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Prologue

Evie scooped up the glossy black and silver invitation perched on her vanity. In tiny cursive, she read the words “festive chic attire.” What the hell did that mean? Whatever it was intended to convey, it felt like a tall order after a ten-hour workday on a Saturday. She pulled open the bi-fold doors of her overstuffed closet, filled mostly with conservative work suits that blocked the view of her formal-wear options. From the back, she pried out the navy blue crepe dress that she had last worn to her great aunt’s memorial service. By substituting sensible pumps for strappy sandals and adding dangly earrings, the dress could likely make the transition from funereal to celebratory. After struggling with stubborn jewelry clasps and nearly throwing out her back trying to force a side zipper, it appeared that “festive chic” might be achieved after all. She couldn’t help smiling to herself as she took a glance in her full-length mirror before heading out the door. True a blowout and an eyebrow wax would have gone a long way, but the reflection staring back wasn’t that bad considering her rush. Fortunately the humidity had given her amber hair a nice wave. Clear olive skin made foundation and blush almost unnecessary, which was a good thing because she had no time for either.

Her BlackBerry screeched like a rattlesnake from its perch on her bookshelf as she hastened to throw on lipstick and apply eyeliner. She forced herself to ignore its mating call. Instead, she snapped up the phone and tried to fit it into her matching evening bag, a tiny sequined rectangle that she hadn’t used in months. No such luck.

Shit. She didn’t know what to do. No feat of physics or geometry would get her BlackBerry into the purse. Carrying her phone all night was out of the question. Her friends would be merciless about her “Crackberry” addiction. Leaving it home was also a non-starter. A corporate attorney without a BlackBerry at arm’s length might as well not bother showing up for work on Monday. Quickly, and trying as best she could not to consider the implications for the rest of her evening, she hiked her dress over her waist and slipped the bulky PDA into her cotton panties. The plastic hit her flesh like a cool breeze. She could feel the tiny buttons digging crannies into her skin. Evie checked her BlackBerry so often that it was actually fitting it should take on the role of a bodily appendage. Someday, a more evolved version of her would emerge from the womb with a smartphone already implanted. She reached back down to lock the keys so she wouldn’t accidentally call anyone from down there. When her phone was safely secured between the grooves of her body and the fabric of her underwear, she actually felt somewhat satisfied with her solution and took a deep breath, sucked the air to the pit of her belly, and released. Everything would be okay. Just some minor discomfort. No big deal, really. She was late, as usual, and there was no time for reconsideration.

 

Chapter One

Another wedding for Evie Rosen. Not her own though. Tying the knot were Paul Kindling and George Mendez, Evie’s college and law school friends, respectively. They officially were married in a private ceremony at the unromantic City Hall a few days earlier. Friends and the more tolerant members of their families waited to fete them in grander style at a lavish party downtown. Sixteen years, she thought, smoothing the fabric of her dress over her midriff one last time. That’s how long she’d known Paul. He was her first friend in college. And she was late to his wedding. Tardy, is what he would say.

Worse than her tardiness, though, was what she was thinking. Across the country, millions of people were trying to prevent a union like that of Paul and George, and yet they had still beaten Evie to the altar. She tried her best to be happy for them – to silence her envy and vanquish any useless questions like “Why not me?” Because Paul was a true friend, a co-navigator in that terrible thing called freshman year and now a formidable partner in the madness of New York City life, and while he could be flighty at times – he’d never let her down in any significant way in a decade and a half long relationship.

With an aura of sophistication that far exceeded his years, Paul had stood out from the other newbies at Yale, a dichotomy of prep school kids from the coasts and public school valedictorians from small towns in between. Dressed in a dark shirt and slim trousers, he resembled a salesperson at an expensive boutique, while Evie looked like someone pretending to shop there so she could use the bathroom. On move-in day they chatted in the center of the freshman quad, where they exchanged the prepackaged bios every freshman brings along with a laptop and a forbidden halogen floor lamp. It turned out they were assigned to the same dorm, which Paul helped her locate while her clueless parents ambled behind. It was hard to believe she’d known Paul for so long already – that after a chance conversation on the first day of school, she was rushing to get to his wedding.

As Evie was about to step into the hallway of her building, at last presentable enough for what was sure to be a chic affair, she felt an unfamiliar sensation ripple through her body. When it stopped and started again, she realized it was her BlackBerry, rhythmically buzzing inside her panties. She dislodged the phone and saw the call was from her grandmother, Bette. She debated letting it go to voicemail. But Bette was too sharp. All the way from her white-plastic lounge chair on the balcony of her Century Village condo in Boca, she would know her granddaughter was dodging her call. Besides, her grandma was probably just calling to warn her about an outbreak in Listeria she heard about on the five o’clock news. Why deprive her the opportunity to show Evie how much she cared?

Bette, Evie’s paternal grandmother, was an octogenarian force of nature – a survivor of the Holocaust who had long since parted with her oral filter. She referred to Evie’s singledom as “ze situation,” as in “vat are ve going to do about ze situation?” Evie’s grandmother even had a signature move. When Bette would first see Evie after any meaningful amount of time had passed, she would extend her hand – palm facing down – and point to her engagement ring, a tiny sapphire stone surrounded by diamonds on a yellow gold band. Bette wore the ring every day even though Evie’s grandfather, Max, had been dead for a quarter of a century. Then she’d ask “Nu?” (shtetl slang for “so?”) and widen her eyes in expectation. Over the phone, Bette would resort to summoning a feeble cough and saying, “Don’t forget, your grandmother’s getting older. I’d love to see you settled.” And then the clincher, “I know your father would feel the same way, may he rest in peace,” invoking Evie’s late father Henry, who died when Evie was finishing her freshman year of college. Bette was a professional meddler and probably the person who thought the most about Evie on any given day. No, she would not ignore the call.

“Hey, Grandma,” she said breathily, hand still on the doorknob.

“Evie-le, vat’s new?” Bette asked, her thick Eastern European refugee accent already making Evie feel guilty for needing to rush her off the phone. That accent was made for guilt-mongering. One “W” pronounced like a “V” and Evie crumbled.

“Not much. I’m on my way to a wedding,” Evie said. “I’m actually late so I can’t really talk.”

“Oh, very nice. Vish them mazel tov,” Bette said. It still hadn’t occurred to her grandmother that not everyone Evie knew was Jewish. Imagine if she knew the couple getting married was short one X chromosome.  “Anyway, I just called to say hello. Oh, but that reminds me, I just heard Lauren Moscovitz is engaged.”

 Ahh. The real reason for the call.

“Good for her,” Evie said blandly. She used the extra moment on the phone to touch up her speedily applied makeup, lamenting that the call would surely get dropped if she got into the elevator. A disconnected call could easily send Bette into a nervous spiral about a possible terrorist attack in New York.

“He’s an orthopedic surgeon. Rose, Lauren’s bubbe on her mother’s side, called to tell me. You know Rose. She has that horse face. Her husband was a terrible gambler. Anyway, she just couldn’t help telling me about Lauren. It does seem like she landed a real catch.”

Evie sighed deeply, not sure what there was to say.

“You remember Lauren, don’t you? She was a little zaftig. I think you babysat for her a few times.”

Evie couldn’t say for sure if her grandmother was truly trying to help her recall Lauren, or was purposefully showing her that someone whose diapers she changed was getting married ahead of her. Evie did remember Lauren. She had been an especially ugly child, with frizzy tendrils and a nose that always seemed to have a precariously dangling buggar.

“Anyway, the wedding is at the Ritz-Carlton in Boston, where the boy is from. Apparently he’s extremely wealthy.”

Despite the fact that Bette moved to Florida shortly after Evie’s father died, she managed to keep apprised of their old Baltimore neighborhood, and seemed particularly keen to share news of marriages and births with Evie. Surely some of their former neighbors were getting divorced, but those stories never extended from Bette’s grapevine to hers.

“That’s great for her,” Evie repeated, trying to keep her annoyance in check. “You know, Grandma, the wedding I’m going to might as well be in Boston because that’s how long it’s going to take me to get there with the downtown traffic. Let me call you from outside so I can at least look for a cab.”

“Okay, be safe,” Bette said, as though Evie were heading for the trenches and not the yuppie-lined streets of the Upper West Side. 

