Chapter Twenty-Three
Lenore from the Holden Center greets me as though I’m an old friend as I take a seat across from her in her cozy office. “It’s good to meet you in person. We always appreciate law school grads volunteering their time. I know how busy your first few years as an attorney can be.”
“Thanks. It’s good to be here.”
“You mentioned you have a friend whom you helped with a TRO?”
“Yes. I wasn’t sure how to go about it, so I did some online research. Your website was really helpful.”
She nods and removes her glasses, folding them in her hand. “That’s our goal. Navigating your way through the process can be daunting. And let’s face it, going to court for the first time is totally intimidating. We want to make every step as painless as possible. It’s why we truly value the help of our volunteers.” She smiles and slides her glasses back on. “We have a range of opportunities for law school grads, including drafting pleadings and filing documents with the court. And, of course, we’ll have you conduct client interviews. Once you’ve passed the bar, additional opportunities are available.”
“It sounds great. When can I start?”
“We’ll have you come in for training and then get you added to our volunteer schedule. The next training is set for tomorrow at five thirty if you’re free.”
“I’ll be here.”
I know Kenneth is in a foul mood before he says a word. It’s in the way he elbows his way into my office and manhandles the guest chair. “I’ve been looking for you all morning. Do you have the interrogatories I need?”
It’s 8:39. He hasn’t been looking for me all morning, being that I’m not even required to be here until nine o’clock. “What interrogatories are you referring to?” I ask. I know my question will piss him off, but there is no way to ask without him getting all bent.
He crosses his arms in front of him and rolls back on his heels. “Jones v. Lankershim. I need them immediately.”
He stands there all puffed up like he’s the most important person in the world. “I don’t have them.”
“What do you mean you don’t have them?”
I clench my hand into a fist. I. Can’t. Stand. Him. “You never asked me to do the interrogatories.” I grab a sheet of paper from my desk and hand it to him. “This is a list of everything you’ve asked me to do up through last night at nine. Next to each item, I’ve noted the method in which the request came through, whether it was in person, via email, text, or phone message. Take a look.”
He grabs the page from me and scans it before tossing it onto my desk. “I’ll email you the information.”
“Thanks.”
Once he has the door closed behind him, I lay my head on my desk. It has to get better.
By four o’clock, I’m ready to punch a hole in the wall. I’ve been yelled at by Hammond’s manager three times, by the security guard downstairs once for forgetting my badge when I raced out to grab a quick sandwich that I ate at my desk, and I’ve lost count of how many times Kenneth has shouted at me. He storms into my office, shoving a handful of gummy candies into his mouth, and I brace myself for another flurry of demands.
“I can’t make the Harold Kroeker fund-raising event tonight. I need you to attend for me.”
My training at the Holden Center is tonight. I push a hand through my hair. “What time do you need me there?”
“It starts at seven thirty. Business attire is fine. I know we both have plenty of work to do until then. I’ll text you the details.”
“Thanks.” I breathe a sigh of relief. I’ll have just enough time to go to the training and make it to the event. I grab my phone and text Craig.
Any chance you’re going to the Harold Kroeker soiree tonight?
He replies immediately.
No. I didn’t have an extra fifteen hundred bucks. And I’m in Bumfuck, Idaho, for depos.
Ohh. Rough.
Rough doesn’t begin to describe it. You should see what they pass off for towels at the motel. I was about to snatch some rags from the local car wash as an upgrade.
Aw, hang in there.
I lean forward in the classroom chair, my legal pad on my lap and pen in hand. The instructor sits on the edge of a rectangular table, facing us. Her black hair is pulled tight into a bun at the nape of her neck, a red silk flower tucked behind her ear.
“Thank you for coming, everyone. My name is Valentina Ramirez. I’m a second-year attorney, and I’ve been here at the Holden Center for three years as a volunteer.” She hops down from the desk and paces across the front of the room like a skilled talk-show host. “So a little bit about my history. I moved to Los Angeles from Guatemala when I was eight, along with my parents and four younger siblings. None of us spoke a word of English.” She lifts her hands. “But we knew poverty. We knew abuse. School and the hope that I could help people in my community one day were my escapes.”
An hour later, the first six pages of my legal pad are covered in notes, from what to say to potential clients, to what forms we need to familiarize ourselves with, and what rooms in the courthouse we need to be able to get to blindfolded. (She was joking about the blindfold part, of course.)
Volunteers begin to trickle through the exits, but I hang behind. Who cares if I’m late to the Harold Kroeker event? It’s not like Kenneth has a GPS cuff strapped to my ankle.
