It was Friday morning, and the offices were almost deserted on this day after Thanksgiving. He intended to pick up some files that he’d need the following day for a meeting with a client and then return to his home in Murray Hill. He could easily have gotten the folders on Saturday morning, but Brett loved being in his element. He’d therefore brought his beloved
New York Times
, as well as honey buns from Mary Elizabeth’s tea room—the combination was a ritual he was not going to forfeit on
any
day—in order to breathe in the odor of the corporate offices and take in their ambience. He would soon be a more integral part of the firm, and it gave him pleasure to walk through the halls and reflect on his accomplishments.
At thirty, Brett was in decent shape, working out at least twice a week at the New York Athletic Club, although lately he’d doubled his workouts in order to keep excess pounds off and tone his muscles a bit more. At six feet tall, he felt that he had a commanding presence in the court room. Square shoulders, dark brown eyes, a powerful voice—he thought that he was not only a great lawyer, but looked the part as well. When it came to possible partnership status in this old-line firm, image mattered, and no one had understood the power of image better than his wife. Dana’s preference for fine tailored clothing and English fabrics served Brett well on a daily basis. Even as a first-year associate, he’d exhibited the understated, successful look of a senior partner
.
He was, therefore, always conscious of his appearance, and he frequently glanced sideways when passing a mirrored surface to make sure every hair was in place and that his tie had the perfect four-in-hand knot. Today, however, he was dressed casually in tan cords and a gray Shetland crewneck sweater. His brown hair was parted perfectly, and he couldn’t resist a quick look to his right as he passed an antique mirror hanging in the hallway that led to his office.
“Good morning, Brett,” came a female voice from behind a secretary’s desk in the center of an office suite occupied by the firm’s litigators.
Startled, Brett jerked his head forward. He had expected to find only the cleaning staff shuffling through the hallowed offices on this Friday morning. The voice belonged to Janice Conlon, the firm’s new junior litigator. Brett stopped in his tracks and surveyed the five-foot-ten leggy blond dressed in tight jeans and an even tighter turtleneck covered by a brown distressed suede jacket. Long straight hair splashed across her shoulders, and her deep blue eyes gazed at Brett above high angular cheekbones.
“Good morning, Janice,” he said, recovering quickly from his vain sideways glance. “What brings
you
in this morning? I would expect you to be out Christmas shopping today.”
“Shopping? My salary barely covers the rent, so my family and friends aren’t expecting gifts,” Janice replied glibly. “Besides, I can’t stand the crowds. Say, what’s all the fuss with these display windows?”
Brett smiled at the question, common to residents who were not native to the city or not yet attuned to the sights and sounds of its many concrete arteries. “They’re a big New York attraction. Department stores spend the whole year working on them. They’re mini productions, complete with set designers.” Brett tilted his head while extending the thumb of his left hand, motioning to the city below that was now in full holiday mode. “You should get in the spirit of the season and take a look.”
“What makes
you
such an expert?” Janice asked. “Next you’ll be telling me that you’re a department store Santa in your spare time.”
Brett threw his head back and laughed. “My wife works for B. Altman.”
“Who in the world is B. Altman?” asked Janice. “Should I recognize the name?”
“It’s a store, not a person, although Benjamin Altman was indeed the founder,” Brett answered with a smile. “It’s one of the oldest and finest department stores in the city.” He was amused at Janice’s confusion over one of the city’s more well-known landmarks.
Janice’s curiosity had been piqued. As a litigator, her natural inclination was to ask follow-up questions in order to garner information. “Then what fine thing does your wife do for this exemplary department store? If you don’t mind my asking, that is.” The last remark had been tendered as an innocent afterthought to offset her direct, prodding manner.
“Something with special events,” Brett said. He’d come to expect Janice’s aggressive style, which had also been duly noted by others in the firm.
“Something? Now
that’s
a rather vague job description.”
“Public relations, too,” Brett said. “I believe she’s making sure that one of B. Altman’s windows has enough snow this morning.” In reality, he wasn’t at all sure what his wife was currently doing. “I guess you could say she wears many hats.”
