Chapter Four
Harvest

“We have a problem,” Malorie alerted me as I set the pastries I had procured from a local bakery on the table between us. 

 

“What’s the problem?” I inquired.

 

“Daniel needs the room for a deposition,” she sighed.  “I reserved the room.  See?” she showed me the meeting room sign-up sheet where she had reserved the space.  Not that I ever doubted her.  She was the epitome of excellence in all office-related tasks, as well as client customer service, vendor negotiations, and even the hosting duties often associated with our more collaborative cases.  She was organized.  She was diligent.  She was ambitious.  She was over-qualified for the position.  And because of all of that, I only had her for three years before she mastered the LSAT and enrolled in a local law school. 

 

“We can just have our meeting in my office,” I grabbed the box of goodies and my insulated thermos filled with my favorite Sumatra, nodding for my paralegal to join me.  The caffeine hadn’t kicked in and yet I was still much more pliable than our office rule-follower who didn’t manage well when her plans were foiled. 

 

We entered my office, where Rosie, short for Rosalyn, joined and noticing the continued disappointment on Malorie’s face, I offered, “it’s just our Monday team meeting.”

 

I hadn’t purposed to form a team of women as my first solo venture into a law firm.  But Malorie, the paralegal, and Rosie, the associate, were the most qualified.  I hired them based upon their talents and most importantly, their character.  They matched the tone of the firm I wanted to create.  They were reliable, honest, caring and the clients continually complimented their work, even the difficult ones. 

 

Rosie was unphased by the change of our Monday office meeting’s location.  She closed my office door behind her before she sat comfortably on the large couch situated under the near floor to ceiling window on the foreground of my office.  With legal pad perched on her lap, she sat her coffee cup on the floor and picked a pastry from the options before her.  I placed a chocolate croissant, Malorie’s favorite, on a plate and handed it to my paralegal as we started the meeting.

 

“Did everyone have a good weekend?” I asked.

 

“Busy, but good,” Rosie chimed in.  She spent most weekends busied by soccer games, playdates and endless kids’ activities, with a few evening hours reserved for her and her husband to dine and drink with friends. 

 

“I made good time on my 10k, finished an art piece, baked a few cakes for friends and went to a concert at Merriweather,” Malorie added.  “What about you?” she directed her question to me.

 

“Work and a little rest,” I responded.  “I needed it.”  Despite my busy days at the Congress two weekends prior, I had opted for a weekend of catch-up on work and laundry, using a popular streaming service to entertain and keep me company for hours each day.  I took a break from dance classes and but for the three-mile hike in the crisp, morning air, gave my body a chance to rest.  I did attend the family dinner on Sunday, which perfectly capped my weekend of peace.

 

“Ok, Malorie, what’ve you got for us?” I inquired.

 

“I set up a new client meeting on Wednesday.  I ran the conflicts check and we’re clear.  He was referred by James.  It’s custody and divorce, but short-term marriage, so mostly custody.  The case is already in Court.  Scheduling is set for next month.”

 

“Ok.  Well, if it came from James, was there a Protective Order?” I asked.

 

“Denied last week,” she confirmed. 

 

“Ok, thank you.  Anything else?”

 

“When are we going to meet James?” Malorie smiled.

 

“You’ve met him, haven’t you?” I responded.

 

“I’ve spoken with him on the phone, but never met him,” she confirmed.

 

“I’ll see if one of these days he can come to the office,” I suggested.

 

“Or he could just pick you up in the office like a proper gentleman instead of insisting that you meet downstairs or at his office,” she suggested.

 

“He IS a gentleman,” I offered accentuating the second word.  “And I’m not dating him.  He’s just a friend.”

 

“Right,” Malorie smiled looking towards Rosie who offered a reciprocally devilish smile. 

 

“Ok, enough of that,” I rolled my eyes.  “Rosie, how about you?”

 

“We have the Pre-Trial Conference tomorrow in my pro bono case,” she started.  “I think we need an expert.  Despite the low-income status, there is a business.  We need a valuation but can’t afford one.  Plus, you know, opposing counsel…” she didn’t finish her thought.

 

“I know,” I confirmed.  “He’s special.”

 

“I think it would be helpful for you to come to the Pre-Trial Conference,” Rosie suggested.

 

“I’m happy to be your second chair,” I responded.

 

“Honestly, with the way this attorney has been acting, I think the client may need to see you at first chair,” she relayed.

 

“Is something making you think you’re outmatched here?” I asked of my associate who had never seemed intimidated by another attorney.

 

“He keeps giving me his resume and reminding me about his Ivy League education,” she frowned.

 

“So,” was my only response.

 

“So, I think if the case was only about the kids, I wouldn’t feel this way.  It’s the financial issues, specifically, the business valuation that is new to me,” she offered.

 

“Okay, well, I know you are capable of handling that issue, but I understand the newness can be a bit unsettling.  I’ll come to the Pre-Trial Conference and then you and I can sit down together and go over the business valuation aspect,” I suggested.  “One minute,” I looked to my team as I saw James’ name light up my cell phone screen. 

 

“Hey, so, if I agree to an interim access schedule, the next opportunity to change it is at a pendente lite hearing, right?” James inquired.

 

“This is a Protective Order?” I asked.

 

“Yeah.  We’re dismissing the cross POs and entering an agreement in the family case,” he relayed.

 

I provided a few suggestions and things to look out for, always happier when I could help James set matters up well that would likely fall into our hands for the next stage.

 

“Okay, thanks,” he attempted to conclude the call.

 

“Wait, now me,” I stopped him. 

 

“Okay, but I gotta get back in there,” he indicated in a rushed tone.

 

“What was the name of that guy you introduced me to at that happy hour a few weeks ago at that place with the bourbon cocktail that I said tasted like lemonade?” I asked in a way that only James could likely understand.

 

“The CPA?” he asked.

 

“Yes,” I confirmed.

 

“You ready to get back on the horse?” James asked and I could hear the swinging doors unmistakably denoting his entry into a courtroom.

