The Promise of Change (5 page)

Sarah, Ann, and Becca walked on the beach in a rare summer nor’easter, bundled in rain slickers and galoshes.

The rain had stopped, but the dark, scudding clouds turned the ocean gun-metal gray. The gusty northeasterly winds churned the water like a washing machine and filled the air with the briny scent of the ocean. Clumps of foam rolled along the beach like tumbleweeds, and Sarah could feel the salt spray coating her face and wind-tangled hair.

“You did what!” Becca and Ann exclaimed simultaneously. Under other circumstances, Sarah would cry ‘jinx,’ but now was not the time.

“I quit my job,” Sarah said, as she shrugged. She had to speak loud to be heard over the wind and crashing waves.

“Why on earth would you do that?” Becca asked. “And without taking the time to find another job first?”

“I had a meeting with the Bitchkrieg this morning.”

“What did she want? Was she going to fire you, so you quit first?” Ann asked, hopeful that would explain Sarah’s drastic actions.

“She wanted to talk to me about her personnel changes for the office,” she said, her fingers making quotation marks around ‘changes.’

“Uh oh,” Ann said. Whether it was in response to her story or having to dodge the erratic wave that crashed onto the shore, Sarah couldn’t tell.

“Yeah,” Sarah responded flatly. “She’s equating changing titles with promotions, and has plans to change our titles to ridiculously long, over-important ones. None of us ever cared what we were called. We were well-respected by Ken and our clients, and we were well-paid for our efforts.”

Seagulls hung in the air overhead, interrupting the conversation with their cries, as if cursing the forces of nature that made their flying so difficult today.

“She’d reviewed some of my work and spoken to my clients, and although she didn’t completely agree with some of my advice,”—Sarah rolled her eyes—“she could see that I was a good lawyer . . . the best in the office.”

“How dare she! Of all the nerve,” Becca said, tongue in cheek.

“I could do without your sarcasm.”

“But that’s good, isn’t it?” Ann asked. “So how did you go from that to quitting?”

“It gets better, or worse, depending on your point of view. She told me she needed a deputy and offered me the position of Assistant Vice President and Deputy General Counsel.”

“Wait a minute. She planned to promote you and you quit?” Becca threw her hands up in disgust. “You’re right. This does get worse.”

“Becca, you don’t understand. Not only did she tell me I had to cancel my trip to England, but one of my first duties was to fire Katie. Coward.”

“What?” Ann asked, the shock evident on her face.

“Yeah. She wanted me to do her dirty work. It was a test to see if I could become one of her trusted henchman.” Sarah picked up a shell and tossed it forcefully into the roiling waves. “She said she had an excellent lawyer who could start in the office right away, someone she’d worked with in her previous firm.”

“That is low,” Ann said.

“Really low,” Becca added.

“In the end, when I said I wouldn’t fire Katie, the Bitchkrieg gave me an ultimatum: cancel my vacation and fire Katie, or resign. She gave me time to think about it, but I didn’t need it. I told her she would have my resignation by the end of the day.”

“Oh my God, Sarah. How did she react?” Ann asked.

“I think she was stunned. Clearly, that wasn’t the answer she’d expected, but she’d offered no other more palatable options. I went to my office, closed my door, and began packing my things. My resignation was on her desk by five.”

“I sent e-mails to everyone to tell them. I know,” Sarah said, holding up her hands, “that seems cowardly. But I knew if I told them in person, I would get emotional, and I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Everyone has arranged to meet for drinks on Monday.”

“How are you going to support yourself?” Becca asked.

“Becca, the house is paid for, and I have the divorce settlement and the small trust fund from Mom. I’ll be fine.” For a year, maybe longer if she quit eating.

“Yes, but you’ll blow through your savings faster than you think. I know you hated her, but at least you had a job. It’s easier to find a job when you have a job. Now you have nothing.” Becca’s tone was like that of a mother scolding her irresponsible teenager. “And the longer you’re out of work, the harder it will be for you to find a good job. You’d better start looking right away.”

“Honey, I know the last two years have been a mostly-downhill roller coaster ride for you, but during all of that, at least you had a good, steady job . . . ” Ann’s tone was more conciliatory.