“Oh, I’m sure she wears quite a few,” Janice said.
Brett’s smile faded as he looked at Janice. Her remark had been delivered with a lack of emotion, and he wasn’t quite sure whether it was a simple observation or an outright criticism.
“Well, it all sounds very interesting,” Janice said with a plastic smile. “As long as she’s happy inside her window.”
Janice was quite aware that Brett took notice of her barbed remarks, and yet he never outright objected to them, a fact that made her all the more curious about his relationship with Dana. She rather enjoyed pressing for information about the happy little couple. In fact, were they truly happy, or did they live in their own little professional worlds? Was it a marriage of social convenience? Janice was an astute observer, and she knew that Brett was hyper-focused on making partner. It would be the height of irony, she thought, if the appropriate Mrs. McGarry were mere window dressing for her ambitious husband.
Brett had already dismissed Janice’s inquiries.
“I just need to grab some papers,” he said, walking to the other side of the reception area. He was in high spirits, and Janice’s penchant for directness was not something he dwelled on. He entered his well-appointed office, sitting behind his desk in order to select the folders he needed from the corner inbox. Janice had held the bag of honey buns while Brett found his key, and she followed him inside, placing the pastry on his desk.
Brett always disliked it when someone had a height advantage over him. He motioned for her to be seated, offering to share his honey buns, but she remained standing.
“Anyway, why are you here?” he asked.
“Same as you, I suppose,” she replied. “To pick up some papers for our meeting tomorrow with Jacob Heller over at 30 Rock. I’m always prepared, aren’t I?”
Brett leaned back in his brown leather chair, took a deep breath, and surveyed the new litigator. He had to admit that, although she was a bit rough around the edges, she was proving to be an asset to the firm. Janice Conlon was from Akron, Ohio, later transplanted to the free-spirited, liberal culture of the West Coast. Now twenty-seven, she’d earned her bachelor’s degree in California before attending the Berkeley School of Law. She’d briefly worked for the firm of Drexel and Combs, where she proved herself to be an unflappable litigator, never intimidated by older and more experienced opposing counsel. Richard Patterson, the managing partner of Davis, Konen and Wright, had met her on a business trip to Los Angeles, where an old friend from law school had assured him that Conlon was the quintessential shark despite her youth. She could be ruthless on cross-examination, and Patterson had reasoned that Janice was young enough to be groomed for his own firm’s purposes without sacrificing her formidable skills and cool demeanor under fire. Thus far, she had taken second chair in cases handled by Brett.
“And this must be Dana,” Janice commented, picking up a framed picture of Brett’s wife from a library table in a sitting area on the opposite side of the office. She had, of course, seen Dana’s picture before, but always during business hours. “Matching coats,” she said as she eyed Dana’s camel hair polo coat in the picture and then the one Brett had dropped on his couch. “Cute.”
In reality, Janice didn’t think Dana was anything but bland, boring, and all too perfect, just like Dana’s spoiled little life inside her window. Little Miss Priss would probably give birth to spoiled kids—2.5, of course—and they, too, would surely wear matching camel hair polo coats one day.
Dana’s window? More like her snow globe, Janice thought. She pictured Dana standing in a tiny glass-enclosed world, snow gently falling around her. Her world could be shaken but never broken. She was far too insulated.
“Yes, that’s Mrs. McGarry,” Brett replied as he rubbed his palms together to clear away crumbs after finishing a honey bun.
“Vassar?”
“No. Cabrini. It’s a Catholic college in Radnor, Pennsylvania.”
“Ah, a good convent girl. Taught by the nuns, I suspect.”
“No convent. Maybe nuns, though. I forget. I take it you’re not Catholic.”
“Lapsed, as they say. I don’t believe in all that superstition and ritual.”
She returned the picture to the table as she tossed her head to the side and faced Brett, her hair fanning out before again settling on her shoulders.
Brett leaned forward and clasped his hands. “As for our meeting tomorrow—”
“I hear you’ve been chosen by Mr. Patterson to give me a makeover,” Janice interrupted.
“Does that bother you?”