 

“What?  No.  Not for dating.  I wanted to talk to him about expert testimony,” I corrected James’ assumption.

 

“That makes more sense.  Hayes.  Robert, I think,” James was distracted.  “I’ll text you his info.”

 

“Thanks,” I offered unsure if James heard me before he hung up.

 

An hour later, our Monday morning audit and discussion of our cases had ended and Malorie, Rosie and I separated to our respective places.  I remained seated on the couch, next to where Rosie had been perched when the contact information appeared via text from James. 

 

“Mr. Hayes?” I inquired of the voice on the other end of the line.

 

“Yes, who is this?” he seemed confused.

 

“Parker.  We met at a happy hour a few weeks ago.  I’m a friend of James,” I added.

 

“Right, Parker.  How are you?” he asked.

 

“Well.  And you?” I reciprocated.

 

“Just fine.  What can I do for you?”

 

“I remembered our discussion about your desire for expert work in business valuation,” I began.  “I think I have an opportunity for you.”

 

“Really?” he sounded excited.

 

“Yes, but, caveat,” I realized I had not exactly planned for the discussion.

 

“Okay,” he waited.

 

“It’s a pro bono case,” my comment was met with silence.  “I understand it’s not likely the opportunity you were hoping for, but perhaps it’ll be a way to start.  I’m hoping to speak with opposing counsel about appointing you as a neutral expert to value a small business.  If everyone agrees, you would be tasked with investigating the business and writing a formal report and potentially testifying at a trial as to your opinion.”

 

“That sounds like a good way to get started, but I have bosses to answer to,” he suggested.

 

“Understood.”

 

“Can we set up a time to speak with one of the partners and go over things in more detail?” he asked.

 

“Sure,” I responded.  “Any chance you and the partner are available this afternoon?”

 

“I’ll make it happen,” he confirmed.  And he did.

 

A few hours later, I was selling the idea to a partner in his CPA firm, who agreed that it was a wonderful opportunity for not only his young colleague, but the firm in general.  Apparently, they’d been trying to break into the area of business valuation and expert testimony for a few years.  They’d later benefit from this willingness to help a family pro bono with referrals for more lucrative endeavors in the years that followed. 

 

Now we had to sell opposing counsel.  Mr. Ivy League wouldn’t be so accommodating.  An hour long telephone call with Rosie, during which he only mentioned his alma mater four times, and during which he did most of the talking, and we were left with a “my client will consider it” response.  I’d have to work some magic the next day at the Pre-Trial Conference.

 

I spent the last ninety minutes of the day on the treadmill in the office building’s gym, reading contracts I attempted to steady on the dashboard in front of me and scribbling notes that were barely legible while I tried not to fall awkwardly off the machine.  Malorie would have several questions after making valiant efforts to decipher my handwriting the next day and I wondered if this perceived time-saver on my part was anything but. 

 

But for the Pre-Trial Conference I’d agreed to attend, Tuesday was a glued to my desk kind of day and I looked ahead to the then routine dinner and dance class at the Academy with James.  Before I could partake of that enjoyment, I headed across the street to the courthouse with Rosie for our mid-afternoon appearance.  Our client was nervous, despite the lack of anything of great import happening at this event, and I noticed how well Rosie communicated with effortless grace and calmed the woman.  My team really did make my work life so much easier, having given me people to rely upon whose natural instincts and demeanor supported the practice. 

 

We entered the small courtroom on the second floor and I took up position in lead counsel’s seat.

 

“You can’t sit there,” a man’s voice was directed at me.

 

“Really?  Why not?” I asked although I failed to look in his direction.

 

“My hearing is next.  You have to wait your turn,” he suggested.

 

“Your case is my case,” I turned and bridged the ten-foot gap between us, thrusting my hand out towards him.  “Parker.  Nice to meet you counsel.”

 

He feebly shook my hand and then I turned and walked back to my table and took a seat. 

 

“But you…” his voice trailed off as the door in the front of the courtroom swung open and a Magistrate I’d known for a decade bounded through.

 

“Sit, sit, sit,” he used both hands and gestured for all of us to sit after standing, as required, when he entered the room.  Turning to the Clerk, he said, “let’s call the case.”

 

As the Clerk called our case, Rosie and I stood, as did our client, until Rosie let her know she could remain seated.  Our opposing counsel fumbled a bit to achieve his stance and continued to stare in my direction as the Magistrate looked at the case file on the desk in front of him.

 

“So, we are here for a Pre-Trial Conference.  Do counsel have statements?”

 

“Yes, Your Honor,” I spoke up.  I walked to opposing counsel’s table, dropped a copy in front of him and asked, “may I approach.”

 

“Come on up,” the Magistrate responded.  I gestured to opposing counsel, offering to take his to the bench as well, but he shrugged me off, twisted his body away from me like a child guarding a favorite toy, and approached the Magistrate with a smile. 

 

“I see we already have a trial date, is that correct?” the Magistrate inquired.

 

“Um, Your Honor, I just need to be heard preliminarily on a different issue,” the other counsel began.

 

“Okay,” the Magistrate responded and sat back in his chair.

 

“So, she has not entered her appearance in this case,” he began and pointed in my direction.  “She shouldn’t be here and she certainly shouldn’t be sitting at counsel table and speaking on the record.”

 

“Her appearance is entered.  She owns the firm that is representing the Defendant.  Rosie is her associate.  Parker is in this case,” he responded.

 

“But Your Honor, that’s not what the Rules say.  An attorney has to formally enter their appearance in a case in order to appear on behalf of a party,” he presented as if in full-on tantrum.

 

“You may not be understanding the Rules, counsel,” the Magistrate suggested calmly.

 

“I have a copy with me, Your Honor.  Would you like me to approach with my copy of the Rules?” the attorney suggested and I cringed.

