Just Friends (20 page)

Freya thought of the crowds, the noise, the heat, and her aching legs. She reminded herself that she was thirty-five years old and hadn’t combed her hair since this morning. She thought of Jack and Candace on the couch, and Fragonard’s young lover with the rose, and Tash’s cat-with-the-cream smile. She saw the invitation in Brett’s eyes and read the eager vitality of his tapping foot.

“Why not?” she said.

CHAPTER 13

Michael hurried out of the elevator and down the hall, the trousers of his ill-fitting new suit flapping around his ankles. He was late, and he couldn’t find the right office.

“Excuse me!” He flagged down a young woman carrying an armful of legal folders. “Can you tell me how to find Suite 719—the Birnbaum case?”

Her eyes gave him a quick up-and-down scrutiny and returned to his face unimpressed. “Do you mean Blumberg?” she inquired.

“Atshoo!” Michael sneezed heavily. “That’s it: Blumberg.”

The woman gave him directions, keeping her distance from his germy presence. Michael hurried on, wiping his sore nose with a handkerchief. He hated this kind of situation, where he had to take over a case with no notice and no background knowledge of the participants. But Fred Rinertson, his boss, had been rushed to the hospital with suspected colitis; he could be out of action for weeks and had specifically requested that Michael handle the case. Michael was unsure whether this was an honor or a test. Either way, his partnership could depend upon his performance.

The case was Blumberg versus Blumberg. He was representing Mr. Lawrence Blumberg, aged seventy-six, of Queens, New York, against his wife, Mrs. Jessica Blumberg, aged seventy-four. It was not the kind of high-profile divorce case normally handled by a senior partner like Fred, but apparently there was some family connection with Mr. Blumberg which Fred had chosen to honor with his personal services. The case seemed straightforward enough, though there had been no time to meet his client in person, nor to review the paperwork as thoroughly as he would have liked. Michael had never felt so stressed: Freya, his mother, the game of hide-and-seek with his dry cleaning, emergency shopping. His routine had gone haywire. As a result he had caught this crippling cold, which showed ominous signs of turning to flu. Michael put a hand to his chest and listened uneasily to its hoarse wheeze. It could even be pneumonia.

Here was Suite 719 at last. Michael straightened the knot of his tie, gave his nose a last-minute blow, and opened the door. An elderly man with sparse gray hair and a doleful expression was sitting in the small reception area. He looked doubtfully up at Michael over half-moon glasses.

“You the young fellow from Rinertson’s?”

“Yes, that’s right, Mr. Birnberg—uh, Blumbaum—that is . . .”

“
Blumberg.
You’re late.”

“Well, I’m here now.” Idiotically, Michael held his briefcase aloft, as if to prove he really was a lawyer.

“Jessie’s already in there.” Mr. Blumberg nodded his head toward a farther door. “With her lawyer—a woman. Seems a very commanding young lady. Everything at her fingertips, if you know what I mean.” His expression implied that he did not necessarily feel the same way about Michael.

Michael hid his irritation with a professional smile. “I’m sure you and I will be more than a match for them.” He sat down next to Mr. Blumberg and took a folder from his briefcase. “Now, if we could just run through a few points before we go in . . .”

Mr. Blumberg was extremely definite in his instructions, but so long-winded that it was a good ten minutes before Michael was able to lead the way to the inner office. He knocked once, and opened the door. It was the usual square, unadorned room, furnished with chairs and a small conference table, where two people sat facing him, each provided with a paper cup. Mrs. Blumberg was handsome and stern looking, with snowy hair pinned in a bun. Next to her was a much younger woman, presumably Mrs. Blumberg’s attorney; though Michael noted, with fleeting disapproval, the distinctly unlawyerly flamboyance of her brilliant turquoise shirt and riot of jet-black hair.

Michael adopted his best smile. “Good afternoon, everybody. I’m so sorry—”

“What do you think you’re doing here?”

To Michael’s astonishment, the young woman with the hair had leaped to her feet and fixed him with an accusing glare.

“I’m Michael Petersen, of—”

“I know who you are,” she said in tones of loathing. “What I asked was why you’re here.” She kneed her chair out of the way and stepped toward him. “Let me tell you, I will not have you interrupting this meeting so that you can slap some ridiculous lawsuit on one of my clients.”

Michael stood frozen in the doorway, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. What lawsuit? Which client? She must have mistaken him for someone else.

“Michael Petersen,” he repeated stubbornly, “of Rinertson and Klang. I’m here to represent Mr. Blumberg.” Belatedly, he stepped forward, allowing Mr. Blumberg to enter the room. “Mr. Rinertson’s been taken sick,” he added.

“Oh.” Far from offering him an apology, the mad woman folded her arms and glowered.

“And you,” Michael scoured his sluggish memory, “must be Ms. da Fillipo.” He tried to inject a cheery note into his voice.

She tossed her head as if this were obvious. “You say you’re here as Mr. Blumberg’s attorney—instead of Fred Rinertson?” She seemed unwilling to accept this fact. “Why wasn’t I informed of this substitution?”

“Didn’t our office—?”

“No, they did not.”

“Well, I apologize for that, naturally, but
atshoo
!” The sneeze shook him from head to toe. Droplets sprayed into the air. “Excuse me. I’m so sorry.” Once again, he dragged his long-suffering handkerchief from his pocket. He felt wretched.

Ms. da Fillipo’s smoldering brown eyes rested on his face for a moment. Then she dropped her eyelids, turned on her heel, and returned to her place next to Mrs. Blumberg. She gave the old woman’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “There’s nothing to worry about, Jessie,” she told her—prematurely, in Michael’s opinion.

