sends her regards, by the way.” He dug into his dark brown slacks and brought out an envelope. “She says my clients—the Fieldings?—loved the breakfast you fixed for us so much, they went on and on to her about it.”
“Well, you did their will, Mr. Claggett,” I murmured, embarrassed to have Tom, Louise, and Donald Ellis witnessing this effusive praise. “I just did the quiche and fruit—”
“No, no,” he interrupted me. “It was the whole package. Quiche, fruit, and will. That’s what they told Ookie! Anyway, in appreciation, Ookie wanted you to have a guest pass and a coupon for six free squash lessons.”
To me, “free squash lessons” implied someone teaching me to make zucchini bread, but never mind. I took the envelope and thanked him.
Louise whispered to Donald, “That is really so very unnecessary,” her voice loud enough so that I would hear it. Donald reddened to the roots of his red hair, and recoiled as if stung. I thought for at least the hundredth time how much Donald Ellis reminded me of my son. Arch was fifteen and a half now, but Donald’s invariably vulnerable expression recalled Arch’s at an earlier age—say, eleven. Back then, Arch had been particularly susceptible to the taunts of bullies and braggarts. Even the untoward remark of a teacher could cause him to blush scarlet, as Donald was doing now.
Still, there was one thing I had learned about Donald Ellis: for all of his weak, defenseless appearance, clients loved him. He always ushered them into the conference room, as his office was too much of a wreck for even one person. These meetings were special for the client, as Donald would invariably book me to do a special lunch for them, usually a cold roast-beef salad with shaved Parmesan or chilled grilled salmon topped with caviar. After I’d cleared the dishes away, Donald would pull out a single yellow legal pad. This he would cover with his tiny scrawl as the client outlined what he or she wanted.
And then a week later there would be a will to be signed. The client would reappear, beaming and grateful, satisfied that his wishes after death had been set down. In the three-plus months I’d been at H&J, I’d seen it too many times to doubt it. Clients wanted Donald because he seemed so, well, sensitive. “Especially for a lawyer!” I would hear them whisper sometimes. And in the end, they felt they had helped him as much as he had helped them. And apparently, they liked that feeling.
While Donald was only a bit taller than I was, which would put him at about five feet three, Claggs was taller, better looking, more authoritative, and goodness knew, much more aggressive. Must have been all that advanced- run skiing, I’d figured once. Still, where Donald was quiet, Claggs was effusive, good-humored, always joking. When he was expecting an especially bellicose client, he’d regale the guys at the attorneys’ breakfast about the client being furious because he’d been beaten in the “race to the house.” The race to the house, I’d learned, was the way estate lawyers referred to heirs or wannabe heirs dashing to the residence of the recently deceased, to plunder whatever wasn’t locked away or nailed down. There was also “the icy hand from the grave,” another reference to clients, usually the ultrawealthy ones, who wanted to structure their wills in such a detailed manner that not a single heir would be getting a penny without jumping through a dizzying number of hoops.
“Well, everybody,” Tom said, to break the standing-in-the-hall stalemate, “if you don’t want to come into the living room, let’s all go out to the kitchen and have some cake and coffee; how about it?”
Claggs followed Tom with alacrity. Louise lifted her chin and plowed in my direction. I found myself scrambling out of her way, a soldier jumping out of the path of a Sherman tank. At the door to our cooking area, she whirled, almost knocking over Donald Ellis. Now I had the full benefit of her glare. “Although we have to say, we would like to know what you were up to, coming into the law firm at ten o’clock at night to make bread!”
“I was doing my usual prep for the Friday-morning meeting,” I replied evenly. “If you don’t believe me, ask Richard.”
But she was long gone, the kitchen door swinging behind her. Donald Ellis lagged behind. Finally he said, “I…we just wanted to make sure you were all right.” His nearly colorless blue eyes implored me.
I almost burst out laughing. Was
“I’m fine, thanks. Or as well as can be expected.”