In the warm air of the June evening, Evie spied her competitors jostling for cabs at each corner – old ladies wielding canes, moms with strollers and throngs of teenagers in their evening hooch-wear. Evie started downtown on foot, hoping to outsmart the masses by picking up a cab in front of Lincoln Center. She jabbed her grandmother’s phone number as she walked. 

“Hi, Grandma. I’m back.”

“Good. I was just about to ask, Evie, if you’re seeing anyone now? Someone special?”

“Not at the moment. Jack and I only broke up six months ago,” Evie responded, suppressing a groan. “But I do have some potentially good news. The partnership committee started meeting. I should hear by the end of the summer. Isn’t that exciting?” Evie asked, wincing as she realized just how much she thrived on praise.

“Oy. Vat do you need to work those long hours for? How vill you meet someone if you’re always working? Your mother tells me you are practically living there. You are sure you vant this?”

“Of course I want it, Grandma. Why else would I have been working so hard?”

Truthfully, it wasn’t crazy of her grandmother to question her desire to make partner. Evie had only gone to law school because her father had been a lawyer and every other Political Science major was signing up for the LSAT.

“Okay, who am I? If you vant it, then I hope you get it,” Bette said, as though this would appease Evie.

“Yes, I want it. Anyway, let’s talk later. I need to focus on getting a taxi. I love –”

“Wait, I have something else to tell you. It’s important.”

“Yes?” Evie said, a smile creeping across her face. She knew what was coming. The warning about Listeria. Or some life-saving tip Bette learned on the Dr. Oz show: Eat jujuberries daily. Parabens are lethal. Yada yada yada.

“Listen carefully. I heard the most wild thing at Canasta today. Louise Hammerman’s grandson just got engaged to someone from the computer. She said there are these places where you can find people who are looking to get married. And they’re all Jewish. Louise told me. Her grandson lives in Manhattan, too. Vith eight million people there, I don’t know vy anyone should need a machine to get married, but vat do I know? It vorks. Anyway, Evie, I can put you in touch with her grandson if you need instructions.”

Evie’s heart sank. So much for “I just called to say I love you.” This was a tactical phone call, and a useless one at that. In her grandmother’s mind, once Evie signed up for this “place” on the Internet, an eligible man would pop out of her computer screen like a stripper jumping out of a birthday cake. Evie didn’t want to let her down by telling her she’d already been on thirty-plus JDates in the last decade, her only welcome hiatus when she was together with Jack. The men she met online were almost always disasters, boasting halitosis, neurosis, scoliosis, and, quite recently, osteoporosis.

“Um, thanks Grandma, but I actually already know about JDate,” Evie said, keeping her eyes peeled for an available cab. Instead, already occupied, they mucked up her shoes as they zoomed past her strappy-toed feet.

“Oh,” Bette responded. Evie could hear the disappointment in her monosyllabic response. “Well, I’d tell Susan about this, but you know, why waste my breath?”

Susan was Evie’s aunt who lived in New Mexico. She was a meditation consultant who loved all things hemp. It was hard for Evie to pinpoint even one strain of DNA her late father and her aunt shared. Only by Googling her estranged relative had Evie discovered that Susan lived in some bizarre commune called New Horizons. The most Bette ever said about her daughter was “vy me?” Aunt Susan served primarily to bring into stark contrast how much Bette was counting on Evie to lead a traditional life, i.e. get married and have babies, quickly.

“I know, Grandma.”

“Anyvay, Evie, did you see the latest issue yet? I swear nobody has taste anymore,” Bette said, shifting topics like a seasoned politician.

Evie’s grandmother was referring to Architectural Digest, aka “The Bible,” which she and Bette both loved to analyze each month, hankering after outrageously expensive silk carpets or haranguing total strangers for choosing outdated damask curtains. Many of the apartments featured in the monthly magazine were located in New York City, but rarely was an actual address printed. Evie would sometimes gaze up at the windowed skyline and wonder: Are you the penthouse with the fabulous double-height living room? Are you the one with the Central Park view from the master bathroom?

“Not yet. Haven’t even had time to check the mail all week. Listen, I’m going to miss the entire reception. I’ll call you this week. I love you.”

Evie hung up, her mood deflated. She hated being a letdown to her grandmother. Despite their strong bond, when Bette started up with the whole marriage bit, her nudging had a way of eclipsing the finer points of their relationship. 

Evie looked at her watch again. Shit. In front of Avery Fisher Hall, two well-heeled ladies exited a black town car and Evie threw herself in the backseat before the driver could tell her he was not for hire. Black cars charged nearly double the rates of yellow taxis, but this was no time for frugality.

“Metropolitan Pavillion, please,” she said breathlessly. “Eighteenth Street.”

“Thirty dollars, miss,” the driver responded, and Evie nodded her acquiescence to the exorbitant price. She pressed her body into the soft leather of the seat and closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself take a one-minute breather before checking her work e-mail. It seemed hard to imagine Evie and her team would be ready for Tuesday’s closing, when Calico, the country’s largest manufacturer of plumbing supplies would take over Anson-Wells, a related chemicals company in a stock-purchase agreement. But there was a certain thrill in racing to meet the deadline. As a senior associate, it was Evie’s job to marshal the juniors toward the finish line. Florencio Alvez, Calico’s COO, had sent her nine new messages in the last hour. She had a particular fondness for Florencio, who she knew had personally requested that she be put on the project. They had worked together previously when Calico sold off its residential parts division last fall. It was those moments – being in charge of a team, the satisfaction of a job well done, having her efforts rewarded by being personally solicited by a client – that made the tedious work and the grueling late nights almost manageable. She responded to Florencio and rested her head against the cushions once again, but couldn’t find peace. She was still stressed about being so late to the wedding, and even more so, unnerved by her conversation with Bette.

Looking out the window, she noticed there was still another ten blocks of Lincoln Tunnel traffic before they would pick up any speed. She decided to call her mother, Fran, for a pick-me-up. Fran was what most daughters would consider a maternal dream come true: wholly uncritical, perpetually optimistic and unfailingly supportive. If Fran ever expressed worry about her daughter being overworked or lonely, she was sure to mask it exclusively as concern for Evie’s happiness. This was unlike Bette, who didn’t bother with pretense. Bette was legally blind when it came to finding a bright side in bad situations, which was a personality trait Evie regrettably shared. Fran, on the other hand, was the master of manufacturing silver linings.

“Hi Mom,” she said.

“Hi Ev – where are you?”

“On the way to Paul’s wedding, though I’m like friendship-ending late at this point. There is so much Lincoln Tunnel traffic. Honestly, who knew so many people wanted to go to New Jersey?”

“You’ll get there, sweetie. Please congratulate Paul for me. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine, but I just had the most aggravating conversation with Grandma.” Evie relayed the details.

“Evie, you know how she is. She’s a woman of a different generation. She wants you to get married, have kids. She never had the chance to pursue a real profession. It’s foreign to her.”

“What about you? Is that what you want too?” Evie asked. “I assume you’re excited that your daughter might be a partner at Baker Smith in a matter of months. There are only like twenty female partners total.” Twenty-two to be precise, but Evie didn’t want to show that she’d counted.

Before having Evie, Fran was an advertising executive at Ogilvy in their D.C. office. After becoming a mom, Fran parlayed her experience into consulting work for local businesses, still finding time to devote considerable attention to her real passion – third-tier regional theater.

“You know I’m proud,” Fran said. Evie noticed her mother didn’t answer the first part of her question.

“Good. Because it’s a really big deal. I wish someone would acknowledge how prestigious this is. Or at least pretend.”

“I do realize. Remember the “Yale Mom” hat I wanted to wear on Parents’ Weekend but you wouldn’t let me? I’m very proud. But these are your accomplishments, not mine. You don’t need my validation. Or Bette’s.”

Don’t I?Evie wondered. It certainly seemed at times that she did.

“I know that.”

“Listen, honey, you have a great time at the wedding. We’re meeting a colleague of Winston’s in town for dinner, so I have to jet.”

Winston was Evie’s ultra-WASPy stepfather, who Fran married two years after Evie’s dad passed away unexpectedly. Winston was tall and built like a boxcar. His face was perpetually tan. Not in an artificial orange way – more like a worn-in leather couch. Pink polos and Nantucket red pants with embroidered whales made up a good chunk of his wardrobe.