He had hardly sat down with his client before she rapped a pencil on the table. “Okay, let’s get started, now that Mr. Petersen has condescended to join us. The purpose of this meeting, as you know, is to talk through your reasons for wanting a divorce and, if you are resolved on such a course, to reach a settlement without having to resort to the expense and stress of a courtroom procedure.”

“But I don’t want a divorce.” Mr. Blumberg said mulishly.

“Well, I do,” said his wife.

“She doesn’t.” Mr. Blumberg nudged Michael. “She’s being stubborn. Can’t you make her come home? I’m lonely, and I can’t find anything.”

Ms. da Fillipo bristled. “I hardly think those are convincing reasons for maintaining a relationship. My client has a very serious grievance. Perhaps, Jessie, you would like to tell us about that.”

But now that her moment had come, Mrs. Blumberg was strangely reluctant. The proximity of her husband of fifty years, sitting right opposite her, seemed to unsettle her.

“Well, he snores,” she offered.

Michael couldn’t help smiling. Ms. da Fillipo shot him a look of contempt.

“And what else?” she prompted.

Mrs. Blumberg stared at her clasped hands. In a low, tight voice she claimed that her husband also left his slippers under the bed instead of putting them in the closet, and that they sometimes fought about what to watch on TV. Finally, at the end of a stumbling catalog she suddenly burst out:

“And he’s having an affair with Mrs. Lemke from upstairs!”

Mr. Blumberg groaned and smacked his forehead, as if this ground had been gone over many times. “All I did was ask her if she remembered how to foxtrot. Before I could stop her, she’d grabbed hold of me and—”

“What kind of a woman dances with strange men in her kitchen in the middle of the day?” Mrs. Blumberg demanded darkly.

“Now, Jessie: Doris is sixty-five years old,” protested Mr. Blumberg.

“Doris, is it now? Well, pardon me.”

“She just moved into our building. She’s a widow. I was being neighborly.”

“Neighborly! Is that why you snuck out to have lunch with her when I was visiting my sister?”

“I did not sneak.”

Back and forth they went. Michael was amazed at their passion. Privately, Mr. Blumberg had conceded to him that for two brief weeks he’d had “a crazy thing” with sixty-five-year-old Doris, though the craziness had consisted of little more than a kiss on the cheek and the odd bunch of flowers. Mr. Blumberg now regarded the episode as closed; he couldn’t see why his wife was making such a fuss, or why he had to apologize. Mrs. Blumberg, on the other hand, felt betrayed; she wanted her pound of flesh.

“I just want to get divorced,” she said, terminating the argument. “It’s the end of the road.”

Ms. da Fillipo looked at Michael triumphantly.
She must really hate men,
he thought.

The discussion moved on to an examination of the Blumberg assets and the settlement to which Mrs. Blumberg might be entitled. Michael protested that Ms. da Fillipo’s demands were absurdly high, but every time he attempted to object, Mr. Blumberg, looking more depressed by the minute, cut the ground from under his feet by saying he didn’t care. Until, that is, Mrs. da Fillipo uttered the words, “And what about Pookie?”

“Ha! I thought we’d get to that,” said Mr. Blumberg, showing more animation than he had all afternoon.

“Pookie’s
my
baby,” said Mrs. Blumberg stubbornly.

“That’s right,” nodded Ms. da Fillipo.

“Well, I’ve got her, and I’m keeping her.” Mr. Blumberg stuck out his chin.

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

Michael was floundering. He tried unobtrusively to peek through his notes. “Let’s see now . . . What exact kind of, uh, baby are we talking about here?”

Three pairs of eyes regarded him with scorn.

“Creeping Jesus!” exclaimed Ms. da Fillipo. “I always knew that you macho power-freaks at Rinertson and Klang had no compassion for the
humanity
of these sad situations, but I thought you might at least have done your homework. Pookie is a five-year-old pedigree Highland terrier, purchased
in person
by my client, as the breeder will testify.”

“Paid for with
my
money,” Mr. Blumberg pointed out. “Jessie doesn’t have any money of her own; she’s never worked.”

“Never worked?
Never worked!
” Ms. da Fillipo flung back her head and stared down her high-bridged nose at poor Mr. Blumberg. “The woman who has made your home, who cooked your dinner, who bore your children; the woman who tends to you when you’re sick, who listens to the trivia of your working day and gives you the warmth of her body at night—
for fifty years
: How can you say that woman has never worked?”

There was an intimidated silence. Michael tried to remember what he knew of Ms. Caterina da Fillipo: nothing, except that she worked for a family law partnership that had a radical reputation and handled a lot of legal aid cases. The word
feminist
formed in his mind.

“Isn’t that just typical of men?” she continued, in a quiet, sinister voice. Unnervingly, her laser gaze now moved to Michael. “Does the woman not contribute to your life who shares your bed, who puts up with your musical tastes even when she doesn’t like opera—”

“Opera?” both Blumbergs chorused in surprise.

“—who drinks skim milk because of
your
dietary requirements—”

“—skim milk?”

“—and endures your sexual inadequacies?”

“Jessie! How could you?”

Michael’s head spun. It was almost as if she was talking about himself and Freya. But how could that be?

“You pursue this woman.” Ms. da Fillipo thundered on like a runaway juggernaut. “You send her flowers. You beg her to share your life. Then one day—
pfff!
—you decide you don’t need her anymore. So what do you do? You take her to a
public place
and cast her off.”

“But Jessie left
me
,” objected the old man.

“Of course, I left you! You were having an affair with Mrs. Lemke.”

“Once and for all, I was not—”

“You cast her off, I say—homeless, alone, crying her heart out, like an old—an old—”

“Like an old, homeless, lonely shoe,” Michael offered dryly. “In tears.”