The Firm

"Just keep listening. We’ve tried to slow him down, but he’s a machine."

"Yeah, at a hundred and fifty an hour I know you want him to slack off. Why don’t you cut all your associates back to forty hours a week so they can spend more time with their families? You could cut your salary, sell a Jag or two, hock your old lady’s diamonds, maybe sell your mansion and buy a smaller house by the country club."

"Shut up, DeVasher."

Oliver Lambert stormed out of the office. DeVasher turned red with his high-pitched laughter, then, when his office was empty, he locked the photos in a file cabinet. "Mitchell McDeere," he said to himself with an immense smile, "now you are ours."

Chapter 15

On a friday, at noon, two weeks before Christmas, Abby said goodbye to her students and left St. Andrew’s for the holidays. At one, she parked in a lot full of Volvos and BMWs and Saabs and more Peugeots and walked hurriedly through the cold rain into the crowded terrarium where the young affluent gathered to eat quiche and fajitas and black bean soup among the plants. This was Kay Quin’s current hot spot of the year, and this was the second lunch they’d had in a month. Kay was late, as usual.

It was a friendship still in the initial stages of development. Cautious by nature, Abby had never been one to rush into chumminess with a stranger. The three years at Harvard had been friendless, and she had learned a great deal of independence. In six months in Memphis she had met a handful of prospects at church and one at school, but she moved cautiously.

At first Kay Quin had pushed hard. She was at once a tour guide, shopping consultant and even a decorator. But Abby had moved slowly, learning a little with each visit and watching her new friend carefully. They had eaten several times in the Quin home. They had seen each other at firm dinners and functions, but always in a crowd. And they had enjoyed each other’s company over four long lunches at whatever happened to be the hottest gathering place at that moment for the young and beautiful Golden MasterCard holders in Memphis. Kay noticed cars and homes and clothes, but pretended to ignore it all. Kay wanted to be a friend, a close friend, a confidante, an intimate. Abby kept the distance, slowly allowing her in.

The reproduction of a 1950s jukebox sat below Abby’s table on the first level near the bar, where a standing-room crowd sipped and waited for tables. After ten minutes and two Roy Orbisons, Kay emerged from the crowd at the front door and looked upward to the third level. Abby smiled and waved.

They hugged and pecked each other properly on the cheeks, without transferring lipstick.

"Sorry I’m late," Kay said.

"That’s okay. I’m used to it."

"This place is packed," Kay said, looking around in amazement. It was always packed. "So you’re out of school?"

"Yes. As of an hour ago. I’m free until January 6."

They admired each other’s outfits and commented on how slim and in general how beautiful and young they were.

Christmas shopping at once became the topic, and they talked of stores and sales and children until the wine arrived. Abby ordered scampi in a skillet, but Kay stuck with the old fern-bar standby of broccoli quiche.

"What’re your plans for Christmas?” Kay asked.

"None yet. I’d like to go to Kentucky to see my folks, but I’m afraid Mitch won’t go. I’ve dropped a couple of hints, both of which were ignored."

"He still doesn’t like your parents?"

"There’s been no change. In fact, we don’t discuss them. I don’t know how to handle it."

"With great caution, I would imagine."

"Yeah, and great patience. My parents were wrong, but I still need them. It’s painful when the only man I’ve ever loved can’t tolerate my parents. I pray every day for a small miracle."

"Sounds like you need a rather large miracle. Is he working as hard as Lamar says?"

"I don’t know how a person could work any harder. It’s eighteen hours a day Monday through Friday, eight hours on Saturday, and since Sunday is a day of rest, he puts in only five or six hours. He reserves a little time for me on Sunday."

"Do I hear a touch of frustration?"

"A lot of frustration, Kay. I’ve been patient, but it’s getting worse. I’m beginning to feel like a widow. I’m tired of sleeping on the couch waiting for him to get home."

"You’re there for food and sex, huh?"

"I wish. He’s too tired for sex. It’s not a priority anymore. And this is a man who could never get enough. I mean, we almost killed each other in law school. Now, once a week if I’m lucky. He comes home, eats if he has the energy and goes to bed. If I’m really lucky, he might talk to me for a few minutes before he passes out. I’m starved for adult conversation, Kay. I spend seven hours a day with eight-year-olds, and I crave words with more than three syllables. I try to explain this to him, and he’s snoring. Did you go through this with Lamar?"

"Sort of. He worked seventy hours a week for the first year. I think they all do. It’s kind of like initiation into the fraternity. A male ritual in which you have to prove your manliness. But most of them run out of gas after a year, and cut back to sixty or sixty-five hours. They still work hard, but not the kamikaze routine of the rookie year."

"Does Lamar work every Saturday?"

"Most Saturdays, for a few hours. Never on Sunday. I’ve put my foot down. Of course, if there’s a big deadline or it’s tax season, then they all work around the clock. I think Mitch has them puzzled."

"He’s not slowing down any. In fact, he’s possessed. Occasionally he won’t come home until dawn. Then it’s just a quick shower, and back to the office."

"Lamar says he’s already a legend around the office."

Abby sipped her wine and looked over the rail at the bar. "That’s great. I’m married to a legend."

"Have you thought about children?"

"It requires sex, remember?"

"Come on, Abby, it can’t be that bad."

"I’m not ready for children. I can’t handle being a single parent. I love my husband, but at this point in his life, he would probably have a terribly important meeting and leave me alone in the labor room. Eight centimeters dilated. He thinks of nothing but that damned law firm."

Kay reached across the table and gently took Abby’s hand. "It’ll be okay," she said with a firm smile and a wise look. "The first year is the hardest. It gets better, I promise."

Abby smiled. "I’m sorry."

The waiter arrived with their food, and they ordered more wine. The scampi simmered in the butter-and-garlic sauce and produced a delicious aroma. The cold quiche was all alone on a bed of lettuce with a sickly tomato wedge.

Kay picked a glob of broccoli and chewed on it. "You know, Abby, The Firm encourages children."

"I don’t care. Right now I don’t like. I’m competing with The Firm, and I’m losing badly. So I could care less what they want. They will not plan my family for me. I don’t understand why they are so interested in things which are none of their business. That place is eerie, Kay. I can’t put my finger on it, but those people make my skin crawl."

"They want happy lawyers with stable families."

"And I want my husband back. They’re in the process of taking him away, so the family is not so stable. If they’d get off his back, perhaps we could be normal like everyone else and have a yard full of children. But not now."

The wine arrived, and the scampi cooled. She ate it slowly and drank her wine. Kay searched for less sensitive areas.

"Lamar said Mitch went to the Caymans last month."