How Do You Know? Page 5

  Philip points to an empty chair across from him. “Why don’t you move here?” Jutting his head toward the associates at my table, he says, “Unless I’m interrupting something.”

  The attorneys, all in their late twenties, are talking amongst themselves about a friend’s crazy shore house in Belmar, New Jersey. They are oblivious to my participation or lack thereof in their conversation, and since the only reason I’m in the bar in the first place is to talk to Philip, I grab my purse from the floor and join him at his table.

  Eyeing my empty glass, Philip says, “Someone needs a refill.” He waves over the waitress, and after ordering another Prohibition Punch, I absently tuck my hair behind my ears and brace myself to work it.

  “Never seen you at one of these before,” he says.

  “I’ve never been to one before. I figured it was time to accept Melanie’s invitation before she stopped asking.”

  Philip rubs his thumb along his beard and studies me. “You don’t need an invitation from Melanie. Consider yourself an honorary attorney and come anytime you want.”

  “Consider me honored,” I say with a grin. I remove my cardigan sweater and place it on the back of my chair. The air conditioning is blasting in the bar, but suddenly I’m warm. The strapless navy and white polka dot sundress I’m wearing shows off my décolletage and my abundance of freckles. I hope Philip has a thing for freckles like Doug, who liked to play connect the dots with them during foreplay. I push Doug out of my mind, focus on Philip who is looking fixedly at me, and take a sip of my drink. I hope he’ll say something flirtatious.

  “I was thinking about what you suggested at the last business development meeting.”

  I’ve been watching his slight Adam’s apple bob up and down as he talked but am jerked back to attention by his last words. “What suggestion was that?”

  “About getting a Twitter account for the firm.”

  “Oh, yeah. What do you think?”

  I take another sip of my drink, dreading the inevitable hangover it will cause and knowing it will probably all be for nothing if my conversation with Philip is limited to marketing strategies.

  Philip grins. “I think it’s a terrific idea. The firm might be over a hundred years old, but it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t keep up with social media. But you were right. We’d need to pinpoint the kind of message we want to send.”

  I nod. “Absolutely. I think the account should be administered by one person to ensure our tweets have a consistent voice. We could have a general email address set up for attorneys to forward noteworthy events, articles, and the like, but only one person should do the tweeting.”

  “And that person should definitely be you. But we should talk more about it to nail down the types of people and organizations we want to connect with. It’s time to take this old-school firm into the twenty-first century.”

  Even though my work plate is already overflowing, I’m flattered Philip thinks I’m the person to put in charge of this new account. I love that he has confidence in my skills, since many of the older partners dismiss me as being too young and too female to take seriously. My crush seems one-sided, which is disappointing, but my career is important to me. Besides, combining business and pleasure is a bad idea, and it’s too soon after breaking up with Doug. For a second, I think ahead to my next birthday, and I swallow hard.

  Philip stands up. “I should get out of here. But join us again next month. You’re a nice change from the stuffy lawyer set.” He winks at me.

  Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “You’re not the slightest bit stuffy.” I instantly feel my face flush and stare stupidly down at my drink. Considering he spent the entire time talking about work, I’m not sure I believe my own statement. When I summon the balls to face him, I find him staring at me with a look in his cocoa-colored eyes I can’t quite gauge.

  Philip’s cheeks dimple and he sits back down. “Well, I think that might be the biggest compliment anyone at the firm has ever given me.”

  “Seriously? I find that hard to believe,” I say honestly.

  A twinkle in his puppy dog eyes, he says, “What kind of accolades do you think I receive from my esteemed colleagues?”

  I scratch my chin, pretending to ponder the question. “I would imagine people have commented positively on your skills as an attorney.”

  Dismissing me with a wave of his hand, Philip says, “Good attorneys are a dime a dozen in this place. Or at least I hope so.”

  “Okay. What about that you’re approachable and friendly?”

  Philip gives me a closed-mouth smile and nods. “I suppose I’ve heard that before, but it’s not exactly a blush-worthy compliment now, is it?”

