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The rest of the summer of 2017 passed quickly, and quietly. I talked to Roberta every day. I told her what Brigette said in our first call after I got back from Boston. I also talked to Brigette frequently, so I got details of their long-delayed get-together from both sides. Roberta was predisposed to be delighted with her daughter, but Brigette was skeptical of the mother that had given her up so many years before. Both of them told me of the unease of their conversation, Roberta treading on eggshells and Brigette just looking for reasons to be offended.

I was relieved when Roberta persisted, and over the course of a month, her charm, her good nature, and her obvious sincerity began to wear down her daughter’s resistance. Brigette finally consented to allow Roberta to visit her. Later that night, she called me.

“Will you come, too?” she asked.

But I wanted Brigette to evaluate her mother independently, not compare her to me, so I said, “It’s better if you get to know each other one on one.”

I heard about the visit from both sides and by all accounts, it went well. While it was a bit stilted, they laid the groundwork on which they could build a long-term relationship.

“Just take it slow,” I advised Roberta. “Don’t try to be her mother, just try to be her friend.”

As the days warmed and the summer weeks went by, I watched Roberta grow her baby bump on the video calls. She was excited about her new baby, though she was worried about how Brigette would take it. In the end, her worries turned out to be baseless. Brigette had her own life now and felt no need to compete with the new baby for Roberta’s affection.

The baby was born at the very end of the summer, a healthy boy. I flew out to California to see him. I spent a week with Roberta, trying to make myself useful and stay out of Owen’s way. This turned out to be easier than I expected, because Roberta wanted to talk to me endlessly about Brigette, and we could only do that away from the ears of Owen and all the Lawlers. She made me repeat Brigette’s many accomplishments several times over.

“Are you going to tell Owen about Brigette?” I asked one day, as we sat in a park with the baby asleep in his pram.

“I don’t think that would be wise. If I told him about her, I’d have to tell him about Jack and all the awful things I’ve done. Abandoning my daughter, then having periodic sexual encounters with her father.”

“How often did you get together with Jack?”

“Too often,” she said, vaguely. “Whenever I felt down and depressed. He always makes me feel sheltered, protected, almost like a little girl again. I’m never afraid when I’m with him.”

“You should have married him,” I said.

“Perhaps.” The baby stirred in the pram and she rocked it till he fell asleep again. “But I have this vile streak in me, Johanna. I turned our relationship into something noxious, sinful even. He wanted love but I made it all about sex. ‘Don’t talk to me, just fuck me, I would say to him. He gave me what I asked for, fucked my brains out, gave me mind-blowing orgasms. Loveless sex.”

I didn’t want to hear about her romps with Jack, so I changed the subject.

“But you’re with Owen now,” I said.

“Yes, I’m with Owen now, for better or for worse. He loves me, spoils me, trusts me. I wish the two of you could be friends.”

“I’ll try if he does,” I said.

“He’s stubborn, but I’ll work on him.”

“Do you love him?” I asked.

“I like him. It does get wearing, living up to this image of perfection he has of me. I feel like I’m living a lie.” She sighed. “But I’ll confess to you, Johanna, I’m just a material girl. I enjoy the luxuries and opportunities made possible by his family’s wealth and connections – more than I should. Owen’s father is on the Board of the San Francisco Symphony, he got me an audition with them. They’re considering me as a guest soloist. The music director had heard Mom play in Chicago, he told me I play like her. Of course, we both know Mom was much better than I’ll ever be.”

“You’re an amazing pianist, Roberta,” I said. “But you didn’t answer the question.”

“I try my best to love Owen, sometimes I succeed.” She paused and looked down at the grass. When she went on, her voice dropped to a whisper. “But I miss Jack. I’ll always miss him.”

I wanted to tell her that I loved Jack, to discuss everything with her. She’d always been my confidante. But her last whisper stopped me. Because when she said “miss”, I knew she meant “love”. I didn’t want to admit it, but in my heart of hearts, I knew I was competing with her again. And she’d always won before.

*

I was relieved when I learned that I had passed the bar exams. I told Burton as soon as I heard. He was delighted and immediately got me on the interview schedule for the fall hiring season. He assured me that he would support my application.

I applied widely and was shortlisted for the fall round of interviews at most of the top New York corporate law firms, as well as several lesser ones. My interview with Burton’s firm was one of the last ones, so I thought I was well prepared. Burton recused himself from my interview panel as he had sponsored me as an unpaid visitor and had written me a letter of reference.

The partners on the interview panel were thorough. The questions they asked me were tough, but I thought I was holding my own. Benson, the partner whose drink order I had screwed up at the New Year’s party, was the last to pitch in with his questions. He led me through a complex hypothetical merger deal financed by a debt issue, asking me to list all the potential approaches, assessing the pros and cons of each one. I answered at length, encouraged by the nods of several of the other interviewers.

“You didn’t mention using a junk bond issue,” he said when I was done.

“I thought that would send a bad signal to the market, sir,” I said.

“I asked you to list all the options, Ms. von Eschenbach.

“I’m sorry, sir. Junk bond financing would be expensive in terms of debt service, putting pressure on cashflow. But it is certainly an option, if more favorable debt instruments are not available.”

Again, the other interview panelists nodded, but Benson did not seem pleased.

“I see you did not go to Yale or Harvard for law school,” he said, picking up my transcripts and abruptly switching his line of questioning. “Can you tell us why? Didn’t you apply there?”

“I did apply, sir. But I didn’t get in.”

“You didn’t get in,” he said, with a glance at the other interviewers. “Yet you expect us to take you seriously here.”

