Jack with a Twist (9 page)

“Well, have a wonderful time tonight,” I say. “Do you need me to be here for anything? You know, in case any legal issues pop up.”

“You are so funny, Brooke,” Monique says with a laugh. “How would it look to the reporters if one of my brides were to be here? The one who is a lawyer?”

“You can also invite a bride who is an accountant,” I offer. “Or a banker. Do you have any brides who work in investment banking?”

Monique laughs loudly and I laugh along, too, trying to pretend that I’m not desperate for a piece of free fish.

“Well, have fun,” I say, conceding defeat. “I just know it will be a huge success.”

“And so will your case,” Monique says as she walks me to the stairs. “Speaking of which, what comes next?”

“Discovery,” I explain. “It’s the part of the case where each side gets to ask the other side for information—questions, documents, depositions—they’re all part of the pretrial process that the federal court calls discovery.”

“What a funny name for it,” Monique says as we stop at the top of the stairway.

“I never really thought about it before,” I say, “but, I suppose it is.”

“I guess it’s because I’ll be
discovering
a lot of things about my husband?” she asks with a laugh. “Things that the court assumes that I don’t already know? Well, Brooke, I can assure you—after over thirty years together—I already know all there is to know about him.”

“There’s always more to find out about someone,” I say, thinking of a particular case I had when I was still practicing at Gilson, Hecht. In a routine discovery process, some e-mails sent by the CEO of a company were revealed that his shareholders probably didn’t know about and that his wife most definitely did not know about. Apparently, he’d purchased a mail order bride over the Internet and was keeping her and their two love children in a home in Minnesota. Even though this bit of information showcased his ability to multi-task, one of the most important qualities you’d look for in a CEO, he was still fired and served with divorce papers from wife number one the very next day. “You’d be surprised about how much you can learn about a person you really thought you knew.”

“A
nd she says to me: ‘yes, that would be fine,’” I tell Jack as our taxicab lurches up Park Avenue. We’re fifteen minutes late already and I don’t want to keep my parents waiting at the florist. God forbid they give my mother a glass of champagne to celebrate. Then the next thing you know, she’ll be passed out in a patch of begonias and my father will have negotiated a real “steal” on the floral arrangements by using flowers that were previously used the weekend before at a funeral.

“Fine?” he asks, tilting his head down to look at me. I love it how, when we sit together in a taxicab, he always puts his arm around the back of the seat so that I can get close to him.

“Yes,” I explain. “I ask Elizabeth to be a bridesmaid and she says—and I quote—‘yes, that would be
fine.
’”

“I thought you said it was Patricia?” he says, turning to face me.

“Which one’s the oldest?” I ask. “It was the oldest.”

“Patricia, then Elizabeth, then Lisa,” he says, counting them off one by one on his fingers for me.

“Right,” I say, “then it was Patricia.”

“That is so like her,” he says, baby blues narrowing.

“Really?” I ask, excited to get some Solomon family gossip. Jack never speaks badly about any of his family members. Ever. Come to think of it, he never really talks about his family at all, so I was excited to get the inside scoop. As an only child, there’s really not much to talk about with each other (Dad: Did you hear that your mother is making meat loaf for dinner again? Again? Me: Why don’t you just ask her about it? She’s standing right there.) I mean, what’s the point of being part of a big family if you don’t get to gossip about each other?

“No,” he says, “not really. I just thought I was still doing that whole ‘you have to agree with me all the time thing.’”

“Yeah,” I say, giving him a peck on the lips. “That’s pretty much always in effect.”

“Maybe you called her the wrong name and that’s why she wasn’t that excited about it,” he says, looking down at me with a smile.

“Um, still in effect!” I say and Jack smiles even wider.

