Father of Two

by Judith Arnold

  Dennis studied him and frowned. “I know I’ve seen you somewhere. With a woman, I think.”

  “That was no woman, that was my wife,” Avery quipped. “And she’s no lawyer, either. You wouldn’t know her unless you’re into interior design.”

  “I’m not, but my wife is. Was. Ex-wife.” From the corner of her eye, Gail saw Murphy smile and nod, his riddle solved. “That’s where I saw you. Your wife was working with my wife on our house, before we split up. You picked her up a couple of times, as I recall. Damn, what was her name? I ought to remember, I wrote enough checks out to her....” He closed his eyes and dug through his memory. “Pines.”

  “That’s right. Aleta Pines. You’ve got a good memory.”

  “That’s it! Aleta Pines. Wonderful woman. She convinced my ex-wife not to decorate our house like the Palace of Versailles. My wife loved silk brocade wall coverings and crystal chandeliers. Aleta talked sense into her.” He kneaded his clay and snorted. “Of course, that was a long time ago,” he added, shooting Gail a look. She lowered her eyes, vexed that she’d been paying any attention to him at all, and even more vexed that he’d caught her at it.

  So, his ex-wife loved silk wall coverings and chandeliers. So, she’d decorated her house using a professional designer. Gail wasn’t surprised. Murphy earned a fortune in his law practice. His wife had probably considered it her responsibility to create a home suitable to a man of his professional stature. His wife had probably only been trying to please him—and listen to how he talked about her now, ridiculing her taste.

  Gail had to admit she didn’t think much of silk wallpaper and crystal chandeliers, either. She also had to admit that he hadn’t said anything all that terrible about his ex-wife.

  Exasperated, she set aside the vase she’d made. It was the size of a cordial glass, and if Murphy kept his behemoth clay creations to himself, Gail might let it dry and then take it home with her. She decorated her house with hand-stitched quilts and hand-thrown pots rather than silk and crystal. While she wasn’t very good at ceramics herself, she thought her vase deserved respect as a crafts specimen.

  She started working on another vase, stealing occasional glimpses of Murphy just to make sure he wasn’t preparing to clobber her finished vase. To her relief—or so she told herself—he seemed oblivious to her. “Look at this guy,” he said, showing Avery his clay creature. “It’s a woolly mammoth.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Avery lifted his masterpiece. “Mine’s a Dallas Cowboys linebacker.”

  “Aaayyyyyeeee!” Dennis hooted, crashing his mammoth into Avery’s football player. Clay squirted in all directions, and the two men guffawed. Gail ducked, then cautiously raised her head when no clay came flying at her.

  The two men resumed their construction work as if the battle had never happened. “So,” Murphy asked Avery, “what do you think of this Daddy School thing?”

  “It’s the greatest,” Avery said. “I love it.”

  “Yeah? How long have you been attending classes?”

  “I started last September.”

  “Last September?” Murphy whistled through his teeth. “How many more credits do you need to graduate?”

  Avery chuckled, a low, lilting sound. “I don’t care about graduating. I just love coming to the Daddy School. Molly doesn’t even charge any tuition—she just takes donations, and I’ve gladly donated. I learn so much here. It’s a special thing I do with my princess.” He set down the clay he’d been working with, then took another piece and rolled it between his hands. “She’s going to be starting kindergarten next fall. She’s ready for it, but I’m not. My little baby...I can’t believe she’s getting so big. I may just have to talk Aleta into having another baby for me.”

  Murphy’s laugh was nowhere near as gentle as Avery’s. “You’d be singing a different song if you had twins. Imagine every headache multiplied by two. Two of them screaming for night feedings at the same time. Two of them pooping their diapers. Two of them needing cribs and high chairs and tricycles. Two of them suffering stomach bugs simultaneously. One thing they’ve never had any trouble sharing was germs. Poison ivy, chicken pox, and stomach bugs. They always share stomach bugs.”

  “Double your pleasure, double your fun,” Avery summed up.

  “Double your something, that’s for sure. What’ve you got there?” He eyed Avery’s pile of clay. Furtively, Gail did, too.