“I went to a good law school, I have good grades, relevant internships, and I think I have good recommendations. I hope you will consider me seriously, sir.”

“You took a gap year after law school and worked as a cocktail waitress instead of taking the bar exams,” he said. “We all saw your work attire on New Year’s Eve – scandalously salacious. There are pictures of you on the club’s social media sites. You look like a stripper or a call girl, not at all the image we strive for at our firm. Are you still working at that club?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, opting not to lie. “I need to support myself.”

“There are more respectable ways to support yourself, Ms. von Eschenbach.”

There was an awkward silence before another of the interviewers changed the subject.

“Why didn’t you take the bar exam right after you graduated?” he asked.

“My mother was ill, sir. I had to take care of her.”

“Oh, I see. I hope she’s better now.”

“No, sir. She died last summer.”

I was hoping to avoid bringing up Mom as I knew I would tear up, and I did. It put a damper on the interview. However, Benson was unmoved.

“You have our deepest sympathies,” he said Benson. He softened his voice, but his eyes remained hard. He riffled through my application file before going on. “Let me summarize. First, you didn’t get into Yale or Harvard. Second, you rudely eavesdropped on us while working as a cocktail waitress, then demonstrated your complete lack of understanding of the realities of hostile takeovers. Third, you failed to fully answer my rather simple question about debt financing. Fourth, we have a damning letter from Matthew O’Connor, your supervisor at your first summer internship, wherein he states that your work was substandard, and your attitude was cocky and insubordinate. Do you have any final comments for us?”

The tears from my thoughts of Mom were still trembling in my eyes. I was afraid they would dribble down my cheeks, so I wiped my eyes before responding.

“No, sir,” I said, shocked by O’Connor’s gratuitous malevolence. My voice broke slightly, and I cleared my throat.

“Really, Ms. von Eschenbach,” said Benson. “If you can’t face a demanding interview without crying, I see no hope for you in this profession.”

“I’m not crying because of the interview, sir,” I said, trying to speak normally. “But I apologize for my lack of professionalism. Thank you for having me in.”

I stood up, smoothed my skirt, and left without looking back. Once I was outside, I quickly walked to the ladies’ room and locked myself in a stall. Then I let my thoughts of Mom overwhelm me and sobbed my heart out.

*

I got an offer from a lesser firm, with a correspondingly modest salary. I told Burton about it as soon as I heard.

“I’m thinking of accepting it, Burton,” I said. “My interview at your firm went badly, but I thought I did well at most of the other top Wall Street outfits. But this is the only offer I’ve got so far.”

“I talked to the interviewers at our firm, Johanna,” he replied. “You didn’t do badly at all. Except for Benson, all the other partners at the interview said you showed excellent technical knowledge. This waitress job of yours is a bit of problem, though. Wall Street lawyers tend to be rather straitlaced. But the main issue is O’Connor’s damning letter. He’s very senior, well-known in the profession. No firm can ignore it.”

“Maybe I should have slept with O’Connor,” I said.

“No, no, don’t talk like that. Let me talk to the partners. I don’t think they’ll be willing to give you an associateship, but it’s possible we could get you in as a research assistant. It will give you the chance to show what you can do, build up a reputation. Then I can push to promote you from within after a few months.”

“How much will a research assistant position pay?”

“Not a lot. But it will get your foot in the door.”

In the end, I decided to accept the research assistant position with Burton, mainly because I liked the idea of working for him. He was mindful of how little I was being paid, and gave me relatively little work. I found that I could come in at nine, and be done with all the work he gave me by three. I spent the rest of the day reading the background notes of his cases, and the cases being handled by other partners in the firm. I figured it would make me a better lawyer.

I also saw a lot of Benson, who never missed an opportunity to make a snide remark. When I complained to Burton he said, “Everything is a learning experience, Johanna. You’ll find that Benson is actually helping you, though he doesn’t realize it. He’s toughening your hide, teaching you to deal with assholes.”

“I already know how to deal with assholes,” I muttered, but realized I had no choice but to do as I was told.

The salary was even less than I was making as a cocktail waitress with the tips. Nonetheless, I decided to move to Manhattan to shorten my commute, especially since I was spending so much time at the office. I found a tiny studio sublet in Alphabet City that was convenient to work.

As I expected, I enjoyed working with Burton. We often had dinner together after working late. Burton always called his wife Melissa and never concealed the fact that he was with me. We went to very nice restaurants and he never let me pay anything, even though I always asked to pay my share.

He was scrupulously proper, never said anything that could be interpreted as coming on to me. He treated me with respect, like a colleague, not a junior. In our discussions, he gave my opinions equal consideration with his own. He was one of the foremost legal minds in corporate law, so it was hard not to get bigheaded.

*

Benson had two research assistants. One was Latisha Allen, an African American girl from Detroit, and the other was a pretty little foreign girl from India called Priya Rajan. Priya had graduated from CUNY School of Law in Queens and was on a 12-month Optional Practical Training (OPT) visa. Her parents had taken out huge loans in India to send her to law school in the US. She was desperate to get a law firm to offer her an associateship and sponsor her for a green card so she could pay them back.

Latisha was an aggressive woman and Benson treated her with kid gloves. He was well aware that she would file a racial discrimination suit against him if she thought he was mistreating her. He gave her as little work as possible, so like me, she was done with her work by the afternoon. Unlike me, she left as soon as she was done, as she had every right to do.