 

“No, sir, thank you.  I have a copy right here,” he patted the two volumes to the side of his large desk.  “If I opened the Rules, I’m sure I’d find that any attorney who files any pleading, motion or paper in the case has effectively entered their appearance,” he held up our Pre-Trial Statements.  “When you’ve done so, you don’t need to file a separate Line of Appearance.  In fact, filing a separate Line of Appearance, to me, would only be done by an attorney who wants to bill more fees to the client,” he stared at my opposing counsel.  “I’ve always found Parker to be pretty efficient and cost-effective,” he nodded in my direction.  “May we proceed?”

 

“Yes, Your Honor,” the man sat down and I looked down at my notes in front of me to keep from laughing.

 

“So, trial date confirmed.  Anything else I can help you with?”

 

“Well, I have spoken with counsel about obtaining a neutral expert for the issue of business valuation.  I understand his client is contemplating the idea,” I began.

 

“Well, it’s a significant cost, so I understand the need to think about it,” the Magistrate suggested.

 

“Sure.  But we’ve managed to find a potential neutral expert willing to take on the case pro bono,” I offered.

 

“Wow.  How’d you do that?” the Magistrate looked incredulous.

 

“Lucky, I guess,” I shrugged.

 

“Persuasive, I’d think,” the Magistrate suggested.

 

“So,” he turned to my opposing counsel, “still need time to think about it?”

 

“Court’s indulgence, Your Honor,” the attorney turned to his client and the two enjoyed a heated exchange barely audible over the mellow whirring of the hushing device.  I sat down and began taking notes that meant nothing on the legal pad in front of me. 

 

About three minutes later, the attorney stood and offered, “my client agrees to the neutral expert.”

 

“Okay, thank you, counsel,” the Magistrate smiled. 

 

“Thank you, Your Honor,” I stood and offered.

 

“Thank you, Your Honor,” the man to my right offered, before turning swiftly and exiting the courtroom.

 

Our client thanked Rosie and I in the hallway before excusing herself and leaving the courthouse to pick up her daughter from after school activities.

 

“Parker,” the voice boomed from behind me as I kept walking.  “Parker,” he repeated.

 

I stopped and turned but Rosie kept walking a few feet ahead.

 

“Yes, counsel.  How may I help you?” I stared at the opposing counsel who’d been effectively torturing my associate for months.

 

“Well, now that you are in the case, I want to discuss next steps,” he relayed.

 

“The next steps are you contact the business valuation expert and provide him the information and documents he needs,” I relayed matter-of-factly.  I scribbled the name and contact information for the expert, handed it to opposing counsel and offered, “nice to meet you.” I turned and began walking away.

 

“Parker, wait,” he yelled after me. 

 

I turned, “yes?”

 

“Well, now that I have an attorney who knows what they are doing, I just think it may be easier to have a discussion about settlement.  So, I’d like to start those discussions.”

 

“An attorney who knows what they are doing?” I inquired.  “Did your client hire new counsel?” I regretted the comment the moment it left my lips.

 

“That wasn’t very nice,” he looked embarrassed.

 

“My apologies, counsel.  You’re right.  That was unnecessary,” I was sincere.

 

“Thank you,” he nodded.

 

“Are you going to offer the same apology to my associate?” I asked.

 

He looked confused, “no, why?”

 

“Okay.  Well, feel free to send over a settlement proposal and Rosie and I will review it with our client,” I turned around again to walk away.

 

“Why can’t we talk now?” he inquired to my back. 

 

“Because I have to go,” I responded as I turned to face him.  “Plus, I don’t want to be the cause of you billing your client for an hour when the Pre-Trial Conference took ten minutes.  Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you bill your client precisely $5,000 per month for the eight months you’ve been in the case.  I don’t know how an attorney does that, never seen anything like it, but there it is.  And your client, who hasn’t paid his child support in eight months and claims he has no money, somehow manages to pay you $40,000.  So, instead of child support, he pays you.  Meanwhile, we are helping our client pro bono, that means without getting paid anything, in case you were wondering.  And you, the guy who has earned $40,000 thus far on this case, has managed to send my associate 322 emails over that eight months.  That figure alone would be considered unreasonable by any rational litigator.  But what’s worse is that the average length of those 322 emails is eight to ten pages.  Who does that? I’ve never seen an attorney in a case like this send treatises masquerading as emails.  And what’s worse than that is that many of those emails simply regurgitate the same things over and over again, many just cutting and pasting Rules and caselaw, as if you are just trying to find a way to bill your client that $5,000 per month.  For a guy who loves citing to those Rules, perhaps you should check out the Appendix, the Rules of Professional Conduct, because I think you could use further education in that arena,” I stared at him and he offered no response.  I lowered my voice and continued, “our job is to serve people.  And not just people, but people going through one of the worst traumas in their lives.  We are supposed to make it better, or at least a little bit easier.  It doesn’t have to be the way you’re handling it.  There is difference between reading a book and regurgitating the law and actually serving clients.  You are failing at the latter and frankly I don’t think our client or my associate should have to suffer your failings.  So, here’s what we are going to do.  I am grounding Rosie.  She is not permitted to have email communication with you for two weeks.  That will give her a chance to focus on cases with opposing counsel who are genuinely trying to serve their clients and not run up a bill.  And I won’t be accepting any emails from you either.”

 

“But-“ he began but I cut him off.

 

“Now, if there is a genuine emergency in our case, I cannot imagine what that would be, but benefit of the doubt, let’s just say something time-sensitive comes up in the next two weeks, you can send me an email of no more than three bullet points explaining the issue.  And I don’t need your recitation of the Rules or caselaw.  I went to law school just like you and so did Rosie.  I understand you think you are smarter than us because you matriculated from an Ivy, but frankly, I just don’t care about your pedigree.  Your behavior has shown me everything I need to know about you and I’m not the least bit impressed.  And just like I have been doing through the pendency of this case, I will be watching and I will know everything that is going on.  And while I know for sure that Rosie has this case well in hand and has shown to be a better practitioner than you in all ways, you, sir, are a bully.  And because of that, I will be standing beside Rosie and our client at the trial.  Not just because I support Rosie and our client, but because your unconscionable behavior has caused me to want to handle, for the first time ever in my career, the issue of attorneys’ fees.  I have never seen a more blatant case warranting that attorneys’ fees should be paid by an attorney and not his client.  Your client has likely suffered enough, I think.  I will be asking the court to award attorneys’ fees to our client paid by you, sir.  So, before you write your next email in this case, just think about matching that $40,000 you’ve already caused in fees, plus all of the fees still to come, because I doubt seriously that you can write fewer than ten emails a week, nor write emails that have a lower word count than a novella each time.  Just keep racking up those fees and you’ll be paying them squarely over to my client,” I did not await his response.  Instead, I turned to walk away and saw several people sitting nearby softly clapping in response to my rant.

