The First Law of Love (2 page)

I flushed my cigarette butts, washed my hands and inspected myself in the narrow bathroom mirror. My eyes had been shadowed beneath with sleepless smudges for so long that I didn't even notice any longer; instead I kept a concealer stick in my purse. I supposed the shadows wouldn't disappear anytime soon. I pressed my palms to my belly, thinner than I'd ever been while living in proximity to Grandma and Aunt Ellen's delicious meals; lawyers didn't eat. We drank – black coffee for breakfast, energy shots for lunch and vodka shots for dinner. I had heard variations of this joke since first year.

Counselor Gordon
, I thought, and a thrill at this title went all through me.

I took the clip from my dark curly hair, brushing it out over my shoulders. It was in desperate need of being trimmed and styled; surely I could manage a visit to Herb, Lanny's stylist, before graduation. I reapplied lip gloss; I still loved my old raspberry-flavored dime store brand and even if I someday managed to pull down six figures, damned if I would ever waste money on expensive cosmetics. I changed into jeans, heeled chocolate-brown boots and a white, short-sleeved sweater, clipped two pairs of gold hoops into each ear, before collecting my purse from the heaps of shit on the kitchen table. I grabbed an umbrella from the rack beside the door and then hurried to the elevator.

Howie's was one level below ground; I could hear music pumping even as I descended the familiar rickety steps to the front door. Pushing inside, I was flooded with the familiar scents and sounds; I spied my roommates at the bar, sipping from martini glasses. They had been joined by another friend of ours from school, Robbie Benson, who had been my main competitor for top honors in the past three years. Even now I felt my spine straightening as though about to face off with him in mock debate, though he smiled at the sight of me and waved me right over.

“Gordon, where the fuck have you been?” he said, flushed and already into what was probably his fifth beer of the night. But shit, we deserved it; we had scarcely seen the light of day since the autumn of 2010, as our pasty complexions clearly reflected.

“Tish, I already ordered you a drink,” Ina said. She slapped at Robbie and said, “You just brushed your arm against my breast and I don't think it was accidentally.”

I giggled at their usual bantering, claiming a stool as Amy, the regular bartender, slid an icy gin and tonic my way.

“Thank you,” I told her, restraining myself from gulping.

“God, where's your cousin when we need him?” Grace asked, bumping her shoulder against mine. “I'm drunk and I'm fucking horny, and I need a muscular backwoods firefighter
right now
.”

“I'm texting him that you said that,” I told my roommate, giggling more, setting aside my drink to do just that. I reflected, “God, you'd eat him alive.”

“That's about what I feel like doing,” Grace said, sighing, smoothing a hand over her sleek, blond-streaked hair.

“You know, I have a plastic fire helmet from Halloween. It's right in my closet,” Robbie said, leaning over the bar beside Grace and offering her his best Kennedy-brother smile. He was slickly handsome, entitled and charming as only a boy raised in a household with two successful litigators could be; though he wouldn't have full access to his trust until age thirty, he had more money to play with than I could probably ever dream.

“Jesus, I'm not
that
drunk,” Grace returned. Robbie was unfazed; he had gamely taken our shit for years now, though he grabbed her drink and licked the rim of the glass. Grace shrieked, slapping at him. He ducked away, closer to me, just as my phone flashed with a return message.

Tell her I
'
m free after work
, Clint had responded, along with a little devil emoticon, and I held up the message to show Grace. She shrieked again; Amy didn't so much as glance our way, as she was used to us. Grace snatched the phone from my hands and Ina crowded close. Giggling, they began composing a response.

“So, Gordon, have you talked to your dad today?” Robbie asked, settling on the stool to my right, studiously ignoring Ina and Grace.

I had already finished my drink and nodded when Amy held up the bottle of Beefeater. I told Robbie, “No, actually I haven't. Why?”

“Then you haven't heard about Ron's offer,” he mused. “I've successfully one-upped you. Damn, I feel pretty good about that.”

