Firm Ambitions Read Free Page B

of his strip shopping centers. But, I reminded myself, dull wasn’t necessarily bad. The case of Landau v. Landau would be a peaceful change after several months of Big Macs and Big Sals. And the Andros angle at least added a tinge of excitement. Maybe. Don’t get your hopes up , I cautioned myself. The only reason you agreed to take this case was that Ann begged you to .
    I nodded in resignation. How could I say no to my sister?
    I should have, of course. But I didn’t realize that until much later. Neither did Ann. And by the time we both did, it was far too late.

Chapter Two
    I stared uncertainly at the plate in front of me. “What kind of Jewish mother are you?” I finally asked.
    â€œIt’s good for you,” my mother said as she joined me at the kitchen table.
    â€œYou used to make me brisket and kasha with shells.”
    â€œNot anymore. Too much fat and cholesterol. And anyway, brisket before an exercise class? It’ll sit like lead in your stomach.”
    I looked down at the plate again. “What is this, Mom?”
    â€œMy own concoction.”
    â€œDoes it have a name.”
    â€œNot yet. Try it.”
    I did. “Not bad,” I said with a surprised smile. “This is tofu?”
    â€œWith red peppers and onions.”
    â€œAnd mushrooms?”
    â€œRight.”
    I took another taste. “Ginger?”
    She nodded proudly. “Fresh.”
    â€œWhat gives it the color?”
    â€œSoy sauce.”
    I nodded approvingly. “It’s pretty good, Mom.”
    She gave me a maternal smile. “What did I tell you, sweetie?”
    â€œYou’d better keep this recipe a secret, though. Otherwise,” I said with a wink, “you’ll get drummed out of the temple sisterhood.”
    â€œYou’d be surprised what Yiddishe mamas are eating these days.” She checked her watch. “When is Ann picking you up?”
    â€œFive after seven.”
    â€œI have fruit compote. You have enough time. How about some herbal tea?”
    â€œSure.” Life back home , I said to myself with a contented sigh.
    Back when I left home for college fourteen years ago I vowed that I would never return to St. Louis. Then again, I also vowed that I would never become a lawyer. In the familiar words of some pundit—perhaps Yogi Berra, himself a native St. Louisan—never say never.
    At the start of freshman year of college, my two role models were Rosie in The African Queen and Albert Schweitzer in Gabon. I planned to become a Jewish Katharine Hepburn, MD—heading down the Yulanga River with a stethoscope and a doctor’s bag and Robert Redford cast in the role of my Charlie Allnut. Those plans changed junior year in a course called organic chemistry. So it goes.
    When I graduated from law school I moved to Chicago and joined Abbott & Windsor, the third-oldest and second-largest law firm in the Midwest. After a few years in that pinstriped sweatshop I left LaSalle Street to open my own office on West Washington Avenue. Several years later, business was doing just fine at the Law Offices of Rachel Gold. Indeed, I was so busy that I was starting to think about hiring an associate and a paralegal to help out.
    And then my father died. Suddenly. Of a massive coronary occlusion. The day after Thanksgiving.
    My mother found him on the kitchen floor that morning. I was up in the bedroom at the time, putting on my jogging shoes—I had come home for the long holiday weekend. Somehow I knew that my father was dead the moment I heard my mother moan, “Oh, no.”
    I remember dashing downstairs, one shoe on, the other in my hand. My mother was kneeling next to my father, who was facedown on the floor. The sports section of the Post-Dispatch was clutched in his left hand, his reading glasses were hanging from one ear. The mug of coffee on the kitchen table was cold. So was my father. The paramedics told us that he’d been dead for more