  “A nuclear arsenal.”

  “Uh-oh. That sounds dangerous.”

  “I’m about to push the button,” Avery warned, lifting what Gail had thought were just abstract shapes but which now looked like small clay warheads to her. “Prepare to get dead.”

  Murphy grabbed the central supply of clay and raised it over his head. “Banzai!” he howled, sounding like something out of a bad World War II movie.

  Avery threw a nuclear warhead at him and made a guttural explosion noise with his mouth. Murphy retaliated, tearing chunks of clay from the huge lump and peppering Avery with them. The two of them went at it like babies, making loud vocal bursts and blasts and hooting with laughter.

  Boys. Gail could not believe how juvenile they were, how destructive. To find excitement and delight in throwing clay at each other? Honest to God.

  She gathered the two little vases she’d finished and crawled into a corner, out of the way. Avery and Murphy didn’t look like warring parties; they looked more like drinking buddies after the second six-pack had been consumed. They laughed, they swooped on each other, they hid behind chairs and strafed each other with clay pellets, and they praised each other on well-thrown bombs and bullets. “Aaaagh, ya got me!” Murphy wailed.

  “Boom! There goes the capital city, reduced to rubble!” Avery moaned.

  Molly leaned over the partition behind Gail and eyed the carnage with amused curiously. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “I’m a refugee,” Gail muttered. “My homeland was destroyed. I escaped with the clothes on my back and my two precious vases. I’d try to sneak across the border, except I’m afraid I might get blown up by a land mine.”

  “He’s cute,” Molly whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me how cute he was?”

  “Who, Avery?”

  Molly rolled her eyes. “Murphy. He’s a hunk.”

  “He’s a punk. Look at them!” She motioned with her chin toward the rough-housing men. “They’re acting like babies.”

  “That was kind of the point of today’s class,” Molly reminded her. “You should see the dads in the tempera paint section. They’ve been throwing paint at each others’ easels for the past ten minutes.”

  Gail suddenly felt apprehensive. “What do you mean, that’s the point of today’s class? To act like babies?”

  “To think like children,” Molly said.

  Gail groaned. “In other words, I’m going to lose this damned bet with Murphy because I spent my time making beautiful vases instead of being destructive.”

  “I’m not going to decide the bet based on one class,” Molly insisted, though Gail was hardly reassured. “Why didn’t you tell me how hot Murphy is?”

  “I know him,” Gail retorted. “Once you know someone, you no longer see him the same way. The way I see Murphy is...well, never mind.” She saw him as the brains behind a destructive clay triceratops, as a slick lawyer in an expensive suit, as a provoked father mopping a milk spill...as a man massaging her lower lip with his thumb, stroking it with such tenderness and gazing into her eyes with such intensity that she shuddered just remembering that moment.

  “It doesn’t matter how good looking he is,” Molly said, patting Gail on the shoulder and straightening up. “You’re going to whip his butt with that libel suit.”

  “You bet I am,” Gail agreed. No way was she going to let Murphy win in the get-messy Daddy School bet, in the caress-Gail’s-mouth event, and also in court. She simply had to win a battle against Murphy somewhere, and court was the most important place to win. If she couldn’t get him anywhere else, she’d sure as
hell get him there.

  Chapter Six

  “AH, MY GOOD Miss Gosbozha Saunders!” Leo’s voice reached Gail over the Alpine ridge of folders piled on her desk. If only she had an office the size of Murphy’s, and a personal secretary like his to manage her paperwork for her, she could level the mountains. But far from having her own secretary, she had to share two law clerks, a paralegal and the overworked receptionist with five other lawyers. Actually, four others, now that Nola was leaving.

  Given the teetering tower of files, Gail must have inherited at least half of Nola’s clients. She’d already found the file for Nola’s most infamous client, the Body-Odor Maniac, a car thief with several priors. He was currently being held at county lock-up for lack of bail, and Nola had told Gail that the man had never been introduced to a bar of soap. “He smells so bad, you can practically taste the odor,” Nola had complained.

  “I wish you good Sunday,” Leo said.

