also look forward to January. There's something about hanging a new calendar for a brand new year. Full of promise and a fresh, clean slate.”

  I brightened at my Uncle's words. He was absolutely right! Between the holidays, David's impending homecoming and the Lyman trial due to begin on Tuesday I couldn't possibly expect to make any progress on my to-do list in the next week or so. January, though, would be an entirely different story. The New Year holiday was all about fresh beginnings and resolutions.

  A new year would make all the difference!

  January

  IT WAS THE FIRST MONDAY of the New Year and it turned out Uncle Jeremy had been right. The fresh turn of the calendar filled me with new energy and inspiration. A few days earlier I'd printed my “Before 30” list on lavender scrapbooking stationery and armed with renewed motivation and a 50% off coupon, I'd gone to Kinko's to have it laminated. It now held a place of honor on my refrigerator door, stuck there with my favorite magnets – one a photo frame of Livvie and me in our law school caps and gowns, sticking our tongues out at the camera and the other my name emblazoned on a plastic Hollywood star. Free from its original cross-outs and rewrites, the list now read:

  By the time I reach thirty years of age, I will:

  1. Be in an amazing relationship

  2. Fit into a size eight purple suede miniskirt

  3. Be partner at a law firm

  4. Own my own home

  5. Climb Mt. Katahdin

  There. Five items printed in black and white (well, black and lavender anyway) didn't look that scary. Despite some early and fairly spectacular setbacks, the clean slate of a new year had convinced me I could meet every goal I had set for myself. After all, my birthday was nearly nine months away.

  If I could only ditch my residual New Year's Eve hangover and actually get out of bed, I would be unstoppable.

  I finally tore myself from my cozy bed with a groan and made the mental note to never let Eddie play party bartender again. Thanks to his amazing punch which should probably be administered by prescription only, I had only vague memories of the holiday two days ago. I remembered that the food was delicious and think we watched the ball drop in Times Square on TV. That was about it. The fuzziness started setting in just about when Livvie and I jumped up on the bar for our rendition of “I've Got You Babe”. Thank god I had the foresight to confiscate the camera phones at the door.

  One scalding hot shower and extra primping time later and I was a new woman. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, even I had to admit I looked pretty snazzy in my best go-to-court suit. I certainly looked appropriate for tackling the item on my to-do list I had been the most successful at avoiding head-on.

  I wanted to become a full partner in Frank Murphy's law firm.

  I knew, despite my renewed vigor in changing my life that this would be no easy task. Frank was very proud of the fact that he ran a successful solo firm and was beholden to no one. The Law Office of Francis G. Murphy was a surprisingly successful firm given its small size and accepted most civil cases with the only Frank-imposed rule being a refusal to take on any criminal defense work. As a former police officer himself, Frank refused to argue a case whose outcome hinged on the cross-examination of a cop.

  In fact, Jeremy's friendship with Frank – which had led to my interview with the man in the first place – began in the late seventies when my boss was a fresh-faced rookie. During his initiation period, Officer Murphy was briefly paired with seasoned Detective Jeremy Thornton and the two hit it off immediately. When Frank decided to change jobs and left the force to enter law school, he kept in touch with my uncle sporadically through Christmas cards and the occasional phone call. In between, Jeremy tracked Frank's progress through newspaper articles cataloging the younger man's skyrocketing legal career.

  If Frank was going to accept me as a partner and share a name on his letterhead, I had to prove my worth to him and demonstrate that the firm simply couldn't function without me around. For that to happen I needed to morph into the perfect employee, and beyond producing flawless work I needed to actively take time to point out my accomplishments to my boss.

  That was the easy part.

  As much as I had to admit it, being the perfect employee also meant getting along with Frank's protégé. I had to accept the fact that Flying Monkey Morgan was here to stay. He was going to graduate from law school in the spring and if he passed the bar, all signs pointed to Morgan joining as a full time associate. If that was what Frank wanted, then by god I was going to be supportive, even if it killed me. If my boss wanted to hire a Geico caveman to argue motions in District Court, then I would offer to sign the timesheets myself.

  In short, my grand plan was that if I conducted myself as Frank's partner, making it official would seem like a natural progression whe
n I pitched the idea.