Brett had indeed been given such an assignment by the managing partner, who hadn’t seen Janice’s navy suit since her interview. The partners were complaining, and her short skirts had embarrassed Brett on more than one occasion in court.
Janice shook her head and smiled. “Me bothered? Not at all. I clean up well. And I know how to take directions . . . from the right person, that is.”
To Brett, the halls now seemed especially quiet. He and Janice had never had such an intimate, isolated conversation before.
“You’re not concerned that we might be cramping your style?” he asked.
Janice smiled broadly and approached the desk. “So you think I have style?”
Brett knew he’d been trapped. This was exactly how Janice handled individuals on the witness stand. She asked leading questions, and Brett had taken the bait.
“I’ve really got to be going,” Janice said abruptly, preventing Brett from giving a reply. She had, in a manner of speaking, withdrawn her question for the witness. She stretched out her arms and yawned, forcing her chest forward.
“It’s cold out there,” Brett remarked, trying to avert his gaze from Janice’s tight sweater. “You should be wearing a coat.”
Janice winked and turned to leave. “I’ll be fine for now, counselor. Maybe you can pick out a coat when you do my makeover. I assume the firm is picking up the tab.”
And then she was gone.
Brett picked up a second honey bun, furrowed his brows, and then dropped the pastry into the bag
.
He knew when he was being flirted with, although he didn’t think Janice was seriously interested in him. For her, it was just sport—so very California. He wasn’t overly concerned, but he made a mental note to handle Janice a bit more firmly the following day if need be. He knew he was being closely watched, and even a suspicion of impropriety by one of the firm’s partners could blow his career out of the water. And wouldn’t Janice like that turn of events?
Still, it was nice to receive the attention of a rather stunning blond. In fact, he secretly liked her blasé shoot-from-the-hip attitude, although he would never confess that to anyone he knew. She was a refreshing change from his politically correct world. He stood, and his reflection in the window overlooking the skyline of lower Manhattan stared back at him with a grin. Yep, he was in damn fine shape. He could understand why women were attracted to him.
And that included Dana. He looked down at the picture of his wife that Janice had examined in such a cavalier manner. Yes, he’d picked the perfect wife— pretty but not threatening. She was discreet, and the partners loved her. More importantly, so did their wives. Brett knew he was on the path to partnership when Patterson’s wife had sponsored Dana for membership at the Colony Club.
“Good move, Dana,” he said aloud. “You’re a lucky girl. Your husband is about to be the next partner of Davis, Konen and Wright!”
He was on top of his game.
D
ana entered the executive suite with determination while trying her best to avoid being seen by Bea. If Bob Campbell indeed reversed his position on Kim Sullivan winning the teen contest, Bea would be furious, but she’d worry about her boss’ notoriously short fuse when and if it became necessary. But did she really stand any chance at all of changing the mind of the store’s vice president and general manager? Dana thought a well-placed word might convince him she was right because she’d known Bob for many years outside the store, meeting him at summer events at the Garden City Country Club on Long Island. Dana and her parents, Phil and Virginia Martignetti, were frequently invited to the club by their good friend, John Cirone, owner and president of the House of Cirone, a manufacturer of ladies eveningwear and a B. Altman vendor. When John entertained Bob and his family at the club, the Martignettis were often invited, and it was during one of his dinner parties—the summer before Dana’s senior year at Cabrini—that Bob offered her a job at B. Altman during the holiday season.
Bob and Dana had therefore been on a first-name basis for years, and when Dana had begun working at B. Altman, Bob spread a protective wing over someone he regarded as his third daughter. He knew she was bright, energetic, and ambitious, and he’d been eager to help a good friend of John Cirone get a leg up in an industry for which she clearly had both passion and talent.
After making discreet inquiries, Dana learned that Helen had left for the day, while Bea was in a closed-door meeting with other executives. Bob Campbell, she was told, was alone in the board room, having just finished an impromptu meeting. Dana tapped lightly on the door, and entered.
“Dana!” Bob exclaimed, rising from one of the fourteen hand-carved chairs. “A belated Happy Thanksgiving! How is your family?”