 

“You can’t get fees in a pro bono case,” he yelled towards me.

 

I didn’t turn around, but yelled back over my shoulder, “you may want to do a little more research.”

 

When we had reached the first floor of the courthouse, Rosie turned to me and spoke softly, “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

 

“Yeah.  I don’t like bullies.  I don’t like time-suckers.  And I don’t like professionals who prey upon their clients.”  But no matter how good it felt in the moment, I couldn’t shake my feeling that I had gone too far with Mr. Ivy League. 

 

“Nah,” James suggested later that evening.  “Sounds like he had it coming.”

 

“Maybe.  Still feels wrong,” I sipped on a new favorite red wine.

 

“Are you guys ready to order?” the Princeton bartender interrupted our discussion. 

 

“She needs a steak, rare.  It matches her mood today,” James responded.

 

The bartender smiled and turned to me for an actual order.  “Steak salad does sound good,” I confirmed.

 

“Not rare though, right?” the bartender inquired.

 

Having taken a sip of wine, I shook my head.

 

“Of course not, she wants it burned.  Well done, is it?  Kill all of the flavor, is it?  Offend the chef, is it?” James attempted to answer for me.

 

“Fine.  Medium, please.” I informed the man behind the bar who nodded.

 

“Progress.” James took a sip from his own glass.  “Two steak salads,” he took another sip.  “Make mine rare.”

 

When we arrived at the Academy after dinner, I was still a bit distracted by the day’s events.  And I was surprised to find Austin in the lobby of the studio.  His energy had not dissipated since I danced with him at the Congress.  He took up position next to me during the warm-up and snatched my hand during the first command by the instructor.  He also talked through much of our partnered dances and I missed a bit of the instruction.  I noticed James eyeing him throughout the ninety minutes.  And when James and I found ourselves as partners towards the end of the session he asked, “how do you know that guy?”

 

“I met him at the Congress.”  Then I added, “he’s nice.” 

 

Austin had either annoyed James by talking too much during class or James was sizing up Austin’s intentions towards me, ever the protector. 

 

As I changed my shoes to leave, Austin approached and struck up yet another conversation. 

 

“Are you coming on Thursday?” he inquired.

 

“Thursday?” I responded.

 

“To the Zouk class.  Didn’t you see my message?” he wondered

 

Looking at my phone, I noticed a message that had come in during my rant in the courthouse, a time when I wasn’t the least bit concerned with my phone.  “Where is the class?”

 

“Cool space.  It’s a synagogue near Dupont Circle.  The class starts at 7:00 p.m.” he informed me.

 

“Maybe,” was my only response.

 

“You should come too,” he directed his comment at James.

 

“I’ll go if she goes,” James responded to my surprise.

 

“Well, maybe I’ll see you Thursday,” I suggested to Austin as James and I headed for the car. 

 

“What?” James inquired of my look towards him after I had buckled myself into the passenger seat. 

 

“Are you really gonna come to a Zouk class?”

 

“Not a chance,” James scoffed as he peeled out of the space and down the block. 

 

At around 5:30 p.m. on Thursday, I changed my clothes and left my office headed South.  I immediately regretted my decision, having forgotten about the rush-hour traffic around the City.  As I drew nearer to my destination, the GPS having informed me that I was two tenths of a mile away, I began looking for parking.  I was forced to circle the block three times and sit at the same red light twice before I finally gave up and headed two blocks away to a hotel parking garage.  I was not planning for valet, but it seemed like the easiest option despite having to gather my items and toss everything in a bag before removing the car key and handing it over to a stranger.  I took a few steps from the hotel’s driveway, towards the nearest sidewalk, but stopped to enter a note in my phone so I could remember where I parked hours later. 

 

I’d spent many hours searching for my car in D.C. over the course of my college and law school days and one fellow law student would take bets on how long it would take me to find my car on any given night.  He was always nice enough to walk with me and talk with me while we searched on random evenings.  I knew this friend, Chris, was annoyed that I often delayed his commute home, but the ease in our conversations made me want to park further and further from our destinations just to afford me more talking time.  It was during one of those walk and talk sessions that he suggested I partner up with a buddy of his for Bar prep.  It was a brilliant idea and honestly, I credit that study buddy with not only my passage of the Exam, but with actually having fun getting there. 

 

After walking two blocks North, I found what I believed would be the setting of my second Zouk class.  The doors to the synagogue were locked.  I walked around the block and searched for another entrance but couldn’t find an open door.  I checked my phone and found the message from Austin, then responded to his message wondering if I was in the right location.  No response.  I walked back around to the front door and took up a seated position on the steps in front of the entrance.  Checking my phone again, I saw that it was ten minutes before the class was set to begin and then my phone lit up with a message. 

 

“This is Annabelle.  Austin’s driving.  I’m on his phone.  You’re in the right place.  We’ll be there in five minutes.”

 

“See you soon,” I responded as a random person approached the door. 

 

“Is this the Zouk class?” a woman inquired.

 

“I think so,” I responded.  “The door is locked.”

 

“Let me check the side entrance,” she suggested.  “Want to come with me?”

 

“Sure,” I smiled as I stood and followed her down the block. 

 

She tried the door before peering through the small window in the middle of the door and knocking.  “Hey!  Lauren!  Can you let us in?”

 

A petite woman with a soft smile opened the door from the inside and welcomed us into the beautiful structure.  “Hi there.  I’m Lauren.  Welcome.”

