31. Julia
Julia
The trip itself has been easier than I expected.
Our flight out of Minneapolis to Rapid City left obscenely early this morning, which meant meeting Daniel at the airport before sunrise while he carried a coffee the size of his head and complained that no civilized legal matter should require functioning before eight.
Michael arrived ten minutes later looking irritatingly put together for a man who had also been awake since sometime around four, followed by two senior partners and one of the firm’s nonprofit attorneys.
We checked into the hotel just before noon, grabbed something small to eat and separated with enough time to get ready before the event.
An hour later, I’m standing in front of a mirror and suspiciously eyeing the outfit I’ve been forced to choose.
The dress is Tessa’s fault. This is the conclusion I reach staring at myself and wondering whether dark wine-red knit wrapped around every curve I own technically qualifies as appropriate attire for a nonprofit event.
According to Tessa, yes. Also according to Tessa, last night, while lying diagonally across my bed with half my closet spread around her like the aftermath of a small retail explosion, it was actually my only appropriate option because apparently “professional but still visibly in possession of breasts” is a recognized dress code.
I had argued for black. She told me I wear black when I want to disappear.
I pointed out that half of her wardrobe is black to which she informed me we were not discussing her unresolved issues.
Somehow, that ended with the burgundy dress folded into my suitcase.
Now, several hundred miles from Minneapolis, I have to admit she was right.
I hate when that happens. The dress has long sleeves and a soft high neckline, warm enough that I won’t immediately freeze the moment I step outside.
The heavy knit follows my waist and hips closely before falling to mid-calf.
I pair it with black knee-high boots, small gold hoops and the wool coat hanging over the desk chair because the weather app currently claims it is thirty-four degrees outside and feels like twenty-eight.
The sunshine streaming through the hotel window is therefore a liar.
I turn sideways toward the mirror and smooth one hand over my hip.
My hair is loose today, auburn waves falling over my shoulders because pinning them up made the entire thing feel too corporate.
My makeup is deliberately simple except for the darker lipstick Tessa shoved into my bag while informing me that if a room full of attorneys and wealthy donors were going to look at me, I should at least give them something worth looking at.
My phone buzzes on the dresser as if summoned by the thought.
Tessa:
Are you hot?
I stare at the message.
Me:
Temperature-wise or aesthetically?
Three dots appear immediately.
Tessa:
Yes.
I snort and take a picture in the mirror before I can rethink it. Her response arrives before I have even put the phone down.
Tessa:
OH BITCH.
If Michael survives that dress he deserves some kind of legal award.
I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts.
Me:
This is a charity event.
Tessa:
Charity begins at home.
Me:
Goodbye, Tessa.
She sends six eggplant emojis and one angel. I leave her on read. I stare at myself in the mirror one last time. It has been almost ten weeks since I saw Kai, not that I’m counting. The fact that I know the number is purely accidental. Probably. I pick up my coat.
The safe house sits far enough outside Rapid City that the city disappears gradually during the drive, commercial buildings giving way to open stretches of winter-yellow grass, low hills and a sky so enormous it makes Minneapolis feel crowded by comparison.
Daniel is beside me in the back seat of the SUV our firm arranged, scrolling through the event notes on his phone while Michael sits up front talking with one of the partners.
“You know,” Daniel murmurs without looking up, “when Rachel said this was a safe house, I pictured something smaller.”
“Renee.”
He turns toward me. “What?”
“The director’s name is Renee.”
He blinks. “Who the fuck is Rachel?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
Actually, I know exactly who Rachel is, which makes the mistake funny enough that my mouth twitches.
Daniel narrows his eyes. “Why do you know the director’s name?”
“Because I read the briefing packet.”
He looks personally attacked. “I read it too.”
“You apparently did not.”
“You are insufferable.”
“I know.” The answer leaves before I think about it.
For one strange second, another room overlaps this one. Another man looking at me over the edge of a notebook after I say the same thing. The ache arrives softer now than it used to. It’s still there, just no longer sharp enough to take my breath with it.
Daniel doesn’t notice. He has already returned to the event notes.
The property appears several minutes later behind a long drive flanked by bare trees, the main house sitting farther back from the road than I expected.
It is beautiful without being showy, an older, substantial home with dark trim, broad porches and enough surrounding land that the nearest neighboring property is barely visible.
There are security cameras at the entrance and another gate farther in, discreet but impossible to miss once you know what you’re looking for.
The event itself is intentionally private.
No address appeared on the materials our firm received until travel was finalized, photographs are restricted to designated areas and residents are not part of the donor-facing portion unless they personally chose to participate.
The residential spaces remain off limits altogether.
A large heated canopy has been erected off the back of the main house, transparent side panels keeping out most of the wind while allowing the winter setting sun to fill the space.
Inside, tables are covered in cream linens, discreet arrangements of pine and winter greenery sitting between stacks of brochures about the foundation’s work.
Nothing looks extravagant. It looks cared for.
The second I step out of the SUV, the cold gets beneath my coat and makes me deeply regret ever doubting Tessa’s insistence on boots.
“Jesus,” Daniel mutters as the wind catches his coat. “Why do people live here voluntarily?”
One of the senior partners laughs ahead of us. “Ask that again in February in Minneapolis.”
“Fair point.”
We make it inside before the wind can freeze anything essential.
Renee finds us almost immediately. I recognize her from the materials, though photographs did not fully capture the kind of presence she has.
She is probably somewhere in her forties, dressed simply in dark trousers and a cream sweater, her hair pulled back while she moves through introductions with the calm efficiency of someone keeping six things running at once.
When she reaches me, her smile is warm. Michael joins us, followed by Daniel and the senior partners, and the conversation moves toward the foundation, donor reporting and some of the pro bono work our firm has handled over the last year.
I am mostly there because I coordinated more of the administrative side than anybody realized until the event planning began, which means I know enough faces and names to be useful without having to pretend I’m an attorney yet.
Daniel has continued harassing me about the bar with enough consistency that the word has started appearing in my head without him having to say it.
I haven’t told him that. He would become unbearable.
The next hour passes easily. There are speeches, although thankfully none are long.
Renee talks about the women who moved through the program this year without sharing details that belong to them, about transitional housing, childcare assistance, legal advocacy and education.
One of the board members announces that the residential program has now helped more than two hundred women since opening, and the applause that follows feels different from the corporate events I am used to attending.
Nobody here is celebrating quarterly growth.
They are celebrating people getting out alive.
By the time the formal portion ends, I understand why our firm became so invested in this place. I eventually escape the crowd by telling Daniel I need air. He looks toward the transparent wall of the tent where the wind is moving the bare branches hard enough to make them scrape together.
“You need that air?”
“I’ve had two hours of attorneys.”
“That is fair.” He lets me go.
I pull my coat on before stepping outside and walk around the side of the house, grateful when the building cuts most of the wind.
The cold still finds the strip of skin between my boots and the hem of my dress, but after almost two hours beneath the heated canopy, the sharp air feels good against my face.
The property stretches farther than I realized from the entrance, the main house giving way to smaller buildings, a fenced play area and a detached garage partially hidden by bare trees.
I follow the path without much purpose until something parked behind the house catches my attention.