In the Stars (17 page)

A true friend laughs at your stories
even when they’re not so good
and sympathizes with your troubles
even when they’re not so bad.
        —English Proverb

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I
’m in the bathroom painstakingly painting each of my nails with a French manicure. I’ve been struggling in here for a good thirty minutes, unable to make the nail polish look like a salon manicure despite the label on the box promising that it’s “easy and professional!” The instant I hear Heather enter the apartment, her shoes clicking on the floor, I decide to beg for help. “Hey Heath, can you paint the nails on my right hand?”

Pride means nothing when it comes to this. Manicures are harder than calculus.

“Hi.” Heather pokes her head into the bathroom and checks herself out in the mirror. She grabs a comb off the counter and begins brushing her hair. “What did you say? I didn’t hear you.”

“Can you give me a hand? I keep making the lines wobbly and I want to look good for the hearing tomorrow.”

Heather puts down the comb and reaches out for the nail polish brush I hold. “Sure. I have to be quick though. . . . I’ve got a double date tonight.”

“Ooh, fun! Who with?”

Heather looks away, just briefly, but something about her shiftiness makes me straighten.

“Who with, Heather?” I repeat. She takes my hand and applies a stroke of the white polish. It looks five million times better than my attempts. Impressive.

“Nobody, I mean, well, I’m going with a guy I met through a friend. His name is Glenn. Nice guy, taller than me, I think he’s an investment banker.”

“Okay,” I say slowly. She’s way too edgy right now, too secretive. And going with a random guy Glenn wouldn’t make her that way. “Who’s the other couple you are going with?”

Heather focuses on my hand. She brushes on another stroke and frowns. “Why do you care?”

“I didn’t, until you refused to say anything. The very fact that you won’t tell me proves that you have something to hide. Is it an ex? Ooh, maybe that nasty guy who promised he could make you into a porn star? Or it’s a lesbian couple that you are secretly in love with? Maybe one of
my
ex’s? Come on, just tell me!”

Heather groans. “Okay, fine, but don’t get mad. I don’t want you all upset and crying right before your hearing.” She applies polish to my pinky and mutters, “Josh. I’m going with Josh and his date.”

“J-Josh?” I stutter. “Josh has a date?”

He hasn’t dated anyone as long as I’ve known him. Not really. He’d occasionally grab a friend for drinks or something if a bunch of us were going out, but he never asked someone on a legitimate date.

I play it off, despite the surge of jealousy inside my chest. “That’s cool, who is she?”

“I don’t know,” Heather replies. “Her name is Julie, if I remember correctly. I met her once, a few weeks ago.”

“Why?” I ask suspiciously.

“Why what?”

“Why did you meet her? Where were you?”

Heather sighs. “Look, Josh has gone out with her a couple times since, you know, Victoria. It’s probably a rebound thing, him trying to get over you, but there it is. I went out to the pub with them a little while ago. You were working late, Josh called to see if the three of us wanted to go out together, I said you were busy, he invited me. Turns out it would have been awkward if you’d come, because he brought Julie. As a date.”

“Wow,” I say slowly. Heather finishes my last finger and blows gently on my hand.

“Sorry.”

“I know, it’s not your fault.” I am shell shocked.

“I didn’t want to make you all, like, emotional right before your big day,” Heather apologizes. “I was going to tell you soon.”

“No, no that’s fine.” I’m saying the words, but it hurts. Is this how Josh felt all those years when I dated random people? I feel an outpouring of compassion for him. How could he put up with this for so long? And now the same thing is hurting me.

Heather goes to her bedroom to get ready and I plead exhaustion. I have a ton to do, a million final things to get ready before the morning. I hear her leave, call goodbye in return to her farewell, and lie on my bed face up.

I’ve felt so many emotions over the past few months, ranging from utter gloom to insane hope, that now I feel dead inside. I’m nervous about tomorrow, terrified to face Carter Clinton and the Law Society and possible disbarment. But there is something else too . . . sadness. Maybe Josh is gone.

