~ Chapter Ten ~

A cab pulled up outside the building which housed Brownstone & Peters. A tired-looking

William Montgomery extricated himself from the taxi and handed the driver money. Looking up at the

building, he steeled himself for yet another day at the office. He was running very late; William hadn’t

been tardy for anything since University. The almost-sleepless night caused him to doze right through

the alarm.

The night before still very fresh in William’s mind, he walked towards the building. In spite of

his tardiness and general sleep-deprived grouchiness, a small glimmer at the end of the tunnel

existed; perhaps Michelle would call him at lunch or leave him a sweetly hesitant, rambling message

on his cell. Even before stepping though the building door, William was thinking of swinging by her

place after work and taking her out to eat at Marie’s. It occurred to him that it was wonderful to have

someone to look forward to seeing at the end of the day. Riding the elevator up, William noticed

swirls and speckles of white powder on the floor.

“Curious,” he thought.

As the elevator stopped, he could hear the muted sounds of power-tools and voices. The

elevator doors opened; William walked out and then stopped, his eyes open wide. The lobby was

completely different. The carpet was changed to sleek, dark gray flooring, the walls an earth-toned

rust color. A new, modern reception desk stood across the lobby; behind it on the wall a new name

hung on the wall in black letters: 'Felix-Maclane, Attorneys at law'.

A blond lady in glasses was suddenly beside him.

“Hi,” she said, brightly. “Name please?” William looked down at her.

“William Montgomery,” he said, looking back at the sign. The woman smiled.

“Oh yes, Contracts & Negotiation, right?” she asked, holding up a clipboard.

“That’s right,” he said. He looked back down at her. “I suppose the rumors were actually true.”

The lady kept her pleasant smile.

“Yep,” she quipped. “Please follow me, sir.” The woman walked towards the reception desk.

“I’m Laurel Ecland. Mr. Maclane’s assistant.”

“It’s a pleasure, Miss. Ecland,” William said, walking after her. “I suppose the new boss is

somewhere around.” Laurel turned and gave him a smile.

“Mr. Maclane is In his office,” she said. “This way.” She took off down the hall at a very brisk

pace. Gripping his briefcase, he jogged after the speedy tour guide, still a little bewildered.

“First vacation in six years,” he thought. “I go away for three measly days and we have a new

boss... and the whole damn office is being redone.”

Some minutes later, William found himself outside Mr. Peters' old office. There was a new

nameplate on a new, polished wooden door; it read: 'Oscar Maclane - Senior Partner'. William smiled,

a little.

“The man works fast, I’ll give him that,” he commented. The blond lady smiled.

“Mr. Maclane will see you now,” she said, pointing at the door. Thanking her, William walked

forward, wondering what to expect; he put his hand to the handle and opened the door.

The door opened onto a surreal scene. The office itself was not surprising in itself, though its

appearance had changed greatly. The room had been enlarged considerably, with quality wood

flooring, light rust-colored walls and modern lighting; sleek cabinets and top of the line computers

along one wall; the windows were larger and let in natural light. The eye-catching portion of the room

was not its décor but rather the figure at the office’s desk. The chair was pushed aside and a tall,

stocky man was standing behind the desk; he was dressed oddly for a senior partner of a law firm in a

green Hawaiian-type shirt and khaki shorts.

As strange the man’s appearance, what he was doing as equally weird. Newspapers were

spread out on the desk and on it the man was cutting up a watermelon, with what appeared to be a

battery-powered Sawzall. He wore goggles, which proved smart; the pink melon liquid splattered up

into his face every time he cut. William walked forward, doing what he could to keep his face straight;

he’d never seen anything like this. The man with the saw was looking at a plasma TV screen on the

wall; a popular cooking show was playing and a blond woman was describing how to carve a

watermelon in to a basket for one’s fruit salad.

Looking at the mangled mess on the man’s desk, William could see the ‘basket’ the man had

created would probably interest Picasso, but no one else.

“A watermelon sculpture in November...” William mused silently; he watching the man hack off

another piece.

“Come in… come in,” the new boss said, still watching the television screen. William walked

closer until he was standing near the desk.

