Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
“It was an emergency so he probably forgot. Sick kid.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” I say, feigning sympathy. “I know how—”
I stop.
What was that?
Sick kid? Since when did…
My mind spirals out. Kid? Okay, I’ve joked about his way with women, but nowhere in our banter has he ever indicated that he wasn’t every bit a single, unattached bachelor.
I’m picturing Brooks Junior, a smaller, cuter version with a matching that smirk. Maybe he has a wife? No… not possible. I’ve worked with this man for a year. Surely he’d have mentioned it by now or at least have some kind of photo displayed where all the cute interns could see it.
I’m probably still gulping like a goldfish, because she says, “So… he’s probably at home, if you need him. Do you have his number?”
I nod my head and wander back to my office, so deep in thought that it’s a miracle I find it.
There’s something off about this.
Is it possible he’s lying? Could he lie that big just to get out of work because it’s a beautiful day, there are still a few women left in town he hasn’t conquered, and he doesn’t want to tackle that binder? Truthfully, that sounds more plausible than Brooks Gentry, the consummate Casanova, having a kid.
After handling a myriad of divorce cases, I’ve learned sometimes men do ridiculous things to cover up their transgressions. My mother never talked about my father very much, but one thing she did say was that he was the worst of liars. He was a charmer, but he lied as naturally as he breathed.
Is this a lie?
By the time I get to my office, the curiosity’s practically clawing at me, so I decide to take the bull by the horns and text him.
Tenley: Sorry about your sick kid.
Tenley: Did you manage to read the file you brought home?
I gnaw on my lip, wondering if I should have sent that second message. I probably could’ve eased into it a little better. There’s such a thing as tact, and you don’t have it.
Oh, well. Too late now. I watch for a few moments, waiting for a response, but it just shows as delivered, not read.
Somehow I can’t imagine him sitting at a kid’s bedside playing nursemaid. The image is actually comical, like an octopus wearing gym shorts.
I manage to get through as much as I can with the case before I have to leave. It’s my first meeting with my new mentee, Ellie. Apparently, Ellie is in her mid-twenties, and grew up in Sapphire Shores. She’s a single mother who has been living with family and trying to get her life back together after a devastating fire ripped through her apartment last year.
As I walk to the Portland Women’s Center, I imagine what my mother would’ve done, had a fire taken away what little we had. If it had happened while she was putting herself through paralegal school and trying to raise me? She’d been at the end of her rope and would’ve likely just let go. A tragedy like that is terrible, but when you’re scratching and clawing to earn a living and barely making it in the first place, it’s enough to make most women give up entirely.
My job is to make sure that doesn’t happen to Ellie.
When I get to my makeshift office at the center, I go through her file. Ellie Garner. The writing on the application for assistance is shaky, as if we’re her last hope. She’s twenty-four. Has a son who’s six. Father unknown. Dropped out of high school when she was eighteen. Works part-time waiting tables, not nearly enough for anyone to make ends meet or dig themselves out of their circumstances.
There’s a knock on the door, and Francine pops her head in.
Francine is big, blonde, full of energy, and always smiling. Despite the sad cases that come in here, she’s always a ray of sunshine, instantly putting everyone in a better mood.
“Ellie’s here,” she says. “You ready?”
“Sure.” I rise. “Send her in.”
The young woman comes in right behind her; a slip of a thing with dark-blonde hair in a ponytail, an Under Armor T-shirt, sweatpants, and Converse high tops. She looks like she borrowed her clothing from the teen boy’s section at a department store. There are dark rings under her eyes, which don’t meet mine as she tentatively perches on the edge of the chair across from me.
“Hi, Ellie,” I say with a smile.
She piles her hands in her lap and sighs. “Hi. I don’t know why I’m here. You probably can’t help me.”
“I’ve never met a person I couldn’t help,” I tell her with a smile to hopefully put her at ease. Pointing to her file, I say “I know you’ve been through a lot, and it might seem like you’re at rock bottom and there’s no way of climbing out. But there is a way, and I’m here to help you find it. You don’t have to do this alone.”