All this time I had expected him to come back to me. He helped me with my hearing prep in between working his crazy hours at his law firm. He responded quickly to every text, just like he used to. Things were feeling more . . . normal. And now? Now it turns out that he was
literally
bringing things back to the way they were. Friends. But I want him as more than that.

I love him, more than anyone, and not because he’s now the one out of reach, but because he’s my soul mate. My best friend. I want him so badly it makes my heart feel physical pain.

I force myself to get out of bed, to finalize my preparations for the hearing. Don’t think about the pain. I organize all my papers one last time, placing them carefully in a folder. The examples of other hearings where the defendants got off. The reference letters vouching for me. My resume, outlining my volunteer work and employment history. School transcripts from my undergrad and law school, showing what an exceptional student I always have been.

I don’t deserve disbarment for one mistake, I tell myself one final time.

Then, trying not to think about Josh on a date with this elusive girl Julie, I get into my pajamas and fall into a fitful sleep. My dreams are a mess. I see distorted and manic versions of Josh’s face frowning and saying, “You missed your chance.” Then the hundreds of Josh’s laugh like Jabba the Hutt and have me banished to a prison cell where the Law Society of Alberta chains me to the wall and hangs a sign above me that reads:
Disbarred Lawyer. Do Not Touch.

When sunlight finally breaks through the blackness of the outside world, I am relieved. I’ve lost weight worrying about my hearing. I’ve spent too many sleepless nights worrying about Josh.

Let’s get it over with.

Every path has its puddle
.
 
       —English Proverb

Chapter Thirty

T
hank you for coming.” L. Gordon Perry, the man with round glasses who I had met at Carter Clinton months earlier, shakes my hand, escorts me to a chair and invites me to sit. As if I had a choice in coming, I think, but I smile and thank him.

I arrived at the Calgary office of the Law Society of Alberta at seven forty-five on the dot and was led immediately into a small conference room. Three tables were set up, one at the front with two chairs behind it, and two more next to each other. My side of the room and their side. They might as well have put up a No Trespassing sign with a fence for how foreboding everything to my left looks.

Carter Clinton has pulled out all the stops. Five senior partners are seated at the table when I enter, and they have a row of folding chairs set up behind them with seven associates and paralegals, all holding briefcases, frowning and writing notes on their laptops. Everyone is wearing black suits. No navy blue or brown or grey. Pitch black, like the uniform of an executioner. The amount of money the firm is losing by having twelve employees, most of whom bill a minimum of five hundred dollars an hour, makes me quake. They are serious. They mean to intimidate. And it’s working.

I have never felt this alone in my entire life. I take my seat and refuse to look over at Carter Clinton’s side again. The clock on the wall says I have five minutes left before the proceedings begin. My parents aren’t here yet. They had promised to make it, especially since Heather had a calendar shoot with some makeup company and couldn’t be here with me. I sneak my phone out of my purse and check it under the table. I don’t want the Law Society to think I’m a flighty texting teenager, but I need to see if my parents called or something.

No texts, no calls.

The minute hand on the clock moves closer and closer to the hour mark. L. Gordon Perry and a female associate enter the room and take their seats at the head table.
Janice Monroe,
proclaims the name plate in front of the woman. I eye her nervously. Women can be interesting. Sometimes they support other women for the sake of feminism and solidarity. Other times they will stab you in the back for the last tube of lipstick on sale at Walmart.

I really hope she’s a kind, loving feminist.

L. Gordon clears his throat and every eye in the room turns to him. He looks at Carter Clinton and asks, “Is everyone ready to begin? All individuals needed for the hearing are present?” The lead partner, whose name I can’t remember, nods. Then L. Gordon looks at me. “And you?”

“I guess. I mean, yes,” I state firmly. I don’t need the parental support. I really don’t. Even though I feel completely empty inside.