“And now you should have a lovely basket for your salad!” the woman on the TV said, proudly

displaying her perfectly cut melon. William and the man both looked at the new boss’ handiwork. It

was a mess, literally. The smell of melon was heavy in the air; shiny black seeds floated in little pools

of pink liquid on the wet newspaper.

The man in the green shirt looked at William.

“Well... I think she’s a little overrated,” he said, jerking his thumb at the TV. Wiping his hands,

he pointed a remote at the TV; the screen went blank. William studied the man, his face

expressionless; appearing stoic was talent he possessed. It had served him well through many a

volatile negotiation. The man before him appeared in his late forties, possessing keen gray eyes and a

mustache, dark hair with a little gray in it and an air of confidence that did not seem put on. Looking

at the garish shirt, William could see it was not really green but printed with a pattern of small, green

limes. The man moved and cut off a large slice of the melon-basket monstrosity. He held it up.

“Care for some melon?” he asked. Seeing something in the pink mess, the man picked out a

small, white chunk. “Drywall...” he said, smiling.

“Maybe if I were starving,” William thought, eying the melon’s remains. “No thank you, sir,” he

said, politely. The man put it the pieces back on the newspapers.

“You can call me Mr. Maclane,” he said. “That ‘sir’ thing is better off in the military.” He

surveyed the watermelon again. “Yeah, it doesn’t look too appetizing.” he admitted, wiping his hands

again. Reaching over, he pressed an intercom button. “Bob! Get in here.”

A few seconds later a man in a hard hat came through the door.

“Boss?” he queried, stopping short at the sight of the melon. “What the hell is...”

“Hey,” Oscar interrupted. “Take this over to the crew. They might like some watermelon.” ‘Bob’

smiled.

“Sure thing, Mr. Maclane,” he said. “They won’t mind if it looks like it went through a wood

chipper.” He scooped it up into a clean garbage bag, much to William’s amusement. Oscar pointed to

the saw he’d used on the melon.

“Thanks for loaning me your saw,” he said. “I’m done now.” Bob looked askance at the sticky,

pink tool on Oscar’s desk; he picked it up with two fingers, his face a picture of distaste.

“I hope you wore goggles, boss,” the man said. Oscar nodded.

“Safety first,” he said. Bob swung the bag of melon over his shoulder and left the office,

cradling the sticky, seedy saw in one arm.

“Good heavens,” William thought. “I’ve entered the Twilight Zone.”

“Shoot,” Oscar said, out loud; he picked a watermelon seed off his shirt. “I got a stain on my

limey shirt.”

“Pardon?” William said, his eyes narrowing a little. The man in front of him smiled, pulling on

the shoulders of his hideous shirt.

“You know, the limes... on the shirt,” Oscar answered. “I like this shirt. Very comfortable.”

“I see,” William said, letting it go. No use getting into a fistfight with the boss over a perceived

slur against the British.

“Now, who are you again?” Oscar asked William; as he spoke the man produced a bottle of

g;ass cleaner and began spraying the surface of his desk liberally, wiping it off with a clean cloth.

“William Montgomery. Contracts & Negotiation,” William answered, automatically.

“Oh yeah,” Oscar sat down on his chair, and put his feet up on the clean desk. William saw Mr.

Maclane’s feet were covered in a pair of very old penny loafers, with no socks. He began to suspect

the man in front of him placed somewhere between pleasantly eccentric and seriously off his rocker.

“Well, Montgomery,” Oscar continued. “Most of the junior partners of Brownstone & Peters

are gone. Why should I keep you on?”

“There’s no reason to,” William said, quickly. “Unless you want to keep a hard worker who’s

been with the former company for six years, and two years previous at the London office. I’ve written

hundreds of contracts and aided negotiation for twenty-seven successful mergers.”

“OK,” Oscar said, he took out a cigar from some unseen drawer and lit it. After puffing a thick

smoke ring, he looked back at William. “Tell you what, Montgomery... most of the offices on this floor

are being remodeled but the ones below are already done.”

“Impressive,” William remarked, truthfully. Oscar nodded.