I introduce myself, and she greets me like the sun. She’s a total dynamo. All this time I’ve been trying to squeeze myself into the word—the word Thomas used to describe the kind of person he wanted to hire—but it doesn’t fit. Valentina wears it like a crown.
“Thanks for joining us today. Are you a law student?”
“I graduated Loyola in May and have been clerking at Janks and Lowe.”
“Impressive. They’re a great firm.”
I nod, wondering if she knows Kenneth. “I’m learning a lot.”
“You asked some important questions that got everyone thinking—including me. You come across as very legal-minded.”
Why doesn’t Kenneth see it? She’s the kind of person I want to work for, not him. His words cause the nasty little tendrils of insecurity to creep in and choke me. I can’t ever catch my breath. And Valentina walks in and makes me want to dance. “I really appreciate that, coming from you. Your talk got me thinking. I just helped a friend obtain a TRO, and I can see just from that experience how overwhelming it could be for people. Your work here is so important. Thanks for doing what you do. It really matters.”
“I think so, too. And I appreciate your words. See you next time, Katie.”
As I walk to my car, something like hope starts to take root in me. It could be a grass is greener thing, but I get the feeling my volunteer work here is going to fulfill me in a way that Janks and Lowe doesn’t.
I screech into the self-parking area at the Museum of Contemporary Art and rush to check in at the guest table, surreptitiously scanning the list in hopes of seeing a familiar name, but the woman helping me flips the pages so quickly I can’t read a thing. With a sigh, I turn from the table. A server balancing a silver tray of wineglasses approaches me. “Would you like some wine? Both are from the central coast. The red is a 2011 Zaca Mesa Z Cuvée, and the white is a 2013 Edna Valley Chardonnay.”
“I’ll try the Z Cuvée. Thanks.” After selecting a glass, I ease into the crowd. Small groups of middle-aged people are dotted around the room. Some attorneys are from my mother’s firm, and I wonder if she’s here. Slipping my phone from my purse, I dial her number and head into the first exhibit room, away from the cacophony of voices. Studying a painting made up of harsh black lines and red splotches, I wait for Mom to answer.
After the fourth ring, I end the call without leaving a message. A part of me was hoping to tell her about the Holden Center.
I move to the next painting, a bright-orange block of wood with symmetrical rows of nails hammered into it. It looks like something an art therapy patient with anger issues would create. As much as I don’t like it, I’m pretty sure it was rewarding to make. Pounding nails into the wood like that after a day with Kenneth would be extremely therapeutic. I smile at the thought and startle when I hear my name.
“Katie Capwell. I was hoping I’d bump into you again one day.”
“Edward! It’s nice to see you.”
He looks farther down the exhibit room. “Are you here with a date? Or your mother?” He asks the second question with a trace of hope in his voice.
“Neither. My boss couldn’t make it tonight, so I’m here in his place.”
“We’re in the same boat. I didn’t necessarily want to be here, either, but my parents insisted I join them. We’re big supporters of Mr. Kroeker, although I could do without all the fund-raising events I’m expected to attend.”
He’s wearing a well-cut navy suit with a pressed white shirt and a mustard-colored tie with tiny dots. I steal a closer look and realize they’re actually turkeys. I certainly wouldn’t have pegged Edward as a dotted-tie kind of guy, let alone a holiday one.
He catches me looking and smiles. “It’s from my grandmother. She’s here tonight, so I figured I should wear it.”
“That’s sweet. And it’s very seasonally appropriate. You pull it off nicely.”
“Thanks. I see you already have a drink, or I’d offer you one. Would you like to take in the art with me?”
“I’d love to.”
We stroll to the next piece. Edward examines it, a hand on his chin. “I love the way the artist conveys feeling in the piece. Do you like it?”
“Honestly? I can appreciate it, but I wouldn’t want it hanging in my house. It’s like it’s shouting.”
“Huh. I see what you mean. It’s tough with art, like we’re supposed to be in awe of it, but sometimes it looks like a toddler threw paint at the wall.”
“I guess it just goes to show there’s something for everyone.”
He smiles at me. “Good point. It’s in line with the idea that there’s someone for everyone, too. At least, I’d like to think there is.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I move ahead to the next piece. I wonder if six months from now, I’ll remind him of his comment and we’ll laugh at the irony because it turned out we were each other’s someone. The thought surprises me.
We gaze at Number 3, 1948, by Jackson Pollack in silence. I feel guilty that I don’t love it. Whatever Edward is thinking he keeps to himself. He turns to me. “I’m not sure I need to see anymore. Would you like to grab a drink?”
Before running into him, my plan was to make an appearance and leave early so I could go home to bed. But something is urging me to go with Edward. I meet his earnest blue eyes and say yes.