  I cock my head to the side. “I wasn’t aware you were hoping for a compliment which would make you blush.” As Philip remains riveted in place, seemingly eager for my next words, it dawns on me this is my chance to “work it.”

  Philip rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, now I’m fishing. I’m being silly. Let’s forget I brought it—”

  Interrupting him, I say, “How about you have the most beautiful brown eyes I’ve ever seen on a man?”

  In the mere seconds it takes him to respond, I feel like I’ve aged several years, and as I wonder whether what I’d said could be construed as sexual harassment in the work place, I think I might throw up.

  His hand still stroking his neck, he mumbles, “Well, Maggie Piper, I’ll be damned. You did it.”

  “Did what?” I ask in a low voice. Got myself fired?

  “You managed to give me a blush-worthy compliment. Thank you.”

  Figuring I’d know if I offended him by now, but still in a state of shock that I blatantly hit on a partner, my pulse slows down marginally. “You’re welcome.” Faking coolness, I add, “Should I be insulted you doubted my compliment-giving skills?”

  “I don’t doubt any of your skills, Ms. Piper,” he says with a wink.

  My body flushes with warmth as my mind goes straight into the gutter.

  “Speaking of your skills…” he says, leaning back in his chair.

  I lean forward in mine.

  “Has the firm ever sent you to the annual Legal Marketing Association conference?”

  It isn’t what I expect to hear, although admittedly nothing about the preceding conversation has been predictable. I shake my head. “Nope.” I gave up asking. The firm professes to want to up its standing amongst other similar-sized law offices, but evidently doesn’t think investing in the continuing education of its marketing manager is worthwhile.

  Philip’s eyes lock onto mine. “Would you like to?”

  I nod while holding his gaze.

  “The conference is next month in Orlando. I’m going,” he says, never severing eye contact. “And I think you should too.” He glances at his watch and then stands up. Grabbing his suitcase, he says, “This has been a pleasure. Truly. But if I don’t go now, I’ll miss my train.” Then he gently squeezes my shoulder. “Enjoy the rest of your night, Maggie. I’ll be in touch about the conference.”

  I can’t help but wonder how his strong hands would feel on other parts of my body. Paranoid he can read my mind, I choke out, “Thanks. You too,” and watch him say his goodbyes to the others before walking out of the bar.

  I keep my eyes closed and try to focus on something, anything, to keep my mind off of the hot sun beaming down on me. I remember spending hours upon hours playing with Cheryl on the beaches of the Jersey Shore when we were children—building castles and taking turns burying each other in the sand. And I recall numerous vacations when I was in my twenties and early thirties with my friends drinking beers on the beach from morning until happy hour. Now I can barely sit in the sun for twenty minutes without getting restless. It’s no use, so I open up my eyes, sit up, and spray SPF 50 across my arms and legs. Covering my eyes with one hand, I wave the bottle acro
ss my face.

  From the beach chair next to me, Amanda giggles. “You’re so funny with the sunblock, Mags.”

  I point my finger down the length of Amanda’s golden-brown body and up to her face. “Only someone with your naturally-tanned complexion would think I was funny.” I doubt Amanda has ever experienced blisters from forgetting to reapply sunblock after extended time in the water. And I can still recall the nights I woke up screaming from the burns I got from sunbathing with Cheryl. She would use baby oil as suntan lotion when we used to sunbathe as kids, so it was only natural I would do the same. Only Cheryl has a complexion like a Greek goddess. I, on the other hand, have slightly more pigment than an albino and had to keep a container of cold aloe on my nightstand to slather on my skin every few hours. I have finally learned how to obtain a nice tan (for me), but it only took me about thirty-five years to get the process down to a science.

  Regina, one of Amanda’s colleagues, leaves her towel to grab a bag of green grapes from the cooler. Holding the bag out to me, she says, “How’s your boyfriend? Doug, right?”

  I glance at Amanda in time to see her shaking her head at Regina. “Um, we—”

  Interrupting me, Amanda says, “Nice, Reg. They broke up. I thought I told you.”

