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His office is located directly across the street from the beautiful, three-story, white courthouse located in the historic district. Built in 1853, it’s a combination Greek revival with some Victorian elements, yet it’s the massive octagonal cupola that makes me stare a bit when I walk by.
I had to take architecture courses in college, and I love studying and sketching unique buildings. I actually painted the courthouse when I was eleven as a present to my great uncle who was a lawyer practicing in Potter County, but he’s been dead a few years now, and the painting came back to me. By my current artistic abilities, it was crude—the only training I’d had was gentle guidance from my father, also a painter. I really should paint it again and maybe frame them together to see the progression of my talent.
I whip into a spot right in front, scramble out of my car, and hurry straight into the attorney’s office.
“Hi, Mrs. Dupree,” I say to the woman behind the desk. It’s Teddy’s mother who answers the phones and checks in his appointments. “I need to see Teddy.”
“I’m sorry, Tillie, but he’s gone for the rest of the week.”
“Where?” I exclaim, gripping the crumpled document in my hand.
“Vacation, sweetie. Is there something I can help you with?”
“This,” I say, holding out the gnarled injunction. “I need help.”
Mrs. Dupree plucks it from my fingertips and smooths it on her desk. She’s not a lawyer—only gave birth to one—but I find some measure of hope in the fact she’s reading it carefully.
When she lifts her head, I’m not inspired by the confusion I see there. “Well, I’m not sure what this means, dear, but I’m sure when Teddy comes back, he’ll sort it all out.”
“When does he come back?”
“Not until Sunday.”
“But… but… that’s four days away.”
I get a sympathetic yet stern look. “Technically, five days as he won’t be back to work until Monday.”
“Ugh.” My frustration has me hovering between tears and an angry snarl, neither of which this sweet woman deserves. I takethe papers back from her. “Can you maybe call him? Ask him what it means?”
“Tillie,” she says kindly. “Is this really an emergency that you would want me to bother Teddy on his vacation?”
Why, yes I do, Mrs. Dupree. Your son was a terror growing up and bullied me constantly. He was part of the in crowd, two years older than me, and wasn’t a kind boy. It never made sense because his parents and grandmother were all very nice.
The only reason I hired him to do the loan closing was because he was the cheapest. He’s just four years out of law school and only recently hung out his shingle as a solo practitioner.
Admittedly, upon my first meeting with him about the property purchase, I happily noted he’d grown from the bully I remember. He’s now, first and foremost, a businessman, and my fees would help him keep the doors open. Life in a very small town can be hard on anyone trying to sell services as there’s usually more supply than demand.
Tucking the papers in my purse, I offer a thin smile. “No… I don’t want to bother him on his vacation. Maybe if he calls to check in, you could just ask him and let me know. Otherwise, I’d like to make an appointment to see him on Monday.”
Mrs. Dupree clucks her tongue, flipping through a written calendar book. “I’m sorry, Tillie. He’s booked solid on Monday. Has to be in criminal court all morning and then has two loan closings in the afternoon.”
“Tuesday?” I ask hopefully.
“Can you be here at nine a.m.?”
“Yes. Please put me down for that.”
We exchange a few more pleasantries, which are painful to me as I’m still stewing about this stupid injunction that awful man filed. I leave the law firm and proceed to knock out my other errands, starting with the post office to grab my package.
Normally a shipment of supply stock is enough to throw me into an almost giddy mood. Unpacking a big box of paints, brushes, masking fluid, sponges, and rough textured paper usually floats my boat. I’ve been gorging on art supplies almost my entire life, given that my parents were both artists. They’re my tools to create beauty with and feel like an inherent part of me. It’s like calling to like.
But right now, I have no excitement for the big box I heft into the back of my Subaru Outback. My mood gets blacker and blacker, so by the time I finish at the grocery store and pharmacy, I’m in no state for lunch with Hayley.
While she’s one of my dearest friends, I can’t deal with her bubbly happiness and naturally perky personality. And frankly, I don’t want to bring her down. I shoot her a quick text that I can’t make it and promise to reschedule soon.
I sulk the entire way home, wondering just how good of a legal claim this man has to stop my easement. I’ve done everything by the book. I got the property rezoned for commercial use, which wasn’t something most people would bother with out here in rural western Pennsylvania. While I intend to sell art from my studio, it’s mostly a place other aspiring artists can come to create and learn. It’s not going to be a bustling commercial shopping mall.
As I come around a corner, my driveway looms closer. Just one more curve, and then a hundred yards ahead I’ll come to Coen Highsmith’s driveway.
