The First Law of Love (7 page)

Helen Anne, taking her seat, scolded, “Bite your tongue, Albert, goodness.” To me she said, “Dear, please do eat. You're as thin as a whippet. We'll fatten you up out here, mark my words.”

I took up my fork and said, “I haven't eaten such a good meal in a long time.”

“Law school,” Al sighed, buttering a thick slice of bread. The three of us were settled intimately at one end of a formal dining table, a fire crackling just behind me. I felt far more comfortable with them than I would have guessed, as though I was seated with my grandparents; for a second I imagined what dining with Ron Turnbull and his wife would be like, and then repressed a slight shudder. Assuming I would ever be invited to dinner with Ron and Christina.

Certainly it would take place at one of Chicago's top ten restaurants, formalwear and crystal, escargot and champagne, proper forks and my internal guard on all speech firmly in place. Ron's wife would drink vodka martinis, probably exclusively; she was only a few years older than me, possessed of the kind of outrageous beauty that very few can actually achieve, the kind that Ron's money clearly attracted (as she surely wasn't legitimately attracted to
him
), and then I almost giggled at this uncharitable thought.

“I remember well those days,” Al said. “I must have weighed a good forty pounds less than I do now.”

Helen Anne dished more mashed potatoes onto my plate without my asking, but somehow this only warmed my heart, and sharpened the comparison I had been making between her and Christina Turnbull. Dining in Al's home, wearing a linen sundress and sandals, my hair in a loose bun at the back of my head, I realized I would never feel this sort of comfort with any boss in Chicago.

Enjoy it while you can
, I told myself, ladling gravy over my pork chops.

“Tish, we practice primarily family and bankruptcy law, and serve most all of southeastern Rosebud County,” Al told me as the meal progressed. “I'm a jack of all trades, to be honest. I know in the city,” and I understood he meant Chicago, “there's more exclusivity in what you'd practice on a daily basis. Here, I have to be everything for everyone, so to speak, but it makes the days interesting. Rupert James and I worked together for the last fifteen years. He was more than ready to retire, but I almost don't know what to do with myself now. I'm close to retirement myself, and none of mine or Rupert's children are here to take over the practice. And now all of this business with Capital Overland. I've been beside myself.”

“In your opinion, what prompted the company to turn its eye to Jalesville?” I asked. “I mean, I understand their basic motive, snapping up land and reselling. But why Jalesville? They've been almost exclusively purchasing in Wyoming for the past five years.”

“It has to do with the closing of the power plant,” Al said. “Coal mining is a big industry around here, and when the plant closed, it put half the area out of work. Companies have ways of smelling opportunities, that's what. Here's prime land that they can snap up and resell, knowing that plenty of folks will agree to sell because they need money now.”

“Can the plant be reopened?” I asked, my mind clicking along. “Why did it close?”

“They claimed bankruptcy at the time,” Al explained, his mouth full. “I drafted motions for more than one worker, but the plant did everything by the book, and because they were laid off, the workers were able to file for unemployment for a time. Problem is, most of the ranches in the area are no longer working ones, meaning they don't have the livestock anymore. People sitting on hectares of property, most often that have been in their family for generations, just like ours here, and I'm afraid they see this as an opportunity to make money on something that's arguably useless now.”

“Never mind that the town will no longer exist,” I said. No one in Chicago would give two fucks about it, but it made my heart hurt on some level. This was home to hundreds of people. Where would they go now? Who would care?

“According to Derrick Yancy's exact words, that is not his problem,” said Al.

“He's trouble,” Helen Anne added, eyeing me intently. “You're a lovely young woman. He'll try to manipulate you, mark my words. Albert, you don't let that happen.”

I felt my spine straightening, ready to inform her that
I
would not let that happen, but then I wisely bit my tongue; she was offering the kind of commentary that Grandma and Aunt Ellen would, back home. She was only worried about me. I would prove that I could hold my own, and then some.

Al said, “You'll meet plenty like him in your career, Tish, I hate to say. He's typical of a Chicago-style businessman, unfortunately. This will be good experience for you. Ron knew what he was doing, sending you our way for the summer.”

“Field experience,” I said, repeating Dad's words, and Al winked kindly at me.