  Regina runs a comb through her wet raven hair and frowns at me. “I’m so sorry.” Then she glares at Amanda. “You didn’t tell me.” Pushing the grapes at me, she says, “Please take one.”

  As if eating a grape will make the moment less awkward, I pop one in my mouth. “It’s okay. It’s been over a month now.”

  Regina sits back down on her towel. “Do you mind if I ask what happened? You guys were dating for a long time, right?”

  Before I can answer, Amanda’s other friends return from the public bathroom and sit down next to Regina on their beach towels.

  “What did we miss?” One asks.

  “Maggie was about to tell us why she and her boyfriend broke up after five years,” Regina says.

  “Three years,” I quickly correct, and immediately feel stupid. I eyeball Amanda, desperate for an escape, but she’s focused on the sand. It looks like she is trying to dig a hole to China, but I know it’s a ploy to avoid laying eyes on me. She practically begged me to tag along to Point Pleasant for the holiday weekend and promised me her friends would not be annoying. Promises Schmomises.

  I know there is no way I am getting out of New Jersey without spilling the details of my breakup. I do the best I can to explain it to them so they’ll approve of my decision but not blame it on any shortcoming in Doug as a boyfriend.

  “And so there you have it. I had doubts and didn’t want to invest in a future I wasn’t certain of,” I say assuredly. I’m not sure why I care what they think, but I yearn for their validation—just not at the expense of their opinion of Doug.

  “Wow,” Regina says. “You told him you wanted a break, and he broke up with you. Harsh.”

  “That’s not how it happened.” My scalp is burning, and I pull my beach hat out of my bag and place it securely on my head.

  “Maggie’s right. Doug wasn’t harsh at all,” Amanda says.

  I flash her a grateful smile for finally joining the conversation and taking my side.

  “He was heartbroken,” she exclaims.

  Or not.

  “For what it’s worth, I’m impressed. Breaking up with Doug was very brave,” Regina says.

  “What do you mean it was brave?” I think going the distance with Doug despite my pesky apprehension would have been the valiant choice.

  Regina regards me with kind eyes. “I doubt many women in our age group would be able to walk away from a man who wanted to marry them, especially a man they cared about and who was good to them. But you knew something was off and refused to settle.” She beams at me. “That, my friend, is brave.”

  I look at the other girls who nod in agreement.

  “Thanks, Regina. I hadn’t thought about it that way. But to clarify, nothing was off with Doug. It was more like…” I hesitate while trying to explain what I’ve never been able to put into words. “I loved him, but worried something was missing.”

  Amanda nods. “I’m sure you’ll meet the guy who completes you in no time,” she says confidently.

  Regina takes a gulp of her water bottle, making a loud suction noise in the process. “Good luck with that. We’re all still single, and the biological clock is tick-tocking away.”

  Amanda says, “Maggie isn’t sure she wants kids.”

  Wishing she quit after “he was heartbroken,” I glare at Amanda, but she’s abandoned her hole to China in favor of building a sand castle.

  “How old are you again?” Regina asks.

  “Thirty-nine.” Less than eleven months away from turning forty.

  “Wow, I had you pegged for thirty-two-ish. You’ve got great skin,” she says.

  “Thank y—”

  “It’s great you don’t want kids, though. You can afford to be brave,” she says.

  As I view the four attractive, intelligent, and single women before me, all nearing or on the dark side of thirty-five, I don’t feel brave—slightly light-headed from the heat and seriously freaked out over my recent relationship choices, but not at all brave.

  “Oh my. What do we have here,” exclaims Regina, a huge grin spreading across her pretty face.

  I take a sip of the frozen Rum Runner I waited in line over twenty minutes for and turn towards the bar crowd. “What do we have here?” Besides a fire hazard. I’m not at all surprised by the quantity of people at Martell’s Tiki Bar on the Saturday night of Labor Day Weekend, and while I usually prefer more elbow room and less wait time at the bar, I’m pleased to see how well the famous beach bar has bounced back after Hurricane Sandy. I’m also happy I opted to order The Yard for an extra shot of rum. Each drink is going to have to do double duty unless we become very friendly with one of the bartenders.

