“How do you plan to send your child to private school when, by all the information I have gathered here, you nearly qualify for state aid?” he asks me directly.
That’s the third time he’s asked me a question, and this will be the third time Jane sets him straight because I’m not about to answer. We’ve been here all of ten minutes and he’s pissed her off at least that many times.
Jane tosses her pen on her pad of paper and overdramatizes an air of ridiculousness.
“Dear God, Jackson. This isn’t a trial. She’s only here because your client…” She limply points at Margret sitting across from me, scowling, “insists on being a pain in the ass.”
Margret gasps, while I hold back a giggle. My bottom lip is starting to get sore from continuously doing just that.
I don’t just like and respect Jane. I love her. I want to be her. That’s how much I admire the way she carries herself in what feels to be a hostile situation.
“My client merely wants what’s best for her only son’s child,” he clips and pins me with an irritated stare, as if that will get me to answer.
No way, buddy. This is too much fun.
“Let’s move on to something else then,” Jackson offers. “Benefits for Dillon. Do you currently have these?”
Jane is aware I quit Mercer Law, and being the lawyer who will likely represent me, she wasn’t happy in hearing it. Being my friend, she’s about to walk a thin line between what’s right and what’s wrong. I can’t say that if this were an official court hearing she’d do the same, but I appreciate when she says, “Yes. Lucy has insurance for her son through her employer.”
Margret’s eyes narrow at me. I’m guessing that, through the high-class, demented little grapevine she’s always been a part of, she already knows I quit my job.
“Time with Dillon,” Jackson pushes. “Lucy, how much time are you afforded to spend with your son?”
Jane not only tosses the pad and pen, she throws it. It lands smack in front of Jackson and he sneers before picking it up and sliding it back.
“Margret,” Jane snaps. “What on this earth has made you so mean?” Margret’s mouth drops open, clearly offended. “I don’t remember you being quite this nasty in graduate school. You were–”
“Stop,” Jackson clips out. “We’re not talking about Margret.”
“Oh, but we are,” Jane retorts.
The two lawyers have at each other for a few minutes before Jackson gives in, lifts his hands in the air to surrender, and it all goes quiet.
He shuffles a few pages of his file around, and I’m suddenly curious to know what else he has in there. When he looks up to me with a soft expression of understanding, I nearly shiver. That look he offered was honest and sincere.
No, really. What’s in there?
Folding his arms over the file, after removing his reading glasses, Jackson turns to Margret, who slowly nods. I swallow hard, watching as she must’ve given him unsaid permission to ask what he’s about to.
“Mrs. Monroe…” He breathes in frustration as Jane clears her throat loudly because, once again, the fool is addressing me.
Speaking for the first time since being here, I don’t mind correcting him. “Miss, not Mrs. My husband is dead.”
I move my eyes to Margret’s just in time to see hers squint. I meant to be blunt. My husband is dead, and what he did before turning tail and dying still hurts, especially as I have to sit here and prove I’m worthy to his evil mother.
Jackson nods, but continues, “There are a few…” He pauses and looks down, straightening the paper in front of him. He looks nervous when his eyes come back to mine. “There are a few questionable character concerns we’d like to bring up.”
Twisting my fingers in my lap, I look down, but I hear Jane in my ear. “No, Lucy. Look at him. They’ve got nothing,” she encourages.
“Okay,” I answer, looking back up.
“Do you know who Michael Holden is?”
The muscles in my back tense as I hear Michael’s name, wishing he were here to walk me through this. I don’t think there’s anything I wouldn’t give to have him wink at me, putting my mind at ease, as I sit surrounded by these mean people.
“He’s her boss, Jackson. Everyone here knows who Michael Holden is. We’re not being recorded or examined at this time, so whatever you think you’re doing, stop with the formal nonsense.”
Still loving Jane.
“Right,” he replies quickly, then asks, “Are you…” He stops before Jane can correct him. “I’m sorry. Is your client currently having an affair with Michael Holden?”
Oh, my god.