“Hey. The two of you have been telling me to shake things up a bit—that I needed a change. Isn’t that the reason you persuaded me to go to England?”

“Yes, but by change we didn’t mean committing professional suicide. Jesus, Sarah, this is crazy and irresponsible—” Becca argued, arms gesturing emphatically.

“I know. Everything I’m not.” She sighed. “Look, I love you both, and I appreciate your concern, but really, I’m going to be okay.” She smiled reassuringly. In reality, she wasn’t as confident as she sounded.

Tea cup in hand, the bar journal opened to the classified ads, Sarah picked up her red pen prepared to circle potential jobs that would mean a fresh start for her. At least that was what she tried telling herself.

So much for her moratorium on impulsive acts. Quitting her job had to be the dumbest impulsive act to date.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked at the want ads. Probably not since high school when she’d been looking for a job to pay for the car insurance her parents said she had to be able to afford before they would get her a car.

Boutique law firm seeks associate attorney to handle health care collections. Five years experience practicing law.

Collections work, Sarah thought. Only if I was starving and my kid was barefoot.

Healthcare firm seeks healthcare attorney to join practice. Must have over five years of solid health law experience and be a member of the Florida Bar.

So far so good. Sarah took a sip of her tea and continued reading.

Successful candidates must have significant experience in various aspects of healthcare law, including contract drafting, contracting, joint ventures, reimbursement, fraud and abuse, Stark and managed care. Litigators need not apply.

She snickered at the last sentence. Circling that ad as a possibility, she moved on.

Experienced, highly competent corporate attorney wanted for small, active transactional firm.

Transactional attorney. Not really her cup of tea, but . . . she continued reading.

Successful candidate will have seven to ten years of transactional experience, as well as excellent analytical and legal drafting skills.

She had the transactional experience, and the drafting skills.

Successful candidate will be a self-starter and a team player, and will be able to manage other lawyers and staff.
Bilingual ability in Spanish.

So much for that. If they ever needed a bilingual with French, she’d apply. Next.

Work from home. Legal drafters needed. Provide legal research and writing support for law firms. Legal memoranda, briefs, contracts, plus some editing work all on an assignment-by-assignment basis. Qualified candidates must have excellent legal drafting skills, and a minimum of five years practicing law, including legal drafting experience.

That intrigued Sarah. Flexibility. Work from home. And better yet, no bitchy boss.

Circling that one, she picked up her now-cold cup of tea. Only two potential jobs out of the whole classified section. What if she had to move? What if she had no other choice?

She thought about Sam and the job in New York. Assistant literary agent or something like that. But was she ready to give up on her legal career? Would they hire her without any experience, recommendation from Sam notwithstanding? Moreover, could she live in New York?

Looking around her cozy, comfortable home, she didn’t think she could give it up for a postage-stamp-sized apartment that would likely cost more than her monthly salary.

No. There had to be something she could do and still stay put.

She couldn’t sleep. Looking at the clock for the umpteenth time, Sarah finally got up to explore the thing that kept nudging her, like a persistent, nagging voice foiling her attempts to sleep.

She woke up at two a.m. thinking about her old manuscript. Wondering where it was, wondering if she still had it, and wondering if it was any good. After all, she’d written it almost eighteen years ago.

Now, two hours later and still in her pajamas, she pulled down the attic steps, hoping not to hear any scurrying in her wake.

After yanking the cord, the fluorescent lights flickered and slowly came to life, revealing stacks of dusty boxes, some labeled, some not. At least no unwelcome critters were there to greet her. She shivered as she thought of that possibility.

Heaving a sigh, Sarah’s first thought was that it was hopeless. It could take a month of Sundays searching through the multitude of boxes, and she could still come up empty-handed. She didn’t even know if she still had it.

But, she had nothing but time on her hands, and clearly her bout of busy-brain-syndrome wasn’t going to let her get back to sleep, so she might as well get started.

She needed a plan of attack. Dividing the attic into three sections, she would systematically go through the boxes.

She already knew that many of the boxes stacked to her right were Christmas decorations, so those were quickly eliminated. The boxes to her left mostly contained old household items she’d been meaning to donate to the local charity thrift store, but hadn’t gotten around to it.

