I laugh and tell him that I'll look into flights for the fall.
'All right. I'll e-mail you my free weekends-all my deets.'
He knows I hate the word 'deets.' Just as I hate people who make a 'rez' for dinner. Or ask you to get back to them 'ASAP.' And Ethan's favorite, designed especially to annoy me-'YOYO,' i.e., 'you're on your own.'
I smile. 'Sounds fab.'
'Super then.'
My phone rings as soon as I hang up with Ethan. Les's name shows up on my screen. I consider not picking up but have learned that avoidance techniques don't work well at a law firm. It only makes partners more irritable when you finally do talk.
'How did you serve the IXP papers?' he barks into the phone as soon as I say hello. Les always skips the pleasantries.
'What do you mean?'
'Your mode of service. By mail? By hand?'
I nailed it to his cottage door, jackass, I think, remembering the antiquated mode of service tested by the New York bar.
'By mail,' I say, glancing down at my well-worn copy of the New York Rules of Civil Procedure.
'Great. Fucking great,' he says in his normal snide tone.
'What?'
'What? What?' he shouts into the phone. I pull the receiver away from my ear but now I hear his voice in stereo, filling the hall. 'You fucked up! That's what! The papers needed to go by hand! Didn't you bother to read the Court's order?'
I scan the letter from the judge. Damn, he is right.
'You're right,' I say solemnly. He hates excuses and I have none anyway. 'I screwed up.'
'What are you, a goddamn first-year associate?'
I stare at my desk. He knows full well that I'm a fifth-year.
'I mean, Christ, Rachel, this is malpractice,' he growls. 'You're gonna get this firm sued and yourself fired if you don't get your head out of your ass.'
'I'm sorry,' I say, just as I remember that he hates you that much more when you're sorry.
'Don't be sorry! Fix the shit!' He hangs up on me. I don't believe Les has ever finished a conversation with a proper good-bye, even when he's in a decent mood.
No, I'm not a first-year, asshole. Thus your tirade has no effect. Go ahead, fire me. Who cares? I think back to when I first started working at the firm. A partner would raise his eyebrows, and it would send me back to my office with tears welling, panic mounting over my job security or at the very least my yearly evaluation. Over the years my skin has thickened somewhat, and at this moment, I don't care at all. I have bigger issues than this firm and my career as a lawyer. No, scratch the word 'career.' Careers are for people who wish to advance. I only want to survive, draw a paycheck. This is merely a job. I can take or leave this place. I start to imagine quitting and following my yet-to-be-determined passion. I could tell myself that although I lacked a meaningful, intense relationship, I had my work.
I call opposing counsel, a reasonable midfortyish associate with a minor speech impediment who must have been passed over for partner at his firm. I tell him that our papers were served incorrectly, that I would re-serve them by hand but they would arrive a day late. He interrupts me with a pleasant chuckle and says with a lisp that it is not a problem, that of course he wouldn't challenge service. I bet he hates his job as much as I do. If he liked it, he'd be all over this lapse like white on rice. Les would have a field day if the other side served a day late.
I send Les an e-mail message, one brief sentence: 'Opposing counsel says they're fine with receiving papers by hand today.' That will show him. I can be as curt and surly as the next guy.
Around one-thirty, after I have printed a new set of papers and turned them over to our courier for delivery, Hillary comes to my office and asks if I have lunch plans.
'No plans. You want to go?'
'Yeah. Can we go somewhere nice? Get a good meal? Steak or Italian?'
I smile and nod, retrieving my purse from under my desk. Hillary could eat a big lunch every day, but I get too sleepy in the afternoon. Once, after ordering a hot open-face turkey sandwich with mashed potatoes and green beans, I actually took the subway home for an afternoon nap. I returned to six voice-mail messages, including a ranting one from Les. That had been my last nap, unless you count the times I turn my chair to the window and balance a paper in my lap. The technique is foolproof-if someone barges in, it just looks as if you're reading. I sling my purse over my shoulder as
Kenny, our internal messenger from the mailroom, peeks around my half-open door.
'Hey, Kenny, come on in.'
'Ra-chelle.' He says my name in a French accent. 'These are for you.' He smirks as he produces a glass vase filled with red roses. A lot of roses. More than a dozen. More like two dozen, although I don't count. Yet.
'Holy shit!' Hillary's eyes are wide. I can tell that it takes tremendous effort for her not to grab the card.
'Where should I put em?' Kenny asks.
I clear a spot on my desk and point. 'Here's fine.'
Kenny shakes his wrists, exaggerating the weight of the vase, whistles, and says, 'Woo-hoo, Rachel. Someone's diggin' you.'
I wave my hand at him, but there is no way to deny that these are from anyone other than a guy with romantic interest. If they weren't red roses, I could pawn them off on some familial occasion, tell them it was some special day for me or that my parents are aware of my service error and are trying to comfort me. But these are not only roses, they are red roses. And bountiful. Most certainly not from a relative.
Kenny leaves after making one final remark about the roses costing someone some serious jack. I try to head out the door after him, but there is no chance that we are going anywhere until Hillary gets full information.
'Who are they from?'
I shrug. 'I have no clue.'
'Aren't you going to read the card?'
I am afraid to read it. They have to be from Dex-and what if he signed his name? It is too risky.
'I know who they're from,' I say.
'Who?'
'Marcus.' He is the only other possibility.
'Marcus? You guys barely hung out at all this weekend. What's the deal? Are you holding back on me? You better not be holding back on me!'
I shush her, tell her that I don't want everybody at the firm knowing my business.
'Okay, well then, tell me. What does the card say?' She is in interrogation mode. For as much as she hates the firm, she is one tough litigator.
I know I can't get out of reading the card. Besides, I, too, am dying to know what it says. I pluck the white envelope out of the plastic fork in the vase, open it very slowly as my mind races to make up a story about Marcus. I slide the card out and read the two sentences silently: I AM SO SORRY. PLEASE SEE ME TONIGHT. It is written in Dexter's all-capitals handwriting, which means he had to go to the flower store in person. Even better. He did not sign his name, probably imagining a scenario like this one. My heart is racing, but I try to avoid a full-on grin in front of Hillary. The roses thrill me. The note thrills me even more. I know I will not refuse his invitation. I will be seeing him tonight, even though I am more afraid than ever of getting hurt. I lick my lips and try to appear composed. 'Yeah, from Marcus,' I say.
Hillary stares at me. 'Let me see,' she says, grabbing for the card.
I pull it out of her reach and slip it into my purse. 'It just says he's thinking of me.'
She pushes her hair behind her ears and asks suspiciously, 'Have you been on more than that one date? What's the full story?'
I sigh and head into the hallway, fully prepared to sell out poor Marcus. 'Okay, we had a date last week that I didn't tell you about,' I start, as we walk toward the elevator. 'And, um, he told me his feelings were growing…'
'He said that?'
