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After a whole day of watchingRoxie slide her hands all over pieces of wooden furniture—never inmy life have I wished more to be a stile or a rail on a dining-roomchair—I am the proud owner, or will be in eight-to-fourteen weeks’time, of a dining-room set, a coffee table, two nightstands, asmall and a large bookshelf, a desk, as well as bed frames for boththe guest bedroom and mine. Handcrafted wooden furniture isnot cheap, and my mind still spins at the amount I committedto these purchases, even with the six-month zero-interest credit.But it’s all gorgeous and makes me excited to finally furnish myspace.
Roxie and I decide to celebratethe job well done with an early dinner downtown. She insists thatany good celebration has to involve overlooking one of Madison’slakes, so she takes me to The Statehouse on Lake Mendota. Shescrunches her nose at the drinks menu but brightens up once shesees a few of her favorites listed. She’s a local-brewery gal andchatters happily and more than a little snarkily about the pros andcons of various brews. I make a note of some of her favorites:Capital Amber from Capital Brewery on Madison’s west side,Hopalicious by Ale Asylum on the far east side, and Warped Speedfrom Lake Louie Brewing that’s in the nearby town of Verona.
“Okay, Dunn,” she says as sheleans against her chair. “Please finish your lawyering origin tale.I’m sorry we got interrupted earlier.”
“Sure. Where was I?”
“The summer after you and Amybroke up.”
“Ah, yes. Well, I took a couple ofchemistry classes and loved them. Long story short, it took me anextra year to graduate, but I switched to the biomedicalengineering major. Got my master’s degree, too.”
Roxie’s eyes widen. “This doesnot sound like a lawyering origin tale.”
I laugh. “I actually thought I’ddo a PhD, but I realized a career as a bench scientist wasn’t forme, and I didn’t want to face another ten years of postdoctoralstints before I could have a shot at a faculty position.
“But I guess I do possess somelawyering genes. I’ve always been good at writing and debating, andduring my master’s I saw many issues that creative people inacademia face when they try to protect or monetize their research.Which is how, about seven years ago, everything fell into place. Igot into law school, and then straight into patent law.”
Roxie holds her beer but doesn’tdrink it, and her mouth hangs slightly open in astonishment.
“My dad had expected me to joinhim in his family-law firm,” I continue. “When I wanted to get myengineering masters, he all but disowned me. But now I think he’sdelighted I became any kind of lawyer. And though he might neveradmit it, I think he’s proud that I did it my way. I know Iam.”
I pause to take a sip of mybeer—it’s the Capital Amber brew that Roxie recommended, and it’sdelicious. Seeing me, Roxie seems to remember her own drink andtakes several gulps in rapid succession.
“Anyway,” I go on, “I worked forsome corporations in Oregon and Washington for about three years,but then I saw this position in Madison with the University’sintellectual property arm. It’s exactly what I’ve always wanted todo—protect the rights of the people who create new knowledge andhelp them bring their inventions to the market. And since I’vealways loved it here and the position is a great fit—” I open myarms. “Here I am!”
“Wow.” Roxie says. I think shemeans it to be teasing, but it just comes out filled with awe.“Christopher Dunn, MS, JD, patent lawyer. You’re kind of a bigdeal, aren’t you?”
“Oh, God, no. Big Deal is myfather. Please call me Deal.”
She snorts. “That is peak dadhumor, Dunn. I need to introduce you to my friend Joe, of Liz andJoe who used to live in your condo. You two will so hit itoff.”
I smile. “I’d like that.”
The waitress brings over a plateof a Wisconsin delicacy—fried cheese curds—and both Roxie and Idive in.
“God, I forgot how much I lovethese.” I sigh happily as I chew on the deep-fried, slightlyrubbery, mind-altering goodness.
“Can I ask you something?” Roxieasks through a mouthful.
“Shoot.”
“You only mention your dad. Whatabout mom or siblings?”
“No siblings, I’m an only child.My mom is… I’m not sure how to describe it. We’ve never been close.She’s always kept to herself and her interests, and I’ve never beenone of them. As overbearing as my dad is, most of the attention andaffection I remember from my childhood came from him. And from ourhousekeeper, Ximena.”
Roxie’s beautiful eyes are seriousand soft, in hilarious contrast with her chipmunk cheeks, stuffedwith cheese curds. Something tugs at my gut. The last thing I wantis for her to pity me.
I pretend to cough. “But maybewe’re getting a little too maudlin here. We’re supposed to becelebrating me leveling up to home-owning adulthood with priceyhand-crafted furniture!”
“Chicken,” she says as she skewersa couple more delicious artery-cloggers with her fork.
****
Roxie and I get off the elevator,guffawing over an incident involving ketchup and two terrifiedinterns.
But the laughter stops because theguy from last week—that black-bearded hairy guy—is outside Roxie’sdoor. His stance is wide and his arms are crossed, like he’sguarding the door to his own domicile.