“Oh, and don’t forget that April and May are also coming for brunch tomorrow,” Fran added, referring to Evie’s stepsisters. “It’s at eleven because they have so much school shopping to do. It’d be great if you could get here early to help out. I have an early morning rehearsal that I can’t miss. I swear this is the trickiest production of Godspell I’ve ever done. If you get here early enough I can drive you over to see the sets.”

“Yes, I’ll be there. Love you,” Evie said, but just as she was about to hang up the phone, Fran cut in with, “Did you hear Lauren Moskovitz is engaged? She was an odd little girl, wasn’t she? I guess there’s someone for everyone.” And then click, the phone went dead, and Evie was still entrenched in horrendous midtown traffic and not one bit calmer.

She turned her attention back to the ticker tape of e-mails on her phone, several of which were from Bill Black, the supervising partner on the Calico deal. Bill’s awareness of the division between weekdays and weekends was negligible at best. Evie dashed off some quick responses that she hoped would pacify him for at least an hour and checked her Gmail. She subtly returned her phone to its ridiculous spot, wondering when her next point of access would be. It occurred to her then that she could have brought a blazer to stash her phone in, but it was too late to turn back, especially now that she was one a few blocks away from the tunnel entrance and her car was finally about to move.

Out of the window, she spotted the office tower on Ninth Avenue that housed Cravath, Swaine & Moore, arguably the city’s most prestigious firm and the only one of the seven she applied to from which she didn’t receive an offer after law school. She had burned at the time – receiving the thin envelope in the mail with its form-letter text: We appreciate your interest in a position at our firm. Unfortunately, we are unable to offer you employment at this time. Have a nice life. Well, it was their loss.

From Columbia Law School, she joined another white-shoe firm that represented more than half of the major investment banks and a sizable percentage of the Fortune 500. Baker Smith had even stolen away several of Cravath’s biggest clients since she’d joined (having nothing to do with her work – but it was still satisfying). For the past eight years, she had poured over contracts, revised purchase agreements, blacklined merger documents and sat in on conference calls ad nauseum. She gave her life to the firm, canceling dates and weekend brunches with friends and at times abandoning what most would consider basic hygienic practices. Her bikini line was the stuff of horror films around a deal closing. When things got really crazy, the only way she could see friends was if they were willing to meet for a twenty-minute lunch in the office cafeteria – and even that could be cut short if her BlackBerry buzzed with something urgent. The work could be very stimulating, but with each new project that landed on her desk, she still felt like an anxious freshman unsure if she was up to the task. Luckily, with fourteen-hour workdays a regular occurrence, she had little time left for contemplation.

Finally, it seemed her dedication was due to pay off. Her department, Mergers-and-Acquisitions, had no female partners and all the existing partners were around the same age – sixty – and would be retiring soon enough to finally start enjoying their lives and their nest eggs. She’d never received anything less than a stellar review. Her assignments were usually among the most high-profile and complicated in the firm’s portfolio. Woefully, she accepted the fact that the partnership committee likely considered having no family responsibilities a plus. She was never running off to do anything foolish like taking her kids to Disney World or the pediatrician. If things with Jack had worked out, she might be in an entirely different place now. But they didn’t “work out,” and unlike the reorganizations and liquidations she witnessed in the firm’s bankruptcy unit, there was no orderly division of assets or mitigation of emotional damage after she and Jack split. Just two jagged halves of a former whole left to fend for themselves.

So this is where she was.

Single, but on the brink of partnership, and actually pretty damn proud of her efforts. She was looking forward to having a bigger office and the impressive title would certainly be nice, but mostly it was the fatter paycheck that excited her. The salary jump from eighth-year associate to junior partner was enormous. She’d be more than doubling her earnings next year, meaning she could finally afford to buy her own apartment instead of renting. A charming, pre-war one-bedroom near Lincoln Center that was only ten blocks from her current apartment on West 76th Street had been bookmarked on her computer for the last three months. She stared at the pictures of the listing so long she had practically memorized every detail, from the working fireplace with the intricately carved white and grey-veined marble mantle to the six-over-six oversized windows that framed the southern wall of the living room and looked out onto a lovely tree-lined side street. She knew where she would put her beloved tufted couch and could precisely imagine the tall lacquered bookcases she would buy to flank it.

As her town car glided to the entrance of her destination, Evie promised herself she’d e-mail the listing broker the same day she made partner to arrange an appointment to see it. Living next door to Avery Fisher Hall and the Metropolitan Opera, maybe she’d actually take advantage of everything New York had to offer. She could finally see her first opera. It was embarrassing that she’d never seen that one about the butterfly.

#

The reception was in full swing by the time she arrived. Through the gaggle of attractive gay boys doing an ironic nod to the Electric Slide, Evie spotted her friends seated together in a booth at the back of the room. She reached them just as they were toasting. The brilliance of their ring fingers, each boasting a sparkling engagement ring, beamed at her like flashlights. The weight of what rested on their hands, perhaps a combined total of eight carats (most of which came from just one of those stones), told the world that her best friends were spoken for – loved – part of a team. Evie wondered if her own naked hand, adorned only with nail polish chipped from rampant typing, signaled the opposite.

“Evie, finally!” Stasia shouted over the music. “You are so late. I told Paul your taxi hit one of those food delivery guys on bikes. So just go with that. Anyway, let’s get you a drink.” She motioned to her husband, Rick, to go to the bar.

“Evie, you look great,” Rick said, giving her a warm hug. “What can I get for you?”

“I’d love a white wine.”

“Actually, I’ll help get refills for everyone,” Stasia said and popped up from the banquette to follow her husband, moving through the crowd with the elasticity of a Slinky. Evie admired the back of the conservative white shift that her friend wore so effortlessly it managed to look sexy. Evie had almost chosen a white dress but decided against it, thinking it was inappropriate for a wedding. Now she felt like a fool, realizing that rule only applied if a bride was present. Her friends returned a few minutes later with beverages for all.

This was hardly the first time Evie compared herself to-the-manor-born Stasia. She hailed from San Franciso, where she was raised in a double-wide townhouse by her father, a successful venture capitalist turned congressman, and her mother, a pencil-thin blonde who could trace her roots to the Mayflower and acted, with Locust Valley lockjaw intonation and a general haughtiness, like that was the only respectable means of arriving in the United States. Stasia reached New Haven as a freshman sans her mother’s attitude, but with pedigree to spare. (She was fluent in boating vernacular; Evie knew one word – seasick.) Stasia would be so easy to hate if she didn’t possess a remarkable amount of patience for Evie’s occasional bouts of neurotic behavior.

“How are you feeling?” Evie asked, turning to face Tracy, who was digging her hands into a bowl filled with monogrammed M&Ms.

“Fat,” Tracy responded, the word spewing from her mouth. “I’m just pregnant enough to look chubby and not far enough along to make it clear there’s a baby inside. And don’t try to bullshit me and tell me I’m glowing.”

“You look beautiful, honey,” Tracy’s husband, Jake, interjected, resting his hand on his wife’s belly. Today, Jake’s tenderness didn’t make Evie swell with envy like Rick’s often did. Burdened by the Calico closing and still smarting from the call with Bette, it was making her skin crawl.

“You look great, Trace. And you’re having a baby. It’s worth it,” Evie said in what she hoped was a reassuring tone, though she always felt like a fraud when she tried to talk to her friends about marriage and babies. After all, she was basing her comments on nothing but guesswork.

“You’re going to have to tell me what it’s like – motherhood, that is. I think we’re getting ready to try,” Stasia said, leaning in closely so that Rick and the other men couldn’t hear. It wasn’t surprising to Evie, really, that Rick and Stasia were planning to start a family. But for some reason, it stung, even though it shouldn’t have.

“That’s great news! I’ll be happy to pass down any and all information,” Tracy said excitedly. “Oh, and guess what? Jake put the crib together today. I know it’s early but he finally got a break from work so we figured why not?”

Evie resisted asking where said crib was going. In Jake and Tracy Loo’s Hell’s Kitchen studio apartment, the only plausible space to accommodate their new baby was the entry closet. Jake’s latest professional venture – producing children’s music about the environment – was not exactly lucrative. Evie worried it was only a matter of time before they were suburbia-bound. Tracy had an edge to her that Evie’s other friends didn’t have and was especially prone to eye-rolling whenever Stasia discussed her father’s political office or Caroline, the fourth in their quartet, mentioned an extravagant purchase. If she left the city, maybe back to Pittsburgh where Jake was raised, Evie would miss her dearly. Tracy swore she’d never go to Pitt. “You know Asian mothers – she’d welcome Jake back in the womb if he’d fit.”