“All right, we’ll begin.” He pushes his glasses up on his nose and moves some papers around. “I am L. Gordon Perry and this is my associate Janice Monroe. We are representing the Law Society of Alberta today, which is, as you all know, the self-governing association of practicing lawyers in the province. Our mission is to serve public interest by guaranteeing a high standard of legal services and professional conduct. Today, we are going to decide whether Miss Charlotte Southard,” he inclines his head in my direction, “has violated the ethical nature of law practice and whether or not she should remain a practicing attorney in Alberta.”

The Carter Clinton crowd seems to be writing down every single word, their fingers flying over the laptops as though they are afraid that they’ll miss something that might be on an exam later. I sit rigidly in my chair, listening intently, but afraid to make even the smallest note in my binder lest my hand starts shaking and I end up a messy puddle on the floor.

The door behind us opens right as L. Gordon finishes his opening monologue. I turn my head and feel a rush of relief pour over me. My mom and dad, dressed to the nines, enter the room, followed in by none other than Josh. My Josh. He came. My parents sit down in the row of chairs behind me, but Josh slides into the chair next to me at the table.

He looks incredible. His hair is tamed with some concoction of gel or mousse or something, and he is wearing a lovely grey suit with a baby blue collared shirt underneath. He looks professional and dependable and so handsome.

“Sorry we were late, Mr. Perry,” Josh says. His expression is serious and sincere. L. Gordon nods his head, “That’s fine. And you are?”

“I’m Joshua Mahoney, attorney and co-counsel representing Charlotte Southard,” Josh replies instantly.

“I thought you were representing yourself,” Mr. Perry inquires, looking at me.

It’s all I can do to keep myself from beaming.
Josh came
. “Uh, yes, sir, this is a bit unexpected, but Mr. Mahoney is correct. I’m representing myself with his assistance.”

“Very well. Let us continue.”

Underneath the table Josh puts his large, comforting hand on my knee. As L. Gordon continues reading the opening statements for the case, Josh scribbles something on his legal pad and slides it over to me.

“Wouldn’t have missed this for the world. You look beautiful. Don’t be afraid, we have this. Sorry I was late . . . had to pick up your parents and there was traffic.” I read the words silently and blink back tears of gratitude.

“Thank you,” I mouth to him. He squeezes my knee and we refocus on what is being said.

The hearing takes an hour and a half, starting with Carter Clinton’s accusations and reasons they are pushing for disbarment. Then L. Gordon Perry asks them questions, which they dodge around. He wants to know why they are upset with me and not seeking legal action against the intern. He inquires as to my being fired “without cause” if they think I am in the wrong. And then he turns to us.

Josh begins, standing politely and eloquently listing off a number of cases similar to my own where the defendant was not disbarred. He gives each memo to the L. Gordon and Janice team and then continues with character references. He makes me seem as though I am a golden girl, a shining beacon of light in the legal community. While everything he says is true, I am flattered and touched that he thinks this highly of me.

Finally, he clears his throat, and says, “Mr. Perry and Ms. Monroe, it is appalling that Carter Clinton has called my client here. I would like to ask her to tell you what happened in her own words.”

He sits down and smiles at me. I am amazed. If I had murdered fifty people in a crazy killing spree, I’m pretty sure Josh could get me off. He’s that good. I stand, knees knocking together behind the table and lick my lips. I hold on to the table for support and begin.

“It was a mistake. You’ve heard the facts as to what happened, and they are all true. It was my responsibility to get the correct draft prospectus to the correct people and I did not check to make sure that my assistant had done so. However, I was not the one who attached the additional documents. I did not courier it. I printed the correct papers and trusted someone who I should not have trusted. My punishment was being fired. I was unemployed for months. I had zero cash flow and it took me a long time to find another employer. This was my sentence. I should not be punished further for something that was a mistake.”

The two at the head table nod, writing notes the way they had the entire time and then L. Gordon clears his throat. “Thank you, Miss Southard. Please be seated. We will recess for thirty minutes and then my colleague and I will inform you of our decision. We are adjourned.”

“We have some final closing statements,” the partner from Carter Clinton adds pompously. “It will only take a moment.”

L. Gordon frowns. “This isn’t a court of law. You have made your case, Charlotte has made hers. We are adjourned.” They stand and stride out the door without looking at either side of the room.