 

“Parker.  Thank you.  This is amazing,” I offered viewing the architecture that enveloped my gaze. 

 

“Wait until you see the class space,” she suggested.  “Come on.  I’ll show you.”

 

“Thank you.  I can’t wait,” I followed her down an elegant hallway and down a flight of stairs.

 

As we entered another hallway, she pointed to the left, “there’s the restroom.” She greeted a few people in the hallway before she turned to me and asked, “how did you hear about us?”

 

“Austin and Annabelle,” I responded.  “I met them a couple of weeks ago at the Congress.”

 

“Excellent.  That was a great event.  I hope you’ll be at the Festival.”

 

“Festival?” I inquired.

 

“This weekend.  It’s near Dulles airport.  Great venue.  It’ll be mostly Zouk and Kizomba.”

 

“I think Austin mentioned that event,” I remembered.

 

“If you connect with me on social media, I can send you the details,” she offered.

 

“Thank you,” I nodded.  “I will.”

 

“Well, here it is,” she looked across the large space with cathedral ceilings and a perfectly smooth wooden floor.

 

“Wow,” I practically gasped. 

 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she smiled.

 

“Gorgeous,” I confirmed noticing how the sunlight shone through stained glass created prisms across the dancefloor. 

 

“I bet you’ve never danced in a synagogue before,” Lauren suggested.

 

“Church, yes.  Synagogue, no,” I relayed.

 

“Church, really?  What church?” she inquired.

 

“When I was a kid, our team couldn’t afford many of the predictable sites for dance class, but a local church was nice enough to offer up its basement for a small donation.  We used the parking lot on nice days and ended up using that space each Thursday evening for about two or three years before we finally had funding for a more appropriate space,” I recalled.

 

“Dance classes in a church on Thursday as a kid.  Dance classes in a synagogue on Thursday as an adult.  Makes perfect sense,” she smiled and I could tell she liked the correlation.  

 

Austin and Annabelle approached and I thanked Lauren for her warm welcome.  The Doctors obviously knew Lauren and I could tell that these two friends were not new to this scene.  I expressed my nervousness to Annabelle, who assured me I’d have fun and would not look the least bit foolish when we all took the floor. 

 

After a few announcements by Lauren, including seeking volunteers for a flash mob at various prominent locations around the City over the next month, she introduced our instructors for the evening.  They had flown in from Brazil and would be teaching and performing at the Festival this weekend, before continuing their travels across the country, sharing their talents and instruction at various events. 

 

They began with a choreographed routine of their own, one that must’ve been designed to remind the beginners among us that we had a lot to learn, or perhaps to show us something to strive to achieve.  It wasn’t just the graceful, fluid movements that seemed perfectly choreographed to exciting melodies, they had something I couldn’t decipher.  They looked as if they knew each other so well that they could not only respond seamlessly to each other’s movements, but they almost looked as if they were dancing as one, instead of partners dancing together.

 

“That’s connection,” Austin decided.  “Look at that,” he leaned in to Annabelle.  “We’re gonna look like that one day.”

 

I smiled to myself and confirmed my own prediction upon first meeting these Doctors.  Bring on the predictable coupling. 

 

After applauding the instructors, we all lined up on the dancefloor and they took up position on the stage at the front of the space so we could better view their steps.  There were at least fifty participants and I found a space in the back row to avoid anyone seeing me.  That is, until Austin and Annabelle yanked me into the third row for a better vantage point.  They warmed us up for a song and then let the music play as they reminded the class of the basic step.  It was not at all similar to the basics I learned in Salsa and required not only movement from right to left but elevation from tippy toes to grounded feet and twisting at the core.  It kind of felt like taking off and landing over and over again.  I tried to differentiate between the wider and smaller steps.  One was the long one, two and three were small.  There was no four, five or six like in Salsa.  Half as many steps with twice as much to remember.

 

And then they had us partner and I felt like I was starting from scratch.  The lead wasn’t like in Salsa either.  The frame was different, less solid.  The grip was different, lower and with an almost hyperextension of the wrists at times.  The steps were different.  More fluid and less structured. 

 

The failures in Salsa caused a disjointed dance and maybe even an elbow to the head.  The failures in Zouk just provided opportunities.  The lead could use the mishap to extend a movement or series of steps, change a direction or even release one hand’s grasp and spin a follow around and back into a basic step.  It didn’t make sense but it was somehow harmonious and purer than the Salsa steps to which I had become accustomed. 

 

Finally, they decided to teach us a few sequences, ten eight-counts that would be strung together and put to a musical favorite that left me feeling like that little girl at the church, acquiring a new routine that would be branded in my memory and added to my dance repertoire.   

 

“Are you coming back?” Lauren asked as I changed my shoes at the conclusion of the two-hour class. 

 

“Yes,” I responded quickly. 

 

“Are you coming, Lauren?” Annabelle asked as she grabbed me by the arm. 

 

“I’ll be there in a bit,” Lauren responded.

 

“Where are we going?” I looked to Annabelle.

 

“Up the street.  Dupont Circle.  After hours practice and hopefully, some food.”

 

“Okay,” I smiled realizing I hadn’t eaten since around noon. 

 

Austin, Annabelle and I walked two blocks South, all uphill, which I didn’t notice until the next morning when my calves screamed, and I hydrated the whole way to a familiar spot.  As we found ourselves at my least favorite driving spot, the circle that sometimes made sense but in which nobody followed road rules or used turn signals, I stopped in front of a spot I had frequented in law school.  It was an accessible spot where law students from multiple schools converged and if they couldn’t outdo each other at conversation, would attempt to school each other in pool.  The drinks were overpriced and although every Thursday night, law school crazies took over, every other night of the week it enticed journalists.  I had always hoped to find a journalist on site, having mistaken the day, so that I could have an actual conversation.  Frankly, I envied those people in the profession I had planned to make my own before life’s course changed.  And with my memories of those no-so-long-ago law school ‘bar revues’ as they were called, I wondered if this particular spot had changed or at least installed a dance floor. 