“Indeed. Tomorrow why don't you head into the office around eight, and I'll show you the ropes, introduce you to Mary, my secretary. She already baked a half a dozen loaves of banana bread for you.”

“And I'm sending you home with two more of sourdough,” Helen Anne added. “Just came out of the oven a few hours ago.”

“Thank you,” I told her, gratefully. “Everyone has made me feel so welcome.”

“That's our job,” Al said. “Small-town nice, right? Now, eat up and let's chat about non-work-related things, shall we? Enough time for work tomorrow.”

Exhausted, I slept deeply and dreamlessly that night, curled beneath the sheets I'd purchased before leaving Minnesota, one pillow tucked against my stomach, my customary sleeping position. Sometime in the night it rained, as the sharp pleasant scent of it was in my nose as I woke up; the sky out my bedroom window faced south and was lit with a rosy glimmer, suggesting a little lingering cloud cover. I snuggled a second pillow beneath my jaw, curling tighter and thinking about everything I had discussed with Al and Helen Anne last night; I had left their house feeling like a beloved granddaughter, gifted with loaves of sourdough bread, a Tupperware of leftovers from dinner, and an entire pan of spinach quiche that Helen Anne had baked for my breakfast.

Don
'
t get used to this
, I reminded myself.
This is way beyond what you should expect
.

I showered and applied make-up appropriate for a day appointment, the amount I would have worn to try a mock case for appellate court in school. I twisted my curly hair up high on my head and pressed both hands to my stomach, drawing a fortifying breath. I was dressed in bra and panties only, and eyed myself critically in the minuscule bathroom mirror. As a teenager, I had been so self-conscious of my growing breasts that I'd worn sports bras until my first year at the U of M in Minneapolis, when it had finally dawned on me that maybe I shouldn't be so quick to hide what some people would consider an asset.

Before the mirror now, I turned to the side and sucked in my belly severely, sticking out my chest and wiggling my shoulders. I rolled my eyes at myself, giggling a little, considering that I was hardly wearing seductive lingerie, the kind appropriate for such a pose. My bra was a serviceable nude-tone from Victoria's Secret, my non-matching panties a flowered, department store pair that a girl of twelve could wear. I giggled again, clearly already beginning to go a little crazy, here in Montana.

I quit fooling around after a glance at the clock on my phone display; it was seven-thirty-six and Al was expecting me by eight. I dressed in a hurry, slipping into nylons, my favorite indigo-blue blouse, sleeveless and with a subtly-ruffled v-neck, and my cream-colored jacket-and-skirt set. With these I paired my nude heels and buttoned my jacket with only a little tremble in my stomach.

There. You look good. Professional and polished.

Not a bit frightened or uncertain
.

I locked my apartment (having foregone breakfast, determined to start a better routine tomorrow) and drove across Jalesville under the morning sun. The town was bustling as I braked to a stop at the streetlight where I would turn right to get to the law office. Al had said to park in the lot to the side. I realized there wasn't any traffic and that I didn't need to wait for the green, rolling my eyes at myself as I turned. I drove slowly, peering at shops and wondering at the people moving on the sidewalks. Would I get to know any of them? Well, that is?

I saw an appliance shop, a diner, the hardware store where Wy had said he worked, and then my eyes roved over a shop with a front window adorned by the words
Spicer Music
, and my heart gave a sudden, unexpected thump.

Is that
…

I wonder if
…

The sign in the door was flipped to OPEN. I couldn't see anyone through the window, though the sun was at the wrong angle, gilding my vision. I realized the car was barely doing more than crawling along the street and that there was a truck behind me, surely wondering what the hell I was doing, so I accelerated and drove on to the law office, where I found the lot with no trouble, and parked beside Al's rusted-out pickup. This wasn't exactly a confidence-inspiring vehicle; I wondered if he switched it out with another when he appeared in court. Or maybe around here, people knew him well enough not to judge his legal abilities based on his wheels.

Heart clipping along, I entered the law office to the tinkle of a bell above the door. The room smelled of coffee and books. Al was bent over a desk, pointing out something on a file folder to a woman who appeared old enough to be his mother. Both of them looked my way and both of them grinned as though I had come to inform them that they'd won the state lotto.