“Trace, you’ll lose all the weight within three months after having the baby,” Caroline said. “You just need to see my trainer. She’s a miracle worker.”  She flexed her muscles, drawing out surprisingly ample biceps from inside spaghetti-thin arms.

“You’ll have to give me her number then,” Tracy said, and then muttered under her breath to Evie, “I think the tummy tucks in the recovery room were the real miracle.”

“Shh,” Evie nudged Tracy. “We don’t know that.”

It was true Tracy had put on some baby weight, but the hormones had managed to add some color to her ivory complexion and sheen to her reddish locks. Caroline was now a better version of her college self – Pilates-toned, airbrush-tanned, and designer-clad. And Stasia was just riding a continuous trajectory of genetic supremacy since birth: oval face, turquoise eyes, wheat-blond hair and a sweet cleft in her chin. They were all well-preserved from college, if not improved upon. Certainly their fashion choices were more sound.

Looking at her friends tonight, Evie was struck again by how cohesive their group had remained. True, it helped that they’d all chosen to settle in New York City (Stasia after medical school out west; Tracy after a two-year stint with Teach for America in New Orleans), but geography couldn’t be the only reason they’d all stayed close. In a bustling city where work could often threaten to swallow her up whole, Evie cherished that she had her girls to count on.

But why they had all managed to find their b’sherts, as Bette would say, and she remained the seventh wheel, baffled Evie. Lifting the cool wine her to her lips, she thought maybe just for the night she could find a suitable answer to that puzzle at the bottom of her Chardonnay glass.

“So Evie, you’ve been with us for an entire five minutes without checking your BlackBerry,” Tracy said with mock admiration. “Did your office burn down?”

“Unfortunately not. The Baker Smith fortress remains,” Evie said. What would her friends say if they knew where her phone was wedged in her underwear at this very moment?

“You know, I’m not the only one with an Internet habit.” Evie gestured to the table where her friends had set out their respective iPhones like dinner utensils.

“I’m just taking pictures,” Stasia said. “We’re supposed to tag our photos from tonight with the hashtag “hotgrooms.”

“Classy,” Evie said.

“Besides, the rest of us let three-minute intervals pass before checking our phones,” Tracy quipped.

“Speak for yourself,” Caroline objected, scooping her iPhone. “I’m waiting for my nanny to let me know if Grace ate her vegetables. And my eBay auction is ending in six minutes and I’m in a death match with someone named Big Apple Luxury over a vintage Birkin.” She flashed the phone in Evie’s face for her to admire a cobalt blue handbag just as a text message flashed on the screen.

“Good news, Care. Imelda wrote that Grace ate four green beans and – what the hell is a tree-top? Apparently she ate three of them.”

“The top of a spear of broccoli,” Caroline explained, as though that should have been self-evident. “Grace won’t eat the trunks.”

“Got it.”

Caroline was the definition of a high-strung parent, applying the same intensity she brought to her former finance job to raising her girls. Grace was already one of those oddly sensitive kids, the kind that won’t take a bath without goggles or wear anything with a tag in it. Pippa, Grace’s younger sister, seemed a bit more resilient, but the jury was still out. Caroline’s laser-sharp focus on their every move couldn’t be helpful. But it wasn’t for Evie to judge, of course.

“So where is the happy couple?” Evie asked. “I haven’t even said hello yet.”

Tracy pointed to Paul and George, who stood near the buffet with their arms around each other’s waists. Evie knew she should be beaming, seeing as she was the one who introduced them during her 1L year. While she didn’t think Paul, a celebrity publicist, would be as charmed as she was by George’s plans to work at New Yorkers for Children, she knew George’s hard-earned six-pack and cappuccino skin would at least garnish a first date. She was right. Fortunately for Paul, George Mendes had a weakness for Hollywood culture and hazel-eyed men.

She was happy for them, and proud of herself for successfully setting up a couple, though she wondered if Rabbi Berman of Temple Beth-El in Baltimore would agree that putting together this match would count toward the Jewish belief that setting up three marriages guarantees a place in heaven. Maybe someone Evie knew was only one match away from the holy trifecta and would be duly motivated to find her a spouse. Not that she should be worried. It’ll happen when it happens.

Evie was thirty-four, which at times felt to her like a young and promising age and at others made her feel like she was on a collision course with an exploding biological clock. Nothing was going to get solved tonight, that much Evie knew. She vowed to have a good time and wait until tomorrow to resume her obsessive worry about the future. She let the familiar harmony of her friends’ chitchat distract her until the wine kicked in.

***

Soon enough the hokey line-dancing at Paul and George’s wedding gave way to some turbulent bumping and grinding and Evie made good on her promise to let the alcohol ease her troubled mind. She already regretted being so amenable to the early family brunch in Greenwich the next morning. Seeing April and May, Winston’s twin daughters, was hardly the way she wanted to spend a few precious Sunday hours away from the office. They were born in November, so exactly how much Mt. Gay rum Winston and his ex-wife were drinking when they named these two was up for debate. At least they weren’t identical. That would just be too much to stomach.

The TWASPs, as Evie and her friends called them, were seventeen years old and in their final year at Andover. April was off to Dartmouth in the fall and May was going to Yale. There really wasn’t anything particularly abhorrent about them. They just seemed so young to Evie, and so painfully unburdened by anything of real consequence. To be fair, they were still teenagers – but they were her only siblings and relating to them was almost impossible. She’d felt like a grandmother at their recent high school graduation, more aligned with the crotchety old folks complaining their seats were too far back than the carefree teenagers in cap and gown on the dais.

If she was honest with herself, the thing she really resented about the TWASPs was that they were first starting on the path that she herself had been on many moons ago. The one that was supposed to lead to success in all things professional and romantic, the one that had somehow worked out for her friends but not for her. What if the TWASPs got married before she did? What if she had to don some horrible periwinkle bridesmaid dress and stand amidst their twenty-something friends with everyone in the church whispering, “Well at least she has a great career.” Evie was especially agitated by May, who never so much as asked Evie about her time at Yale. It was as if Evie had gone there so long ago her experience would be irrelevant. It was true Evie hadn’t used a laptop in class, but she wasn’t dunking a quill into an inkwell either.

As she was considering excuses for skipping the family brunch, Evie met the gaze of a handsome guy staring at her from the nearby bar. Her mind floated above the conversation at her table, which had turned to a heated debate over the finale of “Celebrity Truth or Dare.” He was dressed in a well-tailored dark suit and a bright yellow tie, expertly knotted. Perhaps this night was going to be more interesting than she had anticipated. She knew most of Paul and George’s male friends and they were, almost exclusively, more interested in each other than in her. But this guy leaning against the bar was definitely looking her way.

Evie debated whether to approch or wait for him to seek her out, feeling regrettably clueless about facilitating what should be a simple meet-cute. Her relationship with Jack had obfuscated whatever little bit she thought she knew about courtship and dating. She felt bile creep up the rungs of her esophagus at the thought of her ex. They dated for two years but broke up six months before when she finally realized that when he had told her on their first date that he didn’t believe in marriage, he wasn’t kidding around. Their countless wine-filled dinners, Sunday mornings waking up together with Nespresso Arpeggio lattés and the New York Times and the sight of adorable children swinging in Central Park did not change his mind. And certainly not the ultimatum she gave him last December.

It was time to focus on the here and now. She settled on sending a quick, close-lipped smile with a nod of acknowledgment in the direction of the bar. Her smile was returned on impact and with that split-second exchange, Evie felt the hope rise in her belly that maybe on this night, when it was totally unforeseen, she would meet The One. Isn’t that what people always said happened? She headed toward the bar cautiously and was relieved when she saw him motion her toward the empty seat next to him.

“Hi there,” he said. “I’m Luke Glasscock. Paul’s cousin. Second cousin, actually. And you are?”

“Evie Rosen, Paul’s friend. And George’s too. I went to college with Paul and law school with George. I actually introduced them.”

“Smart and pretty. I like that,” he said. “Well done on the set up.”

“Well thank you. So is your whole family here?”

“Just some cousins. My parents are in Cincinnati but I moved to New York a few years ago for work.”

