The Sky Beneath Her(2)
I pressed my fingers to closed eyelids. If I could just wade through the project and make the words flow in order, then I could take a deep breath, go home, and get some sleep.
Lately, good sleep had become a thing of the past. Each night I’d tumble into bed about midnight, only to have my eyes pop open at 3:00 a.m. I’d roll onto my side. My stomach. Punch my pillow. Throw off blankets and then add more when I became cold. I needed sleep, but my brain kept firing on all pistons.
In these restless hours, the ghosts I’d kept at a distance for years stepped out of the shadows, circled, and taunted. They replayed all my mistakes.
Last night, despite the three melatonin gummies and two glasses of wine I’d consumed, the spirit of my recently failed marriage drifted close. My now ex-husband, Dave, had sent me a notice yesterday, via his lawyer, ordering me to vacate the house we’d shared. He owned the property and wanted me out so he could sell it. The message had been quick and to the point. It stated that I could buy the house or move out in two weeks. Buy the house. Right. The email ended with the complimentary close, “Best.”
I didn’t miss Dave or long for him. But he and his house had been my safe harbor for almost six years.
I’d finally risen at five and dressed for the gym. I drove a few miles to the facility and was on its doorstep at 5:30 a.m. I spent an hour swimming laps in the pool, cutting through the water until I was breathless and my arms ached. I went home, showered, and dressed for work. The plan had been to get a jump on the brief before my energy crashed.
“How’s the brief coming?”
I looked up at Nan, my boss. She was dressed in her signature all-black. Her V-neck sweater curved over her breasts in a seductive but still professional way. Her blond hair was tied back in a ruthlessly smooth ponytail, and subtle makeup softened stern features.
“The research is done,” I said. “Notes are right here.”
She hovered over my cubicle. She was intense, but I liked her. “Don’t worry about that. The boss wants to see you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. A special assignment.”
“But this brief is due today.”
“I’ll give it to another paralegal. Mr. Brooks is waiting for you in his office.”
Mr. Brooks. One of the three named partners in the firm. This felt a little like being summoned to the king’s court. No struggling employee wanted a partner’s attention. And here it went. I was getting fired. I’d dropped the ball too many times since my separation.
My cubicle was stark, decorated with a single silk plant, a “Girl Boss” mug from Dave, and the picture of Mom and me taken eight years ago in Greece. I’d never kept much on my desk. Seemed odd to make a workspace feel like a home when it wasn’t.
Sweat dampened my armpits. “I know I’ve been distracted and a little slow, but I’m getting my work done. Did I screw something up?”
Faint hints of pity flickered in Nan’s eyes. “I don’t know why Mr. Brooks wants to see you.”
Right. Fired. All I had to do was drop the picture in my purse. The plant and mug could stay for the next inhabitant.
When Nan left, I reached for a chocolate bar in my purse and took a large bite. The sugar and fat wouldn’t remedy this, just as they hadn’t fixed my marriage. But the chocolate tasted good, and I took pleasure wherever I could.
I adjusted the coin-crystal necklace into the hollow of my neck and rose. Dusting the chocolate bits from my skirt, I walked down the line of cubicles to the elevator. I pressed the top-floor button, and as the doors closed, I drew in a breath. I’d survived worse before. And I would do it again.
The elevator doors opened to plush gray carpet, a mahogany reception desk, and an expanse of tinted windows that overlooked the waters of the bay. It was a beautiful day. So, if I was to get fired, the weather was at least working in my favor.
As I walked up to the desk, a woman with sleek gray hair and an angled face looked up. “Miss Cassidy?”
“That’s right.” Never good to be expected.
“Mr. Brooks is waiting.” She rose, and I followed to a closed office door. She knocked.
I looked presentable, but I was dressed more for cubicle brief-writing work. If I’d known I’d see the big boss, I’d have picked the newer dress that fit a little better.
As tempted as I was to ask, I didn’t. If my late mother had taught me anything, it was to shove my feelings deep. Asking was a sign of weakness.
A man said, “Enter.” The receptionist pushed open the door.
As I passed her and moved into the office, my gaze wasn’t drawn to the sweeping views of the bay but to the man standing behind the large wooden desk outfitted with pedestal feet and carvings of sea creatures and waves. It was a ship captain’s desk that must have dated back centuries. A polished surface caught and reflected the lights in the room. A single manila folder and envelope rested to his right.
Mr. Robert Brooks’s age was hard to guess. Maybe late fifties. He wore black from head to toe, and his gray hair was swept back in a cut reminiscent of the 1940s. His face was bronzed, not from a bottle or tanning bed but from years in the sun. Everyone knew he loved to sail.
Mr. Brooks, beyond his expensive suit, wasn’t impressive. In fact, he looked rather ordinary, like a favorite worn, albeit expensive, pair of jeans. If he were plainly dressed and passing me on the street, sipping coffee in a café, or raking leaves in a yard, I wouldn’t have noticed him. He didn’t have the bearing of a man who’d built a half-billion-dollar law firm that had global reach. I suspected Mr. Brooks’s ordinariness was an advantage. While no one was watching him, he was surveilling and planning chess moves ten steps ahead.