In contrast to Latisha, Benson knew that Priya was an Asian and a foreigner with no rights. She was totally dependent on him and far too afraid to complain, no matter what he did. A bad recommendation from him, and she would never get a permanent job anywhere. He treated her like a slave and I often heard him shouting at her in his office. He loaded her with so much work that she came in before seven every morning and was still working every evening when I left. One of the few times she left her cubicle was when I dragged her out to lunch, even as she protested that she was too busy.

She was a tiny thing, barely over five feet tall, with lustrous, chocolate brown skin and thick, shiny, black, plank-straight hair that cascaded almost to the small of her back – though she rarely wore it loose. She was voluptuous, with an hourglass figure proportionate to her stature. Her body was a schoolboy fantasy, full breasts, a narrow waist with a pleasing swell at her belly button, and a rounded derriere. But I thought her eyes were her best feature. They were dark and impossibly large, sparkling pools that one could drown in.

One evening in the fall, I got home after having had dinner with Burton and realized I had forgotten my keys in my desk drawer at work. I went back to the office and let myself in with my swipe card. It was almost eleven at night, everything was dark with only the emergency lights on.

When I got to my desk, I heard gentle sobbing from a nearby cubicle. Putting my keys in my purse, I went to investigate. It was Priya – she was sitting at her desk, tears streaming down her face. I quickly went in and took her in my arms saying, “What’s the matter, hon? Tell me, tell me.”

“I have so much more to do, Johanna, and I’m so tired! I’ve been working since five this morning and I can’t see straight, the words on my computer screen keep blurring, but I still have so much more to do!”

“How many briefs did you research today?” I asked.

“Twenty-seven. I still have nine more to do, but I’m falling asleep! Mr. Benson will shout at me in the morning again, call me a stupid bimbo. He said he’ll put a censure in my file if I don’t finish my work every day. If he does that, I’ll never get a job in America. I’m finished, Johanna, finished!”

“Let me see your briefs,” I said.

She pointed to her computer screen and I pulled up a chair. I scanned the briefs one after the other. I read through all her background notes on the first few briefs.

“Most of this is just busywork,” I said. “He doesn’t need this stuff, it's extraneous to the case at hand.”

“I know,” she sniffed. “But Mr. Benson says he wants everything, and that he will delete the extraneous material later.”

“Why don’t you ask him exactly what he wants?”

“I ask him, Johanna!” she cried. “But he won’t tell me! He always says ‘ask me nicely, and I’ll tell you.’ I know what he means – but I can’t do that!”

“He wants you to sleep with him,” I said, grimly. “But he’s too smart to run the risk of a sexual harassment complaint by being explicit. The bully!”

She nodded, miserably.

“I’m a brahmin girl, Johanna, I’ve never had sex before.”

“You’re a virgin?” I was incredulous.

“Yes, Johanna. My family in India is very orthodox. But I’ll have to give Mr. Benson what he wants, I can’t risk him giving me a censure. My father has a weak heart, it would kill him if I couldn’t get a job in America and pay back the loans he took out.”

“Well, don’t give in to Benson,” I said. “I’ll help you.”

“Really? It’s so much work!”

I sat with her and we compiled everything that Benson wanted. I could see that the vast majority of it was totally unnecessary. Working together, everything went much faster and we were done by one in the morning. She wrote a short email, attached all the research notes and sent it to Benson. As we left the office together, she hugged me with childlike gratitude.

“Thank you so much, Johanna!” she said.

“I like you, Priya.”

*

“How set are you on corporate law?” I asked Priya the next day at lunch.

“Well, I like corporate and it pays the best. But I’m not fussy, my main concern is getting a firm that will hire me and sponsor me for a green card.”

“Would you be willing to work in criminal law?”

“Sure, if it leads to a job.”

I called Adriana the first thing after lunch.

“Hi Adriana,” I said. “How’re you doing?”

“Good to hear from you, Johanna! What are you up to? Not waitressing, I hope?”

“No, I quit. I’m working as a research assistant to Rhys Burton Wilson.”

“You didn’t get an associateship? I heard O’Connor was out to get you. I guess he really hurt you on the job market.”

“Yes,” I replied. “But I’m happy with what I’m doing, I like corporate. And I like working for Mr. Wilson.”

“When do you want to get together?”

“Soon, Adriana. But right now, I have a favor to ask.”

“You want to move over to our firm? I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Not me, but a friend of mine. She’s a real hard worker, a smart girl. Do you have a research assistant?”

“No.”

“Could you hire one?”

“Well, I hadn’t thought of it. But now that you mention it, I could certainly use one. Associates don’t normally get research assistants, but I could ask Emily Carlton to make a special case for me.”

“Great! When will you know?”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I worked with Priya again that afternoon after I finished my own work. Together, we got all the work Benson had given her done by nine at night. She was much more cheerful.

“It’s amazing how much quicker it goes when we work together,” she said.

Adriana called me in the morning the next day.

“I’ve got clearance to hire a research assistant,” she said. “It doesn’t pay much, but it carries the chance of an associateship if the person impresses us.”

“When can you see my friend?”

“I could see her over lunch. What’s her name?”

“Priya Rajan.”

“Indian girl, huh. Is she pretty?”

“How is that relevant?”

“Well, I don’t want her to outshine me.”

“She’s a pretty little thing, but she’s not stunning like you.”

“Good, exactly what I’m looking for.”

“I know you’re joking, Adriana. But you sound so serious that you worry me.”

She laughed.

“How do you know I’m joking? Maybe I’m just superficial and cruel.”

“I’ve known you for years, Adriana. You try hard to conceal it, but you’ve got a good heart.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” she said.

Priya squealed when I told her that to go meet Adriana for lunch. I give her a few quick tips before I sent her off.