“Yep. Amazing what you can do with twenty crews of workers,” he said, leaning back in his

chair. “Less downtime. Your office is being worked on now, I think. Your secretary Mabel moved out

the documents Friday. The problem I have is … the janitors are on strike.” William raised one eyebrow,

slightly; his boss continued. “The new office furniture downstairs is all dusty, what with the work

we’ve done. How about you give us a hand with the polishing?”

About to laugh and protest, William thought he saw just the slightest hint of a challenge in the

man’s eyes, and humor. Something in William’s British DNA rallied and he felt like rising to meet this

challenge.

“You wish me to polish all the downstairs office furniture?” he asked, just to make certain he

knew what the man wanted. Oscar nodded, not breaking his stare.

“Laurel can find a jumpsuit for you to wear so you don’t get your suit all messed up,” he said.

“The polishing equipment is already downstairs in the first office. Think you can handle that?” William

looked him square in the eye.

“Not a problem, Mr. Maclane,” he said, evenly. The ghost of a smile hovered on Oscar’s face for

a moment.

“Excellent,” he said. “You can let yourself out Montgomery.”

“Thank you, sir,” William responded. He turned and walked out of the large space.

Once William was out of his office, Oscar chuckled to himself. The boy was definitely upper

crust but not arrogant, at least. Picking up the remote again, he pointed it at the sound system. A

rousing, Latin tune filled the air and stubbed out his cigar.

“They worked from eight to four...” he sang along, getting out of his chair. “They were in love....

they had each other... who could ask for more...” He moved a little from side to side as if he were

dancing with an imaginary partner. “At the Copa... Copa Cabana...” He opened a closet door and took

out an expensive suit, still moving to the song.

Down the hall, William heard the music and looked over his shoulder. The man wore shorts in

November, penny-loafers with no socks and listened to lounge singers. At work. He didn’t even want

to think about the watermelon on the desk issue.

“Perhaps I need a new career,” he thought. Ahead, he spotted Laurel sitting at a new, sleek

desk; she closed her laptop as he drew near and looked up expectantly.

“Apparently, I am polishing furniture today,” he said. Mr. Maclane’s assistant smiled. There was

indeed a spare blue jumpsuit for him; the kind a janitor would wear. Hanging up his coat in the refurbished

men’s room, William had to admit that as much as the new boss appeared to be completely

balmy, he certainly could get things accomplished quickly.

“Someone should give him a medal for renovating this building,” he thought, taking off his tie.

Stowing his things in a coat closet, William walked down the hall clad in blue denim; he decided to

take the stairwell down to the paralegal floor. The downstairs offices were remodeled much the same

as the lobby; the entire effect was modern, businesslike but rather relaxed regarding color and in its

simple style. In the first office William came to were stacks of clean buffing cloths and several cans of

polish. One has a post-it note on it. Picking it up, William saw the label and snorted. It was ‘Old

English’ furniture polish. The note read: ‘God save the Queen’. For a moment, the muscle in William’s

cheek twitched; then, a slow grin spread over his face.

“He can’t get to me that easily,” he thought, narrowing his eyes. Rolling up his sleeves, William

set to work.

Oscar Maclane sat at his desk, flipping through a file of papers, once again dressed in business

attire. Pushing his intercom button, he called for Laurel.

“Sir?” came the cheerful voice of his assistant.

“Is he downstairs?” Oscar inquired, smiling to himself.

“Yes, he is,” his assistant answered. “Do you still want me to go meet your niece at the main

office?”

“Yeah. I’ll be along shortly,” he replied. “Before you go, route all my calls through my cell. I

won’t be back from lunch until 1pm.”

“Got it, sir,” Laurel replied. Shutting of the music, Oscar smiled at the lime shirt as he hung it

up.

One tacky thrift-store shirt with limes on it, $2. One out of state watermelon, $14.82. The look

on his niece’s fiancé’s face… priceless.

In a fast-moving crowd of businesspeople Michelle walked along, snug in her blue coat despite

the biting cold in the air. Every few seconds, she looked down at a small business card in her hand. It

was Monday; William was working and things seemed more or less back to normal. Looking at her left

hand, Michelle smiled at her hand; a slight bulge showed under the white glove over her ring-finger.

