The past has always held special meaning for me
She hesitated for the barest
second. “I’m pregnant.” At first, her words didn’t register, but when they did, I knew with certainty that I’d been given a surprise even better than my own. In early evening, when the sun was getting low and the brunt of the heat was breaking, Jane called. After asking about Noah, she informed me that Anna still couldn’t make up her mind about the dress and that she wouldn’t make it home that night. Though I assured her that I had expected as much, I could hear a trace of frustration in her voice. She wasn’t as angry as she was exasperated, and I smiled, wondering how on earth
Jane could still be surprised by our daughter’s behaviour.
After hanging up, I drove to Creek side to feed the swan three pieces of Wonder Bread, then swung by the office on the way back home. Parking in my usual spot out front, I could see the Chelsea Restaurant just up the street; opposite was a small grass park, where Santa’s village was set up every winter. Despite the thirty years I’ve worked in this building, it still amazed me to realize that the early history of North Carolina could be found in any direction I looked. The past has always held special meaning for me, and I
loved the fact that within blocks, I could walk through the first Catholic church built in the state, or tour the first public school and learn how the settlers were educated, or stroll the grounds of Tryon Palace, the former home of the colonial governor that now boasts one of the finest formal gardens in the South. I’m not alone in this pride in my town; the New Bern Historical Society is
one of the most active in the country, and on nearly every corner, signs document the important role New Bern played in the early years of our country. My partners and I own the building where we keep our law offices, and though I wish there was an interesting anecdote concerning its past, there really isn’t one. Erected in the late 1950s, when functionality was the single criterion architects valued in design, it’s really quite drab. In this
single-story, rectangular brick structure, there are offices for the four partners and four associates, three conference rooms, a file room, and a reception area for clients.
I unlocked the
front door, heard the warning that the alarm would sound in less than a minute, then punched in the code to shut it off. Switching on the lamp in the reception area, I headed toward my office. Like my partners’ offices, my office has a certain air of formality that clients seem to expect: dark cherry desk topped with a brass lamp, law books shelved along the wall, a set of comfortable leather chairs facing the desk. As an estate lawyer, I sometimes feel as if I’ve seen every type of couple in
the world. Though most strike me as perfectly normal, I’ve watched some couples begin to brawl like street fighters, and I once witnessed a woman pour hot coffee onto her husband’s lap. More often than I would ever have believed possible, I’ve been pulled aside by a husband asking whether he was legally obligated to leave something to his wife or whether he could omit her entirely in favour of his mistress. These couples, I should add, often dress well and look perfectly ordinary as they sit before me, but when at last they leave my office, I find
myself wondering what goes on behind the closed doors of their homes.