“Oh yeah? What do you do?”

“Investing banking. At Deutsche Bank. Don’t hold it against me.”

“Cool. I’m a lawyer at Baker Smith. We represent DB actually.”

“I know that. So can I get you a drink? I figure we better get shit-faced if we’re going to hit the dance floor later?”

Shit-faced? What was this, a DKE formal? She thought again of Jack. He never would have used such a doltish frat-house phrase. He would say “Care to dance?” and lead her by the hand to the dance floor where he would put to use the ballroom dancing lessons from his London schoolboy days. But he was pompous and self-obsessed and didn’t believe in marriage, so it didn’t matter. She returned Jack to the sealed compartment of her brain, the lockbox that also held the painful memories of losing her father, and refocused her eyes on Luke. “Chin chin,” she responded, and they clinked glasses. There was no point in dwelling on the “nogoodnik putz,” Grandma Bette not-so-affectionate nickname for Jack. 

“Sure. I’ll have what you’re having,” she said, gesturing toward his watered down amber drink. Since when did she drink Scotch?

“I noticed you when you came in – I was hoping we could get a chance to talk.”

“Oh yeah? Well, here I am. Always happy to talk.”

The piercing sound of a fork clinking on a glass signaled it was time for toasts. Evie watched Paul and George make their way to the platform where the DJ was set up.

“Thank you all for coming,” George began. “As my 612 Twitter followers already know, Paul and I exchanged our vows yesterday at City Hall in front of a mail-order bride and a pair of ex-cons.” The crowd emitted knowing chuckles.

George launched into a cheesy but moving speech about the progress of their relationship, and Evie, already familiar with the details of their courtship, tuned him out while she studied Luke. It wasn’t until she heard her own name that she snapped back to the present.

Paul had apparently grabbed the microphone away from George while she was daydreaming. Evie could tell Paul was tipsy from the way he was shuffling like a child on the verge of an accident.

“— Evie Rosen for setting us up. We’re so glad she took time away from her BlackBerry to join us this evening. Evie, stand up and take a bow. She’s the foxy brunette in the corner over there.” From the DJ booth, a spotlight made its way over to her.

“That’s you,” Luke whispered, touching her gently on the elbow.

Evie smiled graciously and prayed for the moment to end. The harsh light stayed with her, and she squinted her eyes reflexively.

“Stand up, Evie.”

She panicked. Her phone had shifted to a precarious position in her underwear, and she feared it would drop out if she rose. Wouldn’t that make Paul’s BlackBerry dig poignant?

She clenched her muscles as tightly as she could, attempting what her former Pilates teacher called a “Kegel,” and stood up cautiously.

“She’s single, by the way.” Paul winked at her from the stage. For some reason, the announcement that she was single elicited cheers from the crowd. Idiots, Evie thought. She didn’t dare look at Luke.

“Come up here, Evie,” George said. “Let’s get a picture with our matchmaker.”

Evie clutched her wine glass for dear life and awkwardly attempted to walk across the dance floor without separating her legs too much. The spotlight maintained its steadfast position on her. It was no use. She felt the BlackBerry slide down her leg and somehow heard the crash in her head before the phone hit the floor. Around her, wedding guests gasped and laughed quietly, until someone let out a roar, giving license to everyone else to let it rip. Her phone lay face up, its red message light flashing, in the center of a white marble diamond. As she bent down to reach for it with a shaky hand, the damn thing started to ring.

 

Chapter Two

She felt Tracy grab her hand and pull her into the ladies’ room. They stood at the sinks, Evie’s flaming cheeks burning under the florescent lights.

“Are you kidding me, Evie?”

“I had no place to put my phone, okay!” she hissed. “You don’t understand. I have a closing on Tuesday and half the people on the deal are in the Hong Kong office. It’s morning there – I can’t just take off because I’m at a wedding.”

“So you’re a slacker if you don’t put your phone in your underwear? By the way, that’s what pockets are for.”

“It didn’t fit in my purse. Stupid Judith Leiber. Caroline bought me this gajilion-dollar bag and it barely holds a lipstick.”

“That’s no excuse, Ev. Why the hell are you so obsessed with that thing anyway?” Tracy glared at the BlackBerry curled in Evie’s hand.

“I like my phone. It helps me feel connected,” she answered, adding what she believed to be an “I’m-not-hurting-anyone” shrug.

“To what?”

“People, work, plans, news, the cultural zeitgeist … I don’t know.” Evie leaned toward the vanity to reapply her lip gloss. “Did Paul really need to announce that I’m single to the entire wedding?”

“Maybe it’s not so bad he said it. Get the word out, you know?” Tracy said, eyeing Evie’s reflection cautiously in the mirror.

“I think my Facebook, JDate and Match profiles have taken care of that already.”

Tracy tapped on the door to one of the stalls. “The baby makes me have to go every two seconds lately.” She patted her stomach affectionately. Any discomfort the baby was causing was clearly a minor inconvenience to her. She practically jumped for joy when she felt a flutter in her belly, demanding all her friends lay their hands on it like a Ouija board until they swore they felt a movement.

“So I was chatting with Paul’s cousin before the toast. We were kind of hitting it off. Though let’s see if he’s still interested after I gave birth to a phone on the dance floor.” With that, Evie ducked into the stall next to Tracy’s.

“Oh yeah? What’s his name?”

“Luke.” She kept the Glasscock part to herself otherwise Tracy would rename him Fragile-Dick in two seconds flat.

“Well let’s go back and find him!” Tracy’s voice went up about four hopeful octaves.

“I will. ” Evie ran a hand over prickly calves. “Is there a razor in the toiletries basket?”

“Nope.” Evie could hear Tracy rustling around the basket. “I have tweezers in my purse.”

“Forget it,” Evie grumbled, emerging from the stall. “I haven’t quite had the time for proper grooming. Been at the office every night literally until 2 am.”

“They’re killing you over there.” Tracy gave her a disapproving look. After completing her tenure teaching in a mobile trailer in hurricane-ransacked New Orleans, Tracy took a cushier job at the Brighton-Montgomery Preparatory School, an Upper East Side institution known for its rich academics and even richer student body. She worked hard, relentlessly grateful to have a proper classroom that didn’t double as a supply closet, art room and teacher’s lounge, but when she didn’t have department meetings or professional workshops, she was home rubbing her pregnant belly in front of the TV by 4:30 pm.

“It’ll be better once I make partner,” Evie said, not actually sure if that was true. Would she really be any less anxious about her job just because she wasn’t trying to climb the ladder? There would always be some new box to check off. Getting more clients. An appointment to one of the firm’s management committees. The admiration of her fellow partners. “You go back inside. I need to read my e-mail.”

“Hasn’t that thing caused you enough problems tonight?” Tracy asked, peering once again at Evie’s phone with disdain. “Don’t spend all night in here.”

After Tracy exited the ladies’ room, Evie scrolled through her work e-mails, where – no surprise – she found an e-mail from Bill Black asking her why she hadn’t answered his call from moments earlier and requesting that she review the latest set of closing documents before Monday.

Her mother wrote to remind her that the train to Greenwich was running on a limited Sunday schedule so she should check online before leaving for brunch.

There was also a message from her closest friend at work, Annie Thayer, her first officemate at Baker Smith and another single-girl-about-town with whom Evie exchanged dating war stories. Annie was writing to say she should expect a call from her brother’s friend Mike Jones. How the hell would she Google a guy with that name? He had recently split from a long-time girlfriend and was looking to reenter the dating world, heaven help him. Annie swore he was worth meeting, but didn’t provide much in the way of background or pictures.

Before rejoining the party, Evie briefly glanced at her Facebook and Instagram accounts, where already the #hotgrooms feed was exploding. Satisfied with her catch-up, she went back to to the dance floor where she found her girlfriends gathered to watch the happy couple glide to Etta James’ “At Last,” an unfair choice of song in Evie’s estimation since Paul and George, thanks to her, hadn’t had to wait long at all to find each other. Luke was still stationed at the bar, looking down at his phone, and Evie fretfully chewed her lip as she walked over.

“She’s back,” he said.

“Yes I am. Just so you know, I don’t always carry my BlackBerry around in there. I’m also working on a big deal at the moment and my phone didn’t fit in my purse.” Evie lifted her phone in one hand and her purse in the other to illustrate her mea culpa.