“Maybe not so normal...” she thought, happily. The young woman continued walking,

searching for her uncle’s building; she spied it after a minute, an impressive modern structure with

two doormen out front. As she drew near, one of them opened a door for her. Inside, the lobby looked

a little backward; the reception desk was a gray, elongated monstrosity, set fairly close to the doors.

The ‘lobby’ appeared almost non-existent. Behind the sleek reception desk hung large glossy, black

letters on the wall: 'Felix- Maclane, Attorneys at Law'. Phones rang in the air; three receptionists sat

behind the huge desk, all answering calls. Michelle waited by the desk for one of them to look up.

An older lady in a smart, brown suit-dress put down her phone and smiled at her; it was

friendly smile and Michelle felt immediately at ease.

“Michelle Gregory to see Oscar Maclane?” she said, timidly. The woman beamed.

“Oh yes, he’s expecting you. Come with me.” The woman took out a key-card and walked out

from behind the desk; she walked briskly over to a corporate elevator with security guards next to it.

Swiping her card, the woman stepped back as the doors opened. “Go ahead there, dear,” the woman

said, kindly. “It stops at his office.” Thanking her, Michelle walked in to the large elevator.

Admiring the polished wood seat, Michelle sat and looked down at the floor; it appeared made

of black granite. It seemed to be a single piece of stone, since there were no visible seams. Faintly in

the background, Michelle thought she heard classic rock music playing. Michelle smiled. Her uncle

apparently wasn’t one for ‘easy listening’ in his elevator.

The elevator doors finally opened; Michelle walked out and immediately felt like she was in a

warehouse. The elevator stood by itself as a little box in the huge space. The whole floor was open

save for the many support columns. Natural light poured in from huge windows on all sides, flooding

the open room; the windows had tall, potted trees in between them, some flowering. The floor’s

support posts had been fashioned to look like Roman columns. Every thirty feet or so were large

worktables and chairs, set up in an even pattern throughout the floor.

“There must be a hundred of them,” Michelle thought, looking around. Modern, small colored

lamps hovered over each table, hanging down from the ceiling on long wires. It was by far the most

extraordinary office Michelle had ever seen.

Voices filled the air; all around the room echoed calm, steady discussions. Around many of the

tables were grouped people in business suits; they looking at papers, some talked, but most were

seated at computers. Handsome freestanding shelves and wooden file cabinets stood in various

places; every once in awhile a lawyer would walk over and open a drawer. It appeared to be a giant

research facility. Searching the faces, Michelle did not see her uncle anywhere. Not wanting to walk

around or disturb people, she remained where she was. One table nearby had a set of blueprints on it,

two men in suits spoke animatedly with what appeared to be construction workers; they wore jackets

with ‘Felix- Maclane’ written on the back, in white letters.

A blond woman stood near them, holding a clipboard. She turned around and saw Michelle

standing by the elevator. Walking closer, the woman held out her hand and smiled.

“You must be Michelle, Mr. Maclane’s niece,” she said, pleasantly. “I’m Laurel Ecland, his

assistant.” The woman was a little shorter than Michelle, and a little older; Michelle guessed maybe

twenty-five. She was very pretty in a crisp, modern way, dressed fashionably in a tailored business

dress and elegant, thin glasses. She had a tasteful amount of makeup on; her curly, blond hair was cut

to fall to her chin in bouncy ringlets. It looked like it was naturally blond.

“Nice to meet you,” Michelle said.

Laurel looked at her face closely.

“I can see the family resemblance,” she said, smiling. “Hopefully you didn’t inherit the

unpredictable temper and tendency toward incivility.” Michelle smiled. She liked this lady already.

“You uncle’s running a little late and asked me to show you around. Alright?” Michelle nodded.

“Thank you,” she said, quietly. Laurel smiled and walked slowly, next to Michelle, pointing out

different departments on the one floor.

“I know it looks a little weird in here,” she began, “But the Boss figures we’ve save huge

amounts of time not opening doors or running from one floor to another.”

“I like the feel of this place,” Michelle said. “I think the only issue would be trying to

concentrate.” They passed a group of people talking and laughing loudly. Laurel grinned.

