Page 57 of Trick or Tease

I closed the laptop and reached for the scotch again. “That big deal I told you I closed? Well, I thought it was going to be my big launch. I thought it was time to have the conversation about making partner.”

“And?”

“My boss said if I want to make partner, I need to prove I can generate my own business. Bring in my own clients, my own deals. They’re not just going to hand me cases anymore. I need to go out and find them myself.”

“Okay,” Billy said carefully. “That doesn’t sound completely unreasonable.”

I laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Billy, I’m a lawyer, not a salesman. I’m good at contracts, negotiations, and legal strategy. But schmoozing with potential clients at country clubs and charity galas? Convincing some CEO to hire me instead of the hundred other corporate attorneys in Manhattan? I have no fucking idea how to do that.”

“So they basically cut you loose.”

“Sink or swim,” I confirmed. “I have to prove myself. Find my own clients, close my own deals, show them I’m partner material. Otherwise…” I shrugged.

“Otherwise what?”

“Otherwise I’m just another senior associate who’s hit his ceiling. They’ll keep me around to do the grunt work on other people’s cases, but I’ll never make partner. Never get my name on the letterhead. Never make the big bucks.”

“That’s why you’ve got time to help me with all this paperwork stuff? You’re not working on anything right now.”

“Exactly. And the pressure is killing me. I’ve got maybe four months left to figure out how to become a rainmaker, and I’m sitting here in Greenleaf building scarecrows and incorporating your pumpkin business.”

“Hey,” Billy said with an air of defensiveness. “Don’t talk about it like that. Like helping your family is somehow beneath you.”

I held up a hand. “That’s not what I meant. I just worked so hard to get where I am, Billy. Six years at this firm, eighty-hour weeks, missing holidays, missing birthdays. And now it feels like they’re telling me none of that matters unless I can bring in the big money clients.”

“You know what this sounds like to me?”

“What?”

“It sounds exactly like me not knowing how to handle all this legal and business stuff for the farm. You’re great at the lawyer work, just like I’m great at growing pumpkins and building corn mazes. But they’re asking you to do something you’ve never had to learn how to do.”

I stared at him, surprised by the parallel.

“The difference is,” Billy continued, “I’ve got you to help me figure out the business side. Who’s helping you figure out the client development side?”

“No one,” I admitted. “Ron basically said good luck and sent me on my way.”

Billy grinned. “Well, for what it’s worth, you’ll always have a place here. Even if those ungrateful dicks at Ivar and Geiss don’t appreciate what you bring to the table, I do.”

“Thanks, Billy.”

“I’m serious. You’ve been here three days and you’ve already saved my ass from potential lawsuits I didn’t even know existed. You carved the best jack-o’-lantern any of us have ever seen. And you spent an entire afternoon getting dirty and building scarecrows without complaining once.” He grinned. “Well, not much anyway.”

I found myself almost smiling. “It wasn’t that bad. It’s been kind of nice being outside all day.”

“See? Maybe those Manhattan lawyers aren’t the only ones who could use your help. Maybe there are plenty of small businesses and family operations that need good legal advice but can’t afford the big city rates.”

I frowned. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. Just saying maybe the answer isn’t figuring out how to play their game. Maybe it’s figuring out how to play your own game.”

I watched Billy leave and sighed. I was surrounded by stacks of paperwork that needed organizing. Man, they needed to be brought into the twenty-first century.

I leaned back in the creaky desk chair and rubbed my eyes. The scotch was making me drowsy, but I wasn’t ready to call it a night. There was still too much to sort through, too many loose ends that needed tying up before Billy could safely open his doors to the public.

I pulled open the bottom drawer of the desk, looking for more of Dad’s financial records, and my hand brushed against something that felt different from the usual manila folders. I pulled out a small wooden box, about the size of a cigar box.

Inside were letters. Dozens of them, tied with faded ribbon and written in the careful script of people who’d learned penmanship when it still mattered. I opened one of the letters, hoping I wasn’t snooping too much. I shouldn’t have opened them. They weren’t meant for me. But something about finding them made me curious.