We sit in silence, looking out our respective windows, me leaning on Jack, as the cab drives through the Helmsley building over Grand Central Station and into midtown Manhattan. The florist is on 61st Street, between Park and Madison, so we’re almost there. But that’s not the reason why we stop talking. We stop talking because there’s nothing to actually talk about. We can’t talk about work—the Monique case is the biggest case that either of us is working on, and we can’t talk about the wedding. Jack knows I’m still ever-so-slightly on edge about the fact that my parents have been bullied into having a wedding at the Pierre when what they really wanted for me was a traditional Jewish ceremony at a conservative temple on the South Shore of Long Island.

Our taxi stops right in front of Maximo Floral Concepts and I hop out as Jack pays the fare. The entranceway to the floral shop is done up to the hilt, with massive vines of ivy intertwined with crimson-red roses completely covering the stone-wall entranceway. As you walk through the cherry-wood doors, the delicious aroma of lilacs and lavender hits you and you can’t help but stop and take a deep breath. The second we get inside, Jack squeezes my hand and leans over to give me a kiss.

“The newlyweds!” my mother cries out as we walk inside.

“We’re not newlyweds, we’re recently engaged, Mom,” I say as I look around for the bottle of champagne.

“Ah, the couple of the hour!” the florist says, walking over to us with two glasses of champagne.

So,
he’s
the culprit. I grab my celebratory glass of champagne and shoot my mother a stern look. She walks to the other side of my father with her glass, well out of my reach.

“I am Maximo,” the florist says in grand style, throwing his arms out wide as if he were a magician, with an accent that is definitely either Spanish or Italian. He bows slightly before extending his hand for us to shake. He shakes Jack’s hand first and then takes mine delicately and gives it a little peck as only a Spaniard would. Or an Italian.

“Oh, Maximo,” my mother titters. I give Maximo a tightlipped smile and then shoot another glare in my mother’s direction. I’m not sure why she’s flirting with him since it’s well known that Maximo owns this shop with his life partner, Federico.

“So, I was thinking white roses,” my mother says, taking my hand and leading me through the showroom. “Maximo has a gorgeous display back here that’s even in our price range!” She throws her head back and says the “price range” part loudly for Maximo to hear. He politely laughs at her lame joke.

“My guy on the island can do it for cheaper,” my father says, leaning against a very expensive-looking trellis.

“We can’t have Long Island flowers for a New York City hotel wedding,” my mother says, dropping my arm from hers and walking over to my father. Since deciding to have the wedding at the Pierre, she has very much embraced the idea of a New York City hotel wedding. I’m just happy that she has something to brag about to her mah-jongg game now that Monique’s not designing my dress anymore.

“What?” my father asks, “now
you
hate Long Island, too?”

“No one hates Long Island,” I say with a smile as I walk over to Jack and pull his arm close to me.

“Oh,” my father says, “then it’s just the Long Island
temples
that everyone hates.”

“No one hates anything, Mr. Miller,” Jack says, breaking from my grip and walking over to my father. “It’s just that, well, it’s silly. You see, my parents always dreamed that I’d be getting married at the Pierre. When they got married, they had just graduated from college and they didn’t have a dime. Their parents could barely afford to throw them a proper wedding and they weren’t even allowed to invite all of their friends. Now that they’ve worked so hard to achieve so much, they just want me to have the wedding that they never had. I hope you can understand.”

“Our Jackie is such a mensch,” my mother says and throws her arms around Jack. My father looks over to me and we just look at each other. I know that he’s thinking:
But didn’t they plan three other weddings already?
but won’t say it.

Truth be told, I’m sort of thinking the same thing, too.

“Let us give the lovebirds some time to walk around and see our selection,” Maximo says, coming between all of us and taking Jack’s and my hands. “Now, go, lovebirds. Go and get inspired.” But, since he’s Spanish (or Italian), he says the “inspired” part as if in slow motion: een-spy-yeyrd. Which sort of does have the effect of inspiring me.

Jack takes my hand and we begin to walk through the showroom. From the outside, it was hard to tell how large Maximo’s showroom would be, it looked like it would be the size of any regular Manhattan store, but as we walk through it, it keeps getting larger and larger, like one of those dreams where you discover that your very own house has extra hidden rooms that you never even knew about.