Tom, sensitive to my absence, pulled open the kitchen door. His handsome, imperturbable face took us in. Donald nodded at Tom, his face again scarlet from…what? Embarrassment? Who knew?
Tom said, “Something going on out here?”
“We’re fine,” I said.
In the kitchen, Claggs was remarking on the “fantastic” job that Tom had done putting in the oak floor and installing the marble countertops. He moved his hands lovingly down the front of one of the cabinets. Had Tom done all this custom work with cherrywood, too? he wanted to know. Tom replied that he had. Louise had enthroned herself on one of our kitchen chairs and was listening with interest to all that Claggs was pointing out. Was I being paranoid, or did I imagine that Louise felt the kitchen was a bit too grand for the caterer who prepared the attorneys’ breakfasts? I put the idea out of my mind.
Tom fixed the drinks: bourbon on the rocks for Claggs, scotch and water for Donald. Louise, who was rummaging around in her capacious purse, said she would like nothing, thank you. It was not a sincere expression of gratitude, but again, I told myself to let it go. Once Louise had retrieved her PDA, she began tapping the stylus on the screen. After a moment, she looked up at me in triumph. “I have no Friday-morning meeting for Mr. Chenault recorded here!”
“It was his
“Miss Upton,” Tom said gently, “why don’t you give Goldy a break.” It was not a question.
I punched buttons on my business computer, which occupied the far end of our kitchen countertop. My calendar for the third week in October flashed into view, and I pointed to Friday, October 20. “Miss Upton, would you like to have a look at this?” I tapped my own screen for emphasis. “‘Thursday night, ten o’clock, arrive law firm, make dough. Friday five A.M. Bake bread for Chenault breakfast meeting.’”
Louise Upton stood, stepped to the counter, and peered at my computer screen. I could see her eyes focus downward not on Thursday or Friday, but on tomorrow morning, Saturday.
“Well!” she said, staring at the computer.
She continued to read my screen, glancing from side to side at every single event I had listed as she pursed her lips and shook her head. I swallowed: was she looking to prove somehow that I truly was not supposed to be at H&J the previous night? Or was she just being nosy? Suddenly, I was immobilized. Miss Upton had the ability to get me fired, of that I was quite positive. And yet surely this was not appropriate…
With a conspicuous cough, Tom slid his big, athletic frame between my screen and Miss Upton. Caught off balance, the office manager teetered on her thick heels and groaned out a loud “Oof!” as she backed into Donald Ellis. Donald, short and slender and not known for his athleticism, listed backward until he collided with our kitchen table, which sent his scotch and water spewing through the air.
A set of chair and human dominoes tumbled loudly onto our oak floor. The chairs clattered away. Miss Upton, her legs flailing, struggled to right herself: a giant sea turtle squashing a worm, which was Donald Ellis. His thin, pale face had turned more purple than cooked beets.
Claggs knocked over his own drink as he fell to his knees and began pulling on Donald.
I bent down, grasped Miss Upton’s carrotlike fingers and fleshy forearm, and tried to pull her up. Unfortunately, she was much stronger than I was, and her prone position plus the laws of physics gave her an advantage. I felt myself being pulled downward and squawked, “Tom! Help!”
With his usual efficiency of movement, Tom took two long steps around to Donald Ellis, reached in under his shoulders, and yanked him out from under Miss Upton. Unfortunately, when Donald’s torso was about halfway free, Miss Upton lifted her monumental head and bonked it back down, directly onto Donald Ellis’s scrotum.
Donald let out a high screech. With a massive effort, Claggs and Tom managed to heave Donald out from under Louise.
“Okay, big fella.” Tom spoke reassuringly to Donald Ellis, Esquire, Champion of Hardworking Husbands Seeking to Cut Inheritances from Willfully Spending Wives and Profligate Progeny, as he dragged the unfortunate lawyer toward our back door. “You’re going to be
