42nd & Lex
Authors: Bria Hofland
42
nd
& Lex
Bria Hofland
Copyright © 2012 Bria Hofland
All Rights Reserved
Cover art by Bria
Hofland/ Cover image photo used under Creative Commons from
buggolo
Thank you for
thinking that I am awesome at everything I do. Your faith in my abilities,
even when I didn’t agree, has pushed me harder than you will ever know.
To Paul:
You are the love of
my life and my best friend. Thank you for indulging my fantasy while I made it
a reality. And for allowing all manner of vampires to live with us for these
last few years. I dare say it’s been crowded.
To My Little Pink Laptop:
We made it! Thanks
for hanging in there and never losing a single word.
It’s giving up who you were for who you are.
CHAPTER ONE
Monday. The worst possible day to follow a
bottle, no make that box, of wine. I don’t even like wine. I was feeling sorry
for myself and decided to self-medicate with a few glasses of foil packed
finery left over from New Year’s Eve. I was chasing that little 3 a.m. place in
my soul where time stands still and drunken rational makes everything seem so
clear. The place that has a constant soundtrack of soulful ballads played out by
gravely voices on acoustic guitars. Maybe even a harmonica. A place where you
know everything is in cosmic alignment and all will be just as it should. I
needed to know everything was going to be as it should.
The buzz of my alarm interrupts my pointless
revelry and I slap it into submission on my nightstand. I have gained no better
insight into my life in the last twelve hours, just a massive headache and a
case of cottonmouth. I am soul restless and I don’t know why. I have a career,
disposable income, and good friends. Everything should be perfect, yet I feel
less than full. Not empty—that would be sad, but like something is missing. I’ve
felt that way on and off again for much of my life. At first, it drove me to
succeed but lately I’ve realized that all I’ve accomplished is not what was
missing. The one thing I’ve yet to find is love.
My job as a divorce lawyer made me cynical
to love years ago but I am ready for a change. Ready for someone to come along
and show me that love isn’t expendable, it is real and forever. I want a soul
deep kind of love. Sheesh, I sound like one of those soulful ballads. I might even
still be drunk.
The alarm is beeping again. There is no more
time to ruminate on my lack of love. It’s time to hit the shower and trudge to
work. My wine hangover prompts me to pop a few Advil and skip the drawn out
hair washing part of the shower. I’ll just wear it up today. I leave my tiny
apartment at exactly 8:12a.m., allowing enough time to stop by Chen’s Deli for
a coffee before catching the Number 4 train to Grand Central and the Chrysler
Building. The fact that the firm was located in the Chrysler spurred me to
apply for a summer clerk position after my first year in law school and I’ve
never left. For some reason I have been drawn to that building since the moment
I set foot in Manhattan.
The subway entrance is only a few blocks
from Chen’s so I pull my coat tighter around me, grab my latte, and join the
throngs of other commuters out on the sidewalk. Even though I spent most of my
formative years in Iowa, I am a Texas girl at heart and the bone deep cold sets
my teeth on edge every time I go outside. I take a swig of coffee and walk a
little faster, dodging people on their cell phones and walking dogs at a
snail’s pace.
It is only marginally warmer below ground. I
like to stand as close to the edge of the platform as I can without raising a
warning from the MTA staff. I like the sound of the breaks and the gust of wind
the cars create as they screech to a stop, not to mention standing close
greatly increases your likelihood of getting a seat. As the doors whoosh close,
I settle into my seat and let my iPod’s shuffle feature set the tone of my day.
My mother would slap me if she knew I walked around alone with headphones stuck
in my ears.
“You could get mugged or worse!”
she would chide. She would
also chide me for going to work with a raging hangover but I take comfort in
the caffeine and Advil coursing through my system. If memory serves, this will
have me up and running on all cylinders in an hour or so. All I’m missing is a
greasy breakfast of tacos or chili cheese fries. Once off the train I hike through
the tunnels of Grand Central to the Chrysler.