“Why couldn’t you have been this diplomatic the other night when we were at your parents’ house?” I ask Jack, as we walk through a gazebo lined with pink hydrangeas.

“You’re right,” Jack says, as he guides me toward a tiny bridge with a stream of running water flowing under it. “I agree with everything you just said and you are always 100 percent right. About everything. Always. Ever.”

“I’m serious, Jack,” I say, looking down at the water. The waves are so delicate, so beautiful and the sound of the trickling water makes me wish that I could see the bottom of the pond.

“You know how hard it is for me to have a relationship with my father,” Jack says, tugging at my arm so that I’m forced to turn and face him. “You know how hard it is to stand up to him. My family isn’t like yours.”

Jack looks at me, baby blues deep and dark as night, and runs his fingers through his hair.

“I know, Jackie,” I say. “I know.”

“They are nothing like your family. And I’m just doing the best that I can with him,” Jack says. “Can’t you try to understand that for me?”

“I know,” I say. “I just wish that you knew what was important.”

“I know what’s important,” he says, mouth fighting back a smile, “Didn’t I tell you that you can buy as many Manolos as you want?”

“And baby Manolos,” I say. “Which don’t even exist. You promised me those, too.”

“Even baby Manolos. So, does this mean that you’re dropping the case?” he asks, eyes wide with anticipation.

“God, no, Jackie,” I say, “this is the first client I’ve ever brought in and my first shot at being the lead attorney. Why should
I
be the one to drop the case?
You
should drop the case. There are a million different cases you could lead at Gilson, Hecht right at this very moment!”

“But, this is a high-profile client,” Jack says, “and I need to show the big boys at the firm that I can handle the big clients. Especially Mel. How can I tell him now that I don’t want the case he brought in especially for me?”

“Mel loves me,” I say, “just explain the situation to him.”

“Mel would not understand. And anyway, word on the street is that Old Man Trattner is going to be coming in to visit the firm at the end of the month, and I want to make sure that I’ve got this high-profile case on my desk.”

“I always forget that he’s still alive,” I say, remembering the days when I was an associate at Gilson, Hecht. When associates first get to Gilson, Hecht, they always think that the fact that the last named partner is still alive is like a law firm urban legend—that he doesn’t really exist, that he’s just a ghost used by partners to put the fear of God into associates (“You think working until midnight is bad? Back when Old Man Trattner was still here, he would have made us work straight through the night and checked up on us at 3:00 a.m. to make sure we hadn’t dozed off!”). But the truth is, Milt Trattner just moved out to California and is teaching anti-trust law at U.C.L.A. “Isn’t he, like over one hundred years old? Is it even safe for him to fly?”

“He’s one hundred and three. But that’s not the point. I’m a partner now in a firm that has four hundred attorneys, and I have to start making a name for myself.”

“Well, I’m almost a senior associate now,” I say, “and I need to start taking the lead on cases and bringing in clients if
I
want to make partner.”

“If that’s the way you want it,” Jack says, “then that’s fine. You keep your case and I’ll keep mine. But just one warning—I am going to cut you into twelve little pieces and feed you to the jury. So get prepared for it!”

“Don’t be silly, Jackie,” I say, “dissolution of partnership cases don’t go to trial.”

“It’s a movie quote,” he says, smiling down at me.

“Since when do you quote movies?” I ask.

“I quote movies,” Jack says.

Since when does Jack quote movies?

“Lovebirds!” Maximo calls out, “are you een-spy-yeyrd?”

“Very,” Jack says.

“Well, good,” Maximo says, “I am glad. And I am glad that you found our little pond. You throw a penny in and make a wish now, no?”

Jack and I look at each other and Maximo announces that he has a penny for each of us to toss.

“I give you a moment to come up with a wish.”

“I don’t need a moment,” Jack says, “I know what I wish for.”

“Me, too,” I say, looking at Jack.

“Then, let’s do it,” Jack says as Maximo smiles and hands us each a penny.

We both close our eyes and throw our respective pennies into the pond.