“She’s gorgeous, and likes to be complimented,” I said. “Don’t be bashful, praise her looks, her clothes. She’s not just a pretty face, though. She’s got a sharp legal brain, don’t take her questions lightly. Be logical and thorough, she’ll like that.”

Priya came back bubbling over with happiness. Adriana had offered her a position at a higher salary than she was currently making.

“You’re my guardian angel, Johanna!” she said, giving me another hug. “I’m going to really enjoy telling Mr. Benson that I’m quitting.”

I told Burton the whole story over dinner that evening.

“You have so little, Johanna, yet you’re always giving of yourself to others,” he said.

“I really like Priya,” I said. “But I’m no angel. To be absolutely honest with you, what I really enjoyed was thwarting Benson.”

“I don’t understand men like Benson,” said Burton. “Trying to force that poor, virgin Indian girl to have sex with him. How can anyone get pleasure out of making someone else miserable?”

“You’re not a bully, Burton,” I said. “I’m pleased that you don’t understand.”

*

Roberta called me in early November to invite me to California for Thanksgiving. However, when she told me it would be a big Lawler family affair, I demurred.

“Let me think about it,” I said.

The next day, Brigette called me and invited me to spend Thanksgiving with her adoptive family in Boston.

“I’d really like them to get to know you, Johanna,” she said. “Of course, I want to see you too.”

I called Roberta back, and told her that I’d decided to spend Thanksgiving with her daughter instead of her. She was disappointed but made me promise to tell her all about it.

 I took a bus up to Boston on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. I arrived in the evening and Brigette was there to pick me up in her ancient Volvo. I pumped her for information about what to expect from her adoptive parents, the Wallaces.

“Dad’s a professor of Middle Eastern history,” she said. “He’s quite famous, one of the top scholars in his field. He tends to be a bit full of himself, you mustn’t let him talk down to you.”

“What about your mom?”

“She teaches English lit part-time at Wellesley. She’s a good influence on Dad, pricks his balloon when it needs to be pricked, keeps him grounded. He’s really sweet and kind on the inside, but he’d be a crusty old windbag without her.”

Her parents lived in a charming old house on a big lot in an upscale part of Lexington. Her mom opened the door with a big smile on her face. She was plump, with a pleasant round face, red hair, and bright blue eyes. She wore a pink dress with a subtle floral pattern and a twin strand of pearls.

“Hello, Johanna!” she said. “Welcome, and Happy Thanksgiving. Brigette has told us some much about you.”

“Hello, Mrs. Wallace,” I said, putting out my hand.

“Oh, you must call me Margie,” she said, ignoring my hand taking me in her arms in a hug. Then she led us into the house calling out, “Herb! Herb! Brigette and Johanna are here!”

“Dad’s hiding out in his study,” Brigette said to me in an aside. “He always does that to avoid getting assigned chores.”

Herbert Wallace met us in the living room. He was a tall man, as lean as his wife was plump, with a long face, and a thick mop of white hair. He wore a tweed jacket with leather patches and a knit tie on a white shirt. He looked like many of Mom’s colleagues that I had seen growing up.

“Hello, Professor Wallace,” I said, putting out my hand again.

Unlike his wife, he shook it and seemed happy with my use of his title and last name.

“Hello, Johanna,” he said. “Brigette tells us you’re quite an outdoorswoman.”

“We share an interest in the outdoors, sir.”

“Well, do sit down. Would you like a drink before dinner? Margie, when are we eating?”

“I’ve taken the roast out of the oven, dear. We should be ready to eat in about fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll help setting up, Margie,” I said.

“Oh, Brigette and I have everything in hand. You just sit with Herb and chat, we’ll call you when we’re ready. We’re eating in the dining room, dear.”

They left and Professor Wallace indicated a pair of leather armchairs by the large bay window. I sat in the one that faced into the room, as his body language indicated that he wanted the one that faced outside.

“What will you have to drink, my dear?” he asked. “I’m having a scotch, I’m partial to a single malt before a holiday meal. Not a drink for a woman, I’m afraid.”

“A glass of white wine will be fine,” I said.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said, leaving the room. He returned a minute later with a bottle of mass-market Australian chardonnay. He opened the bottle, splashed some into a wineglass and handed it to me. Then he poured himself a measure of Glenfiddich, sat down, and raised his tumbler.

“Your health,” he said.

“And yours,” I said.

The wine was what I expected, unremarkable and inoffensive. It was the sort of wine Mom used to cook with, but I sipped it with a straight face. He looked very satisfied with his whiskey.

“You work as a lawyer, I understand,” he said. “Corporate law.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Associateships in corporate law pay very well, I hear.”

“I’m just a research assistant at the moment. I don’t make much money, I’m afraid.”

“Oh?” He cocked an eyebrow. “I thought an associateship was the first step one took after becoming a lawyer. Didn’t you qualify?”

“Oh, I passed the bar, sir. But associateships are very competitive. I decided to take a research assistant position at a more prestigious firm rather than an associateship at a smaller one.”

“Well, go to the best place that will take you, I always say. Better in the long run. I get so many more opportunities than professors at lesser schools.” He put the tumbler down and looked over at me. “Brigette tells me your mother was a professor.”

“Yes, sir. In Wisconsin.”

“What was her name? What department was she in?”

“Marie-Aude von Eschenbach. She was in the Art History department.”

“Hmmm. I know some art historians at Wisconsin, Bettini and Delancey. But I’ve never heard of her. Did she publish much?”

“She published some articles in Art History, the top journal in her field.”

“Any books?”

“No, sir.”

“Oh. Was she tenured?”

“Yes, sir. She was a tenured full professor.”

