Chapter 35
Daniel
Prescott leans against the doorjamb with his arms folded across his chest. “I can’t believe that you’re serious about this.”
I toss him a wide grin over my shoulder. “As serious as a heart attack, man.” I snatch a photo of Sebastian and Grace off of my desk. Folding the back carefully, I set it at the top of the box.
Prescott shakes his head in disbelief. “But you’re at the peak of your game,” he argues, “You’re in the middle of the Shinewell case. You could take it all the way to the Supreme Court, if need be. Really make a name for yourself on the national scene…And you just quit?”
I lift one shoulder and let it fall. “Some things in life are more important than work. Family tops the list.”
He casts a sceptical look my way.
I sigh. “If you had to choose between your wife and unborn child on the one hand, and winning some court case on the other hand, which would you choose?”
“You know what I’d choose Daniel.” He’s obviously irritated by my condescending tone. “I just don’t see why you can’t have both.”
I sit on the lip of my desk and stare down at the carpet. “Maybe I can have both but I want one so bad that it makes the other seem completely inconsequential.”
“So, you’re just gonna give it all up?”
I glance around at my corner office. I feel a pang in my gut at the realization that I’m walking away from this place for good. Not that I’ll miss the furnishings, per se. The place is dreary, a classic lawyer’s den with its heavy bookcases and dusty law journals on the shelves. Thick drapes on the windows, the mandatory tufted swivelling leather chair behind an imposing desk and wood-framed diplomas hanging on the wall. The room could use a makeover.
Still, I’ve spent so much time here over the past few months, it’s become my second home. And that’s sad. Pathetic. I’d rather be in my real home, snuggled on the couch with my wife and child instead of trying to get comfortable on the musty-smelling sofa in the corner of my office for a few minutes of sleep after pulling yet another all-nighter before an early morning meeting with a demanding client that I can’t stand or a hearing before a judge who has a god complex.
I want something simple.
“I’m just gonna give it all up,” I echo sounding a lot more confident than I feel.
I have more than a year’s worth of expenses saved up in the bank. Plus, we have money left over from Grace’s settlement with the hospital. I think that gives me more than enough time to figure out my next move. And worse comes to worst, we could refinance the house or downsize.
But of course I have that niggling voice in the back of my head warning that some disaster’s gonna hit and my family will end up living under the Reyfield Bridge and I’ll end up doing spoken word poetry on the corner outside of Flynn and Murray’s just to put food into their rumbling stomachs. I remind my brain that I’m being melodramatic. Things will work out. As long as I have Grace by my side, under my sheets at night, everything will be fine.
I grab the squishy stress ball sitting on the edge of my desk and toss it his way without warning. His reflexes are sharp and he reacts quickly, catching it before it hits the floor. “On the bright side, I’m passing the Shinewell case on to you. It’s your name that will be in the newspaper when you kick the town council’s butt in court. I’m sure that within no time, you’ll be the one sitting in this corner office, at this desk.”
With a tilt of his head and a pompous smile, he says, “I know. I’m a much better lawyer than you, anyway.”
One corner of my mouth flips up in a grin and I laugh deep in my throat. “Keep dreamin’, kid!”
His phone beeps in his pocket and he pulls it out to check it. “Okay, enough commemorating,” he says with a grunt. “Duty calls. Some of us around here actually have to work for our accolades.” He gives me one last look, like I’m about to be deployed to the warzone or something equally dramatic. “See you around, Trotten.”
I give him a wordless salute and he disappears out the door. I push back against the uneasy feeling in my chest. I silently remind myself that I’m making the right decision. I need Grace to know that I’m serious this time. I’m committed to her and our family. No matter what.
I lean over my desk and grab my personal effects (and of course, some mementos like a few extra ball-points and a calculator, just in case). I toss the items into my box. My eyes sweep over the space one last time before I make my grand exit.
Oh, right! My mini-aloe vera plant on the windowsill. A gift from my mom. She’d kill me if I left it behind.
I hear someone clear their throat from the doorway. My gaze travels over my shoulder and I find Brittany Delaney standing in the doorframe.
Ugh!
“Hello Daniel.”
“Brittany – now really isn’t a good time.” I hold out my hand placatingly.
She ignores me as she approaches my desk, her hips swishing left to right. “The receptionist wasn’t at her desk so I saw myself in. I hope that’s not a problem.” Her red-painted lips stretch into a cloying smile.
“I’m actually quite busy right now. I don’t have the time to talk,” I tell her uninterestedly.
“I’m tired of you giving me the run-around.” Irritation pleats her brow. “I have a legal matter to discuss with you.” She perches on the edge of my desk and runs the pointy tips of her red nails over the wood. The scratching sound grates on my nerves as much as the sound of her voice does. “I need you to help me identify the father of my little brat.”
I feel sorry for the child, truly. Brittany doesn’t seem to have a maternal bone in her surgically enhanced body.
But her paternity issues are not my concern. I’m on my way out the door. “Not accepting clients right now. If you need legal representation, I’ll gladly introduce you to one of my colleagues who has space in his calendar–”
She scoffs. “Honey, you don’t want me going to your colleagues with this. Trust me.”
I slam my fist into the desk and speak through gritted teeth. “Brittany, I really don’t have the fucking time–”
She leans close and the mawkish scent of her cheap perfume hits my lungs, causing my stomach to roil. “You’re not understanding. I’m not looking for a lawyer,” she informs me in a rough tone. “I’m looking for some DNA. A spit swab, maybe. Or a strand of hair. A container of sperm. Up to you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask this ridiculous woman.
“Daniel, I’m pretty sure that you’re the father of my child.”
A cold waves washes over me from head to toe as I stand frozen in place. What she’s saying makes no sense. My eyes go to her belly.
“I have no idea whose kid you’re carrying but it’s definitely not mine! I know that I didn’t touch you that night at Flynn and Murray’s!”
She laughs again. “I’m not pregnant now, you fool. I have an eight-year-old daughter. We have an eight-year-old daughter…actually, she might be nine. I’m not even sure anymore. Whatever.”
Bile and panic rise in my chest. “Fuck no! There’s no way I’m letting you pawn off some kid on me. You slept around in high school. You were with everyone from Jakob Wilkinson to the scary tattooed guy on community service who used to help out in the cafeteria. That kid isn’t mine!”
With an eyeroll, she leans closer. “Yes, I slept with a few guys in high school but you’re the only one who went in bareback and I got a child out of it.”
I stare at her dumbfounded. “You are crazy! Get the fuck away from me!”
She reaches into her purse and hands me a document. A paternity suit. From Jim Thatcher’s law firm. Shit!
“Look – I know you wish I’d just go away but that’s not happenin’. We can do this the easy, quiet, private way. Or we can do it the Jim Thatcher way. And we both know that the Jim Thatcher way ain’t pretty. Sorry babe, but those are the only options you’ve got.”
This is one of the rare moments in my life when I’ve been absolutely dumbfounded. I watch her, paralyzed by my helplessness.
She slips her business card into my hand and spins toward the door. She holds up her fingers like a telephone. “Call me.”
She struts down the hallway toward the exit.