“Nah, it was funny,” he said with a forgiving smile. “I certainly won’t forget meeting you.”

“Well that’s good. Always happy to leave a lasting impression.”

Phew.

“You certainly did. Listen, my mother will kill me if I don’t say hi to her sister’s kids and it looks like they are getting ready to leave. Can I trust I’ll find you here when I’m back?”

“I won’t budge.”

Alone at the bar, she scanned the crowd for her friends. She spotted Caroline and Jerome shimmying to a popular dance number, the top of Jerome’s bald head reaching to just under Caroline’s cheekbones. Caroline wasn’t naturally stunning, but she reeked of sex appeal in a way that Evie never would, no matter what lacy get-up she put on or how high she pushed her décolletage. Dallas born-and-bred, in college Caroline had all the trappings of wealth, which back in the day meant a Kate Spade shoulder bag, several Nicole Miller party dresses and a credit card whose bill her parents paid. But she always seemed to have an uncomfortable relationship with money, until her billionaire hedge-fund husband came along. Caroline professed her love for Jerome from the day she met him ten years before at an investor conference, the same day eight dozen lavender roses arrived at her doorstop along with a note delivered by an honest-to-goodness butler. Later that night at Per Se, Caroline and Jerome feasted on truffles and drank wine retrieved from a safe deposit box. Eight months later they were engaged. A decade later, they were still going strong, laughing giddily on the dance floor.

Next she spied Rick chatting with George’s mother and father. Rick caught her glance and put up his index finger to indicate he’d join her in a moment. Evie looked away swiftly. The sight of George’s parents, standing hand in hand and smiling as they took in the crowd, caused the familiar ache in Evie’s chest to flare. Her own father would never see her married. He wouldn’t be there to half-heartedly complain about the expensive orchids Evie chose for the centerpieces or do the traditional father-daughter dance. Instead, her wedding photos would be shots of her and her mother, surrounded by Winston and the TWASPs, the pseudo-family that she could never quite grasp was her current reality. She’d already decided she would ask Grandma Bette to walk her down the aisle should the need arise. Bette would be so anxious for Evie to seal the deal it would probably be more of a sprint.

Tracy slowly ambled over to Evie with Jake by her side. “I think we’re going to head home. I’m exhausted.”

“Okay. I’m going to hang. Luke and I are kind of hitting it off,” Evie said, pecking her pregnant friend on the cheek. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“You better.”

Luke reappeared shortly after Tracy and Jake retreated. 

“Sorry about that. I didn’t know my relatives were so talkative,” he said. “Can I get you another drink?”

“Absolutely,” she said.

She lost track of how many cocktails they downed, but it was safe to say enough for it seem like a great idea for them to grab the mike from the DJ and serenade the crowd with Justin Timberlake’s Sexy Back. It was a real crowd-pleaser.

“You’re really fun, Evie,” Luke said. The two of them found themselves in the empty coat check. He was running his hands up and down her bare arms.

His lips were on hers, their tongues at battle. It felt amazing. The mixed-up sweat, the feel of his stubble, the panting. Oh, how she’d missed this. She pulled away from him for a moment to admire his face and smiled. It seemed there was life beyond Jack after all.

Their makeout lasted until a tuxedoed wedding attendant ahem-ed them.

“Night’s over kids,” he said.

“Let me put you in a cab,” Luke said. “Evie Rosen at Baker Smith. I’m going to look you up first thing tomorrow. Let’s get together for a drink.”

“I would love that,” she said, taking the hand he offered her.

He flagged down a taxi and helped her inside. Through the open window he said, “Get home safe. Oh, and Evie, hang on to your phone a little better next time.” He winked one brown eye at her and sent her off.

Seatbelted into the backseat, she looked out at the city, all sparkly from the glow of the headlights and traffic lights. The cherry blossoms, illuminated from tiny spots, formed pink pillows in her mind. It had been a great night. 

***

Back home, Evie quickly swapped her dress for cozy pajamas and flung her dizzy self into bed. Now she remembered why she never drank Scotch. Eyeing the blur that was her laptop on the night table, she almost sent Luke a Facebook message – just a quick “what a fun night” opener to get a dialogue going, but she resisted on account of inebriation.

She did not want to end up like Jeffrey Belzer.

Jeffrey was a summer associate with Evie. After returning from a three-bottle of wine lunch at the Harvard Club (normal in the course of the seduction of the Big Law summer programs), he dashed off a quick e-mail to his fellow associate Allen Jacobs.

 “Allen – just got back from a sweet lunch. Ordered lobster just because it was $$$. Was with two partners – the fatty who is head of the tax department and then one of the litigators who I heard is screwing that hot M&A partner that you thought was a secretary. Drank a s**t-load. Probably just going to go home now to pass out. Best summer ever. Let’s rally tonight. Got a text from the Asian chick who works in HR that she’s game. Jeff. PS – my assistant just brought in my paycheck. Sweet!”

Why, oh why, did Allen’s parents have to spell his name with two “Ls?” Jeffrey Belzer must still be pondering that very question. When he selected the recipient of this soon-to-be-legendary e-mail, he didn’t click on Allen Jacobs, but rather All Firm. The stream of the [Rhone Valley Sancerre] at lunch couldn’t have helped. It was done. There was no taking it back. Well, yes, an attempt was made to take it back. Not sixty seconds after sending the e-mail, someone must have alerted Jeffrey, because what followed in everyone’s inbox was the following message: “Jeffrey Belzer would like to recall the message that was just sent.” Now everyone who had ignored the message (it had had the bland subject line “yo”) decided it had to be juicy. Within an hour, it had gone viral. The infamous blog BigLawSux had picked it up and then it appeared, verbatim, in the next day’s Wall Street Journal.

Baker Smith was quick to issue a press release stating that Jeffrey Belzer’s employment had been terminated as a result of his lapse in judgment. The statement further clarified to clients who were already calling up to contest their bills that the cost of the summer associate program was fully absorbed by the firm and not passed down to clients. Finally, and most comically to Evie, the firm said in the release that it encouraged every employee to recognize other individuals for their inner qualities and not their outer characteristics. Evie guessed that was the diplomatic way of saying that it did not condone referring to people as the “fatty” or “Asian chick.” Fortunately for Baker Smith, its white shoes were quickly repolished and it retained its status as one of the city’s premier law firms. Jeffrey, on the other hand, apparently fled to Thailand for a while and was last spotted taking drink orders at an Italian restaurant in the West Village.

The episode gave rise to Evie’s hard and fast rule: no e-mail or texting while drunk.

Far less tragically, she had once signed an e-mail to a senior partner, Mitchell Rhodes, with “xoxo, Evie.” Mitchell had responded to the otherwise professional e-mail with, “Thanks. I can’t even get my kids to tell me they love me!” Evie and Mitchell had worked together many times since that e-mail exchange, and considering he was on the partnership committee, she felt fortunate they had shared that moment of intimacy, even if it arose from her carelessness. Still, there was no need for anyone else to receive an unintended electronic hug and kiss or a smiley face emoticon.

At the time of the Jeffrey Belzer episode, Evie reacted much like the other young associates – with a mixture of uproarious laughter and collegial pity. Things would be different if she made partner. She would be a partial owner of the firm (ok, her share of the profits would be like 1/250), but nonetheless a media crisis like this would have a totally different effect on her. She felt so grown up thinking about that. In the professional arena, she was exactly where she was meant to be at this age. Romantically, she felt like an insecure high-schooler. Besides the two years she dated Jack, her love life had been a series of three-date-max relationships.

What would Luke find when he looked her up? She did a quick self-Google. Her Baker Smith profile was the first return. The picture was a total disaster, taken after she’d pulled a double all-nighter. There were a few better images of her on NewYorkSocialDiary.com from society events that Caroline had dragged her to. Her name appeared in a list of participants in a 5K Juvenile Diabetes fun-run, even though she’d actually bailed last minute due to a head cold. Her father’s obituary in the Baltimore Sun was there. There was no trace of her and Jack. He didn’t love pictures.

She curled up with her laptop tucked under arm like a blankie and hoped for a new message ding from Luke, but the only thing she heard until she fell asleep were the soothing sounds of ambulances and car horns – the New York lullaby, she liked to call it.