“I see,” he said, but he didn’t look impressed.

I felt I had to defend Mom, so I said, “She was really a concert pianist. She enjoyed her professorial job, but music was her first love. That’s where she spent most of her time.”

“Unwise,” he said. “A good book published by a top university press like Oxford or Harvard would have done much more for her career. Piano playing is a fine hobby, but one should never forget what pays the bills. My books are used in university courses all over the world, they’ve gained me prestigious fellowships, and consulting gigs. They’ve enabled us to give Brigette a lifestyle far beyond the means of the average history professor.”

“Brigette told me you’re famous in your field.”

“I don’t like to boast, but I am quite well-known. Brigette has spent years abroad with us, in Egypt, in Italy, in Dubai. She’s traveled the world, met lots of famous people, had a truly cosmopolitan upbringing. We’ve tried to do our best for her.” Brigette entered, he stood up, and put an arm around her shoulders. “But whatever we’ve given her, she’s repaid us a thousand times over. She’s given us so much joy, I can’t imagine life without her.”

“You’re getting soppy in your old age,” said Brigette. Her tone was flippant, but her expression was affectionate. “Mom says to tell you that dinner is on the table.”

We went to the dining room carrying what remained of our drinks. There was a bottle of expensive California merlot on the table, and Professor Wallace poured it out as we sat down. He put it up to the light, swirled it in the glass, took a sip, and pronounced it excellent. Margie served the roast, and we helped ourselves to the sides.

I took a sip of the merlot with the roast. I thought it was below par – a bit acidic and too tart. Mom wasn’t a famous professor like you, I thought. But she would have known that this wine is crap. And she would never have served cooking wine to drink.

“It’s so nice to hear that you’ve met John,” Margie said, brightly.

“John?” I asked.

“Jack,” said Brigette. “His name is John Everett Halvorsen Jr.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t make the connection. I enjoyed meeting Jack, I mean John. He’s wonderful.”

“Yes,” said Margie. “He’s always taken his responsibilities with Brigette very seriously, been very generous with his time. Though we worried a bit about his influence when she was younger.”

“What did you worry about?” I asked.

“Oh, he’s not educated, no college degree. We thought he might turn Brigette away from education with all those outings to hike, camp and fish. Of course, that was foolish of us. She’s had the example of her father her whole life, been brought up in a university household, that’s what formed her. She’s always done well at school, top of her class. We were so happy when she got into MIT.”

“Jack always encouraged me to study, Mom,” said Brigette.

“Yes, dear, but actions speak louder than words. He spent all those years in the army as an enlisted man, not even an officer. Of course, as citizens, we appreciate the sacrifices of our soldiers. But it’s not the life one wants for one’s own children.”

I thought of all the times growing up when Mom’s colleagues had insulted Dad for his lack of education. I particularly thought of the time when I was six and a supercilious humanities professor said to his face, “Only idiots join the military.” Dad just smiled, but I burst out, “Well, only pansy asses become professors!” Mom’s colleagues laughed, saying it was cute to hear a child talk like that. But I was so furious that I would have hit the guy if Dad hadn’t held my wrists tightly.

In the car on the way home, Mom apologized to Dad for her colleague’s rudeness, but Dad just smiled again. Later that night, as he tucked me in before leaving Mom’s house, I asked him why he put up with it. “You could have knocked that guy down with one punch, Dad,” I said. “Skipper, what people think of you is their problem, not yours,” Dad said.

Now I thought, what they think of Jack is their problem, not his.

After dinner, Brigette took me to the guest room with my things. It was over the garage and had its own entrance, so it was very private. We sat on the bed.

“How did you get on with Dad?” she asked.

“He was pretty much as you described. A bit full of himself.”

“I’ve grown up with professors,” she said. “Most successful ones are like that, prima donnas. It must come from years of fawning graduate students and assistant professors. You must be used to it, growing up with your mom.”

“Yes, she did have colleagues like that,” I agreed. “Will Jack be coming for Thanksgiving Dinner tomorrow?”

“Oh, no. The last time he came for Thanksgiving with us was about ten years ago. That’s when Mom discovered he was carrying a gun. Mom and Dad have a horror of guns, they were totally freaked out. Jack hasn’t stayed over at the house since.”
“What about you? What do you think about guns?”

“Maybe it’s a nature/nurture thing,” she said. “I’ve grown up in an environment where everyone is hysterical about guns, but I’m pretty comfortable with them. I would never admit this to my parents, but soon after that Thanksgiving incident, I made Jack take me to the range. Now he takes me most times we get together. I’m pretty good with a handgun. We’ve hunted deer together, rifles. I have this secret life with Jack.”

 “I know what you mean,” I said. “I grew up in a university environment, too. Everyone was anti-gun, even my mom and my sister. But then I’d go and spend the summer and winter breaks in Montana with Dad and there were guns everywhere.”

“Do you have a gun in your purse now?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, startled.

“I’m not blind, Johanna. I saw the Ruger in your backpack when we were hiking.”

“It was Dad’s,” I said. “It’s very old.”

“Can I see it?”

I took it out of my purse and handed it to her.

“Careful, it’s loaded,” I said.

She popped out the magazine, jacked the slide, and used her nail file to release the pin. She disassembled the weapon in less than a minute. She used a rag from under the bed to wipe down the barrel and re-assembled it in another minute. She handed it back to me, gun in one hand, magazine in the other. I took both, reloaded the weapon and put it back in my purse.

“You licensed to carry that?” she asked.

“Of course. I wouldn’t carry an illegal gun. Do you have one?”