“Ha,” Josh whispers to me. “It definitely favors you when they see how pretentious and stuffy old Carter Clinton is.”

The moment the door closes behind them, I spin in my chair and my parents lean forward with smiles. “Sweetie, you were wonderful,” my mom coos. She takes my hands and beams at me. “You and Josh did an amazing job. These people would have to be total idiots if they go along with those pretentious penguins.” She bobs her head at Carter Clinton’s lawyers, all frowning and whispering to one another and looking very penguin-like in their black suits and white shirts.

I giggle and hold a finger to my lips. “Shh, don’t say that too loud.”

My dad pats Josh on the back. “Josh, thank you for helping. And let me tell you, if I ever get hit with a malpractice suit, I know exactly where to come. No offense, sweetie,” he says to me with a wink.

I am dying to talk to Josh, to ask him if his holding my knee under the table meant anything, if his missing work to support me was an indication that he loved me again, but I can’t. My hands are still trembling.

The thirty minute break passes excruciatingly slow. My parents and Josh laugh and chat and catch up with ease. I can barely put three words together by the end. I feel like a kindergarten kid on the first day of school. Finally, when I can bear it no longer, the door opens again and the two file back to their spots.

L. Gordon has an impartial, stern expression on his face that fills me with dread. But Janice shoots me a small smile as she sits. That smile.

“She smiled. That means you won,” Josh scrawls on his pad and passes it to me. He saw it too. Then his comforting hand finds my clammy, shaking one under the table and I hold tight to him. He is my life raft in a frigid ocean. I squeeze his fingers so tight I’m afraid it might hurt him, but I can’t seem to let go.

“Ahem.” L. Gordon addresses the room. I take a deep breath. Everyone leans forward, waiting, listening. “We have discussed and looked through all the evidence at hand. While what happened is unfortunate, we do not believe that the defendant, Charlotte Southard, purposely or accidentally violated any ethical or legal standards. Perhaps Carter Clinton can pursue legal action against Grace Martin, the assistant who couriered the draft prospectus to the opposing counsel, but that would be a matter for a different time and place. The petition for disbarment has been denied. Thank you for coming today.”

And with those few words, it’s over.

I bury my face in my hands as the truth of the matter sinks in. Disbarment denied. I’m safe. Josh’s arm goes around my shoulders supportively and he holds me. I can hear outraged cries and murmurs from Carter Clinton’s side of the room, I feel my parents hands grasp me, and for the first time in months, everything is right in the world.

I raise my head finally and throw my arms around Josh’s neck. “Thank you, thank you,” I babble repeatedly.

“I didn’t do anything other than lay out the facts,” Josh reminds me. He releases me and I fall into my parents’ arms and the four of us celebrate, laughing. Carter Clinton packs up their legal pads and laptops and the black suits file stiffly out of the room, studiously avoiding eye contact.

“Let’s go get ice cream,” my dad insists when the last of Carter Clinton’s minions have left the room. “This is a celebration and it’s stinking hot outside.”

“I have to get back to work,” Josh says and shakes his head. “Rain check though.”

I want to say something to him, but with my parents standing right there it’s hard to get the words out. I must look pathetic because my mom gives me a knowing look and says that she and my dad will meet me outside in a few minutes. They leave the room, holding hands like a couple of school kids. And I am alone with Josh.

“We really need to talk,” I say slowly. He stands in front of me, big and tough and familiar. Our eyes are locked together and my breathing is ragged and harsh. “I have some things I need to tell you, have needed to for a while actually, and I think I’ll die if you brush me off without letting me speak.”

Okay, maybe I’m the one who sounds like a school kid. But Josh just smiles. “Deal. Dinner tomorrow night?”

“Only if you let me pick the place,” I retort. I can’t break my gaze away from his face. The room feels like it is closing around us, making us safe and secure and the only two people who matter.

“Okay. I’ll see you then.” He pulls his eyes away from mine and gives me one last hug. “Congrats on winning,” he whispers into my ear. And then we leave to find my parents.