  “Hottie McHotties in the house,” Regina says.

  My eyes sweep the beach. Almost every guy sports a shaved head, a goatee, and tattoos. They’re definitely not my type, but I understand the appeal.

  “I think you might have to inch your skirt a little higher up your thigh to compete with the ladies,” I say, pointing at our competition, who are practically naked. I push out my chest, trying to get as much mileage out of my 32Bs as possible. I survey my own outfit. I’m wearing a knee-length baby blue sundress with spaghetti straps and silver wedges. I don’t fit in with this crowd, but neither do my friends, especially Amanda, who is wearing a Lilly Pulitzer flower skirt, a pink camisole and a white cardigan. She is definitely more Hamptons than Jersey Shore. Thankfully, Regina’s suggestion we go to Jenkinsons, the indoor club next door, was shot down by the rest of our votes to enjoy the warm weather and drink on a patio.

  Focused on a group of guys about twenty feet away, Regina says, “I see someone I like. Catch you guys later.”

  I give Amanda a questioning glance. She raises an eyebrow. “You’re gonna go over there just like that?” I ask.

  Regina nods. Taking my advice and pulling her form-fitting skirt farther up her thighs, she says, “Gotta be in it to win it. Ciao bellas.” Then she tucks her hair behind her ears, revealing gold hoops. “You guys coming?”

  Since this is her gig and her friends, I defer to Amanda. If I know her at all, she’ll want to stay behind. I have no preference in either direction, though I’d be willing to bet my next paycheck I won’t meet my match at the Jersey Shore on Labor Day Weekend.

  Amanda cocks her head and gives the group of guys a once-over. “I think I’ll pass,” she says, taking a sip of her strawberry daiquiri.

  “We’ll catch you later. Text us if you meet any cute guys,” Regina says.

  We watch her walk away, then we turn to each other and laugh. “Is Regina always so aggressive when it comes to me
eting men?” I ask.

  Amanda nods. “Kind of, yeah.”

  “Good for her.” I envy girls who can take the reins when it comes to flirting. I usually wait for them to approach me. I have my share of exceptions, usually facilitated by alcohol, but Regina took about two sips of her drink before joining the cast of Jersey Shore look-a-likes like she was Snooki.

  Frowning, Amanda says, “I worry about her, to be honest.”

  “Why’s that?” Regina is a grown woman in her late thirties. I assume she can take care of herself.

  “She floats from one unsuitable or unavailable guy to another.”

  I strain my eyes to spot Regina standing with the group of guys. “Really? Like who?”

  “Well, first there was her on and off again friend with benefits who she thought would eventually want more than just sex. She was right. Only he didn’t want it with her. He’s been with his girlfriend for a year now. Then there was the twenty-five-year-old writer who still lived in his parents’ basement.” Amanda shakes her head. “I think she’s basically given up.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “Given up on what?” It seems to me Regina is totally in the game.

  Amanda bites her lip and looks at the ground. “Getting married, having a family. Settling down. So she figures she might as well have casual fun.”

  I jerk my head back. “That’s nuts. She’s only thirty-eight.”

  “Being single in New York City after a certain age is a tough gig,” Amanda says. “And good luck dating in the work place. The chances of finding a single, cute, straight, age-appropriate male teacher at the grammar-school level is slimmer than Taylor Swift writing a song not inspired by an ex-boyfriend.”

  I tug at my straw with my teeth and take a long sip of my drink, shivering from the strength of the extra shot of rum at the bottom of my cup. I want to ask Amanda about her own experiences, since I can’t remember the last time she tried meeting someone despite men eyeballing her all the time, but decide against it. I need to steer the conversation away from dating. I had an earful at the beach earlier. I lift my empty cup. “Time for a refill. My treat.”