“A 9mm Smith & Wesson,” she said. “Jack bought it for me. It’s in my apartment.”

“Part of your secret life,” I said, laughing. She laughed with me.

Thanksgiving Day was gray and chilly. I helped Margie and Brigette in the kitchen. The guests began arriving around noon. They were all from the university, Professor Wallace’s graduate students and junior colleagues. Most of them foreign with family far away. It was very like the parties Mom used to have. I was quite comfortable staying in the background with my mouth shut and my ears open.

Brigette and I exchanged glances several times during the day when someone expressed a typical university worldview. We sat together in the family room after the meal, listening to her father hold forth about how the terrorist groups in the Middle East were just misunderstood young men and an outcome of botched US policy. She whispered in my ear, “Those misunderstood young men shot Jack in the back.”

I squeezed her hand and whispered, “I know, I saw the scars. And they killed Dad.”

She squeezed my hand back. We understood each other.

Later, Brigette and I excused ourselves to go outside for a walk. We were barely out of earshot of the house, when she turned to me.

“You came here to meet Jack, didn’t you?”

“No, no,” I said. “I wanted to see you.”

“I didn’t say he was the only reason.”

“Why do you think I came for Jack?” I asked.

“I saw the way you looked at him in the parking lot at Pinkham Notch.”

“Was it that obvious?”

“Obvious?” she asked, rhetorically. “You just lit up when you saw him. The lovelight in your eyes was so bright, I had to put on my sunglasses. Look! Now you’re blushing like a sixteen-year-old virgin!”

“Well I do care for him,” I said, defensively. “Like you do.”

“I don’t care for him, I love him. I’m his daughter, Johanna, you can’t have the same feelings for him that I do.”

She put her arms around me and kissed my hair.

“You do love him, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “God help me, I do.”

She held me tighter.

“You’ve got to fight it, Johanna. You’ve got to get over him. Otherwise, you’ll just make yourself miserable.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Jack and your sister –”

“I know,” I said. “I’m not my sister. I wouldn’t treat him like she did.”

“It’s not how you’ll treat him. It’s how he’ll treat you. I know him, he’s no good for you.”

We began walking again and did not speak for about a mile. She turned into Willard’s Woods and got on to the trail before she spoke again.

“He can’t help himself. As his daughter, I’ve learned to accept him as he is. But you couldn’t do that as his lover.”

“What do you mean?”

“A few months ago, we were having dinner at a restaurant in Boston. I could see the waitress giving him the eye, they exchanged a bit of innuendo at the table. Before we ordered dessert, he took her to the restroom and fucked her. They were gone a good twenty minutes. When she brought us the dessert menus, she looked a bit out of it, like she was high or something.”

“You can’t be sure they had sex,” I said.

“Last year when we were hiking in Maine. Before the weather turned bad, we camped at Baxter State Park. Two girls pitched their tent next to ours. They came to our campfire and ate dinner with us. I sensed something was up and wasn’t surprised when I saw Jack slip out in the middle of the night. When I heard them, at first I thought someone was dying. But when I came out of our tent, it was clear what they were doing. It was raucous sex, both girls were pretty loud. Jack fucked them both.”

“How do you know?”

“In the morning, they were all giggly, making up these sexual double entendres about what he had done to them. They were headed south, but changed their minds, deciding to head north with us. They obviously wanted to have sex with him again. But I pushed the pace really hard, made sure they couldn’t keep up and we lost them. I knew if they met up with us, he would fuck them again.”

“He had a toxic relationship with my sister for nearly twenty years,” I said. “But that’s finally over. She’s married now, with a new baby, you know that. Jack can move forward as well, start afresh.”

She stopped walking and put her hands on both my cheeks.

“You think you’re going to heal him? The love of a good woman?”

“I’m not naïve,” I said. “I don’t expect him to change. I told him he could have other women.”

“What was his response?”

“He still wouldn’t make love to me. He said he didn’t want to betray me.”

“Believe him, Johanna, and forget him. It’s for your own good.”

*

All in all, it was a good Thanksgiving holiday with Brigette and her parents. Roberta called me while I was on the bus back to New York.

The first thing she asked me was, “Are Brigette’s parents good to her?”

“They adore her,” I said. “They’ve really developed her as a person.”

“Does she love them?”

“Yes. They’re a very happy family. You chose well.”

“How did you get on with them?”

“Okay, I guess. But I don’t think they warmed to me. I doubt I’ll be invited back for Christmas.”

“Oh, dear. What went wrong?”

“Professor Wallace disparaged Mom. And they both were very condescending about Jack. It got my back up.”

“I hope you controlled your tongue, Johanna. You can be a real plainspoken cowgirl sometimes.”

“Oh, I didn’t say anything. But they read my body language. I can’t cover up my true feelings with saccharine like some girls.”

“You wear your feelings on your sleeve,” she agreed. “It’s what I love most about you.”

*

The Monday after Thanksgiving, I was surprised to be called into the conference room soon after lunch. All the firm’s partners were there, sitting on one side of the long table. There was only one chair on facing side and Burton motioned me to it.

“Ms. von Eschenbach,” said G. Hubbard Siegel, the managing partner. “We have Mr. Wilson’s report on your first few months with us as a research assistant. Several of us have also gone over the work you have submitted to him. Our decision is nearly unanimous. We would like to offer you an associateship with immediate effect.”

I was so shocked that I just stared at them for what felt like a long time. I realized that they expected me to respond and untangled my tongue from my tonsils.

“Thank you, sir. I am very flattered. I am delighted to accept.”

“Good, good,” he said. “You will continue working with Burton. However, you will be assigned to various other cases on an ‘as-needed basis.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Don’t you want to know what the salary offer is?”