I look around the magnificent lobby
marveling at its beauty as if it is the first time while I wait in line for the
elevator. I hate elevators. I’ve had reoccurring dreams about being in a
falling elevator since I was a child. The fear has prompted me to research
elevator tech ad nauseam in the hopes of convincing myself that I would be okay.
I know how many floors can be reached with a hydraulic pump versus a cable
system. It is the cable system that scares me most of all. The Chrysler uses a
cable system. When several years of therapy failed to produce an answer for my problem,
I decided I was just going to have to live with it as long as I planned to live
in Manhattan and work on the 30
th
floor. Consequently, I hold my
breath as long as I can while enduring the ride, that measure of self-control
gives me a sort of power over the fear.
My stomach tightens as ten more people
crowded onto the elevator with me. I begin a mental calculation of their
average weights against the gross tonnage the car is designed to hold to calm
myself. We are mercifully a good three hundred pounds under the limit by my
estimation. Just as my air supply is running out the doors open to the 30
th
floor and I leap out, trying not to unnecessarily shove anyone out of my way in
the process. I know I am being irrational. But that’s the thing about phobias,
they are by definition irrational.
I am still shaking off the ride when I run
into my assistant Max. He has a look on his face that says he knows why I am pale
and breathing hard and he thinks it, and me, ridiculous. “Good morning, my
dear,” he says in a slightly patronizing tone.
“Hey,” I reply. My voice sounds a little
more winded than I would have liked but I ignore it and him. “What’s going on
today?”
“You have three new clients. One is of
special
interest though.” Max pauses for effect, always a little too dramatic. “Apparently
you
know
each other?”
“Yeah.” I am in no mood to indulge him this
morning. My brain is still coughing and sputtering to life through the haze of the
chardonnay I tried to drown it in. I knew whom he was talking about and I’d
been dreading the appointment for a week. In fact, she was partially the reason
for my one-woman happy hour last night.
I can tell that Max wants to strangle me for
being so nonverbal. He’s so excited that he’s prancing in front of me like a dog
waiting to go outside for a walk. “She says you grew up together.”
“Something like that.”
Sarah Nelson. The last time we’d seen each
other was my thirteenth birthday. Sarah was always the pretty one, the put
together one; even the thinner, taller one. Our parents met in college and had
both divorced about the same time, when we were ten. Her mom remarried for money
a few years later. My mom and I moved to be closer to my grandparents and Sarah
and I didn’t see each other much after that. Oh, I got the occasional obligatory
invite to a birthday or holiday party to show that we were still friends—or
maybe to show off her stepdad’s money—but I never made the trip to attend. Sarah
got a nose job and boobs for her sixteenth birthday. I got a used Hyundai from
my Uncle Larry with duck tape holding on the rearview mirror. What on earth
could Sarah need, or want, from me? And how did she end up here in New York?
“She’s here for a divorce consult,” Max offers,
anticipating my inner monolog.
I figured as much seeing as how I only practiced
divorce law, but still. Of all the lawyers in New York City, how did she find
me? Sarah got married right after college to Mark Ainsworth according to the
annual Christmas letters her mother sent out. I didn’t know much else about him
but I assumed he was rich and thus took over for her step daddy in providing
her with whatever she wanted. If she couldn’t keep a marriage with all that and
her looks in her favor, what hope was there in the world.
“Okay Max, I’m going to get started on my
day. Let me know when she gets here.” That is Max’s cue to stop prancing and
get back to his office.
Technically getting started on my day is
just code for getting online and checking my email and the wonderful world of
social networking sites to which I belong until the coffee kicks in. I decide
to do a quick search for Sarah Nelson, now Ainsworth, and see what pops up.
Within a few minutes, I have her Facebook
profile pulled up. She is still beautiful, in a medically manicured kind of way.
The hubby looks nice enough, definitely from money. A lot of her pictures are
of parties with J-Crew wearing friends, drinks in hand, smiling away at the
camera.