 

“Not here,” Austin corrected me.  “There,” he pointed across the street.

 

“Ah.  Okay,” I looked at the bright neon sign outside the brownstone that had seen better days.  If this place existed when I was in law school, I never noticed it.  Or perhaps I just never looked beyond my routine destination.  It had only become routine in year three, when either Christian, or Chris, my favorite car-finder, coaxed me into the break.  It wasn’t the drinks, as I never had more than one, rather it was the late-night return home and the early morning alarm to make it to work each Friday that exhausted me.  I don’t know where I found the energy in those days.  And years later, I don’t know what prompted me to follow the Doctors on what would certainly be a late-night excursion with an even longer commute home and perhaps an earlier Friday alarm than that of my law school days.

 

The inside was less impressive than the outside of the building, but it was certainly lively.  Music boomed across each of the three levels and I was escorted by the Doctors to the bottom level where the unmistakable Zouk and Kizomba music filled the space.  I recognized a few faces from the Zouk class, and even the instructors joined in the fun.  Austin and Annabelle immediately took to the dance floor, handing me their bags, and I found a table for us before ordering the unhealthiest of foods that would taste amazingly satisfying after so many hours without fuel.  The Doctors ordered similar treats, completely disregarding what I assume were their years of study in the field of healthcare.  About halfway through our meal, Austin ordered me onto the dancefloor, suggesting we practice the routine our instructors had so generously provided earlier that evening.  The instructors noticed my practice session with Austin, to which they offered a thumb’s up and a smile.  I found a few partners from the class and even followed Lauren for another practice session.  She was the most accommodating of leads and had obviously been training for years. 

 

I spotted Sarah across the room and once again noticed her expertise as she performed Kizomba steps with sheer perfection and enviable prowess.  I doubt she recognized me. 

 

Shortly before midnight, I found myself on the dancefloor with a random stranger who I did to not recognize from the class.  Austin and Annabelle were practicing a few feet away and with swift and sudden movement, the lead had me in a stance that felt too close for comfort and awkwardly unlike the Zouk I’d been enjoying all night.  He leaned in and began whispering what I’m sure he believed were flirtatious words meant to entice me, although they only managed to make me want to leave the dance, the club, and the City altogether.  I didn’t realize my expression had changed, but the male instructor from earlier in the night noticed something.  Without warning, he snatched my hand, spun me away from the stranger, danced with me for a few moments and then slowly moved our partnered dancing to the spot where Lauren was seated to the side of the dancefloor. 

 

“Thank you,” he gently let go of my hand and took two steps back.

 

“Thank you,” I nodded and turned to Lauren with a look of relief. 

 

“Most people are here for the right reasons.  To enjoy the dancing and friendships.  Others, well, you know, if only we could decide who they let in the club,” she attempted to ease my thoughts.

 

Austin and Annabelle approached and I informed them, “I’m going to head out.”

 

“They’ll walk you,” Lauren suggested looking at Austin.

 

“Of course,” Austin confirmed and we all grabbed our bags and headed for the stairs.  Once outside, I pulled the jacket from my bag and readied my keys, despite the block and a half to my car.  I listened as the Doctors flirted with one another, in a much more charming way than that stranger in the club attempted with me, and at one point I noticed as Austin softly laced his fingers in Annabelle’s and she blushed. 

 

They waited as the valet returned my car and I thanked them for inviting me to the class.  I doubted I’d join them for the after-hours portion again and they understood.  Refusing to miss opportunities to see each other, they mentioned another option, Tenleytown, and I assured them I’d consider it.  Once securely in my vehicle, I watched as the Doctors proceeded down the block towards the synagogue where we had started the evening, and assumed I was witnessing a heated discussion of some topic that seemed to interest them both.  They were quite adorable together.  And sometimes, quite persuasive.  I joined them for the social at Tenleytown the following evening, but not before happy hour with James.

 

As if he had heard Malorie’s command, he just showed up in my office on Friday shortly after 5:00 p.m. and all but insisted I join him and a few friends for happy hour away from our offices.  If only Malorie hadn’t left so promptly at the end of the business day, perhaps she could’ve finally laid eyes on my friend.  He drove us to downtown Bethesda, a few miles from our offices, and when we arrived at his location of choice, there were several gentlemen already two or three drinks in.  They weren’t expecting a guest.

 

“Hey, I thought this was a guys’ only happy hour,” one man suggested with a slur.

 

“This is Parker.  She has low expectations of you guys,” James responded.  “It’ll be fine,” he added. 

 

Each took turns introducing himself and each seemed to have heard my name before.  I recognized most of the names as well and had a feeling this evening would not bore.  It didn’t.  Over the course of the evening, they dragged me around Bethesda, stopping at different places because of the drinks, the food or the music, depending upon the collective mood in any given moment.  My cheeks hurt from laughter and I easily understood James’ choice in friends.  Most of them he’d known since childhood, most enjoyed near equal IQ an EQ, and none were terribly embarrassing, despite the alcohol intake. 

 

“Just don’t ever date any of them,” James warned me during one of our treks from place to place that evening.

 

“Don’t worry,” I assured him.  They were nice guys, but none peaked my interest. 

 

Two of the guys joined James and I in a ride-share back to my office, before they then ventured South for additional venue-hopping around the City.  Although it was nice to finally put faces with the names and stories I’d heard from James over many months, I was excited to attend the Tenleytown social and left James in the capable, yet inebriated, hands of his buddies, before I too headed South. 

 

I shouldn’t have been surprised, but when I arrived at the address they provided, I was once again reliving law school days.  While the Dupont Circle venue I had mistakenly assumed we were headed the night before was the spot for the regular law student decompression sessions, Tenleytown was the opposite.  It was the spot closest to our campus where most study groups landed when in need of food and continued work sessions.  They never bothered us, just made sure we had sustenance, and knew they were in for an exceptional gratuity payment at the end of a long evening.  I didn’t realize there was a second floor, but when Annabelle led me up the staircase and into the dimly lit room, I immediately felt at home.  I recognized many faces, not just from Zouk, but from Salsa as well, and was pleased to find Elijah lighting up the dancefloor. 