  She wasn’t in the mood to be amiable, but for Leo she could manage a smile. He was wearing a different suit than the one he’d had on last time. This one was a utilitarian blue. Even the cheapest suits cost money, though. She wondered how he could afford two suits—and why he’d bothered to buy them. Maybe the church had donated them.

  “Today is Monday,” she told him.

  “I know. Is not so good day, Monday, so I do not waste wishes on it. You have good Sunday, then?”

  She’d had an odd Sunday. A discomfiting Sunday. A Sunday spent recovering from Saturday, from the brush of Murphy’s thumb against her mouth, from the potency of his gaze as he drew close to her. A Sunday of reliving Saturday in her mind, recalling the way he’d spoiled her efforts with the clay, the way he’d regressed to infantile behavior. She’d spent Sunday drinking hazelnut coffee and wallowing in the pages of the Sunday Gazette—that slanderous rag of a newspaper—but she still wasn’t sure she’d recovered from Saturday.

  Her weekend wasn’t a subject she cared to discuss with anyone, let alone Leo. “What can I do for you?” she asked, hearing a tinge of impatience in her voice.

  “You can get me one million American dollars. I am so broken, Miss Gosbozha Saunders.”

  “Broken?”

  “With no dollars to my pocket. Is called broken.”

  “Broke,” she told him. “You’re broke?”

  “Very much so, da. You get me money for this libel terrible Arlington Gazette did to me?”

  “These things take time, Leo,” she explained. “I can’t just get you a million dollars because you’re broke. In fact, I can’t get you a million dollars at all. I’m going to try to negotiate a settlement, but I doubt it will come anywhere close to a million dollars.”

  “A settlement?” He frowned and hunched his shoulders, causing his jacket to slip forward on his bony shoulders. “What is this a settlement? Is like where they put people with no village, no house?”

  “No, Leo. In this context, a settlement is an agreement between both sides. We need to find an amount of money acceptable to both the Gazette and us. So far, the Gazette offered us ten thousand dollars to go away.”

  “Where to go away? I like here in United States.”

  “Not to leave the country,” she explained. “To stop bothering the Gazette. To leave them alone.”

  “To leave them alone they offer ten thousand dollars?” This seemed to take him aback. “Ten thousand American dollars? In real money?”

  She sat up straighter. She’d been certain he would balk at an amount so much lower than his seven-figure price. “Do you want me to settle with them for ten thousand dollars?” she asked. A quick settlement would get this case—and the lawyer for the other side—out of her life. She was all for that.

  “Ten thousand dollars—I could buy meat, vodka, new suit.”

  “You already have two suits, Leo. You don’t need a suit.”

  “Ties. How many ties I could buy for ten thousand dollars?”

  “More than you’d need in a lifetime.” She studied his earnest face. “Do you want me to settle for ten thousand, Leo? Just say the word and I’ll see if the offer’s still on the table.”

  He bit his lip, and his eyes bulged. “Is my good name they take from me. Worth more than ten thousand dollars on table.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say, which is why I didn’t even mention the offer to you. It was so much less than you were asking for, I thought you’d be insulted.”

  “You think I get more?”

  “I don’t know. But when you go to someone and demand your good name back, it’s not a wise strategy to settle for the first offer they make.”

  “Then I will not take ten thousand dollars on table for good name.” He shook his head in horror that he should have even considered such a puny offer. “They must pay more for terrible, terrible libel they have done on my name. So, when we get money?”

  “I can’t tell you that. We haven’t come to terms with them yet.” She ought to have been dismayed that he didn’t want her to accept the settlement offer and be done with the suit. She wanted to be done with it—logically, at least.

  Emotionally, though...she wanted to fight. She knew the Gazette could afford more than ten grand; surely Leo’s reputation was worth more. But beyond that, she didn’t want to hand Murphy an easy victory. She didn’t want him to think he could steamroll her. Even though she didn’t enjoy talking to him, fencing with him, rubbing clay in his face—well, yes, she had enjoyed that—she didn’t want to stop fighting him before she’d even had a chance to win.