It was the third stack, directly in front of her that posed the greatest challenge. Unlabeled, she had no idea what they might contain.

Dragging up an old chair with a missing rung, she pulled the first box off the stack and sat down. Dust floated up to tickle her nose and the smell of musty old books assaulted her, making her sneeze.

The box contained her high school yearbooks, some old, worn paperbacks from her childhood, and even some term papers from her high school days. She thumbed through a yearbook before reminding herself that this wasn’t a walk down memory lane, but a quest for treasure.

Discarding the box, she wished she’d thought to bring a marker up to not only label the boxes, but also to mark them as searched.

The next box revealed old photos, and the one after that, old tax returns. When she opened a box containing some of her college textbooks and papers, her pulse quickened. At least she was getting warmer, but no manuscript.

It was nearly six a.m. when she opened a box that held no promise whatsoever that it would contain a manuscript. Digging through old athletic uniforms, trophies, awards, and other miscellaneous and sundry items from her days on her college crew team, she found it.

At the bottom of the box, bound in rubber bands that had long since lost their elasticity, she lifted the bulky stack of yellowed pages. The cover page read:
The American Heiress
by Sarah Anne Edwards. Holding it to her chest like a long-lost friend, she nearly wept with relief. And fear. What if it really sucked?

“Any luck with the job search?” Ann asked. “Way to go, Lily!”

They sat on bleachers in the scorching summer sun watching Ann’s daughter’s soccer match. Lily ran down the field after scoring a goal, arms raised in triumph. The goal put her team up one-nothing.

Rob, Ann’s husband, let out a shrill whistle, followed by a loud
woohoo
!

“Nothing terribly promising.” Sarah shielded her eyes from the sun as she followed Lily’s progress down the field. “I’ve got a phone interview next week with a company that hires independent legal drafters for law firms.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Ann asked. She pulled out the sunscreen and slathered more on her nose.

“We’ll see . . .” Her voice trailed off. “What if I have to move, Ann? What if I can’t find anything here?” She looked at Ann, tears in her eyes.

“Oh honey. We’ll cross that river when we come to it, and hopefully we’ll never come to it.”

Sarah rolled her eyes at Ann’s muddled cliché.

“That’s right,”—Rob reached over and patted Sarah’s leg—“no sense borrowing trouble.”

Ann jumped up when Lily got tangled up with another player and fell.

Rob grabbed her wrist and tugged her back down. “She’s fine,” he told Ann. “Shake it off, sugar,” he yelled to Lily.

“Ann, do you remember that manuscript I wrote back in college?”

“Yeah, I wondered why you never did anything with it. You always were a good writer.”

“Well, I’d forgotten about it until Sam reminded me of it when she was here last weekend. I found it, and you know something . . . it’s not half bad.” Sarah smiled as she thought about how she’d read through it after a sleepless night. She couldn’t make herself put it down. She’d sat right there in the attic and read at least the first hundred pages, before her stomach spoke up, reminding her that she hadn’t had breakfast yet.

“I think I’ll work on it again, maybe clean it up, try submitting it. Sam said she’d thought it was good back in college, and it’s something I can do while I’m looking for a job.”

Ann’s eyes lit up. “I think that’s a great idea. You could be the next Jane Austen.” She wore an impish grin. “But if you want my advice, I think you should spice it up with a bare-chested hunk or two . . . and a lot of rowdy sex.”

Sarah had her head in a tall cardboard box when the doorbell rang. Who could that be?

She caught her reflection in the hall mirror. She looked a mess. Her hair was twisted into an unkempt ponytail that hung slightly askew after her submersion into the box. She had on shabby sweats and a ragged, holey T-shirt that didn’t match, and her big toe stuck out of a hole in her sock.

She tentatively opened the door, and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Ann’s astonished face.

“Well, look at you. Don’t you look like something the stork dragged in.” She stepped into the foyer where Sarah was cleaning out the coat closet. “What are you doing?” She looked around in disgust. “Don’t tell me you’re cleaning out another closet.”

It’d been two weeks since she’d told Ann about the manuscript, and she hadn’t written or edited the first word, but her closets and attic were well-organized, and Goodwill had scored a windfall in donations.