 

Spending three hours in this tiny venue, dancing with Salsa partners I’d known for months, practicing my new Zouk skills with the Doctors and Lauren, among others, and having Elijah find me to test out my new Zouk steps, made for another exciting evening in dance.  And unlike the times I left that place in law school, I left that evening feeling anything but exhausted.  I was finding more energy than I recalled having as a child, when I spent endless hours a week in dance practice, and certainly more stamina than my law school days, when I spent endless hours a week in study.  Returning to the venues and activities of what felt like an old life, the life before injury, and during my so-called recovery, was unexpected, surreal even.  I had never expected to venture so far beyond the diagnosis, beyond the crutches, beyond the fears.  But, I tried.  And I practiced.  And I participated.  And I overcame fears.  And look at me now. 

 

It was as if I had planted seeds before even I believed I could grow and then, somehow, without warning, I was reaping the fruits of years of labor.  But it was more than just the working at it that seemed to bring the harvest.  Some things were coming easy to me again.  It felt like the blessings of my youth were returning.  My luck had changed. 

 

Further evidence of my good fortune came to me the next morning via text. 

 

“Hey Bar prep buddy,” he texted.  “Can you come to the City tonight?”

 

“Sure.  What’s happening?” I responded to the man I’d kept in touch with all these years since we were connected by Chris.  We had spent three months in feverish study for that two-day examination that decided our legal fates and our celebration a week after we had put our pencils down, so to speak, was one of the most joyous I recalled.  His name was Julian and we stayed in touch over the years with a random drinks or dinner plan, or sometimes just a call. 

 

“Fundraiser.  Cocktail hour at 5:00 p.m.  Show starts at 7:00 p.m.  I’m texting tickets now.  Bring a guest,” Julian relayed. 

 

Viewing the tickets, I asked, “attire?”

 

“Cocktail,” he suggested. 

 

“Thank you.  See you there,” I responded. 

 

“Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you,” he replied.  “Honestly, I thought you’d take persuading.”

 

“Always happy to help by Bar prep buddy,” I concluded our electronic conversation.

 

“Guest,” I said to myself and only one name came to mind.

 

“Hello,” he answered my call.

 

“You sound awful,” I relayed to my friend.

 

“I just went to bed like an hour ago,” James groaned.

 

“Ugh.  Go back to sleep,” I suggested.

 

“What’s up, Sparky?  I mean Parky.  Geez.  Parker,” he tried but generally failed to correct his misstatements.

 

“Are you drunk?” I chuckled.

 

“Plausibly.  Possible.  Possibly.  Probably.”

 

“Okay.  Go back to sleep,” I suggested again. 

 

“Talk later,” he groaned and hung up. 

 

I decided to go for a walk and consider other options for my plus-one.  Nobody else really came to mind.  I could offer it up to Malorie or Rosie, but I’m sure they both already had plans.  I could check with my sister, but I recalled her having plans as well.  Perhaps I could just go alone.  But this was a fundraiser and he had given me to two tickets.  I had to use both tickets, didn’t I?

 

“I wonder if….” I didn’t finish my thought, remembering the buddy who introduced us, Chris, was newly married and it’d be odd to invite him to the event as my guest. 

 

I typically walked until my mind cleared or at least felt clearer.  It was a good way to unclog all of the thoughts caused by my typical work week.  I was four miles into my endeavor when a chime on my phone denoting a message interrupted me.   

 

“Are you coming to the Festival?” Austin asked.

 

“I have an event tonight in the City,” I responded.

 

“What time?” he asked.

 

“Five,” I responded.

 

“Great.  Go to the event and then come to the Festival after,” he suggested. 

 

“I’ll think about it,” I offered. 

 

“Come on.  Annabelle can’t be here tonight.   She came last night, but she has a family event tonight.  Come on,” he repeated.

 

“Any chance you want to come to my event?” I don’t know what made me ask.

 

“Sure.  And then you’ll come to the Festival?” it didn’t exactly sound like a question.

 

“How about you meet me and come to my event and I’ll drive you to the Festival and you can try to sell me on actually coming in and joining,” I suggested.

 

“Deal,” he confirmed.  “Who?  What?  When?  Where?”

 

“My buddy is hosting a fundraiser.  Cocktails at 5:00 p.m.  I’ll forward the ticket, which has the address.  He said cocktail attire.”

 

“See you there,” Austin relayed and then added, “pack a bag just in case.”

 

“A bag?” I inquired.

 

“For the Festival.  Change of clothes, etc.” he suggested.

 

“Okay,” I decided. 

 

I opted for a black and white cocktail dress I had purchased a few months prior in the hopes that I’d have a place to wear it.  It made me feel elegant.  Fit like a glove.  And it was comfortable.  Bonus.

 

After easily finding parking within a block of the event, I waited on the sidewalk outside of the bustling theatre-like structure.  Two ladies were checking each other’s attire, hair and make-up, laughing like old friends and I suddenly missed my best friends who I hadn’t seen in months. 

 

“Are you ready?” one woman inquired.

 

Touching my chest with my right hand as if to ask, ‘me,’ the woman nodded and I responded, “ready for what?”

 

“The red carpet,” she smiled.

 

“The what?” I suddenly felt anxious.

 

“Just inside,” the other woman relayed.  “We’re practicing before we go in.  Wanna join?”

 

“I’m not very photogenic,” I cringed.

 

“Oh, come on.  We’ll show you,” she motioned for me to join them.  “What a beautiful dress.”

 

“Thank you,” I smiled.

 

“You just need some four-inch heels,” one woman suggested.

 

“If only,” I shrugged.

 

“All you need is the right position,” the other woman instructed.  “Here.  Like this,” she showed me her stance.  “Cross your right foot over your left, let your right knee bend a little and tilt your head a little up and a little to the left.” 

 

I followed her instructions, “like this?”