“Nope,” she said, cheerfully. “If it gets loud, you just slip on your ear-buds and keep typing.”

Michelle smiled at this; it seemed quite a relaxed place of business, for a law firm.

Laurel led them over to a less occupied corner. A sort of sitting area has been arranged there,

taking up nearly a quarter of the floor, complete with comfortable couches and chairs, coffee tables,

an espresso cart and even a small café with tables. Several potted trees formed a kind of barrier

between the sitting area and the rest of the ‘office’. Sitting on an empty couch, Laurel sighed and set

down her clipboard.

“I won’t ever get fat working here,” she said, grinning. “I probably walk several miles a day just

on this floor.” Michelle smiled at this and began to take off her coat. Removing her gloves, she stuffed

them in her coat’s pockets, not realizing how her new ring was catching the sunlight.

“Oh my gosh...” Laurel said, suddenly. She sat up, staring at Michelle’s hand. “Is that real? Holy

cow...” Looking down at her hand, Michelle smiled and blushed.

“My boyfriend William proposed to me during the weekend,” she said, softly. She sat down on

a comfy chair just opposite Laurel, so she could see her ring better. Studying it closely, her uncle’s

assistant smiled. She looked at Michelle with raised eyebrows.

“That’s impressive,” she said. “Now, is he as great a guy as that ring suggests?” Smiling,

Michelle nodded vigorously. Sighing, Laurel leaned back against the couch. “Some girls have all the

luck,” she said, pretending to be sad.

“I don’t believe luck had anything to with it,” Michelle said, biting her lip. “I think God is an

incredibly good matchmaker. There’s just no other way to explain how we met.” Laurel’s eyes glittered.

“OK... now I’m curious,” she said, sitting forward.

Oscar walked up to the café area about twenty minutes later; the girls were still sitting on the

couches, talking. Laurel was dabbing at her eyes with tissues, wiping away actual tears. Oscar halted,

having never seen his spirited assistant cry before.

“Oh my gosh... that is so sweet!” Laurel was saying. “Is he like the perfect guy or what? He

went down on one knee and everything? Wow...” She blinked down at the empty tissue box in dismay.

Michelle looked up and saw her uncle standing there, looking uncomfortable; she smiled at him and

stood up. He looked different in a suit… very professional; she could see how some viewed the man as

intimidating.

“Uncle Oscar,” she said. Laurel quickly wiped her eyes on her hand and stood too, pretending

to study something on her clipboard.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Oscar said, managing a half smile. Michelle kept herself from

laughing; it was amusing to see the tall, stern man ill at ease over girly conversation.

“Not at all,” she said.

“She was just telling me how her gorgeous man proposed,” Laurel said, smiling at Michelle. “I

need to meet a nice guy like that. I’ll leave you to alone. Take care, Michelle.” Nodding at Michelle, she

walked off with her clipboard in hand.

Oscar looked after her then back at Michelle.

“Must have been some proposal,” he said, raising an eyebrow. Michelle nodded; she held out

her hand with the ring on it. “Good grief, that’s a big rock,” her uncle said, frowning. “You’re gonna get

mugged for sure.” Michelle held up her gloves.

“I wear these everywhere,” she explained. Oscar nodded.

“Smart girl,” he said. “Hungry?”

“Very much,” she said, smiling.

The walked a few blocks to Oscar's favorite restaurant; it was a trendy little Italian place

frequented by many office professionals in the vicinity. The head waiter spied Oscar as the two

breezed in the door and beckoned to the owner. A dark-haired man in his mid-forties came up,

dousing both guests with a benevolent smile. Nodding at the man Oscar turned to Michelle.

“Marco, this is my niece, Michelle,” he said, smiling. Marco's smiled grew even wider, showing

off very bright teeth.

“Oh... you found her?” he said, enthusiastically. “Wonderful... wonderful!” Michelle felt like

laughing at the man's reaction. So many people knew about her being ‘lost’. It was as if she’d had a

phantom family the last two years and didn’t even know about it.