“Tish, good morning!” Al welcomed. To the woman at the desk, he said, “Mary, this is our new associate, Patricia Gordon.”

New associate.

I liked how that sounded. I went directly to her and offered my hand. She carefully reached to remove her carnation-pink reading glasses, which were linked to a bejeweled chain around her neck, lowering these to her ample bosom. She took my hand into both of her soft, wrinkled and much-spotted own hands, patted me twice, and then said, “Oh heavens, I wish my youngest grandson wasn't yet married. Albert, you didn't tell me our new girl was so beautiful. I just wish this was last year instead of this year. That way Harold wouldn't be married to that Denise.”

I blinked, seeing Al's mouth lift into a smile out of the corner of my eye. The woman at the desk released my hand and continued to peer at me. She was eighty if she was a day, dressed in a pink dress with pleated sleeves and lace at the collar, matching lipstick and eyebrows drawn upon her face with great care. She smelled of a delicate, floral perfume.

“Tish, this is Mary Stapleton, our dear secretary.”

“I've been at this firm since I was a girl your age,” Mary explained. “I worked for Rupert James's father before him, God rest him now. Rupert's retired just recently. He wasn't as good at his job as Albert here, however. Don't be fooled by Albert. He's sharp as a little tack. He just looks absent-minded.”

I choked back a giggle and nodded seriously. I said politely, “I'm happy to meet you. And thank you for the compliment.” I had never been one for being able to comfortably accept words about my looks, so I added, “I take them where I can get them, these days.”

“Bosh,” Mary said at once. “Those eyes of yours, blue as a spring-fed lake. You've had compliments by the dozen, or young men these days don't know their rears from a hole in the ground!”

I did giggle then, looking helplessly at Al.

“Now, if you've got the brains to back up the looks, you're a force to be reckoned with,” Mary continued. “You've got the look of it, somehow.” She gave me the kind of eagle-eye worthy of a Northwestern Law School professor, and I felt my shoulders squaring in response.

“I do, and I am,” I said, and she smiled wider.

“Thatta girl,” Mary said, and then to Al, “Give this young lady something to do, Albert, for heaven's sake.”

Al showed me around the office while Mary began clickety-clacking on a computer keyboard, reading glasses back in place, pink lips pursed. My desk was to the right, just beside the front window, with a view of the activity on Main Street. I saw a computer, file cabinets, an old-fashioned phone with a long corkscrew cord, a wheeled desk chair.

“You can bring whatever you'd like to spruce up the space,” Al told me, leading me behind the counter that ran the length of the main room; his desk was towards the back, near a closed door labeled CONFERENCE ROOM. “There's one bathroom, just over there, and a storage room down that hall. We haven't redecorated in some time,” he added, as though apologetically.

“No, this is great,” I said, recalling the lack of any personal space I'd ever been afforded during my summer externships at Turnbull and Hinckley.

“I'll have you start researching right away, if you would,” Al said. “This next Tuesday, a week from tomorrow, there's a city council meeting at the courthouse. An information session I requested, actually, and Derrick Yancy has also requested to present. He wants to argue why people should sell to him, why it's in their best interest. I want to prove him wrong, and that's where you can help me.”

I nodded, tucking stray hair behind my ears. I said, “Just point me in the right direction.”

Four hours later, I had shed my jacket. Al had left an hour earlier to attend a hearing at the courthouse, and Mary a second ago, for lunch. She had addressed me as ‘Patty' when she bid me farewell, but I felt impolite correcting her. I looked up from my notes to watch her make her way down the sidewalk under the brilliant noon sun, which sparked in her jeweled glasses chain, nearly blinding me. I took the opportunity of being momentarily alone to stretch, twisting at the waist and rubbing the back of my neck; this office was not air-conditioned, not that I was a complainer, but the only window that actually opened was on the opposite side of the room, near Mary's desk.

I had been gathering information all morning, and was proud of the stack of notes I'd already managed to take. Al had tasked me with looking into Capital Overland's activity over the past five years, specifically the fates of the people displaced from the towns the company had purchased and then typically dozed and resold. What I had discovered wasn't a pretty picture. The families that I had found information for had not fared any better after selling and relocating; so far, dozens had since declared bankruptcy.