“I assume it will be a lot more than I’m currently making,” I said. But then I felt I shouldn’t sell myself too cheap, so I went on. “I’m sure that the firm will wish to maintain its reputation as one of the top corporate shops on Wall Street and pay me a commensurate salary.”

“Very clever,” said one of the other partners, chuckling. “You’re asking us to pay you top dollar without actually asking.”

 Burton arranged for my associateship to be backdated to the middle of November, so I got a huge salary increase in my November paycheck. I gave up my studio sublet in Alphabet City and moved into a spacious two-bedroom apartment on a high floor on the Upper West Side. The rent was almost ten times what I had been paying for my studio sublet, but my salary was fifteen times higher.

I called Roberta and asked her if I could have Mom’s furniture that was still in storage in Wisconsin. She graciously assented, and emailed the lawyers waiving her rights to everything. I went down the list of Mom’s furniture and antiques and had the pieces I wanted shipped to my new place. I hired an interior designer to help me set everything in place.

When everything was ready, I called Roberta and walked her around the place on video.

“Mom would be so proud of you,” she said. “You’ve set everything up exactly as she would have wanted.”

“I miss her,” I said, my eyes misting over. “I would have loved to have her retire and live with me.”

“It’s ironic, isn’t it,” she said. “She spent all her time molding me into a replica of herself, yet you’re the one who ended up being closer to her.”

“It was just timing,” I said. “I just happened to be with her when she needed me. If our ages were reversed, you’d have done everything I did and more.”

“It’s very kind of you to say that, Johanna. Right now, all I want to do is get on a plane and fly out to take you in my arms.”

*

The week after my promotion to associate, Burton took me out to dinner to celebrate. He booked a table at an upscale bistro and invited his wife Melissa to join us as he always did – and she refused, as she always did.

“I hope you’ll let me pay,” I said, as the hostess seated us. “I’m an associate now, thanks to you. I’m making a lot of money.”

“You have better things to spend your money on,” he said, smiling.

“Like what?” I asked, my tone light.

“Dressing like an associate at a top Wall Street law firm, for a start.”

“What’s wrong with my suit? It’s dark, it’s conservative.”

He put his fingers up and counted off.

“First, it looks like something from a discount store. Second, your clothes are so old that the cuffs of the jacket as well as your blouse are fraying. Third, your shoes are down at heel – Carlotta Feldman noticed that the other day and mentioned it to me. Fourth, your neck is bare, no pearls, no silk scarf, nothing. Fifth, you’re wearing a cheap Timex watch. I could go on.”

Carlotta Feldman was the only female partner at the firm. I flushed to think she had noticed my shoes.

“I didn’t realize I was such an embarrassment, Burton.”

“It was fine when you were a research assistant. But now that you’re an associate, you need to dress the part.”

I called Adriana the next day and asked her if you could take me shopping in the evening, and if Priya could join us. She said, “Sure!” and the three of us met in the lobby of her office building.

We had a great girls’ evening out, shopping for designer suits, blouses, scarves, and shoes. I bought a complete outfit for Priya, over her strenuous protests. I told her she could buy me stuff when she got her own associateship.

I wore my new finery to work the next day and Burton nodded approvingly.

“You look a lot more professional,” he said. “I especially like the scarf. It’s French, isn’t it? Hermes?”

“Mom always wore Hermes,” I said, nodding.

*

I had continued running after Boston, and still saw Jerry regularly. He also got me to work out with him as a guest at his gym. Under his guidance, I soon saw improvements in my muscle definition. However, he did not ask me to do anything with him socially. We talked as friends during our runs and he chatted with me about the girls he was seeing and having sex with, always emphasizing when they were “nines or better”.

One Saturday after our club run, he mentioned that he was pitching his services as a personal trainer to a wealthy prospective client, but would be hard-pressed to get there on time if he showered.

“I was going to the gym for a shower,” he said. “But our run took longer than I thought. I’ll just go as I am, I can say it’s part of my fitness image.”

“You’ve got your change of clothes,” I said. “You can have a shower at my place. It’s only a couple blocks from the park on the West Side.”

“Thanks a million!” he said.

He was visibly impressed with the palatial lobby of my building, with the ferns, the fountain, the top-hatted doorman, the walnut-paneled reception desk, and the sharply dressed concierge. Both the doorman and the concierge nodded welcomes to me saying, “Welcome home, Ms. von Eschenbach.”

He looked at me with new respect in the elevator, and his eyes followed the floors lighting up as we went higher and higher. My apartment was on the floor just below the penthouse. He followed me into the apartment like a puppy dog and wandered around, touching the pieces of French furniture, antiques, and bric-a-brac.

“Who’s your roommate, Johanna?”

“I don’t have a roommate.”

You’re paying for this place on your own? How much are you making, Johanna? It looks like you won the lottery or something.”

“I just got promoted to associate,” I said. “And corporate law pays well.”

“But how much are you making?” he repeated.

“It’s rude to ask someone’s income, Jerry.”

“I’m just curious. I’ll tell you how much I make, I’m not ashamed of it.” He mentioned a figure, and I tried to conceal my surprise. It was even less than I expected – I was now making ten times what he was.

“I make more than that,” I said, vaguely. “Don’t you want to hurry up and have your shower?”

He showered and left, but called me later in the afternoon and asked if we could have dinner together. I had been planning to ask Priya, but he was insistent so I agreed to have dinner with him. He suggested a Brazilian steak house in midtown.