“Do not answer that,” Jane snaps, grabbing my arm when I open my mouth. It wasn’t to speak. It was a knee-jerk reaction from shock.
“I think she should answer,” Margret sneers. “My son would’ve been ashamed to know his wife was capable of sleeping with men for money.”
I feel sick.
“She wasn’t sleeping with me for money,” a dark, hoarse voice from behind me interrupts.
Immediately, I know it’s Michael’s, and I also know that specific tone.
He’s livid.
When he comes forward, I freeze. From under the table, Jane’s hand touches my knee. The physical connection eases me…until Michael pulls out the chair next to mine and makes his large, overpowering, now furious frame comfortable.
“What is this?” Jackson bites out. “What are you doing here? Who let you in?”
Michael turns to me, and I look at him. In his eyes, I find the safety I think I always have. They’re kind and genuine. And full of concern for me.
“Are you all right?” he whispers.
I feel my heartbeat reach into my throat, nearly choking me with appreciation in being so thankful to see his familiar face. He looks good, so much better than where I left him days ago.
“I’m okay,” I confirm. My eyes are watering, not due to the situation in front of us, but because I’ve missed him.
You’re coming around.
You’re getting it.
Shannan’s voice in my head echoes loudly while I visualize the look on her face when she said those words just yesterday.
Michael gives me a small, subtle smile, then turns his angry gaze back to Jackson. He laces his fingers in front of him, then lifts his hand in refusal when Jane offers him a notepad and pen. I grab it when Michael refuses and place it in front of me.
If it weren’t my circumstance being so openly dissected, this would be reminiscent of Jeremy Lehman and how well Michael and I worked through that with him together.
“She wasn’t sleeping with me for money,” Michael states, bringing us back to where we were.
“So you were sleeping with your boss?” Margret asks. When she does, Jackson turns his head in her direction; however, she doesn’t let the distraction deter her.
When Margret pins me with a nasty stare, Michael snaps, “Eyes to me, woman. Not her.”
Margret’s mouth morphs into an evil grin. Jackson adjusts in his seat, obviously not ready to deal with Michael and probably assuming, one-on-one, he could’ve handled Jane.
He’d be wrong about that, but whatever.
Michael’s angry gaze continues to focus on Margret. She’s not fidgeting beneath it at all, until he asks, “When is the last time you saw Dillon?”
“Mr. Holden, your place isn’t here,” Jackson interrupts in a deep, brooding voice.
“Quiet,” Michael tells him, never taking his eyes off Margret. Jackson does as he’s told. “Answer me. When’s the last time you saw the little boy you’re trying so hard to take from his mother?”
“I… I don’t…,” she stutters.
Her hand moves to her throat. As cruel as it may sound, I’m picturing something lodged in it.
“Tell me, Margret,” Michael prompts without giving her another second to collect her thoughts. “After your son passed away, how did you help Lucy process her grief in losing him?”
Jackson pushes his papers to the side and interjects, “I don’t think she’s who we’re–”
“Shut it,” Michael snaps, not letting him finish. “Mrs. Monroe?” he prods. “Answer the question.”
Again, Jackson steps in. “Margret, you don’t have–”
Michael’s body radiates his fury. Turning his head to Jackson, I hear him inquire, “Mr. Wills, do you have medical insurance?”
The question seems odd; however, they asked me the same, so I’m interested in hearing his answer.
Well?
Jackson doesn’t have a chance to respond before Michael says, “Because if you don’t shut your mouth and let Margret answer my questions, you’ll need it.”
Oh, shit, fuck, and double damn it.
On my other side, I hear Jane suffering under a fit of laughter. When I look at her, shock clearly written on my face, her smile falls and she nods once.
“Threats, Michael?” Jackson queries. “Really?”
“Give your client the floor,” Michael demands.
Margret, never one to back down, snips, “I tried to help her. Lucy wouldn’t allow it.”
Lies.
“And if you did it without her knowing, she’d hate you for it,” Michael says under his breath, but I don’t miss his insinuation meant for only me.