The Wedding Party. Robyn Carr

twenty-five.”

      “And spoiled and selfish. But I will have to speak to her about Peaches. You know how close those two are. And hopefully we will tell them both this weekend.”

      “How do you suppose they’ll react?” Pam said, a devilish flicker sparkling her eyes.

      “Hmm. Peaches will probably be astonished and Stephanie will…Stephanie will probably be relieved that I’m not going to die an old-maid divorce lawyer.” She shook her head while Pam laughed. “So,” she went on, “I have a full calendar today, culminating with a meeting this evening here with Bradley himself of Bradley & Howe regarding the Omagi custody. I doubt I’ll get home before ten. I’m due in court in an hour. Child Protective Services continue to harangue Leslie and Tom Batten, and I’ve filed an injunction to hold them off until we can have a hearing. Then I have a lunch and a meeting with Carl Dena regarding the transfer of one of his companies into his son’s name, since his son’s been managing it for about ten years anyway. Can you see to these items, please?” She passed a neatly printed list to Pam. “And will you please add one item?”

      “Sure.”

      “I ran into Jake last night. He wanted a favor, but we got sidetracked talking about Stephanie and he forgot to ask me. Will you give him a call? Ask him what he needs?”

      “Sure.”

      “And if it sounds like too much trouble, tell him you can’t fit it on my calendar. I’ve already done plenty for him and I don’t—”

      “He probably just wants some simple legal thing for free, like a paper filed for a friend,” Pam said as she scribbled, not even looking up from her notebook. “If so, I can probably get it done without even bothering you.”

      “Your discretion,” Charlene said dismissively. “I’ve got less than an hour to go over my notes for court, so let’s get to work.”

      “Gotcha. Coffee?”

      “Hey, that would be great. I forgot to grab some as I passed the pot.”

      “You have a lot on your mind. By the way, will you be living in your house or Dennis’s?”

      Charlene responded with a blank stare, her mouth slightly open. How could that have not even come up in the conversation that followed “Do you still want to get married?” “Um, my house, of course,” she said to Pam unconvincingly.

      “You didn’t even talk about it, did you?”

      “You know, we talked about so many things….”

      “Oh brother,” Pam said, heading for the coffeepot.

      One of the things Pam London appreciated about working for Charlene Dugan was the quality of the work environment and the high measure of independence and responsibility Pam was afforded. She was an experienced paralegal, an executive assistant, and passed off secretarial work to office clericals and legal research to law clerks. Pam had helped build Phelps, Dugan & Dodge; she’d been with Charlene for sixteen years, beginning in the early, lean years.

      Pam remembered with nostalgic fondness the old brick walk-up they started in, when they both were young and energetic, when Stephanie was just a bitty little thing with freckles. They couldn’t afford a secretary so Lois, who was about to retire, helped out with typing and filing in the evenings and on the weekends.

      They’d been through a lot since then, both professionally and personally. Pam had lost her mother to cancer and eventually moved back in with her father. She told herself she did it for him, but it was as much for herself. Meanwhile, Charlene finally moved out of her mother’s house. Together they built a strong reputation in the legal community. The work was challenging, the pay excellent, the people were of the highest caliber and her days flew by.

      Pam and Charlene were too busy to worry that they didn’t have dates. And now, against all odds, Charlene was actually getting married.

      It was 7:00 p.m. when the door to Charlene’s office opened and she came marching out, briefcase in one hand, sheaf of papers to drop on Pam’s desk in the other, coat over her shoulders. And a scowl on her face. “Last-minute change of venue,” she said. “I’m going to Bradley & Howe.”

      “When did this happen?” Pam asked.

      “About ten minutes ago, when I called to confirm our meeting here. It’s a sleazy trick. This guy is creating diversions, pretending the meeting was always scheduled for his office. What bullshit. I left a message for Sherry Omagi on her voice mail, but if she shows up here, tell her she can drive over to Bradley & Howe if she wants to, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll meet with the attorney whether she’s there or not, and I’m not backing down.”

      “Go get ’em, tiger.”

      “You ever get through to Jake?”

      “Oh, yeah. There’s some woman he met…I think he said he met her in a bar…?”

      “No,” Charlene said facetiously. “Jake? In a bar?”

      “She’s divorced, has a couple of kids by two exes, neither of whom share custody or pay child support. Now ex number one wants custody of child number one. And of course she’s broke.”

      “Does the ex have money?”

      “Don’t know that yet.”

      “Well, I can’t see a judge handing over a child with a lot of back support owed. Abuse?”

      Pam shrugged. She didn’t know the answer to that either. “He abandoned them…as did ex number two. I put her on your calendar for next week.”

      “Why’d you do that?” Charlene asked.

      “Because you just can’t say no to Jake,” Pam returned, smiling gently.

      “That’s what you’re for! You can!”

      “Char, it’s easier this way. Believe me. It’ll take hours of pestering off the clock.” She glanced down at the papers Charlene had given her. “Where are you with CPS versus Batten?”

      “We’ll revisit this issue in one month with a hearing in family court. We’ve got a TRO. The CPS has been temporarily restrained. They’ve been told to leave the Battens alone unless they have a police matter to investigate.”

      “In the hot file it goes. You’d better hurry.”

      “Don’t work too late,” Charlene said.

      “Since there’s no meeting here, I’ll close up in ten minutes.”

      “Have a nice evening,” Charlene said, pulling the door closed.

      “You bet,” Pam said to the closing door. “You bet,” she said more quietly to the empty room.

      She cleaned off her desk at a leisurely pace, giving that last client who might show up at the wrong place for the right meeting a few more minutes to appear. She cleared her computer screen, locked her desk drawer and placed her calendar open on top of her desk, scanning tomorrow’s schedule. Yes, yes, I love working here, she said to herself. I’d be lost without this place.

      Lost.

      Pam pulled her gym bag from the cupboard behind her desk and went into Charlene’s executive bathroom; she only used this private facility when Charlene was out of the office. There she affected a transformation—from sophisticated career woman in light wool suit, silk blouse and pumps, to weight trainer in spandex, sports bra and cross-trainers.

      She pulled her shoulder-length auburn hair into a clip and couldn’t resist the urge to preen a little in front of Charlene’s mirror. She was cut; nicely muscled, her percentage of body fat low. Looking fine. Weight lifting was more than just a hobby, more than a means of staying in shape. It was something she did to keep her spirits from sinking.

      It wasn’t as though she had a bad life. In fact, by almost anyone’s standards she had a great