  “Let me call up the lawyer representing the Gazette and see when we can set up another meeting,” she said. “So far, we haven’t had a chance to sit down and talk.” Thanks to his obnoxious children, she added silently. Thanks to his disorganized household and his child-care problems and his daughter’s reluctance to gargle after losing a tooth. Thanks to the way Dennis had stared at her in the bathroom, the way she’d stared at him, the way her breath seemed to stick in her throat and her heart seemed to do an Irish step-dance whenever he got too close.

  She flipped through her Rolodex until she found the newly inserted card for Schenk, Murphy, Lopes and Associates. She punched the number into her phone, then leaned back and listened to the purr of the phone ringing on the other end.

  A chirpy woman answered—the teenage model who ran the reception desk, Gail guessed. “Gail Saunders here,” she said crisply. “I’d like to speak with Dennis Murphy, please.”

  “One moment.” Gail heard a click, and then an excerpt from one of the Brandenburg Concertos. High class entertainment for people put on hold; was she supposed to be impressed?

  Another woman’s voice broke into a particularly vigorous flute passage. “Dennis Murphy’s office—may I help you?”

  Gail identified herself, trying not to resent the fact that Dennis had not one but two people running interference for him, while Gail had to make her own phone calls. “I’m representing Leo Kopoluski in a civil suit against the Gazette,” she said. “I’d like to speak to Dennis, please.” It was the first time she could recall actually referring to him by his first name. She hoped the informality would let his personal secretary know Gail considered herself his equal.

  “I’m afraid he’s out of the office this morning. If you would like to leave your number, he’ll get back to you.”

  Gail would bet he was right now in his office, doing nothing that couldn’t be interrupted—and then she decided that she shouldn’t make bets when it came to Dennis Murphy. “Fine,” she muttered. “Have him get back to me.” She recited her office phone number and hung up.

  Lifting her gaze, she found Leo peering down at her, his dark eyes damp with hope. He reminded her of a mutt beneath the dinner table, begging for dinner scraps. “I get my one million dollars?” he asked.

  “Leo, I can’t even get through to the other side’s lawyer. I’m sorry, but this is going to take time.”

  “Is terrible,” he grumbled. “They don’t take time to ste
al my good name. Only take time to pay for what they steal.”

  “I’m afraid that’s the way it sometimes works. Are you still staying at the YMCA? I’d be happy to telephone you there if anything develops.”

  “Develops? This means I get million dollars?”

  “Try not to keep thinking in terms of a million dollars,” she warned. “You’re not going to see anywhere near that much.”

  “More than ten thousand?” he asked, looking more and more like a puppy hoping for a treat.

  “More than ten thousand,” she assured him, even though she had no way of guaranteeing that he’d see a dime. He looked so needy, so desperate, so anxious to believe the system could work for him, she couldn’t bear to let him leave her office disappointed. “Definitely more than ten thousand.” And for the second time since he invaded her office, she forced a smile.

  ***

  DENNIS STARED at the muffin on his plate. It was the size of a small European car. He was simply not going to be able to eat the whole thing.

  Across the table from him, his client Jamie McCoy seemed blithely undaunted by the size of his muffin. But that was because he had a secret weapon—his nearly one-year-old daughter, who sat at her high chair and eagerly gobbled the chunks of muffin Jamie passed to her from his own plate.

  They were seated around the table on Jamie’s screened porch. Dennis had called Jamie earlier that morning and asked if they could meet to talk about the Gazette, where Jamie used to work before Guy Stuff, his weekly column, had gotten picked up for national syndication. Jamie had said he couldn’t meet Dennis anywhere, since his fiancée had already left for work and Jamie was home with the baby. “I’d find a baby-sitter if I could,” Jamie had said. “But I’ve had real bad luck with baby-sitters. Whenever I hire one, she winds up calling me back and saying she’s got to visit her boyfriend in jail, or she’s got bubble gum stuck in her hair, or she just found out she’s adopted and has to spend the next two weeks searching for her birth mother. Allison’s in charge of the baby-sitters, and she’s already left for the day. But you could come over here if you want.”