Matt’s desk drawers were completely empty. He didn’t even have a pen. And when he showed up for the meeting without an attorney’s basic tools, he’d be ridiculed. He wandered out into the hallway, carpeted in a deep-pile off-white that muffled his footsteps. He looked left and right, trying to remember where the small conference room was located. He had no idea where the supply closet was. He mentally flipped a coin and turned left, which took him on a roundabout tour of the office. Gillian, David’s assistant, finally pointed him in the right direction and told him not to worry about legal pads or pens.
When he arrived at his destination, a small conference room with basic dark brown furniture, he understood. A pile of legal pads sat in the middle of the table along with a leather cup holding a collection of pens.
He should have known this. Practicing lawyers, even lowly associates, didn’t have to know where to find legal pads. They would eventually find him.
Arwen was already seated, dressed in a man-tailored navy-blue suit jacket with a pencil skirt and a white silk blouse. She looked competent and professional, and like a woman who was trying to hide her femininity.
Matt hated man-tailored suits on women. In his view, women shouldn’t try to become men. And they shouldn’t feel as if they had to hide their beauty behind lapels in order to be taken seriously. His boss at Heartland Industries had been an extremely smart and capable woman who had taught him many things about government affairs. But she dressed in pantsuits and long tunics, as if she was ashamed of her curves.
On some level, Matt understood why professional women felt the need to do that. But it irked him. He liked and appreciated women for all that they were and could be. He despised men who took advantage of women or behaved badly in the workplace, especially when they blamed their brutish behavior on the woman’s clothing. He had no use for any work colleague who believed that women were intellectually inferior too. Guys like that were idiots.
“Welcome to the firm,” Arwen said. She seemed nervous, her shoulders tense. Probably because he’d used her as an approach for Courtney Wallace at the Jaybird last night. He needed to set her at ease.
“Thanks. I enjoyed your performance at the open mic last night. Your songs are very insightful.”
Pink crawled up her cheeks, and she looked away. Interesting. Her quiet performance had been the musical highlight last night, but she didn’t seem to know it. Her songs would probably never top any pop music charts, but they spoke to the heart; they had poetry. And Matt loved poetry. He had Grandma to thank for that.
Just then, David strolled into the room, ending further conversation. Matt’s cousin was twelve years older and had always intimidated him. For many years, David was the family’s fair-haired child, the one everyone thought would run for Congress, become a senator like his father and grandfather before him, and eventually make a bid for the White House. But those plans had changed after his first wife died.
David had walked away from politics to focus on being a small-town lawyer. Two years ago, he’d married Willow Petersen, the owner of Eagle Hill Manor, the bed-and-breakfast that had become one of the most successful businesses in Shenandoah Falls.
He carried a fat brown manila expansion folder, which he dropped on the conference table right in front of Matt before taking a seat at the head of the table. “In that folder, you’ll find several new cases from the Blue Ridge Legal Services Corporation. Mostly landlord-tenant disputes. Study them; get up to speed on them. You will be the main attorney on all of them.”
“Landlord-tenant disputes?” Matt’s voice cracked adolescently. He knew nothing about resolving disputes. That was Andrew’s thing.
“Yeah, and just because these cases are part of our pro bono commitment doesn’t mean we don’t care about them. These tenants are dealing with absentee landlords, landlords who have no business owning buildings, and potential safety violations. We’ll solve most of these cases through arbitration. But some of them, like the dispute at Dogwood Estates, are headed for court.”
“Court?” His heart jumped in his chest. He’d only argued cases in moot court competitions, and he’d sucked at it.
“Yeah, court.” David’s eyebrows lowered into a scowl that looked surprisingly like the frightening expression on William Lyndon’s portrait, which hung over the mantel at Charlotte’s Grove, Uncle Mark’s three-hundred-year-old home.
“Don’t worry,” Arwen said. “I’ve been working with the Blue Ridge Legal Services Corporation for years, and I’ve been involved in dozens of landlord-tenant suits. You’ll get the hang of it.”
She gave him a shy smile. Oh yeah, she’d seen right through him. But he was grateful for her kindness, especially since David continued to glower.
“I want to make this clear,” David said. “Maybe in DC paralegals are treated the same as secretaries or personal assistants, but out here in the country, people like Arwen are assets. You may have a law degree, Matt, but you’re as green as an unripe apple. You listen to Arwen. She’ll teach you everything you need to know about how to be a compassionate attorney.”
Matt nodded, but deep down he resented his cousin’s words even if the part about him being green was accurate. He was green. But he hated the way David assumed he would treat Arwen badly. Or that he’d try to take the easy way out.
That attitude came from Dad. His father seemed to think he was lazy. Or stupid. Or incompetent. Or something. No matter what he did, Dad always found a way to criticize. He would have to work his balls off in order to get anything close to a pat on the back.
* * *
The Union Jack Pub and Restaurant sat in the middle of Winchester’s historic old town promenade. Matt arrived fifteen minutes late, on purpose, because he never arrived precisely
