Page 117 of A Dead End Wedding

The shoebox woman – I couldn't remember her name for anything, but I think she was one of the tuna casseroles — spoke up first. "Well, we certainly hope so! Otherwise we wasted our Monday bus ride, and Designer Shoe Warehouse is having a sale on those purple velvet heels I've been wanting."

I glanced down at her chunky white orthopedic shoes and support hose. "Um, yes. Well. I'm delighted to see you, of course, but maybe somebody could tell me?—"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, shoes, shoes, shoes. That's all you think about," an elegant woman in a snazzy gold tracksuit (she was definitely the apple cobbler; totally yummy!) spoke up. "We're going to call you Imelda, for heaven's sake."

Tracksuit woman stood up. "I'm Daribelle Dohonish, as I'm sure you remember, since you ate three pieces of my cobbler. We're here to help you get your law practice off the ground. We all have various legal matters we've been putting off and, well, we're not getting any younger. I'll go first, then."

I watched, speechless, as she marched down the hallway toward my office. The shoebox woman grumbled a little, but therest of them smiled at me and nodded. I looked at Max and she shrugged, smiling.

I turned back toward my new clients. "Okay, then. Thank you all – again — for coming. I'll find Mr. Ellison and ask him to get coffee or cold drinks for everyone. Um, well. Thanks."

Then I followed Mrs. Dohonish down the hall, wondering at what magic age pink and green pants or gold tracksuits looked like good fashion choices.

Three hours and eight new clients later, I was tired but happy. Straightforward legal issues, for a change. I'd be able to help each of my new clients with a little research, all except for one who needed a referral to a good estate attorney. Which reminded me I really needed to make it to a local bar association meeting and start building up my referral network. For now, I'd ask Aunt Celia. She knew everybody in a three-county area.

I watched out the window as the seniors' minibus drove off with my new clientele, only moderately embarrassed that my Aunt Celia was sending me all of my clients. Referrals are the only way to build a business. I would work really hard to provide the best legal representation possible and help them with actual solutions.

Tuna casserole optional.

"December? Take this one in your office," Max said, holding the phone to her shoulder. "It's Mike. Your Mike," she added, as though her expression didn't give it away.

"More like Brenda's Mike," I muttered. Then I nodded and headed back to my office at a trot, wondering if he had furniturenews and also wondering what I was going to say to him about dating Brenda.

"Hey Mike, how are you?"

"I'm fine. Why are you out of breath?"

A wave of loneliness, homesickness, or plain old-fashioned longing washed over me at the sound of his voice. No matter how sure you are that a divorce is a good idea, there is some part of you – the part that envisioned being eighty years old together and playing with your grandchildren – that aches with the loss.

At least, that's how it worked for me.

"I jogged down the hall to get the phone," I said past the lump in my throat. "How are you? Any news on my furniture?"

"What? You still don't have it? Let me know if you want me to contact an attorney and take some kind of action. This is ridiculous!"

"Mike?"

"Yes?"

"Iaman attorney, remember?" I twirled the phone cord in my fingers, smiling. He'd always been the one to handle the little details of our lives, while I flew around the country being a hotshot trial lawyer. Looking back, I couldn't even tell you where the dry cleaners' shop was located.

He laughed. "Right. Of course. Sometimes I forget you're doing general practice now. I guess you can handle this on your own."

"Yep, no problem," I said, not mentioning that I hadn't the slightest clue when I'd ever get my furniture.

"Well, I have fabulous news, and I wanted you to be the first to know."

"You got the grant! Mike, I'm so happy for you! I know how hard you worked on that proposal, and?—"

"No, no, it's not the grant. Although it looks like I might have an excellent shot at that. No, it's much better than that. I asked Brenda to marry me, and she said yes!"

After the phone fell out of my numb fingers, it occurred to me I didn't have to worry about answering the "can I date your secretary" question.

Somehow, that didn't make me feel any better.

23

Max walked into my office, shuffling some papers and a notepad. "December, that clerical error isn't one, really. In fact, the accountant at the video company was fairly annoyed that we would question her record-keeping. She sounds like a female Mr. Ellison. So I got the number of the cameraman, and . . . why are you banging your head on your desk?"

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