He came by my place to pick me up and seemed disappointed that I asked him to wait in the lobby while I came down. He seemed subtly different than he had been before. He was much more attentive to me, opened the door of the rideshare for me, paid for it, then attempted to pay for the dinner. Of course, now that I knew how little he made, I did not let him pay. After dinner, he suggested going to a jazz club in the Village, and insisted on paying the cover at the door. All in all, we had a wonderful evening.

I was touched by his willingness to pay for everything in spite of his limited budget. I enjoyed his down-to-earth, unsophisticated humor that was often crude. But most of all, I was flattered by his attentiveness.

He brought me back to my place around midnight and paid for the rideshare over my protests. It was a Saturday night and I felt I had to invite him up for a drink. We were both slightly buzzed from what we had drunk already, and the cognac I poured out turned me giggly. One thing led to another, and before I knew it, we were kissing on the sofa.

His lips traveled down my throat and over my silk choker. His hands gently kneaded my breasts. My nipples perked up and hardened as they always did, creating obvious nubs through my bra and blouse. His lips moved down and took my nipples in his mouth one at a time, through the layers of fabric. He wet my blouse with his saliva.

Then one hand found its way under the hem of my skirt, and teased my pussy through my panties. He knew how to arouse me, and within just a few minutes, he had me panting. We had had sex before, so it was easy for me to say, “I want you, Jerry.”

He did not respond verbally, but picked me up and carried me to my wide bed. He stripped off my panties, unbuttoned my blouse, and pulled down the cups of my bra.

“I’m sorry I’m not a nine, Jerry,” I whispered.

“You’re perfect just as you are, Johanna,” he replied.

Somehow, he had contrived to shed all his clothes, for when he rolled me onto my back, he was naked. My pussy was quite wet now, and I felt his organ at my nether lips. He pushed into me very slowly saying, “Gosh, I’d forgotten how tight you are, Johanna!”

He fucked me with a very slow rhythm, building my excitement a step at a time. It seemed like he was fucking me on and on, that he would never stop. My breathing grew erratic, and I rotated my hips, urging him on.

“Fuck me now, Jerry!” I cried.

Only then did he begin to pound me hard. I came almost immediately, and he stopped, allowing my contractions to run their course, still fully sheathed in me. As I luxuriated in the afterglow of my orgasm, he began the process all over again, slow, steady thrusts. Again, he raised me to the apex, making me wait, allowing the intensity to build. This time I matched him in rhythm and cadence, till when I felt my release coming, I scissored my legs around his waist and kept him deep inside me. He came with me this time, spurting his load in me.

I lay there spent, but he was up in just a few minutes. He tenderly undressed me, taking off my skirt, my blouse, my bra, my stockings. Then we burrowed under the sheets and I fell asleep in his arms.

*

Things progressed rapidly between us. Each step seemed so natural, that there was no point at which I felt I could say ‘stop’. He began by leaving some clothes at my place, staying over a few nights. Then he brought over a few more. Within a few weeks, he was introducing me to everyone as his girlfriend. He moved all his stuff into my apartment and gave up his sublet.

The day after he moved in, I took him to the firm’s Christmas party. He was suitably modest and dealt with the subtle putdowns of many of the associates and partners with serene grace. I was proud of him.

Burton asked me about him at the party, and I told him my worries about the disparity of our incomes and education.

“Do you love him, Johanna?” he asked.

“I like Jerry,” I said. “But I don’t think so. I love someone else.”

“Then why aren’t you with the person you love?”

“He won’t have me.”

“In that case, you should make the best of what you have, Johanna. Perfect love is fine in fiction, but in real life, you have to take someone if they’re ‘good enough.”

“I guess Jerry is good enough,” I said.

“Love often grows, Johanna. As time goes by, you may find that you actually do love him.”

Jerry and I spent Christmas and New Year’s together. Early in the New Year, 2018, I got up the courage to tell Roberta about him. I had him with me on a video call to her at the end of January. We talked, and Roberta was her usual charming self. After the call, Jerry was too struck by her to be subtle.

“Your sister is like, a ten!” he exclaimed. “She’s gorgeous, looks like a movie star. And so kind and sweet, just perfect!”

“She’s also a genius with an IQ off the charts and concert pianist,” I said, smiling. “But she’s almost old enough to be your mother.”

“Really? But she’s your sister, she looks like she’s in her late twenties.”

“She’ll be thirty-eight this year, you’re twenty-three. And she’s happily married.”

“Well, age is just a number.” He paused and thought for a bit. “Are the two of you real sisters? Same mother, same father? She looks so different from you.”

“Same mother, same father,” I said. “And we don’t look that different. She’s just much better looking.” And smarter and more musical, I thought.

Roberta called me a few days later. She looked worried.

“Are you sure about this Jerry, Johanna? He seems so, how should I put it? Unintellectual. He didn’t seem to have much conversation.”

“Well, he’s practical, Roberta …”

“I’ll be blunt, Johanna. He sounded like a moron, plain and simple. You’re a highly intelligent girl, with such a wide range of tastes and interests. What could you possibly talk to him about? I really don’t think he’s the right guy for you.”

“Well, no one else seems to want me,” I said, trying not to sound sharp. “He’s great in bed.”

“I don’t want to interfere in your life, Johanna. Just be careful. I know you’re going to be twenty-six this year, but you’ll always be my baby sister. In some ways, you’re so naïve. I worry that men take advantage of you.”

“I love you, Roberta. Everyone loves you. I’m not so lucky.”

I can’t compete, I wanted to scream. Especially for the one person that really matters. In spite of all you did to him, Jack still loves you. I’m sure it’s the only thing that stops him from loving me.