“She’s recently become engaged,” Oscar continued. Michelle thought she heard just a hint of

pride in his voice; a little sentimental emotion welled up in her. The restaurant owner looked pleased.

“Good. Good! We will have a special dinner then? Celebration... you should bring him by too,

yes?”

“I will,” Michele said. She intended to.

The owner himself led them though the main seating room, Michelle admired the cleanliness

of the earth-toned tile floors and the whiter-than-white tablecloths. All then table were in the small

bistro style, high off the floor with tall chairs. A fresh red rose in a thin, silver vase adorned each table;

sunlight streamed in from large semi-circle windows set into the wall on three sides of the room. The

atmosphere was light and fresh; perfect for enjoying the flavorful carnival that is Italian cuisine. They

were not seated there but led up a wrought iron staircase that wound around to a second story and

out onto a balcony that had been closed in with windows. A slightly larger table sat in the light; beside

it potted rose bushes sat basking in the warmth of the fall sun, well guarded inside from the cold.

“Beautiful...” Michelle said, her hand to her chest. Marco appeared pleased at her expression.

“Grazie, carina,” he said, bowing slightly. He pulled a chair for her and snapped her napkin for

her. Oscar pulled his own seat and tossed the napkin to the side. He looked up at Marco.

“I’m in the mood for lasagna,” he said. The Italian considered this a moment.

“There are two,” he began. “One is vegan...” Oscar lifted an disapproving eyebrow at this. “The

other has my grandmother’s handmade anise sausage, mushrooms and artichoke hearts.”

“That’s the one for me,” Oscar said, nodding. “I’ll have it with a doppio malto.” Marco nodded;

he looked over at Michelle. She bit her lip.

“I know it must be very common to order this... but I love fettuccine Alfredo,” she said. Marco

smiled.

“It is not just common, carina,” he said, jovially. “A dish for which Italian cuisine is famous, no?

You like the simple, good things. We have an Alfredo you would die to taste again.” Oscar laughed.

“Just bring us the food, Marco,” he said, grinning. Marco snorted.

“Does she want just water?” he said, gesturing towards Michelle.

“Have you ever had an Italian soda?” Oscar asked. Michele shook her head. “Bring her

something that would go with Alfredo.” The owner gave a mocking bow and walked off mumbling

something to himself.

“I’ll risk sounding obvious and say you must come here a lot,” Michelle remarked, a small smile

dressing her face. Oscar chuckled.

“Yeah,” he said, heaving a short sigh. He looked out the windows; the view was mainly of the

tall buildings across the street, but one could also watch the people and cars below. “I come up here

most; it’s private. I think they keep it for me ‘cause I tip way to much.” He looked over at Michelle, she

was watching his face with a steady look in her eyes.

“I can see you want to ask me about something, Uncle,” she said, quietly. “Please don’t

hesitate. Too much time has been lost between us to worry about offending one another.”

To her surprise, Oscar burst out laughing.

“That settles it.” he said, chuckling. “I know for sure you’re my niece.” He looked over and saw

Michelle’s puzzled expression. “Gregory’s have the gift of frankness. It’s in our blood. Must be a

Scottish thing... I don’t know.” Michelle smiled a little then sobered; his words sparked to memory a

question that had formed in her mind since her uncle had come back into her life.

“If I may, sir... why did you change your last name?” she asked. Oscar's expression grew more

serious at her words, though he did not seem insulted by the question.

“I changed it before going into the military,” he answered, after a moment. “My dad didn’t like

the idea of his oldest son joining the Marines. Vietnam was a bad word back then, you know. But, I

was 18 and hot-headed... so, I had my name changed and joined up.”

Michelle leaned her elbows on the table, resting her chin in her hands.

“Mom never said anything about that,” she said. “How long were you in the military?”

“Eight years active, four in the reserves,” Oscar replied, fiddling with a table napkin. “Once I

was assigned to guard at the US Embassy in London. Nice gig, but one day a whole crew of contractors

descended on the place from the States, doing a complete remodel. They worked like madmen. I’d

never seen a project get done so fast. It impressed me and I decided when I got out of the service, I’d

like to be in construction getting government contracts.”