  Walking toward the courthouse – my first stop of the day – I considered whether this particular goal needed more specific planning, and composed a mental sublist:

  To be Frank's partner I must:

  1. Point out to Frank how hard I work for him

  2. Work even harder

  3. Submit only flawless work product

  4. Be nice to the Flying Monkey

  Oops. I meant “Be Nice to Morgan”.

  Ignoring the last item for the moment and focusing on the first, I increased my pace. While I logically knew my boss was aware I worked hard, I never thought it was particularly important to keep him apprised of the numerous things I took care of around the office to make his life easier.

  That was about to change.

  I slipped quietly into the back of Courtroom B where Frank was just finishing up his trial and took a seat on one of the uncomfortable oak benches reserved for observers. Court was still in session and Frank paced back and forth in front of the jury members who were clearly captivated by his storytelling. When not confronted by “Trial Frank” on a daily basis, I forgot his ability to make and hold eye contact with each individual juror, magically drawing them into his version of the events that had unfolded throughout the trial.

  With a moving plea for a finding in his client's favor, Frank completed his closing argument and the presiding judge dismissed the jury, leaving them to their deliberations. I had never argued before Judge Kristoff before – she was fairly new – but I had served her scrambled eggs and toast once or twice at the diner on a busy Saturday.

  A lousy tipper.

  I sat back down after the jury shuffled out of the courtroom while Frank took the break as an opportunity to speak to his opposing counsel. Mike Newell was in his early 60s and owned many versions of the same expensive looking suit, each in a more unflattering color than the last. Today he wore the suit I privately referred to as “Mud Season Brown”. I couldn't hear the conversation, but from body language I could tell Mike did not appear to be enjoying Frank's comments. After a moment, he turned his back to attend to some papers while my boss was still talking to him.

  While I'd never taken a class in interpreting body language, even I knew that couldn't be good.

  Grinning when Mike finally grabbed his papers and stormed out of the courtroom, no longer able to ignore him, Frank caught my eye and nodded. I smiled back in return and walked through the small swinging door and down the aisle until I stood alongside him at the plaintiff's table.

  “What are you doing here?” He asked in the clipped tone reserved for trial. Luckily, I was long since immune. Frank's gruff manner was nothing to be afraid of, but when he grew overly polite and smiled his large, toothy smile it was time to run for the hills.

  “I came to see the master at work, of course.”

  Narrowing his eyes, suspicious of the unsolicited flattery, Frank simply ignored it and looked at his watch. “Never mind. Tell me what you want on the way back to the office. I have to get back and return some messages.”

  Frank purposely chose the overpriced rent of an office next door to the courthouse for the convenience of running back and forth several times a day. Snatching his briefcase from the table and walking at his normal fast pace, Frank assumed I would keep up. Not an easy task considering Frank was nine inches taller than me and not currently wearing the new three inch Jimmy Choo pump.

  Trotting beside my boss, I tried very hard not to pant.

  Finally arriving at the office building, Frank held the door open for me as I tried to wipe the sweat from my forehead, covertly masking it as a half-wave to Gloria sitting on her usual perch at the reception desk.

  “How was the trial?” She asked, handing Frank his stack of pink out-of-office slips.

  As Frank was engrossed in reading his messages, I jumped in with a response hoping my attempt at seamlessly meeting my boss' needs would be noticed. “Frank was awesome. He had Mike Newell running scared.”

  “I can speak for myself, Bennett,” Frank growled.

  That was not exactly the notice I had been hoping for.

  Experienced in the art of redirecting bad behavior, Gloria deftly asked, “Why were you at the courthouse this morning, Sarah?”

  “I wanted to file the Hendricks deed before noon. Since Frank was finishing up his trial, I thought I'd stop by and meet him. I'm going back later this afternoon to file the Abrams motion if you need me to pick up any forms.”

  Frank's head popped up from his messages at the mention of the Abrams case. I was working on a particularly difficult property division case that could lead to a precedence being set in state court, so he was very interested in its progress.

  “Did you make the changes we talked about? Introduce the handwritten amendment and cite the Jansen case?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Frank. I did everything you asked, and it's in your in-box for a final once over. When you tell me it's perfect – which it is – I'll sign the motion and have Gloria prepare a filing package. I'm going to hand deliver it to the clerk myself.”

