Chapter One Tula
Chapter One
Tula
Norfolk, Virginia
The computer cursor blinked, daring me to type the legal brief I’d been attempting to write for most of the morning.
All my meticulous research was complete.
But whenever I began to write, my well-organized notes turned liquid, and the facts and figures leaked away like water through clenched fingers.
My stomach grumbled, and my head ached. I’d written hundreds of briefs. That’s what paralegals do. We write summations for attorneys. Projects like these should write themselves. Bing, bang, boom. Done. And I was one of the best in the firm.
I pressed my fingers to closed eyelids. If I could just wade through the project and make the words flow in order, then I could take a deep breath, go home, and get some sleep.
Lately, good sleep had become a thing of the past. Each night I’d tumble into bed about midnight, only to have my eyes pop open at 3:00 a.m. I’d roll onto my side.
My stomach. Punch my pillow. Throw off blankets and then add more when I became cold.
I needed sleep, but my brain kept firing on all pistons.
In these restless hours, the ghosts I’d kept at a distance for years stepped out of the shadows, circled, and taunted. They replayed all my mistakes.
Last night, despite the three melatonin gummies and two glasses of wine I’d consumed, the spirit of my recently failed marriage drifted close.
My now ex-husband, Dave, had sent me a notice yesterday, via his lawyer, ordering me to vacate the house we’d shared.
He owned the property and wanted me out so he could sell it.
The message had been quick and to the point.
It stated that I could buy the house or move out in two weeks.
Buy the house. Right. The email ended with the complimentary close, “Best.”
I didn’t miss Dave or long for him. But he and his house had been my safe harbor for almost six years.
I’d finally risen at five and dressed for the gym.
I drove a few miles to the facility and was on its doorstep at 5:30 a.m. I spent an hour swimming laps in the pool, cutting through the water until I was breathless and my arms ached.
I went home, showered, and dressed for work.
The plan had been to get a jump on the brief before my energy crashed.
“How’s the brief coming?”
I looked up at Nan, my boss. She was dressed in her signature all-black. Her V-neck sweater curved over her breasts in a seductive but still professional way. Her blond hair was tied back in a ruthlessly smooth ponytail, and subtle makeup softened stern features.
“The research is done,” I said. “Notes are right here.”
She hovered over my cubicle. She was intense, but I liked her. “Don’t worry about that. The boss wants to see you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. A special assignment.”
“But this brief is due today.”
“I’ll give it to another paralegal. Mr. Brooks is waiting for you in his office.”
Mr. Brooks. One of the three named partners in the firm. This felt a little like being summoned to the king’s court. No struggling employee wanted a partner’s attention. And here it went. I was getting fired. I’d dropped the ball too many times since my separation.
My cubicle was stark, decorated with a single silk plant, a “Girl Boss” mug from Dave, and the picture of Mom and me taken eight years ago in Greece. I’d never kept much on my desk. Seemed odd to make a workspace feel like a home when it wasn’t.
Sweat dampened my armpits. “I know I’ve been distracted and a little slow, but I’m getting my work done. Did I screw something up?”
Faint hints of pity flickered in Nan’s eyes. “I don’t know why Mr. Brooks wants to see you.”
Right. Fired. All I had to do was drop the picture in my purse. The plant and mug could stay for the next inhabitant.
When Nan left, I reached for a chocolate bar in my purse and took a large bite. The sugar and fat wouldn’t remedy this, just as they hadn’t fixed my marriage. But the chocolate tasted good, and I took pleasure wherever I could.
I adjusted the coin-crystal necklace into the hollow of my neck and rose. Dusting the chocolate bits from my skirt, I walked down the line of cubicles to the elevator. I pressed the top-floor button, and as the doors closed, I drew in a breath. I’d survived worse before. And I would do it again.
The elevator doors opened to plush gray carpet, a mahogany reception desk, and an expanse of tinted windows that overlooked the waters of the bay. It was a beautiful day. So, if I was to get fired, the weather was at least working in my favor.
As I walked up to the desk, a woman with sleek gray hair and an angled face looked up. “Miss Cassidy?”
“That’s right.” Never good to be expected.
“Mr. Brooks is waiting.” She rose, and I followed to a closed office door. She knocked.
I looked presentable, but I was dressed more for cubicle brief-writing work. If I’d known I’d see the big boss, I’d have picked the newer dress that fit a little better.