“Wow,” was all Michelle could think of to say, at first; her uncle’s past was quite a whirl of

activity. “So, after the military you worked in construction all those years and then decided to switch

careers again.” Oscar cleared his throat.

“Sort of,” he said, sitting up. “Having to hide from unstable rebel squads out for westerner

blood was kind of a wake-up call. I do business now in democratic countries only.” Michelle smiled.

“I think you aught to write your life experiences down,” she said, affectionately. “It would be a

riveting action adventure novel... better than Tom Clancy.” Chuckling, Oscar shook his head.

“No way,” he said. “I have all his books.”

Their lunch soon arrived; they could smell it several seconds before it even appeared. Michelle

stomach rumbled, making her redden a little with embarrassment. If Oscar heard, he didn’t let on.

“Wow, that’s a lot of food...” Oscar said, as the waiter set down a white platter before him. The

plate held a slab of lasagna with very fragrant garlic bread. The drink he ordered earlier turned out to

be an Italian beer, which Marco poured with ceremony into a tall chilled glass. Michelle’s bowl of

noodles in white sauce smelled heavenly; beside her plate Marco set a slender glass of a light orange

drink, filled with bubbles.

“Apricot soda,” Marco announced with a smile. “Enjoy! I will be back with more bread later.”

“More food?” Michelle asked, looking worried. “It would take me two days to eat just this.”

Oscar nodded, looking down at his own plate.

“Don’t worry,” he said, picking up his fork. ”They expect you to take a bunch home.”

“It smells delicious,” Michelle said, inhaling the heady aroma of cheese-enhanced cream sauce.

The food was excellent. It took them both about forty minutes to eat only half their food. The fact that

both kept talking during the meal probably didn’t hasten matters much. Michelle felt like she’d

learned more about her Uncle in the last hour than she had in her whole life. His first law partner,

Arthur Felix, had died some years earlier.

“He was a great lawyer,” Oscar said, in between bites. “The Guy worked until he was well into

his eighties. Taught me a lot about take-overs and didn't mind taking on a greenhorn like me as his

partner. When he died I kept the name of the company the same. Has a nice ring to it.”

“It does,” Michelle agreed. “I take it there are no other partners.” Her uncle shook his head.

“Nope.” Oscar paused to finish off his beer. “I’d like to keep it that way.”

Michelle ate for a minute in silence. Inwardly she wondered about this legal realm her uncle

and fiancé were mixed up in. It seemed a rather desperate business, fraught with competition,

uncertainty and constant variables. Despite this, however, both her uncle and William were

respectable, hard-working men. Perhaps a few of the television-enhanced stereotypes of lawyers were

unfounded.

“So, you’re getting married in two weeks?” Oscar asked, cutting a bite of his lasagna. Michelle

nodded, chewing her food slowly; she wanted to have a bowl of this every day for the rest of her life;

it was that good.

“Yes,” she said, swallowing. “I’m planning the wedding myself; William’s mother has offered to

help, but... I really want to do it my way.” Oscar considered this a moment.

“So… you’re going to do the whole wedding yourself?” he asked; he looked over at his niece.

She seemed perfectly serious.

“I am,” Michelle answered him, meeting his gaze. Her uncle was regarding her with a peculiar

expression, like he didn’t believe her.

“I admit I’m curious how you would pay for it,” he said, finally.

Setting her fork down, Michelle looked him in the eye.

“I know my income may not be the greatest but I am not completely destitute,” she said,

careful to keep her tone soft. Her uncle’s attitude rankled a little... but she knew he meant well. “The

past two years I have not had to pay rent, or utilities; just food and hygienic essentials. I have managed

to save a little money, and I want a simple ceremony. Marriage licenses are not that expensive, and

there are some clergymen who’ll perform the ceremony for very reasonable rates. I can rent a little

kitchen and cook hors d’oeuvres myself. The hotel I live at has some wine I can purchase at about half

cost; I have saved the hotel a lot of money with my financial services and I they’ll let me have their

reception room very reasonably. I have already spoken with the manager. I know it’s not the best

scenario imaginable but it will do just fine.”