***

Radio silence. That’s what she got from Luke Glasscock after Paul’s wedding. It was aggravating. He had seemed to forgive the whole birthing a phone on the dance floor mishap. She thought they had made a connection. They shared a hot and heavy makeout at the end of the evening. He had gallantly put her in a taxi, cooly handing the driver a twenty. He promised to be in touch. Could he have forgotten her last name? Where she worked? Even so, he could have asked Paul.

Now at work she found herself thinking about him too much, moving her head from the one giant monitor on her desk to the other like she was watching a tennis match, but not actually focusing on anything. The Calico closing had gone off without a hitch, but instead of being able to celebrate, a new matter was put on her desk moments after the final signature page had been faxed. She felt like Lucy in the chocolate factory.

Rumor had it the partnership committee was having a deliberation session that day, at least according to her BFF Jorge on the maintenance crew. Her had just delivered four sandwich platters and eight yellow legal pads to the forty-second floor conference room.

Amidst the stream of e-mails advertising summer sales, Evie noticed a message from Joshua Birnbaum, a tech entrepreneur she’d met on JDate three months earlier. They went out twice – two no-sparks-but-could’ve-been-worse evenings that left both of them fairly apathetic. But here was Joshua again, suggesting they meet for a drink as though ninety days hadn’t passed since they’d last been in contact. She was actually considering accepting when her phone rang.

“Hi lady,” Caroline chirped. “We didn’t recap the wedding yet. How’ve you been?”

“Eh. Swamped at work, as usual, and annoyed Paul’s cousin has vanished into thin air.”

“He’s probably just busy at work. If his job is anything like yours, he doesn’t have a ton of spare time to make dates.”

Evie didn’t have the strength to fight Caroline on that point – to state the plain fact that drafting a simple “It was great to meet you” e-mail could be accomplished in less than thirty seconds. No one knew that better than Evie. She managed to send dozens of personal e-mails out during the day. The letters on the keyboard of her computer were practically tattooed on her finger-pads. She could dash off a one-liner blindfolded and with one hand tied behind her back.

“I think you should just put him out of your head.” Caroline went on. “You know how that whole watched pot business works anwyay. Can you hang on a sec? I’m in a cab.” She heard Caroline ask the driver to take her to the Plaza Hotel on Central Park South. Then, in a far more hushed tone, she heard her tell him to pick her up in two hours. Last time Evie checked, taxis didn’t do round trips. Clearly Caroline was talking to Jorge, her chauffer, but at least she was embarrassed about it.

“Sorry, I’m back. I’m walking into a luncheon. Text me if you hear from him. You know how boring these charity things are – I’ll just be staring at my phone. Like you.” She giggled.

“Touché,” Evie conceded.

Glancing at the BlackBerry on her desk, Evie thought about how her smartphone helped drowned out the loneliness, almost like the background noise of a re-rerun she’d committed to memory. Acknowledging that a three-ounce electronic device was substituting for a genuine mate hit a sour note, but Evie was too cognizant of its usefulness to consider quitting the habit. “Have a good time. Don’t forget to save some endangered pocketbooks for me.”

Evie couldn’t resist. In February, Caroline had purchased a table at “New Yorkers for Wildlife” and convinced Evie to duck out of work for lunch in the Waldorf ballroom. The trouble was that it was minus six degrees outside and most of the ladies were bundled in fur.

Unsatisfied with Caroline’s dismissal of her angst over Luke, Evie phoned the ever-honest Tracy, hoping to catch her during a free period. After she went straight to voicemail, Evie started to dial Stasia’s number but replaced the receiver midway. It was easier to speak to Caroline and Tracy about this type of thing. Both of them were married, but Caroline’s husband was geriatric and Tracy’s an ambiguously-employed loafer. She believed they were both content, but still Evie took some comfort in feeling that compromises had been made. Relating agonizing dating stories to them was certainly tolerable, usually cathartic.

Stasia was different. She and Rick were a golden couple – attractive, well-educated, from “good” families. They looked like they stepped out of a Slim Aarons photograph. Without – gasp – the help of a wireless connection, they found each other at Stanford Medical School (albeit over a cadaver dissection). After his training, Rick, an east-coaster from birth, convinced Stasia to relocate with him. He became an ENT with a successful private practice on Park Avenue while she was slowly rising up the ranks at a top pharmaceutical company based in New Jersey.

After her announcement at Paul’s wedding, Evie knew they were planning to start a family. It was natural to picture Rick as a father. He didn’t seem to mind when Evie crashed their date nights and was quick to offer up the guy’s perspective when she needed relationship advice. Plus Rick helped people for a living, even if it was only from the discomfort of deviated septums. That was more than she could say for Caroline’s husband, whose daily task at work appeared to be printing money. It wasn’t really her place to get high and mighty about professions since working at Baker Smith hardly likened her to Mother Theresa. But still.

Her office phone rang. Tracy.

“Hey, I just saw a missed call from you. What’s up? I’m on lunch.”

“Nothing. Just annoyed. Stupid Luke from Paul’s wedding. He hasn’t e-mailed me yet.”

“Evie, you are killing me. I saw him. He’s cute but you can do better. Didn’t you say he was kind of a jerky banker type?”

“I don’t remember that.” (She did.) “And I hate to ask the obvious, but if I can do better, then shouldn’t he be banging down my door? And by the way, when you did see him at the wedding, you said he was adorable.”

“Uch, nevermind what I said. Hormones talking. Stop checking your e-mail and think about where you want us to take you out to dinner for your long-overdue birthday dinner. We thought maybe the Beatrice Inn. Caroline can get us in.” Evie had canceled on two previously-scheduled celebrations because of work obligations. Things had a shot of getting quieter over the summer, but Evie wasn’t much in the mood for merriment.

She chose to completely ignore Tracy’s attempt to change the subject.

“In my entire adult life, I’ve only met one person that I’ve truly loved and who loved me. You know I never should have given him that stupid ultimatum. I could be happily –”

“Happily what?” Tracy cut her off. “Happily dating? You can’t happily date for the rest of your life. You said you wanted a real commitment. Marriage. A wedding. Kids. You deserve that and breaking up with Jack was the right thing to do.”

“I guess you’re right.” Evie decided it was easier to agree than to draw out this debate again, which she had had with each of her girlfriends at least a dozen times.

“I am right. But I gotta go. The bell just rang.”

Evie rested the phone in its cradle and opened up her lower file cabinet. She shifted a few heavy-duty hanging folders to the front, and pulled out the silver picture frame, now badly tarnished, that used to sit to the right of her computer. It housed a picture of her and Jack from a Halloween culinary event. Jack was one of the featured chefs. For a costume, the farthest he would venture was letting Evie attach feathers and silly pins to his toque. She, on the other hand, went all out and dressed as a sexy version of Remy, the chef from the Disney movie Ratatouille.

She’d met Jack just a month before the Halloween party at the Soho Grand bar while out with the girls celebrating Stasia’s move back from the West Coast. In the swanky lobby, she had flopped down happily in between Stasia and Caroline on a velour banquette and quickly downed a glass of Cabernet. She relaxed and imbibed, taken in by a sensual red diptych hanging next to the bar. That’s when she noticed Jack. He was getting up from a nearby table and shaking hands with a pretty young woman holding a tape recorder and a heavily-inked cameraman. Evie was instantly curious.

After about an hour of sneaking glances at each other, he approached Evie when she stepped away from her table to listen to a voicemail, and offered to buy her a drink. The first thing she heard was his accent. It was definitely British and definitely hot.

Evie assessed that he was handsome but not out of her league. He stood about three inches taller than her in her heels and had fair skin, steely blue-grey eyes and brown hair worn a touch on the long side. She guessed he was about mid-thirties. The small gap between his two front teeth immediately made Evie curious about his background. Where she was from, everyone got braces the day after their bar or bat mitzvahs. He had a raw sexiness about him, emphasized by a five-o’clock shadow and the motorcycle jacket he managed to pull off without any irony. In a word – he had swagger.

“I’m Jack,” he said, grabbing a few handfuls of smoked nuts at the bar. “And I’m absolutely starved after a rubbish sushi dinner in Midtown.”

“Midtown? Why were you eating there? My office is in Midtown and the restaurants are terrible. I’m Evie, by the way.”

“And what is it that you do? In midtown?”

Courtesy of the alcohol ratcheting up her self-esteem a few notches, Evie responded proudly that she was a corporate attorney at Baker Smith, instead of muttering “lawyer” under her breath.