  Frank grunted, mollified for the moment, and returned to his pile of messages.

  “Just one more thing,” I said as casually as possible. “I thought I'd ask Morgan to join me today. You know, give him a little tour of the courthouse and show him how things are done.”

  Frank just stared at me, mouth agape. Gloria, usually unflappable, sputtered a bit and repeated, “Morgan?”

  “Yes.” I decided to try for wide-eyed innocence. “Is that a problem? I thought he was working a full day since the spring semester doesn't start until next week, but did you have other plans for him today?”

  Frank exchanged a glance with Gloria, then seemingly having regained his composure, perched on the edge of her desk, long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. Leaning heavily on his arms, he asked, “Are you planning to do him in by any chance? If so, I think the courthouse is a poor choice. Lots of witnesses and several of them are in uniforms and carry weapons.”

  Gloria frowned in disapproval at Frank's words, without seeming altogether unconvinced he was wrong. “Sarah, Morgan is a fine man. I don't know what you're planning for him this afternoon, but I just don't see why you two can't get along. ”

  Hearing a chuckle beside me, I looked up and into Frank's smirking face. “Gloria thinks he's a fine man. What more of a ringing endorsement do you want?”

  “I don't want a ringing endorsement and I'm not going to have him killed, for crying out loud. You keep telling me to be nicer to Morgan. That's all I'm trying to do, so stop looking a gift horse in the mouth.”

  Frank shook his head, clearly disbelieving my good acts came without an accompanying trick up my sleeve. “I didn't get to be where I am by trusting things at face value, Bennett. I know you're up to something. I just don't know what.”

  It was difficult to be too offended in the face of my boss' mistrust given that I actually did have an ulterior motive.

  I just didn't have to admit it.

  Luckily, before the bell rang to mark the beginning of round two, Gloria stepped in to my corner. Turning her back to me, she faced my boss. “Well, Francis, since we have no tangible reason why we shouldn't, I think we really must trust Sarah and believe her offer is based on a sincere desire to do as you've asked.”

  “Thank you, Gloria,” I replied, trying and failing in my effort to keep the smug look off my face.

  “Oh, don't misunderstand me, dear.” Gloria whipped around, now directing her words to me. “I think Frank's right. You're up to something. I just believe a person is innocent until proven guilty and I hope my faith in you will be well founded.”

  Well, crap. One smug look effectively erased. Gloria had an incredible skill at letting someone know that she was on to them, without ever making it look like they'd actually been admonished.

  If I wasn't sure before, I knew at that moment why I'd left this as the last self-improvement item I would
tackle. I loved Frank and Gloria – admired them and respected them, too. But they didn't let me get away with anything. Diets and relationships were kid stuff compared to dealing with these two.

  “Look guys, I'm just trying to be a team player here.” I again tried to remind them that regardless of my motives I really was offering to do something nice. My comment, though, was met with two disbelieving stares.

  Did I mention already that these two were a tough crowd?

  “Okay.” I held up my hands in supplication. “I will admit that this attitude may be coming out of left field, but can't you just chalk it up to a new leaf for the New Year or something?”

  Before I was able to get an answer, the object of our discussion walked through the door.

  “Hello, Morgan,” Gloria chirped.

  “Morgan.” Frank nodded in acknowledgement.

  “Hi, Morgan,” I said, smiling brightly.

  In retrospect, I don't think the shock of my greeting was the only reason Morgan stopped dead, his continued forward momentum causing him to catch his foot on the entry hall rug.

  And I certainly shouldn't be blamed for him windmilling his arms in an effort to recapture his balance, thus flinging his full cup of coffee across the room, catching Frank squarely in his broad chest.

  “Jesus Christ!” My boss bellowed.

  “I am so sorry, Frank!” Morgan grabbed at the Kleenex box from Gloria's desk and moved toward our boss, as if to wipe him off. However, an invisible force field consisting of straight-man testosterone and fortified by Frank's glare kept him from actually following through with the deed.

  “Never mind,” Frank said, rubbing his hands vigorously across his nearly hairless scalp, a rare show of frustration. “Never mind. I have some spare clothes in the office. It wasn't your fault. Not your fault at all, Morgan.”

  Even if Frank hadn't been staring at me when he said that last bit, it would have been hard to miss the subtle inference there.