Page 61 of Love Is an Art
Taylor frowns. “I’m not worried about that. You should take some time for yourself too.”
A bell at the café door tinkles.
Taylor says, “Here she comes.”
A tiny woman opens the glass door of the café. Taylor waves, and she comes slowly toward us. I introduce myself and grab an extra chair. After she is comfortably seated and I’ve picked up her coffee, I ask her for her thoughts on the case.
Mrs. Humming crinkles up her face. “No way were they having a relationship. He was the caretaker, nothing more.”
“But she gave him power of attorney? And he submitted proof that he deposited his checks into her account,” I say. “How would he have that account information?”
Mrs. Humming shakes her head. “Her mind was going a bit there at the end. And her eyesight. She might not have known what she was signing. She did trust him. He was very attentive and polite. He was very professional. I was shocked myself to hear that he was claiming to be a common law spouse.” She harrumphs. “He’s not that fine. Now, her grandmother was fine. But she was never interested in anybody else after your grandpa died. It’s disrespectful to her memory and to Taylor's grandpa’s memory that he’s saying this.”
Taylor smiles wryly. “My grandmother wrote down all her passwords in a book so it would be easy to find. How many checks did he deposit?”
“All of his checks for the last year.” I study my notes. “Obviously, we can argue that he was only living there because the caretaking contract obligated him to live there. And I think that’s a good argument. He’s said that even though they were in a relationship, they kept the contract going for the extra income. I’m arguing that he can’t have it both ways. But he did terminate the contract in March, saying he felt it wasn’t right.”
“He never told me he terminated the contract,” Taylor says. “I would have worried that my grandma wasn’t being taken care of. Especially in March, when she fell and broke her hip.”
“His contract says he was only a Monday through Friday live-in. Did he stay for the weekend?” I ask. “He claims he did.”
“He used to leave every weekend when she was alive,” Mrs. Humming says. “I would look in on her and check that she was okay. Lately, I think he’s been staying weekends. But I’m sure he only lived there during the week until she died.”
“Even during this past year, and in March and April, he was leaving on weekends?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Humming nods with extra emphasis. Her hoop earrings bob up and down.
“Okay. I’ll ask your apartment building for the security footage to see if it recorded him leaving and returning. If he was gone for the weekend during this time they were supposedly together, that would definitely weaken his case. Is there anything else you can think of that might help our case?”
Mrs. Humming drinks her coffee and considers this. “I can’t think of anything else.”
“It would definitely be helpful for you to testify,” I say. “If he still appears to be leaving on weekends, let us know. He must have some other place he stays. We should check out the address he gave on this contract. I’ll do that.”
This is good. And somehow, sitting in this small café, talking with these two women, makes me feel better. It’s not the imposing conference room of White & Gilman, but I’d rather be in this café working together to save Taylor’s home.
Is it enough to do pro bono on the side?I don’t know.
We discuss the rest of our strategy, and then I go to the office.
My To-Do list seems overwhelming. And now I have to file a temporary restraining order on top of that.
I draft the temporary restraining order first and send that off to Ken for his comments. That’s the most time-sensitive. Mr. Howard’s former address is on the healthcare assistant contract. I also call Taylor’s grandmother’s building and ask if they have any security camera footage from the past year. The employee at the other end sheepishly tells me that the camera is broken in that lobby, but they plan to repair it. A dead end.
I email Jurgen with a photo of last night’s painting and try to make the email sound all gushy, like I’m thrilled he might help me. I shudder and turn to writing my brief for a securities litigation case.
As I wait for my third cup of coffee to fill at the canteen dispenser, thoughts of Zeke gallop through my mind. I don’t know what to do. Should I call him and say I’m sorry again?I want to call him.Should I give him space to think about it?
Yes, I lied. And waited to reveal the truth.
But if he doesn’t give second chances and doesn’t date workaholic lawyers, then I should be the one saying “no thanks” and walking away. I click on that photo of me in the corner, crying at seven years old because my best friend, the boy next door, didn’t come to my party.Remember.Don’t miss out on your life because of some guy who can’t be bothered to show up.If he doesn’t put in the effort to be with me, then he’s not worth my time.
Chapter nineteen
Zeke
Benwasright.Goingout for dinner was a good idea. Much better than sitting at home alone on a Friday night, thoughts wildly spinning about what an idiot I am. And I appreciate that Ben could be hanging out with Brooke but is instead here in this small Italian bistro trying to cheer me up.
We pick up our menus and tell the waiter we’re still waiting for a third. Sebastian, another office colleague and friend, is supposed to join us. He got caught up in a deal, so he couldn’t take the subway down with us to the West Village.