They ended up discussing which neighborhoods in Manhattan had the best restaurants for ten minutes – teasing, joking and spritedly fighting their way through a mock dispute. For the first time in ages, she actually ignored the persistent buzz of her BlackBerry, even though she knew a team of attorneys in the firm’s Menlo Park office was waiting on her feedback. Jack was just so passionate as he spoke – though really anything he said with that accent would have magnetized her.

“So, Jack, what do you do that you have so much time to go out to eat?” She hoped to get at some explanation of why he was being filmed earlier.  

“Well, I suppose now is a good time to tell you, I’m a chef. Jack Kipling is my full name. Perhaps I should have told you that before we got into it.” He chuckled, obviously enjoying her jaw-dropped reaction.

Jack Kipling was arguably the city’s hottest young chef. She was surprised that she hadn’t recognized him. Not only was he a chef, but also a successful restaurateur, owning several well-regarded restaurants in the city, most notably JAK, a French-style bistro on the Upper West Side near her apartment. He was a close pal and rival of Marcus Samuelsson.

“But don’t worry, no offense taken about your comment that uptown restaurants are almost as bad as midtown,” he said.

“Wait – no – I actually love JAK! I eat there all the time. Honestly. Check your receipts. You’ll see lots of Evie Rosen AmEx charges.”

“I believe you. Though I won’t quiz you on what your favorite dish is just in case you’re lying to make me feel better. Listen these nuts are not really doing it for me – I’m still rather peckish. Do you want to – wait, sorry, I forgot I saw you over there with your friends.”

“No, no, it’s fine. We were getting ready to leave anyway,” she lied. “I’ll just go say goodbye to them and we can get something to eat.”

And that was the start of Evie’s relationship with Jack.

Three shrill rings of her office phone rang brought Evie back to the present. Her secretary, Marianne, whom she shared with another associate, was away from her post, as per usual, so Evie scooped up the phone herself. Marianne was all big hair and big lips and something always seemed to need reapplying in the bathroom.

“This is Evie.”

“Evie, it’s Mitchell Rhodes. Could you come up to the conference room on the forty-second floor please?”

Evie immediately felt nauseated. It couldn’t be that she was already going to be named partner, could it? It was too early for that, unless the firm was changing its protocol. Maybe they wanted to grill her on her recent matters, to see if she was really up to snuff. Or could there be some secret society-like initiation process where she’d be blindfolded and forced to drink a drop of blood from the pinkies of each of the partners on the executive committee? She didn’t like the sound of Mitchell’s voice on the phone. Why did everyone at her firm have to sound so formal? She wished they would just say, “Hey, get up here, we want to give you a huge office and loads of money.”

“Sure, I’ll be right down,” she muttered, and grabbed her ID card so she could access the executive-level conference floor.

Two minutes later, she found herself seated across from the five members of the partnership committee. Mitchell was scanning his BlackBerry and did not look up when she entered, which seemed peculiar. The conference room had one wall of solid glass and the afternoon sun streamed through, forcing Evie to squint while she faced the grim-looking partners. She steeled her body against the powers-that-be. The long mahogany table around which the partners were seated was covered in boxes filled with papers – the kind used for due-diligence projects. There had to be at least ten of them, each overflowing. Good grief, please let this not be the mound of paperwork she’d be expected to review in her newest assignment.

“Evie,” Patricia Douglas, the freshest member of the partnership committee and a highly regarded litigator, said. “You know how outstanding we think your work has been since you’ve joined the firm. Your reviews have been consistently glowing.”

“Thank you. I really try my best.” When nobody cracked a smile, Evie wondered if maybe she shouldn’t have responded. 

“As you know, the choice of who makes partner at Baker Smith is not one that we take lightly.”

No shit. Out of her entering associate class of 120, only five or six had a shot at partnership. Evie barely knew her competition. The other associates whose names were being whispered in the hallways worked in different departments and rarely, if ever, surfaced at firm social events. The rest of the associates from her entering class had been gradually weeded out over an eight-year period. Blood, sweat and tears were expected byproducts of the journey. And still there were no guarantees even for those left. It could be one careless error in a closing document. Or a faux-pas at a client meeting. She was immensely proud of herself for not having made any missteps, at least none big enough to come to the attention of upper management.

“However,” Patricia continued, “there is something concerning that has recently come to our attention. About your performance.”

Suddenly, the temperature climbed to Bikram Yoga proportions. What could this be about? She couldn’t remember ever feeling so clueless and so unsure of what was coming next.

A million thoughts raced through her mind at once, but none of them made much sense. She’d once feigned a terrible cold to get out of a mentoring event so she could attend a special event at Jack’s restaurant. Who could have known she was lying? She’d purposely ducked out of pictures that were Instagram-bound. More recently, she had forgotten to mute her phone while on a call with the Calico accountants and had made an appointment for a haircut on her cell phone simultaneously. But those were hardly capital offenses.

“Evie, do you see all these papers on the table?”

Of course she did. She nodded yes.

“Do you have any idea how many papers are here?”

Evie shook her head no. What was this? A guess-how-many-jelly-beans-are-in-the-jar contest?

“10,000,” Patricia said. “Actually, more than that. And do you know what’s in those papers?”

Evie looked down at the floor, unable to blink, and watched as the checked pattern of the carpet took on a distorted and frightening pattern.

“Doc review?” Evie whispered. “For my next project. The tech merger.” Her voice lilted upwards, like a little girl’s.

"No, they are not, Evie,” Mitchell Rhodes spoke for the first time in the meeting. All of the other partners present had remained silent, most of them expressionless, one of them – whose name Evie couldn’t recall – seemed to be stifling a smile. “Evie, these papers are the more than 150,000 personal e-mails you have sent while at work over the last eight years. As you no doubt recall, we were having server issues recently. Many associates complained about the Internet speed and said Lexis-Nexis was almost unusable. So we hired a consulting firm to look into the matter. It turns out a number of our associates have been abusing their time at work by sending extensive personal e-mails. But you, Evie, were by far the worst offender. We calculated you sent, on average, seventy-five personal e-mails every day. At first we assumed you were running a private business from the office, which is strictly prohibited, but from a review of the data that appears not to be the case.”

Evie felt her rib cage collapse like an accordion. She worried her skeleton wouldn’t be strong enough to lift her from her chair to get to the bathroom, where she desperately wanted to throw up. Could it really be possible she was the worst offender at the firm? Wasn’t everyone addicted to e-mail? All the younger associates were probably just texting instead. But could she prove that?

“Evie,” Mitchell continued. “We’re very disappointed. Frankly, you were almost a shoe-in for a partnership. But we can’t in good faith promote somebody who in one day sent over ninety e-mails back and forth to someone named Caroline Michaels with the subject line “Is Jack getting sick of me?”

Evie remembered that day. She couldn’t focus at work because Jack had declined her offer to accompany him to the Aspen Food & Wine Festival for no discernible reason. All he’d said was “I’m fine to go alone.” Evie felt like she was nagging him every time she offered to come along. She tasted a salty drop on her lip at the memory, which released a full batch of fresh tears at the thought of what was happening to her now. She was losing her job. The most stable thing in her life. Her livelihood. A good part of her existence. And she was crying at work. Something she had vowed never to do.

Patricia spoke up again, undeterred by Evie’s tears. “In case you are wondering, our review of your e-mails is perfectly legal. When you signed your employment contract, you gave us express consent to review anything on our servers.” Jesus, it was like she was reading from a script in a wrongful termination defense manual. “Evie, I’m sorry about how this turned out. But we can’t imagine you have been devoting your full energies to work when you are spending so much time on personal matters at the office. We wish you luck but your employment at Baker Smith is now officially terminated.”

Without a word, Evie stood up from the conference table and headed to the door. Summoning all the strength left in her body, she whispered, “Then I guess this is goodbye.”

“Evie – wait,” Patricia said. Evie turned back with her hand still on the doorknob. She thought for a brief moment that maybe they had changed their minds, reaching a silent decision after seeing her anguished face that yes, they could overlook her e-mail infractions and give her another chance.

“Yes?” Evie said, a hopeful note in her voice painfully obvious even to her.

“We’re going to need your BlackBerry back.”

All she could think about as she palmed the featherweight piece of black plastic that had been her lifeline to the outside world for the last eight years was – if she wasn’t [email protected] who was she?

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