Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 100605 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100605 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
I frowned. “Let me guess which one Sierra directed him to…”
“Of course. Though apparently, even Harry couldn’t smooth things over. I saw Mr. Ellington in the hall when he was leaving, and he asked me for your personal cell phone number. I didn’t think you’d mind, so I gave it to him.”
“No, of course not. But his case is coming up for trial soon.”
“It’s on the calendar to start in a little over four weeks.”
“I’m supposed to stay here three months, and it’s barely been a week.”
“I know. And now that I see how relaxed you look, I feel bad for even calling you about it. But Ellington defecting to your new firm would be a score—not only because he’s a high-dollar billable client, but you know how it is. Word gets around, and once other clients find out one client went with you, they’ll follow. You might not be allowed to solicit them, but they’ll all start calling you.”
I’d seen it happen before. Law firms weren’t allowed to put noncompete clauses in their employment contracts, like most employers could, but Kasoff, Faust & Moore had a stringent no-solicitation clause in all the associate contracts. So while I couldn’t ask the clients I’d worked with to leave with me, they could solicit me. And in the past, defection had been like a slow leak—once a few drips escaped, the floodgates opened. The only problem was, I hadn’t even started looking around for a new firm, and I wanted to do my homework before making a jump. “I have no idea where I’m going to land yet.”
Cassie shrugged. “Why not open your own firm?”
“Oh God. I’m not sure I’m ready to go out alone.” It was a big responsibility having your own law firm, not to mention a tremendous cost. I worked with high-net-worth clients who expected a fancy office, a full staff, and more than one attorney.
“You wouldn’t be alone.” Cassie smiled. “You’d have me.”
And…in a few months I’d have my inheritance and could fund something big like that. “I don’t know. I need to think about it.”
We spoke for another ten minutes before hanging up. A week ago, I probably would’ve been thrilled to know a client wanted to leave the firm with me. I would’ve immediately hyper-focused on what firms I should reach out to. But at the moment, the thought of it all left me feeling unsettled, and I wanted to ignore it.
So that’s exactly what I did. I let my pie cool and went down to the only place I knew where time seemed to stand still—Nonna’s antique shop.
I’d planned to clean the shop, but instead I wound up playing old records on a Victrola I found. I’d only ever seen one on TV, so it took me a minute to figure out how to get it to work. But once I cranked the handle on the side of the box, I couldn’t stop myself. I sat on the floor for three hours, playing 78 after 78. One winding carried me through each song, and the notes seemed to float out through the big brass horn. There was something achingly beautiful about the music, and I wasn’t sure if it was because it felt like I was listening to the soul of a forgotten era or because the sound came out slightly muffled, making it feel imperfect and human.
Each side of an album had one song, and it took me a while to play all two dozen I’d found in the wooden milk crate beneath the Victrola. But once I finished, I finally forced myself to get up and do something productive. I washed the floors, cleaned the windows, and dusted every glass display case. The last one held the cash register, and as I moved toward it, I spotted a box I’d completely forgotten about. A woman had brought it by a few days ago and insisted I pay for the piece inside—a part of the tea set my grandmother had been collecting that she’d mentioned in her letter.
Inside, wrapped in crinkled newspaper, was a single delicate teacup, its base hand-painted with a beautiful Tuscan scene—rolling green hills, soft strokes of lavender wildflowers blowing in the wind, and shades of orange and gold capturing a beautiful sunset. Beneath it was a photo of the exact same scene. The artist must’ve painted it after visiting in person. The bottom of the teacup was signed, but I could only make out the first initial, and it was numbered eight of twelve. When I turned the photo over, I found a date written at the top, along with something written in cursive underneath:
Confession #8: I kept waiting for the perfect moment to tell you I’d fallen in love, but every moment with you was already perfect.
Wow. I was caught off guard by how deeply the words stirred something inside me, and I was glad when the bell on the front door jangled, and an older woman walked in.