Oscar watched his niece through her little oration, her chin lifted ever so slightly, and her eyes

held a very stubborn look. At that moment, he saw his younger brother’s expression on her face. It

was as close to tears as he’d been in some time; though he did not show it. He was extremely proud of

her self-reliance, but there was no way he’d let her do this on her own.

“Your mom and dad would be so proud of you, you know that?” he said, suddenly. Michelle

was caught off guard and not quite prepared for the emotion her uncle’s words triggered. Blinking,

she tried very hard not to cry. “I know this because I am. Very proud.”

Michelle could not stop one small tear from sneaking out the corner of her eye. She dashed it

away quickly.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, softly.

“That’s why you’re going to have a nice wedding,” Oscar continued. “Now, don’t argue with me

on it, either; the bride’s family always pays for the wedding and last time I checked we’re still family.”

Michelle opened up her mouth to protest, but there was something in his face that said he would not

be moved. The gesture was appreciated, however.

“I didn’t expect that,” she said at last. Oscar smiled.

“Exactly,” he said, going back to eating his food. “I’ll have Laurel pick you up at your hotel

tomorrow and you two can plan and shop or whatever. I don’t want to know. Just do it that way you

like, OK?” Michelle’s smile was so big she thought her face would crack. She wanted to jump up and

hug the man but refrained; he went back to eating.

Excitement welled in her along with a welcome kind of relief. She had no qualms attempting

the wedding herself, but knew it would be better if she had help. The idea of running about

Manhattan with the good-natured Laurel planning a wedding sounded like a lot of fun; the lady had

good taste. Marco packed the leftovers in two, neat little bundles, wrapped in brown paper, tied with

red ribbon and stamped with the restaurant’s logo.

The congenial waiter tried valiantly to get them to order dessert... but they refused, politely.

“Oh... I can’t eat another bite, sir,” Michelle explained. “It was so good; I ate more than I should

have.”

“Bah! You should eat more, you are so thin, carina,” Marco told her. Oscar laughed.

“You can’t say that about me,” he joked, patting his slightly bulging belly. “I've been eating

here too long.” Marco contented himself with wrapping some fresh canolis and securing them to the

leftover packages.

“Put them in the refrigerator right away,” he instructed, as he walked away.

“I would weigh a ton if I ate here every day,” Michelle said plaintively. “You must go running or

something to work it off.”

“You won’t catch me running,” Oscar said, with conviction. “Hard on the knees. I have a lappool.

You know... it’s about the size of a large bathtub, sits in the floor; a motor keeps a water current

running so you can swim laps without having a huge pool to heat.”

“I see,” Michelle said, impressed. “That sounds like a great way to stay in shape.”

“It beats sit-ups,” her uncle said. He signed his name to the bill and handed it to a passing

waitress. Michelle offered to leave a tip but was politely refused.

They said goodbye to the friendly Marco and walked outside. Michelle wanted to walk home; it

really wasn’t that far and she was used to the distance by now. Before going, however, she turned to

her uncle on the sidewalk.

“Thank you,” Michelle said, meaning each word. “I don’t know what else to say.” Before she

could talk herself out of it, she put her arms around Oscar and hugged him. He got over the shock of it

quickly and dropped a small kiss on the top of Michelle’s head.

“I’m glad I found you,” he said, sincerely. “I feel bad for having not been there when you

needed family most. You did alright, but... I’m just glad you’re not holding it against me.” Michelle did

let a few tears out but drew back a step from him. Her uncle suddenly appeared a little more human.

Oscar signaled for a cab, and gently directed Michelle into it, not listening to her protests about

walking.

“Not if I can help it,” he said, trying to look severe. Getting in the cab, Michelle rolled down the

window.

“I really would like you to meet my fiancé, Uncle,” she said, looking up at him. Oscar grinned, a

little sheepishly.

“Well, that probably would be a good idea,” he agreed. “I have Friday free for dinner. What

about you both meet me here at Marco’s at… say, seven?” Smiling, Michelle nodded.

“That sounds wonderful,” she said, gratefully. “I think you will really like him; he’s a good man.”

She rolled up the window as the cab drove off. Watching it move away, Oscar smiled.

“I hope so,” he said, to himself.