I squeezed the lime wedge from my glass over the ice cubes of my second gin and tonic. I cautioned, “Don't get too comfortable with that feeling.” But then curiosity overtook my attempt to play it cool, and I demanded, “Ron's offer about what?”

“He needs a housesitter this summer,” Robbie said. “Well, more like a cabin-sitter. You know how he owns all that acreage out in Montana somewhere. Apparently his regular guy isn't available.”

I knew Robbie was eyeing a position at Turnbull and Hinckley, same as me. That Ron had approached him asking for such a thing suggested favoritism of an unparalleled degree and my stomach tightened with a cramp. I said, “So he asked
you?
”

“He did indeed,” Robbie said, with just a hint of smugness. “But your dad told me he offered you a little something too.”

I looked at once towards my phone, but had no hope of getting it back in the near future. Why hadn't Dad called me the moment he was privy to this information?

“So fill me in,” I said, in my best attorney-at-law tone.

“Apparently Ron wants the both of us out there to do some kind of long-range externship at a little firm in…shit, I don't remember the town. Let's call it Po-Dunk, for now. A former partner of Ron's went rogue almost two decades ago and left Chicago. This guy has trouble filling positions out there in Cow-Shit, go figure —”

“Po-Dunk,” I reminded him.

“Yes, there. Ron volunteered us to lend a hand. ‘Field work' was how your dad put it.”

My shoulders had already gone back into their customary hunch, despite the alcohol. I said, “You've got to be kidding me.” No wonder Dad hadn't called yet; he wanted to avoid the confrontation that he knew was headed his way at this news. The Wrath of Tish. I said, “Did you agree?”

“I'll be in Europe for the first half of the summer,” he reminded me. His parents had gifted him with two months there. I could already envision him lounging on the beaches in Spain and France, drunk day and night, charming the bikini bottoms off of local girls, while I slaved away back in the States. God help me, I would do that slaving in Illinois, not Montana. Robbie went on, “But fortunately he needs the housesitter in August, when I'm available. You, my lovely, get the field work experience starting next month.”

“What do you fucking care about a job, anyway?” I bitched, probably unnecessarily harshly. “It's not like you ever have to worry about money.”

“Baby girl, that wounds me,” Robbie said.

I finished my drink in two swallows. Robbie knew me well enough to sense the storm gathering within me, and drifted back to Grace and Ina. I closed my eyes, bundling my nerves like cordwood, willing myself to chill out. At least until Dad could clarify what this was all about. Ron Turnbull was my future boss; at least, that was how I would continue to regard him until proven otherwise. If he wanted me to work outside the state for him, I would have to shoulder arms and do so.

But what the fuck?

This is so unfair.

“Girls, I don't think Tish would approve,” Robbie said then, catching my ear. I realized they were debating sending Clint a picture of Grace's right nipple, and I leaned to pluck my cell from Ina's grip. Wails of protest met my ears, along with a lot of laughter.

“Not with my phone, you're not!” I warned them, though I had to laugh too, at their expressions.

My phone buzzed then and I saw it was Clint calling. His caller ID picture, from two Christmases ago, had appeared on the screen. He was crossing his eyes and blowing out his cheeks in his best chimpanzee face and I showed this gem to the girls, who were undeterred.

“Hey, I just wanted to tell you to bring your friends home with you next week,” Clint said as I answered. The sound of my cousin's voice was so familiar.

“God, I miss you,” I told him.

“So when are you coming home?” Clint pestered.

“Is that him?” Grace gushed. Clint heard and laughed.

He said, “Tell her yes,
yes
it is.”

I snorted a laugh and asked Clint, “Are you trying to sound
seductive?
”

Grace succeeded in getting the phone from my hands and put it to her ear at once. She purred, “
Hi
there.”

I ordered a third drink.

***

Later I carved out a
spot to sit at the kitchen table in our apartment and proceeded to call my dad. He answered on the third ring, saying immediately, “I suppose you've heard.”

Dad knew me well enough to know that I didn't call this late in the evening without being upset or occasionally needing money. I didn't intend to whine as I asked, “What is this about?”