 

“Exactly.  Perfect.  Let me take one of you two,” she motioned for her friend to join me.  “Ready.  Smile.”

 

“Let me see,” her friend commanded.  “Perfect,” she showed me the picture. 

 

“That’s better than I usually look,” I smiled.  “Thank you for the help.”

 

“We’ll see you in there,” one woman said as they headed for the door.

 

“Hey,” Austin approached.  “Am I late?”

 

“Not at all,” I responded.  “Are you sure Annabelle is okay with this?”

 

“Of course.  You’re on the short list,” he relayed.

 

“Short list?”

 

“People who I can hang with that won’t make her jealous,” he informed me.

 

“Ah.  Okay.  Ready?” I asked.

 

“Let’s get in there.”

 

We entered the venue and showed the tickets on our phone to the man near the entrance.  He waved us through and we stood nearly motionless for a few minutes as we waited for the line to move.  Our full entry was stalled temporarily by the red carpet photography and we each awaited our turns as a woman with a clipboard motioned for people to move forward. 

 

Moments later, Austin and I found ourselves standing awkwardly in front of a line of photographers, with insignia for the event prominently placed behind us and a Ferrari to our right.  Apparently, they were a sponsor. I saw a gentleman taking large strides towards me from within the crowd and relaxed when I finally saw my friend. 

 

“Hey,” Julian hugged me, “you made it!”

 

“Hey,” I wrapped my arms around him.  “This is a amazing!”  When we ended the embrace, I turned to Austin and introduced the two gentlemen.  They shook hands and then Julian put his hand on the shoulder of the man next to him. 

 

“This is-“ he began, but I cut him off.

 

“I know who this is,” I smiled.  “Pleasure to meet you.”  The celebrity shook my hand and then Austin’s and I smiled. 

 

“Let’s get a photo,” Julian suggested taking up position on my left, with Austin to my right and our new celebrity acquaintance to Austin’s right.  After several snaps during which I am sure I blinked, he motioned for the nearest cocktail server, “champagne for my friends.” He handed us each a flute.  “Go mingle.  Have fun,” Julian commanded and we obeyed. 

 

Austin and I met many people during the cocktail hours and found ourselves in endless conversations that felt nothing like small talk.  At one point, when a talented DJ provided danceable tunes, we even took a brief spin around the dancefloor, surely making onlookers wonder what dance we were performing.  My new friends from the sidewalk applauded our endeavor. 

 

The show began with a musical savant who impressed us with some of the most beautiful melodies I’d heard played live in years.  It offered a brief reminder of how much I loved concerts and I wondered why I had spent years enjoying live music before I dove headfirst into my passion for the theatre and left live music behind.  It was almost as it I could only focus on one hobby or interest at a time, when I knew that couldn’t be the case.  Not for a skilled multi-tasker.

 

The main event included an interview with the well-known actor, also known for his activism, with questions posed by my Bar-prep buddy at center stage, before the actor provided us with several one act-type performances, including varied characters and genres, impressing the audience with his many talents. 

 

By fundraising standards, Julian’s hard work was a success.  By live music and theatre standards, the performers’ hard work absolutely succeeded in entertaining and inspiring me and my plus-oner. 

 

And when the event ended, Austin had no trouble persuading me to attend the Festival.  We arrived around 9:30 p.m. at a hotel near Dulles airport; me with a bag in hand, filled mostly with clothes, as I approached the desk attendant in hopes of reserving a room for the night.  I was lucky the hosts of the event had chosen a hotel chain for which I had accumulated plenty of points and I was elated when I learned the only room left available was a corporate suite for which I could certainly use those points.  It barely put a dent in my rewards.  I purchased a few items from the small shop in the lobby before heading to my room to change out of the cocktail attire and into dance appropriate clothing. 

 

I had planned to meet Austin in the lobby a little after 10:00 p.m. so that we could find a good spot to watch the performances.  Having found a seat in the middle of a giant atrium to the East of the lobby, I checked my phone and waited for my friend to arrive. 

 

“What are you doing here?!” exclaimed a different friend.

 

“Elijah!” I exclaimed right back at him.  “Interesting outfit.”

 

“We’re about to perform,” he seemed nervous as he approached.

 

“That’s exciting.  I’m heading in to watch,” I assured him.

 

“Well, come on,” he motioned for me to stand and come with him.

 

“I’m waiting for someone,” I responded as I saw Austin approaching.  “There he is.”

 

Elijah’s mood soured just a bit, but he forced a smile towards me.  “I’ll see you after,” he relayed as he walked towards his team and headed into the event.

 

“Did you purchase a pass for the tonight?” Austin asked.

 

“Not yet,” I responded.

 

“Let’s get you set up.”

 

I paid for the Saturday portion of the event, not planning to stick around for the Sunday workshops or social, and I was handed an adorable t-shirt; softer and in a more saturated hue than the one I got at the Congress.  Austin and I found seats in the middle row of the left side of the space and I patiently awaited Elijah’s team.  He was near the end of the program and I almost missed it when I opted to find a fountain just before midnight, but luckily made it back to my seat as the music started.  It was phenomenal, although not at all what I expected.  I don’t know what I expected exactly, but knowing Elijah, I thought it would be fun and entertaining.  It was, but it was nothing like Elijah’s style of dance.  Perhaps because it was a team effort and teams have to show uniformity and unison.  It didn’t matter.  It was a joy to watch and I offered him a generous hug when I saw him outside the ballroom after the performances ended.

 

“What are you up to now?” Elijah inquired.

 

“Ready for the social,” I relayed with a smile.

 

“Come with us first,” he commanded. 

 

“Where?” I inquired.

 

“My buddy is a make-up artist and he’s going to give us some temporary art.”

 

“You mean tattoos?” I laughed.

 

“Pretty much,” Elijah winked.

 

“Let’s go,” I couldn’t believe my own response. 

 

“You want to join?” Elijah directed his question to Austin.

 

“No.  Thanks though.  I’m heading into the socials,” he responded.

 

“I’ll see you later,” I assured Austin.

 

“Have fun,” he smiled.