As tempted as I was to ask, I didn’t. If my late mother had taught me anything, it was to shove my feelings deep. Asking was a sign of weakness.
A man said, “Enter.” The receptionist pushed open the door.
As I passed her and moved into the office, my gaze wasn’t drawn to the sweeping views of the bay but to the man standing behind the large wooden desk outfitted with pedestal feet and carvings of sea creatures and waves.
It was a ship captain’s desk that must have dated back centuries.
A polished surface caught and reflected the lights in the room.
A single manila folder and envelope rested to his right.
Mr. Robert Brooks’s age was hard to guess. Maybe late fifties. He wore black from head to toe, and his gray hair was swept back in a cut reminiscent of the 1940s. His face was bronzed, not from a bottle or tanning bed but from years in the sun. Everyone knew he loved to sail.
Mr. Brooks, beyond his expensive suit, wasn’t impressive.
In fact, he looked rather ordinary, like a favorite worn, albeit expensive, pair of jeans.
If he were plainly dressed and passing me on the street, sipping coffee in a café, or raking leaves in a yard, I wouldn’t have noticed him.
He didn’t have the bearing of a man who’d built a half-billion-dollar law firm that had global reach.
I suspected Mr. Brooks’s ordinariness was an advantage.
While no one was watching him, he was surveilling and planning chess moves ten steps ahead.
Oil paintings of clipper ships and centuries-old coal-powered vessels graced the white walls. Like our firm, which specialized in maritime law, the entire Norfolk region revolved around the water.
The Brooks name was front and center on the firm’s masthead, Tierney, Brooks, and Bainbridge. I’d never met any of the other named partners and assumed they were older than Mr. Brooks. Frankly, I was surprised either was still alive, let alone came into the office.
Mr. Brooks studied me as if searching for something. Perhaps he didn’t see mid-level paralegals often and was just as curious about me as I him.
I cleared my throat. “Mr. Brooks. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Tula Cassidy.”
“Tula. Welcome. Would you have a seat?” His accent was neutral and could be assigned to endless locations.
Twin leather chairs angled in front of his desk. This seemed like a lot of trouble for a firing, and he didn’t have the look of a guy ready to make a sexual advance.
Still cautious, I smoothed my skirt and sat down. He sat in the leather chair behind his desk, which frankly felt more like a fortress.
Again, he studied me a beat before reaching for a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Carefully he slid the manila folder to the center of his desk. “You’ve been with the firm almost seven years?”
“Yes. Nearly seven years, sir.” The anniversary of my hiring was in September, but that didn’t matter now.
“You’re a paralegal?”
“I started in the mail room and worked my way up through the firm’s apprentice program.
” Did this bit of ancient history matter?
Men at his level didn’t know where the mail room was located.
And they sure didn’t pay much attention to apprentices, first-year lawyers, or paralegals housed in endless cubicles.
He didn’t open the file. “You’ve had stellar reviews until this last one.”
I straightened. Getting the work done over the last year had been a struggle.
Dave, the anchor in my life, had left. I might not have loved him, but at the time I’d met him, my life had felt like it was trapped in the outer bands of a hurricane.
Dave was calm and steady and had promised a solid, stable life.
But that endless consistency had tightened around me like a noose.
I began to resent Dave’s so-predictable schedule and his ten-year plans for our lives.
Dave wasn’t stupid, and he’d come to dislike my lack of interest in us.
He began drinking and spending more time away from home.
And then, after a horrific fight, he took off for two weeks. He hadn’t answered any of my calls.
During his hiatus, I became furious. My resentment grew, although it wasn’t directed toward him but toward myself. I believed I couldn’t make it without him. I drank. Worried. And when he’d finally texted and said we should talk, I’d wished for a different life.
As soon as Dave returned, I was slightly relieved.
But as he poured a bourbon, he asked me for a divorce.
Pride kept me from saying anything. I sat in silence as he pointed out that we wanted different lives.
One day I would see that. He packed a bigger bag, moved out of the house (which he owned), and told me to get a lawyer.
I’d stayed in the house during the divorce, but now the limbo was ending. I had two weeks to find somewhere else to live. So far, finding an affordable place had been challenging. To make the numbers work, I’d have either a long commute or three roommates.