He sighed and said, “I intended to tell you tomorrow, at lunch. You must have seen Rob Benson this evening.”

“Dad, quit evading,” I said.

He laughed a little. He said, “That's my girl.”

“Montana?” I pressed.

“Ron has property out there, thousands of acres,” Dad said. “He doesn't get west very often, for a month or so in the fall, to hunt. He has a local man manage the place, usually. He's unavailable in August.”

“So, enter Robbie,” I said. “What about me? How do I fit into all this?”

“Ron's good buddy Al Howe has a smaller firm out there, in the same county where Ron owns land,” Dad said. He sounded mildly stressed. I imagined him pinching the bridge of his nose as he explained, “I remember Al from the old days. He was never much suited to life in the city. He was raised out west, came east for school.”

I restrained the urge to snap,
So what?!

Dad went on, “The closest place that's actually on a map is Miles City. Al's firm is in a town called Jalesville.”

This name chimed in my memory; I knew it – disjointed images flashed across my half-drunk mind. The Rawleys, a big, loud family comprised of all boys. Mathias and Camille's friends, who'd come to their wedding…a long time ago now…wasn't that where they were from?

“It's not appreciably bigger than Landon,” Dad said. “Al's partner retired and he's got his hands full. I…” Dad hesitated, which suggested his extreme reluctance, unheard of for him; my father was never at a loss.

“Dad?” I persisted.

“I told Ron you'd be more than happy to help out,” Dad said.

“In Montana?” I cried, pressing my free hand against my forehead. “For how long? I'm supposed to go to Minnesota for awhile!”

“Tish, it doesn't suit you to whine like that,” Dad said, sounding more like himself. “It's just for July and August. Eight weeks. Through Labor Day, tops. Think what this goodwill bump will do for you, honey. I apologize that it's so far away.”

“I'll go out of my mind,” I muttered, stung that he'd call me out for whining, but I deserved that, I supposed. I was acting like a child.

“You'll have plenty to occupy your mind,” Dad disagreed. “Al's working on a decent-sized case. Land dispute, from what I can tell. Sounds rather interesting.”

“I'm listening,” I grumbled.

“Just this April, a company based out of Chicago began buying up acreage in Rosebud County – that's where Jalesville is located – and it seems that half the town is ready to sell out and the other half, roughly, refuse to sell. Al's brother-in-law already sold his campground to this company.”

“What's the problem with that?” I asked, tugging a notebook from a stack of papers a good foot high. I fumbled for a pencil, despite myself; my note-taking urge was still too deeply ingrained.

“Nothing on the surface. It sounds like this company has a habit of doing this sort of thing, namely in Wyoming. Buying up prime real estate in lower-income areas, where people are tempted with offers. Then they doze these little towns and expand their own business, often reselling the acreage to the highest bidders, people who want vacation homes, this sort of thing. In one place they sold the land to another company that then built time shares. If you were one of the ones who didn't sell out, you're out of luck.”

“That sounds like business in the modern world,” I said, depressed at the thought; my heart grew cold at the thought of someone trying to such a thing to Landon, where most of my family still lived. As though any business owner in Chicago gave a rat's ass about what they would view as a speck on a map. I imagined everyone in Landon being displaced; no dollar amount could compensate for such a thing.

“Al thinks he can rally enough of the population so that it's no longer worth the while of Capital Overland,” Dad said. “He's trying to save his town, and it's a noble effort.”

“Capital Overland?” I repeated.

“That's the company Al is dealing with,” Dad explained. “It's a subsidiary of Yancy Corp.”

Even I recognized that name, and jotted notes, as Dad kept talking.

Yancy Corp

Capital Overland

Jalesville

A noble effort

Dad said, “If Capital Overland can finagle enough of the population into selling out, there isn't much of a chance for Al and the others who agree they don't want to lose their town. Ron doesn't have a vested interest in the town itself, but he doesn't want to lose his property out there, and Al is one of his oldest friends.”

My mind was spinning, and it wasn't from the gin. I clarified, “And it's just for the summer?”