“The Omni Hotel is walking distance. Shall we go to the bar there?”
“Sure.” I haven’t been to the Omni, but Craig went just last week and said it was wonderful.
The lobby is beautiful—gleaming marble floors, tons of windows, and a floral display fit for a palace. I’ve been to plenty of events at luxury hotels with my mother, and stayed at them, too, of course, but I haven’t been to one with a guy. Edward keeps his hand on my arm as we arrive at the bar. It’s chilly, but we decide to sit outside, since there are plenty of outdoor heaters, and the tables have fire pits built in.
Edward sits close to me on the small patio sofa. “This is great. Much better than some political event.”
The sofa feels heavenly, and I curl into it. “So much better.” I take in the expansive view of the city. “Thanks for bringing me here. It’s beautiful.”
He clasps his hand over mine. “You’re beautiful.”
Whoa. I certainly didn’t expect that. “Thanks.”
A server appears with two menus. After skimming one quickly, Edward orders a variety of small dishes for us to share.
She smiles, revealing one dimple in her cheek. “Anything to drink with that?”
He turns to me. “Are you a fan of sparkling wine?”
“Yes. That sounds nice.” I can’t deny that Edward has great taste and is a perfect gentleman. It makes me feel safe, which is something I didn’t know I needed until the disastrous date with Lachlan. He orders two glasses of the Le Grand Courtâge Grand Cuvée, and once again, I’m impressed.
The server leaves our table, and Edward tilts his head, looking at me. “When I first met you, I got the feeling you couldn’t get away fast enough.”
My face burns. “No! That wasn’t it at all. I didn’t know my mom was having a party, and I just wasn’t in the mood to be there with all those people. I’m sorry if I was rude.”
“You weren’t.”
“Good.” I move my hands over the fire, warming them. “So how’s life at Benner and Benner?”
“It’s busy, as always. I got a great verdict on a tough case a few weeks ago,” he says with a wide smile. “One more win under my belt.”
“Congrats. That’s exciting.”
“Yeah.” He grins. “I’m pumped.”
The waitress brings our drinks along with a warm basket of bread. “Try the truffle butter with the bread. It’s amazing.”
Edward lifts his glass in a toast as she leaves. “Here’s to a fortuitous turn of events.”
We clink our glasses. The bubbles tickle my throat as I sip, and I can’t help but think I could get used to this. The hotel is lovely. Edward is smart and nice. Even the weather is cooperating. “It was fortuitous, wasn’t it? I was having a rough day, but to end it with this? It’s perfect.”
We leisurely make our way through the small plates, discussing the flavors and gushing over the truffle butter. Edward gives me a play-by-play of the trial he won, and I have to say, it’s very interesting—kind of like listening to one of my favorite law school professors. I almost feel like I should be taking notes. It’s obvious he loves his job.
After he pays the bill, we head back to the lobby. “Thanks for dinner. I really enjoyed it. Being at a hotel made me feel like we were on vacation. It was a nice break from the real world.”
He pauses before we step outside. “So when we’re back in the real world, will I get to see you again?”
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
“I’d like that, too. Saturday night?”
I pull my phone from my purse to check my calendar. The words on the screen make me catch my breath. Ryan Brincatt. Missed call and voicemail. What’s that all about? My wishful mind says he wanted to hear my voice. I quickly shift to my calendar, scanning it. Hannah is coming down on Friday to finalize wedding things, but she has to leave Saturday afternoon. “Saturday looks perfect.”
He kisses my cheek. “Until then.”
Curiosity nips at me as I walk to my car, but Ryan probably just called to pass me Javier’s number. I don’t need the disappointment.
Tucking my phone into the center console, I start the drive home. Visions of the evening flicker in my mind as I blaze down the freeway. Tonight was lovely. Edward is easy to be around. He’s pleasant and predictable. It’s a good sign. A little voice tries to tell me something else, but I shush it and turn up the radio.
When I pull into my parking spot, I take my time gathering my briefcase and purse. I stare at the center console like it’s Pandora’s box. If I open it and take out my phone, I’ll listen to the message. Because it might not be about Javier. My fingers grip the latch, and I yank it open.
I tap my voicemail and hit play. “Hey, Katie.” The way my name sounds on his lips makes me melt. “I was hoping to talk to you, but I guess you’re not there. Anyway, Javier can do tomorrow at six. Does that work for you? Call me. Bye.”
So I was right. Nonetheless, I play it from the beginning again and again until I’ve memorized every word and intonation. My finger hovers over the delete button, but I can’t do it. Listening to his voice may become a sick obsession.
Before I change my mind, I text a response. There’s no way I can call. Sure. Tell him I’ll be there.