“I thought you were supposed to be clearing your head and getting in touch with your inner Jane Austen. Not cleaning your closets and getting in touch with your inner maid.”

“Just because I’m cleaning out closets doesn’t mean I’m not getting in touch with my inner Jane Austen. The mindless work gives me lots of time to think . . .” she finished lamely.

“Honestly, Sarah, you’re wasting precious time. Once you get a job, you won’t have time to devote to creating the sensitive, sexy, well-muscled hero we’ve all been yearning for.”

Ann had been so excited about Sarah’s writing scheme she’d already planned what to wear to the premier of the implausible blockbuster movie based on her currently unfinished, unpublished manuscript.

Sarah didn’t know what was wrong with her. It wasn’t like her to procrastinate. When she set a task for herself, she started on it right away.

“I know, I know. And I leave for England next week.” And that’s another thing, she berated herself. She should have her head examined for jetting off on a two-week vacation when she was currently out of work.

But the trip was paid for, and she couldn’t get her money back at this point, so it was a shame to let it go to waste. At least that’s how she rationalized it.

“Hey, maybe that’s just what you need to get your creative juices flowing. Your story takes place in England, right? Maybe you’ll be inspired . . . and maybe you’ll live your own little romance while you’re there.” Ann waggled her eyebrows.

“You and Becca conspiring again?” At Ann’s confused expression, Sarah explained. “She said the same thing. Trust me, with all the upheaval in my life right now, the last thing I want or need is a romance, little or not.”

“God honey, are you bringing your entire wardrobe?” Ann asked, trying to heave Sarah’s steamer-trunk-sized suitcase into the back of Becca’s SUV.

“The weather in England is so changeable, I wasn’t sure what to bring, so I brought a little of everything.” Sarah shrugged as she helped Ann maneuver the suitcase into the car.

“Really? I hope the plane is carrying extra fuel with all this added weight.”

“Funny.”

“You girls need to stop chit-chatting and let’s get on the road before you miss your flight.” Becca used the same tone of voice their mother had used when her patience wore thin.

The ride to the airport descended into silliness as the three girls competed to see who could insert the most British colloquialisms into the conversation.

Sarah thought she won, but lost track with all the laughter.

“Here,” Ann said as she handed Sarah a small wrapped package. “This is for you.”

Sarah unwrapped the package to find a hardcover journal, bound in beautiful handmade rice paper.

“In case you’re inspired,” she said with a smile.

“Thank you. That is so thoughtful.”

“Wait. Me, too.” Becca handed Sarah another gift box. This one held a fountain pen emblazoned with the Oxford logo.

“You guys are such givers.”

Amid smiles and tears, Sarah hugged Ann and Becca goodbye. “Take care that you don’t come back with a stiff upper lip.” Becca’s parting shot as Sarah went through security made her giggle.

“Don’t forget to water my plants, fill the feeders, and get my mail,” Sarah shouted as she walked down the concourse.

“I know, I know,” Ann said.

On the plane at last, Sarah could breathe easy. Preparing for trips always wound her up, but once on the plane, she knew there was nothing else she could do but sit back and relax. Her vacation was mapped out to the last detail, with some unscheduled time allotted for unexpected detours, whimsies, and such.

She was determined to put the worries concerning her jobless status out of her mind for the next two weeks.

Before it was time to turn off ‘all cell phones and portable electronic devices,’ Sarah sent one more text to Ann to remind her to water her plants, fill her feeders, and pick up her mail. She grinned as she turned off her phone. That should do it. She could just hear Ann’s groan at the nagging reminder.

The flight attendant announced the preparation for their initial approach into Gatwick.

The patchwork landscape of the English countryside was visible from Sarah’s window. Pale green squares, abutted golden patches of hay ready for harvest, and the occasional patch of lavender fields in bloom, all stitched into an irregular quilt, with stands of tall cedars, majestic oaks, and hedgerows creating the seams that held the vibrant patches together. This multi-hued quilt blanketed the undulating hills as far as the eye could see.

Sarah sat back in her seat and smiled. She was already waxing poetic. Ann could be right. Maybe this trip was exactly what she needed.