“Ms. Thurston-Wallace?—”
“Missy.”
“Ms. Thurston-Wallace,” I said firmly, “thank you for the video. In light of this new information, I’ll arrange a meeting with your husband’s attorney and see if your husband is willing to budge on anything.” He wouldn’t be, I was sure. I wished I could say I could hardly blame him, but they were honestly both awful people and this divorce had already been dragging out forever. The only thing they agreed on was that they didn’t want to be married anymore. “When I hear back, I’ll call you to arrange another meeting.”
The sounds from the iPad finally came to a stop. I waited a few seconds to make sure there wasn’t some kind of last-minute post-credits scene, then reached over and retrieved it. I handed it back to her with the screen facing away from me.
“Are you sure you don’t need to watch the whole thing?” she asked. “For legal reasons?”
“Oh no, I’ve seen more than I ever needed to,” I said, picking up her file and clutching it tightly to my chest like a shield. “I’ll be in touch.”
Missy pouted but took the hint and stood as well. “You can call me anytime, sugar,” she said, fluttering her lashes again before she sashayed out of the meeting room.
Once she was gone, I dropped back into my chair and blew out a shaky breath, reminding myself that my whole career wasn’t going to be spent dealing with the Missy Thurston-Wallaces of the world. I was going into contract law, just as soon as I had some more experience under my belt. This job was only temporary, a way to cut my teeth and learn the ins and outs of legal work. Then I’d get a job at a proper law firm in a big city—one where the interns knew how to dress and how to file things properly.
There was a knock at the door before it opened and Callahan, my boss, popped his head around the frame. “Saw Missy leaving,” he said. “That was quick. This mean the case is about wrapped up?”
I groaned. “I wish. She wants an at fault divorce because it’s quicker. She brought in evidence of infidelity.”
His eyebrows shot up and he opened the door far enough that he could lean against the frame. “Well, that’s bad news for Chad but great for us.”
“Not exactly. It wasn’t Chad who was cheating. It was a video of her and some guy.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I didn’t think my morning would include getting blindsided by a video of Missy in a thong—or worse,withouta thong—but here we are.”
Callahan looked like he was fighting back the urge to laugh, and I appreciated that he was at least making the effort because it really wasn’t funny.
“It gets worse,” I said. “Her husband knows.”
My boss hissed between his teeth, all traces of humor disappearing. “Damn. She’s really gone and shot herself in the foot, huh?”
“Pretty much, but I don’t think she realizes that. I told her we’ll talk to her husband’s lawyers and get back to her.”
“Have fun with that.” He straightened up and shoved his hands in his pockets, leaving me to try and figure out if there was any way I could undo the damage done by Missy and her new evidence.
As predicted,Chad’s lawyer laughed his ass off before telling me he’d get back to me. I spent the rest of the afternoon going through the file notes in the vain hope that we weren’t totally screwed, but I couldn’t focus. The image of Missy in a thong had invaded my brain like black mold and was proving just as hard to dislodge. In the end I set the whole mess aside and went and grabbed some lunch. Once I’d eaten I was able to appreciate the absurdity of the situation at least a little, even if it didn’t bring me any closer to a solution.
Callahan had promised that if I came to work for him, I’d see a whole other side of practicing law, and hoo boy, he hadn’t been kidding. My boss’s law firm was the definition of casual—“a dog bed in the corner of his office” levels of casual—but he was also a hell of an attorney, and I was learning a lot by working with him. In some ways I wished I could stay, just for the entertainment value, but that was a pipe dream. My plans included places and opportunities bigger than anything Hopewell had to offer me.
It wasn’t that there was anythingwrongwith Hopewell per se. It was a nice enough place, with a couple of good bars and restaurants and the usual assortment of takeout joints, and it was pretty in the way that many small Virginian towns were, with rolling green lawns and well-kept houses with white-painted trim and matching planter boxes, all set along wide streets that were lined with maples and lilacs that provided dappled shade in the summer and probably looked awesome in the fall.
It was also home to Lassiter U, which meant it was populated with college kids—including the guy who was currently vying for the title of worst intern ever. Seriously, I’d done my share of hours interning when I was in college, and I was pretty sure I’d done a lot more work than this guy ever did. Then again, my boss hadn’t had a perpetual dusting of dog hair on his jacket.
The point was, it was clear that there was no future for me in Hopewell, or at least not the future I wanted.
On my way back to the office, I stopped and picked up a box of glazed donuts because I knew Callahan had a sweet tooth, and the donuts eased the guilt I felt for planning to leave when I knew the assumption was that I was here for the long haul.
I carried the box into the office and headed for the small kitchen in the back. The intern was sitting at the table, leaning back in his chair so it was balancing on the back legs with his feet on the table. He was slurping on a smoothie, and his eyes lit up when he saw the box. “Donuts! Can I have one?”
“Sure,” I said, because saying no would have made me look like a dick.
“Sweet!” The chair legs hit the floor with a thump, and he reached out and snagged a donut and shoved it in his mouth like he was worried I’d change my mind. Then he grinned around his mouthful and grabbed another one. He stood up suddenly, sending his chair skittering backward, and bolted out the door with a muffled, “Fanks!”
I rolled my eyes, then closed the lid on the box and left it on the table. Callahan would sniff it out soon enough. He was like a bloodhound when it came to donuts.
I spent the rest of the afternoon seeing clients. My calendar wasn’t super full—most of the locals still preferred to see my boss and I could respect that—but I had enough on my plate to keep me busy. I spent a full hour trying to explain to one man that no, he couldn’t sue his ex-wife for divorcing him, and that yes, his divorce was still final, even if he had ignored “all those darn lawyer papers.” Fun times.
Once he left I went and made myself a coffee and retrieved a donut, and after that I spent some time on Alfred Prentice’s real estate transaction and the associated paperwork, getting it ready for closing. It was pretty much plain sailing, which wasa relief. Even though I was only in my first year of practicing law, I’d already seen enough unhinged shit go down during divorce cases to make me swear off dating, possibly forever, so a straightforward real estate transaction made a nice change.
The phone on my desk rang. I picked it up and the intern said, “Hey. Missy Thirsting-Wallace is on hold for you.”