“Draft up an argument,” Al told me. “We want to rally all the locals at the meeting. We want solidarity. Point out that they aren't assured of finding a better circumstance by selling and relocating.”

I was thinking about getting a batch of t-shirts made that read
Save Jalesville!,
as this had been my mantra for the last month. Truly, though, I felt I was doing something worthwhile, a feeling I had not experienced in some time. If ever. I was just about to bend back over my notes when a movement out the window caught my eye and I unexpectedly received a jolt of pure and unrefined adrenaline. A man who was unmistakably Case Spicer was approaching the law office from across the street, and my heart stuttered, kick-started and then pounded hard, fueling the rush of angst in my entire body.

Oh my God. Oh my God.

Is my picture still in his wallet?

All those things he said at Camille
'
s wedding
…

He said he knew we were meant to be together
…

That
'
s long gone now, for fuck
'
s sake, Tish.

Wow, he looks different than I remember
…

The bell above the law office door tingled as he entered, his gaze scanning the otherwise empty room before coming to rest on me. Maybe I imagined that his eyes held all of the attraction and longing that I remembered from years ago, the puppy-love he'd so openly admitted to back then.

You
'
re imagining it
, I told myself harshly, heart thudding so hard it was probably audible, even as I rose to my feet and offered what I hoped was a professional and impersonal smile. Currently he was stone-faced and serious looking, no trace of a return smile or even recognition. I had been imagining anything else present in his expression.

“Hi,” I said, my voice embarrassingly husky. I lightly cleared my throat and continued, “How have you been?”

“Great,” he said shortly, and his deep voice was just as I recalled, though tempered by its new, somber nature. “And you?”

“Well,” I responded, just a tiny bit breathless as he came to a halt on the far side of the hip-high counter, my heart still going crazy. “Very well, thank you.”

Case nodded at this, without saying a word, while our eyes held and I tried not to appear to be marveling at him as much as I actually was. The guy I remembered from my sister's wedding had been shitfaced drunk. The man before me could not have been more different; he regarded me with a solemn expression and I studied him just as silently.

He was taller than I remembered, lean but with broad shoulders, and close-cropped reddish-gold hair. I vaguely recalled at the wedding that it had been longer, and even a little curly. His eyes were a rich auburn-brown, like cinnamon, and held no trace of apparent humor, hardly even seemed to acknowledge that we knew one another, at least marginally. I did a quick calculation and determined that he was now probably about thirty years old. My gaze dropped to his lips, crisply sculpted above a strong chin, and then I realized I was staring, very non-professionally. Almost moronically.

I opened my mouth to say something, anything, to fill what was rapidly becoming a tense silence, but then he said, a little more softly, “You got in on Saturday night, Clark said. You were still sleeping when I was there yesterday morning.”

“You were there?” I asked weakly. “I was…I was a little…”

I couldn't tell if he seemed amused, if that's what was subtly present in his voice as he said, “Clark explained.”

I swallowed at my own foolishness. What a lovely impression to make after seven years, hungover and sleeping it off in someone else's guest room. When I had accused
him
of being a drunk moron, years back.

“Oh,” I stumbled, embarrassed and flushing, fidgeting with the bottom hem of my blouse. I was terribly self-conscious of my less-than-completely-professional appearance. To change the subject I said, “Clark invited me to dinner at their place on Friday.”

“It's been a long time,” Case finally allowed, still holding my gaze prisoner. He seemed to be trying to get a read on me, to discern who I was now versus who I had been; or maybe that was just what I was doing to him. He added, “You're a lawyer now, just like you wanted.”

I flushed even worse, feeling the heat of it move from cheeks to chest. And I never flushed. I affirmed, “Yes, I just graduated this last spring.”

“Clark said you were out here to work for the summer.”

“Yes. It's more a favor for my future boss, indirectly, who owns land out here. Apparently there's a buyer snapping up acreage, who wants —”

“Capital Overland,” Case said at once, and his face grew instantly more animated. He said, “They've approached everyone in the area. They want quick sales, no trouble.”